I hold her hands while sitting gingerly on the side of her bed. I’m wary of crushing her as I lean over to kiss her on both cheeks. She smells the same. Her eyes are the bluest they’ve ever been.
We chat quietly… she’d like some decorations around the windows for Christmas. Blue and white. Silver. Snowflakes, maybe.
I smile and say, “Are you sure you don’t want a big string of coloured lights? Or how about a giant blow-up bonhomme with a massive carrot nose, that sings Jingle Bells?” She looks at me, horrified. I sway from side to side, making jazz hands, and her face splits into a huge grin. She knows I’m kidding. These are the jokes we share – about tacky decorations and general overdoneness of things. We are so funny. It’s good to see her smile.
I stroke her forearms and hold her hands. Has her skin always been this soft? It’s like a baby’s. Soft like powder. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed before. But, I’ve never spent time hugging and kissing her like this, either. Has she always been this small? I rake my fingers through her hair, and she complains about bedhead. She says she wants to go to town next week to have it cut. I just smile. She looks down at our hands together and says she should have her nails done too, when she goes. I have a closer look – they’re a longer than she normally keeps them, but they’re not in bad shape, really.
“Would you like me to do them for you? I’d be happy to. Of course.”
Of course I would do anything.
She makes a face and shrugs a little. “I think I’ll just sleep a little bit.”
“That’s a good idea,” I say. “Just let me know if you change your mind. Hooker red, maybe.” I smirk.
She smiles at me. “You have one of those moths on your cheek again. Did you see it?”
I smile at her, and brush at the side of my face. “Is it gone?”
“They come with the birds…”
“Do they?” I smile and look into her sleepy eyes.
Sometimes, opiates are good.
“We’ll be back in a few days,” I say. And I leave her to sleep.
A few days. A few weeks. It’s hard to tell. But, we will be back.
. . .
Oliver is pensive lately. He says, “I don’t want grandma to die.”
I nod and answer, “I don’t want her to die either.”
He: I thought she would get better if she rested more.
Me: I know. Sometimes cancer isn’t like that. *rubs his head* And we don’t want her to be sick anymore, right? Suffering is bad.
He: I know, but… *face crumples* …it’s not fair.
Me: I know. I’m so sorry.
He: *teary* It’s daddy’s mummy… you know?
Me: I know.
I can tell this is the first time he’s transferring the information in his head. That grandmothers die. Which means that mothers die, too. I watch his face carefully, and I let him work it out. He considers it all… he is sad, but he’s okay.
This boy hugs me and tells me he loves me. He tells me again and again over the course of the weekend. I hold him close, and tell him not to be scared. It’s the natural order of things, even though it’s hard and sad and it feels terrible. Don’t be scared. Everything is going to be okay.
Everything is going to be okay, eventually. Let’s just hold each other for now.
Le sigh. This is how it goes.
I know you’ve been there, Kath… thanks for the kindness, friend. xox
Oh god Tracey. My heart aches for you and Martin and the boys. But you are all giving her the best and last gift – the chance to go peacefully, at home, surrounded by loved ones.
**SOB**
Oh yeah, Julie – is it better fast or slow? There are merits to both, I suppose… but it’s sucky, no matter how you slice it. Loss is loss. But, I’m actually glad for this time, for myself and for my husband and his sister and father – they ARE giving her peace, and it’s a good thing, to be able to care for her at home, until her time comes. I hope it’s sweet and peaceful. The rest will be as it is…
Thanks for your words, woman. Thank you very much. xox
Children can be such a relief at times like this – and fortunately, mine are not hysterical, and otherwise calm. Life goes on. It’s good to have the distraction of their care, and their antics, and their charm. It makes everyone smile despite their pain. That’s not a bad thing.
So sorry for your loss, Snicks… le sigh. Le sads. Hugs back to your family, too.
Sending love back from Montreal… always. And still. I adore you, Cat. xox
Thanks so much everyone – it’s a rough time, but we will all get through it. I soooooo appreciate all the love and good wishes you’re sending our way. I can feel it. It helps fill me up… really. Thank you.
you are giving her such peace! i can “intellectually” understand that death happens to all of us but why does it have to come with such pain and suffering sometimes? i guess, though, there’s no great way, i’ve had both “fast” and “slow” and they both suck equally.
As I type this tears are rolling down my face….this post hits me closer than usual because one of my parents’ friends (more like an uncle to me) recently passed from cancer and my Missy didn’t quite understand why we were all so sad. She was happy to see his grandchildren because they are older & dote on her…which I think was their way of coping with their loss, focusing on her more.
Sending your family hugs from our family.
Oh, Tracey. Beautiful, beautiful. My heart is with you, there. We are truly all one. xo from Denmark
T, this is one powerful and moving post! Thank you. xx
Sometimes it’s hard to know how to be… and then sometimes, it’s so easy, it’s like breathing.
Big love, Idas. Thank you.
Thanks, Sara – I’ll take those hugs. xox
Soul-squeezing beautiful.
Every moment counts.
We should be this connected more of the time. It is possible and amazing.
Wishing you closeness and more time,
Id
Wow Grumble – what a beautiful post. Love the peek into your relationship with your mother-in-law – I bet she so appreciates that gigantic amazing smile of yours.
Big giant hugs..x
Oh, my soul-sistah… thanks for the good words and understanding. I can feel your love and support, and I thank you so very much. xoxox
Thanks, Ann. And you’re right – we can’t shield them from this process… they just have to work it out in their own ways. His process is his own, and I’m just thankful that though he’s sad, he’s relatively calm. It will be okay. Thanks for reading.
Thanks so much for the hugs, Jennifer. Yes, this cancer sucks so hard, but indeed, love is more powerful. It’s a gift to see it that way. xox
So beautiful and heartfelt…this is the tough part of life…letting go. Sending you all so much love. Wish I was there to help you through this. It is a difficult journey for all involved
Beautiful post..tears are streaming down my face as I type this.
It is so difficult to watch a love one die. It’s so hard when you have kids asking questions and dealing with the pain as well.
My dad passed away when my son was 2 1/2, he is now 6 and will still talk about Papa and how he hopes he’s happy. As much as I wanted to protect my son from the pain I think it’s so important not to shield kids from this painful experience. It is the natural order as you said.
xoxo
Hugs to you and your entire family. My father-in-law suffered and died from cancer just two years ago, and although your writing opens some wounds that were just scabbing over, it also reminds me of how closely knit and careful with one another we were as we cared for him. Cancer sucks, but love is much more powerful.