and so it goes
This morning as I am making french toast for the kids, my sister-in-law strolls into the kitchen, accepts my offer of breakfast(well, I didn't mean the 1st plate, the one for the toddler, but please, help yourself) and picks up my yet unread New York Times and plops down at the table.
She then proceeds to tell me the gist of every article that I would be reading in a moment (starting over on the kids french toast,oh? you need coffee? Allow me to serve you)
As she draws to the end of the magazine section,she gets quiet. I see her reading the last page, always the zinger, and I pray she will allow me the luxury of reading it without spoiling it for me. She offers no quotes or summations on the article, takes her plate to the sink(hey- big step) and without thanking me for breaky walks out. Par for the course. Used to it by now.
But when I finally sit down(everyone fed and gone outside) I read the essay on the last page of the magazine.Please allow me to share the 1st paragraph with you:
Last fall, a friend asked if she could jump out of my 11th flr window. She had esophigal cancer and was planning ahead. If the chemo didn't shrink her tumor, and if surgery didn't offer her continued life, she wanted something "swift and certain." Pills wouldn't be an option if she couldn't swallow anymore. She didn't have a doctor to assist her dying, so injectible morphine would be harder to get. Five years ago, she was hit by a car in Mexico. "The impact didn't hurt," she told me, and she figured that hitting the ground wouldn't either.
I finish the article, (I won't spoil it,but suffice it to say,the ending didn't involve a miracle cure) andI sit and think about how Laurin must have felt reading it.Did she feel angry toward the potential suicidal or compassion? Did she wonder, as all of us have repeatedly, if there was an unknown illness that caused her uncle at the tender age of 22 to put that gun to his head?(The same week Kurt Cobain took the same route. My husband is silent that whole week every spring.)
Or does she hate suicide, considering it the cowards way out? Little Chelsea, who she grew up with, who had the melanoma erupt on her back at the age of 12 didn't consider it, her thin, pale body lingered to the very last, painful as it was.
And young, beautiful Bo, another childhood family friend didn't have the the opportunity to ever get sick or even age. He was murdered last month in St. Thomas,the day before he was scheduled to sail a boat around the world. Go fucking figure.And the uncle with the brain hemorage, and the god -father falling like a marionnette with his strings cut while playing basketball with the kids.
So, Laurin, will you forgive my petty, selfish concerns over dirty dishes and unfolded newspapers and just do the best you can with what you've got? I wish we were close enough for me to say this. I wish I had the courage. AndI wonder how the inevitable tragedies that life will bring me will affect me and how I behave.
She then proceeds to tell me the gist of every article that I would be reading in a moment (starting over on the kids french toast,oh? you need coffee? Allow me to serve you)
As she draws to the end of the magazine section,she gets quiet. I see her reading the last page, always the zinger, and I pray she will allow me the luxury of reading it without spoiling it for me. She offers no quotes or summations on the article, takes her plate to the sink(hey- big step) and without thanking me for breaky walks out. Par for the course. Used to it by now.
But when I finally sit down(everyone fed and gone outside) I read the essay on the last page of the magazine.Please allow me to share the 1st paragraph with you:
Last fall, a friend asked if she could jump out of my 11th flr window. She had esophigal cancer and was planning ahead. If the chemo didn't shrink her tumor, and if surgery didn't offer her continued life, she wanted something "swift and certain." Pills wouldn't be an option if she couldn't swallow anymore. She didn't have a doctor to assist her dying, so injectible morphine would be harder to get. Five years ago, she was hit by a car in Mexico. "The impact didn't hurt," she told me, and she figured that hitting the ground wouldn't either.
I finish the article, (I won't spoil it,but suffice it to say,the ending didn't involve a miracle cure) andI sit and think about how Laurin must have felt reading it.Did she feel angry toward the potential suicidal or compassion? Did she wonder, as all of us have repeatedly, if there was an unknown illness that caused her uncle at the tender age of 22 to put that gun to his head?(The same week Kurt Cobain took the same route. My husband is silent that whole week every spring.)
Or does she hate suicide, considering it the cowards way out? Little Chelsea, who she grew up with, who had the melanoma erupt on her back at the age of 12 didn't consider it, her thin, pale body lingered to the very last, painful as it was.
And young, beautiful Bo, another childhood family friend didn't have the the opportunity to ever get sick or even age. He was murdered last month in St. Thomas,the day before he was scheduled to sail a boat around the world. Go fucking figure.And the uncle with the brain hemorage, and the god -father falling like a marionnette with his strings cut while playing basketball with the kids.
So, Laurin, will you forgive my petty, selfish concerns over dirty dishes and unfolded newspapers and just do the best you can with what you've got? I wish we were close enough for me to say this. I wish I had the courage. AndI wonder how the inevitable tragedies that life will bring me will affect me and how I behave.