grief
While I expected what was coming (I saw Heather briefly on Thursday), I don't necessarily do well with grief. But then, who does? I did what was asked of me as soon as I got the call from Bill. I called the people that I needed to call and posted the information that I needed to post, drove to Mill Creek and dropped off a key, and then I shut down for a while. I drove home, then I drove to the liquor store, and then I proceeded to get drunk.
I've spent the last two months in and out of the hospital, mostly in. I rubbed her feet, bathed her, and tried very hard to make sure that she had dignity and some small amount of comfort in spite of her situation. I held her hand for hours. I know only some of her wants, parts of her mysteries, several of her secrets, and most of her insecurities. I know the *whys*. I came to understand what made her crazy and how to communicate with her.
I met friends of her past, years gone by, that came and wept. I met Bill who was always at her side making sure her black tea was just right. Making sure that she had ice water and plenty of pain medication. He was able to calm her anxieties with just the sound of his voice. I heard stories of love, passion, and determination from Bruce. And saw how deep his love for her is and the guilt he carries.
She has a brother in Japan, but other than him there is no family and they haven't had a relationship in over twenty years. We were her family. You were her family. Brothers, sisters, distant cousins. In some way or another, YOU were related to her.
She told me that it isn't fair, and it isn't. She told me that I shouldn't worry, and I told her that I still would and she smiled. On Tuesday she hugged me and told me that we were all going to leave and then she tried to make a very slow and painful break for it. And we all appreciated her tenacity. She was only able to move her feet off of the bed. I told her that it was all going to be okay and that I loved her. Two weeks ago I told her that her friendship was such a gift to me and that I loved her and we both cried. And she told me that it made her stomach hurt in the best possible way.
She went back into the hospital on June 8th, the day before her 51st birthday. Bill and Dominique came and we all had the cake that she insisted on before her transfusion. She never came back out.
I will always carry with me guilt for the things that we never got to do, but maybe that's good. Maybe that's a reminder to do things now while I have the opportunity.
I wish I could thank people enough for the things that they did for her. For the mango cupcakes and the Sweet Peas. For the massages and the lotions and the blankets. For the blue hearts and green globes and rainbow necklaces. For the photos and the letters and the posts. For holding her hand even while she was asleep. For telling her that she won't be forgotten.
"If we could read the secret history of our enemies,
we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering
enough to disarm all hostility."
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I've spent the last two months in and out of the hospital, mostly in. I rubbed her feet, bathed her, and tried very hard to make sure that she had dignity and some small amount of comfort in spite of her situation. I held her hand for hours. I know only some of her wants, parts of her mysteries, several of her secrets, and most of her insecurities. I know the *whys*. I came to understand what made her crazy and how to communicate with her.
I met friends of her past, years gone by, that came and wept. I met Bill who was always at her side making sure her black tea was just right. Making sure that she had ice water and plenty of pain medication. He was able to calm her anxieties with just the sound of his voice. I heard stories of love, passion, and determination from Bruce. And saw how deep his love for her is and the guilt he carries.
She has a brother in Japan, but other than him there is no family and they haven't had a relationship in over twenty years. We were her family. You were her family. Brothers, sisters, distant cousins. In some way or another, YOU were related to her.
She told me that it isn't fair, and it isn't. She told me that I shouldn't worry, and I told her that I still would and she smiled. On Tuesday she hugged me and told me that we were all going to leave and then she tried to make a very slow and painful break for it. And we all appreciated her tenacity. She was only able to move her feet off of the bed. I told her that it was all going to be okay and that I loved her. Two weeks ago I told her that her friendship was such a gift to me and that I loved her and we both cried. And she told me that it made her stomach hurt in the best possible way.
She went back into the hospital on June 8th, the day before her 51st birthday. Bill and Dominique came and we all had the cake that she insisted on before her transfusion. She never came back out.
I will always carry with me guilt for the things that we never got to do, but maybe that's good. Maybe that's a reminder to do things now while I have the opportunity.
I wish I could thank people enough for the things that they did for her. For the mango cupcakes and the Sweet Peas. For the massages and the lotions and the blankets. For the blue hearts and green globes and rainbow necklaces. For the photos and the letters and the posts. For holding her hand even while she was asleep. For telling her that she won't be forgotten.
"If we could read the secret history of our enemies,
we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering
enough to disarm all hostility."
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow