It's the bitter taste of losing everything / I've held so dear
One March or April afternoon of my freshman year of college I received a call from my father. My Uncle Pat, who was down at Duke undergoing yet another experimental treatment for his glioblastoma multiforme (stage 4 malignant brain tumors), had responded badly to the treatment. He was too weak, and the treatment had placed him on the brink of death. All of the brothers and sisters, and his wife and children, were on their way down. He was not expected to make it home.
I abandoned my afternoon classes, instead taking a bedsheet and my Sarah McLachlan cd out to the grassy hill outside of my building. I spent the entire afternoon on the grass, drowning in the music.
He surprised all the doctors and not only made it home but made it through the next two or three months--he always had been a fighter, and he had beaten the odds before. But that phone call, that treatment, signaled the beginning of the end. He never made a real recovery from that setback, and his treatment plan became palliative as the cancer devoured what was left of his brain. We slowly said goodbye, and numbly celebrated his life in late June.
My mother emailed me this morning--my phone is either at home or in my car. My grandmother, who is 90, experienced chest pain this morning. Mom called her doctor and drove home to be with her. She did not have shortness of breath and the pain did not radiate; all of her previous check-ups have indicated that her heart is healthy. Considering that, and the fact that the pain did not last long, the doctor recommended she stay home. My mother is watching her carefully.
I am cold, and shaky. This woman stood by me, supporting me no matter what. This woman raised me when my parents could not. This woman has an inhuman capacity for love and forgiveness, and a strength that leaves me breathless.
I know she is probably fine. I know there is no comparison. And yet....
I'm not ready for this.
We are all mortal, and someday we will die.
I abandoned my afternoon classes, instead taking a bedsheet and my Sarah McLachlan cd out to the grassy hill outside of my building. I spent the entire afternoon on the grass, drowning in the music.
He surprised all the doctors and not only made it home but made it through the next two or three months--he always had been a fighter, and he had beaten the odds before. But that phone call, that treatment, signaled the beginning of the end. He never made a real recovery from that setback, and his treatment plan became palliative as the cancer devoured what was left of his brain. We slowly said goodbye, and numbly celebrated his life in late June.
My mother emailed me this morning--my phone is either at home or in my car. My grandmother, who is 90, experienced chest pain this morning. Mom called her doctor and drove home to be with her. She did not have shortness of breath and the pain did not radiate; all of her previous check-ups have indicated that her heart is healthy. Considering that, and the fact that the pain did not last long, the doctor recommended she stay home. My mother is watching her carefully.
I am cold, and shaky. This woman stood by me, supporting me no matter what. This woman raised me when my parents could not. This woman has an inhuman capacity for love and forgiveness, and a strength that leaves me breathless.
I know she is probably fine. I know there is no comparison. And yet....
I'm not ready for this.
We are all mortal, and someday we will die.