10 years ago I was in Fargo with my mom at the hospital. Her doctor told us what my mom had already accepted, that her treatments were no longer working and her aggressive cancer was going to end her life–soon.
Why am I revisiting this now? Why look back to feel the pain? Maybe you can only know if you know, but there’s something so comforting and full of love to look back and feel us together in her last days.
The older I get, the more people I know who have lost someone they love deeply–a father, best friend, child, partner, sibling. (And how to describe the pain of watching a whole people murdered for being born in a place deemed not their own? May we all grieve for Palestinians killed in mass genocide. May our hearts hold the complexity of compassion for the Israelis also killed/kidnapped because of political evil intentions.)
In the midst of our pain we can feel so alone, at least I did 10 years ago, but we don’t have to be. We aren’t alone. I’ve been here, a whole world has felt and is feeling the pain of loss. And so many are also like I was then in 2014–in a state of expected grief, knowing someone will die, but not knowing when. This is our reality of life–but we don’t talk about it enough. We don’t have to be alone in grief, in expecting and being present for death. We don’t have to be alone.
So, here is day 8 of my last summer with my mom. I hope to share all of my journals here as I’m able. May they touch others’ hearts–heal and comfort, as they’ve been a part of my healing and grief journey. Grief, death connects us all. We don’t have to move through it alone.
Day 8
Thu. 7/3/2014
Tears and more tears, you would think I traded eyes for faucets — they keep leaking. I used to be such a good plumber, what happened?
So many people, and they all want to look at you at the hospital. This is not your grief, I do not want to share it with you.
(Even to my mother) “No, I don’t want to sit on the couch with you, I just want to be alone.”
But that is what I’m afraid of. The loneliness that will creep into parts that she always knew how to fill up with the right words and the knowing that she loves me.
Seeing her tear apart, I don’t know how I feel about it, just that it’s happening, and I’m watching it.
Today is day eight at home taking care of my mom, and they just told me that these days are numbered.
“Do you think I’ll make it to Christmas?” What a blow to the heart. What will we do if you’re not here; who will buy all the presents?
And the world moves on, and each day is precious. And I just don’t want to have to say goodbye.
