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Shit happens
Apr. 10th, 2012 10:55 amThis has not been a great Easter.
I have a cold, but that's not it.
I'm weeping, off an on, as I write this and chat with people, because someone I love is dying. Across the country from me. On his terms, insomuch as he (or we) get to have terms. He's been dying for years. We all knew it. Terminal diabetes.
Dialysis four times a week. Amputations that didn't help. So he went to the hospital and told them to hook him up to morphine, and cut the dialysis to twice a week and there you go.
It's basically what my grandfather did. He told his wife he wasn't going back to dialysis again. His funeral was two weeks later. I'm feeling selfish. I wanted more time. I wanted to have some sense of what we used to have. Chats in the garage, walks to the store. Looking at the plants, or listening to a ball-game. Going to Dodger Stadium to see them play the Yankees. Swapping stories. Hell, I just wanted an evening or so, to sit and shoot the shit.
I wanted to tell him about my trip to Paris. He was in my mind a lot. He liked Paris. He liked Easter. I was on the Pont Nuef on Palm Sunday, the bells of Notre Dame were ringing, and I was listening to them. Really listening, the way one does only sometimes. I wanted to share it with him, because it was transportive.
I don't think I did. I called on Easter Morning He wasn't up for talking. I told his son to pass it along. I hope he did. I hope he was still lucid enough to enjoy the thought. Maia got to say goodbye on Saturday. Easter Sunday was, it seems, a skosh too late.
More I hope he knew I cared; that I called when I found out. I hope it wasn't too hard for him. We knew, in June, when I was there last, that the odds of us seeing each other again were slim. Time, money, work, distance, they all combine to make it hard.
So, what with the cold, and all the rest, I'm a sniffly mess right now. I've called the person I knew wasn't likely to be on anyone's list to inform. I've leaned on friends, because death is hard. I'm trying to avoid self-recriminations, for all the things I didn't do the way I think; now, they would have been better. It would be the same, in most ways, if I'd done all of those just as it looks now I ought.
Because death is hard. I've not quite slipped to the Angry at God state of mind, but I wasn't able to stay for the entire second Seder. I certainly wasn't up for going to Easter Mass, there was no joy in me, and the joy of others, even in text, was ashes in my mouth. I have beer, which I've shared with him (the 2004 Anchor Christmas), and sweet wines too. So those will serve to bring him, mindfully to mind, once the pains and aches of sudden reminders (as seeing a baseball game on TV as I was walking home last night was) have faded.
Parting is not sweet sorrow, not even for a little bit.
I have a cold, but that's not it.
I'm weeping, off an on, as I write this and chat with people, because someone I love is dying. Across the country from me. On his terms, insomuch as he (or we) get to have terms. He's been dying for years. We all knew it. Terminal diabetes.
Dialysis four times a week. Amputations that didn't help. So he went to the hospital and told them to hook him up to morphine, and cut the dialysis to twice a week and there you go.
It's basically what my grandfather did. He told his wife he wasn't going back to dialysis again. His funeral was two weeks later. I'm feeling selfish. I wanted more time. I wanted to have some sense of what we used to have. Chats in the garage, walks to the store. Looking at the plants, or listening to a ball-game. Going to Dodger Stadium to see them play the Yankees. Swapping stories. Hell, I just wanted an evening or so, to sit and shoot the shit.
I wanted to tell him about my trip to Paris. He was in my mind a lot. He liked Paris. He liked Easter. I was on the Pont Nuef on Palm Sunday, the bells of Notre Dame were ringing, and I was listening to them. Really listening, the way one does only sometimes. I wanted to share it with him, because it was transportive.
I don't think I did. I called on Easter Morning He wasn't up for talking. I told his son to pass it along. I hope he did. I hope he was still lucid enough to enjoy the thought. Maia got to say goodbye on Saturday. Easter Sunday was, it seems, a skosh too late.
More I hope he knew I cared; that I called when I found out. I hope it wasn't too hard for him. We knew, in June, when I was there last, that the odds of us seeing each other again were slim. Time, money, work, distance, they all combine to make it hard.
So, what with the cold, and all the rest, I'm a sniffly mess right now. I've called the person I knew wasn't likely to be on anyone's list to inform. I've leaned on friends, because death is hard. I'm trying to avoid self-recriminations, for all the things I didn't do the way I think; now, they would have been better. It would be the same, in most ways, if I'd done all of those just as it looks now I ought.
Because death is hard. I've not quite slipped to the Angry at God state of mind, but I wasn't able to stay for the entire second Seder. I certainly wasn't up for going to Easter Mass, there was no joy in me, and the joy of others, even in text, was ashes in my mouth. I have beer, which I've shared with him (the 2004 Anchor Christmas), and sweet wines too. So those will serve to bring him, mindfully to mind, once the pains and aches of sudden reminders (as seeing a baseball game on TV as I was walking home last night was) have faded.
Parting is not sweet sorrow, not even for a little bit.
