One of the most beloved people in my life passed away this week from this cruel decease called cancer. My family feels gutted, heartbroken and completely sad. We watched her pass little by little. My children and I sat by her bedside and talked to her, kissed her and held her hand. I went there every day and put her lipstick on her, fixed her hair and told stories about our shared glory days. She’s really the only grandmother my children ever had other than my terrific mom. Both my husband’s parents are gone.
As I watch my children, I can see in their eyes the deep fear that this is going to be their mom someday. They worry that it will be them someday. And I understand because I worry and struggle with the same thoughts. This has wrecked us … depleted us. We are left with memories twirling in our brains.
It’s so difficult to not make comparisons. Seeing yourself lying there helpless while people come and go and look upon you, cry or hold your hand. I wondered if she was inside there shouting at us all to leave her alone. To stop looking down on her like a fish in a fish bowl. TO GET OUT.
When I was in the hospital in January, it was Beverly who flew in from FLORIDA to care for my children when I couldn’t. We noticed then that something wasn’t right. We never expected brain cancer. We loved her very much.
Today I am more frightened for what I have seen than I was yesterday, so I’m looking forward to that “Time Thing” that they say heals all wounds. But I feel doubtful that this experience won’t leave inside us and will feed on the fear we all share for me and my own lifespan.
Today Mark, Beverly’s husband, sleeps next to a shirt of hers that sleeps placed on the pillow next to his. I wonder about my own husband. I wonder about my children. Today I am not so strong … I am frightened.