Tuesday, March 14, 2006
All Our Times Have Come
A few weeks ago, I came home to find the back door of my apartment wide open. After freaking ever-so-slightly and checking the apartment for valuables, I was convinced that nothing was missing and settled in for a nice long night of double chocolate brownies and some high quality WB programming. Hours and hours later, I realized that my fat cat had failed to waddle up to me when I walked in the door and, come to think of it, hadn't waddled up to me all night. I searched all of her usual hiding places, some not-so-usual places and the impossible to get to due to her enormous girth kind of places. She wasn't anywhere in the house and when I realized this, I completely lost it. My cat is not an outside cat, has no outdoor survival skills whatsoever and, due to her adorable face and smooshy sides, could easily fall prey to an eight-year old girl who would put bows on her head and carry her around to tea party after tea party. I found myself imagining I might never see her again and the sobs spilled without a second's hesitation. My grief was immense and the pain was almost unbearable. I stood outside screaming her name for what seemed like hours until finally she poked her head around the fence and sauntered up to me as if she did this everyday. Her puzzled face seemed to say, "Woman, what IS your problem?" I scooped her up and covered her with kisses and went back inside to recover my composure and regain my dignity. Though I have her back, safe and sound, the threat of such a loss haunts me and my heart has lost bits and pieces I don't know I'll ever reclaim.
A few months ago, I was told that my grandmother was diagnosed with lung cancer. The initial evaluation found only a small spot and the disease was thought to be treatable, beatable. A few days later, further tests revealed spots on her brain, in her bones and throughout her liver. The words "Stage Four" entered our conversations and the idea of chemo and radiation suddenly seemed useless and unnecessary. Life went on but the inevitable now dominated the hearts and minds of all who loved her. My relationship with my grandmother had recently taken a bitter turn but the realization that we were looking at less than a year to find final moments devastated me in a way I don't think I could ever describe. I thought of everything we would never experience together. I thought of the moments that had once seemed so banal and commonplace that would soon be altered by the void of her presence. I thought of my grandfather, who I love and respect more than most men I know, and the life he would lead after she was gone. Depite the grief, we were able to enjoy Christmas in our regular fashion and life quieted down in a new type of normal. In February, I was told that they were moving her into a hospice because the care she was receiving elsewhere was not enough to sustain a comfortable quality of life. There had been other setbacks - allergic reactions to her chemo, scans that revealed that nothing was working and the cancer was spreading, the inevitable loss of her hair and her body mass and her lively spirit - but this was a blow that suddenly signaled the beginning of the end. She goes home tomorrow, comfortable and prepared, knowing that the end could be sooner than we all had hoped. This time, there will be no return to safe and sound. She will never come back to us fully and completely and life will never go on as if this was only a brief interuption. This time, my grief is merited, justified. This time, the loss is very, very real.
#
A few months ago, I was told that my grandmother was diagnosed with lung cancer. The initial evaluation found only a small spot and the disease was thought to be treatable, beatable. A few days later, further tests revealed spots on her brain, in her bones and throughout her liver. The words "Stage Four" entered our conversations and the idea of chemo and radiation suddenly seemed useless and unnecessary. Life went on but the inevitable now dominated the hearts and minds of all who loved her. My relationship with my grandmother had recently taken a bitter turn but the realization that we were looking at less than a year to find final moments devastated me in a way I don't think I could ever describe. I thought of everything we would never experience together. I thought of the moments that had once seemed so banal and commonplace that would soon be altered by the void of her presence. I thought of my grandfather, who I love and respect more than most men I know, and the life he would lead after she was gone. Depite the grief, we were able to enjoy Christmas in our regular fashion and life quieted down in a new type of normal. In February, I was told that they were moving her into a hospice because the care she was receiving elsewhere was not enough to sustain a comfortable quality of life. There had been other setbacks - allergic reactions to her chemo, scans that revealed that nothing was working and the cancer was spreading, the inevitable loss of her hair and her body mass and her lively spirit - but this was a blow that suddenly signaled the beginning of the end. She goes home tomorrow, comfortable and prepared, knowing that the end could be sooner than we all had hoped. This time, there will be no return to safe and sound. She will never come back to us fully and completely and life will never go on as if this was only a brief interuption. This time, my grief is merited, justified. This time, the loss is very, very real.
#
Comments:
Post a Comment
