The Path

June 12, 2020

There has been yet another shift in the progression of Jim's cancer and it isn't very pretty. Cancer seems to eat away at one's body and strip away one's physical abilities until the only thing remaining is one's basic humanity. We're there, the place where the hospice nurse says folks eat in "bits and fits", where walking is near to impossible, deep fatigue consumes most of the day, and taking a breath is an act of strength. But Jim is still engaged with family or friends that come to call during select times of the day.  

My day is spent taking care of the home, the yard, the animals, communicating to those who love him, and of course taking care of his needs and being with him. There is next to no time to care for myself and I've dropped everything that has kept me stable throughout. I have, however, discovered that during the times that we just be, I can color in this old coloring book with old fashioned drawings of flowers and it stills my heart. It is such a weird time, a time of separation, goodbyes, last moments, tender words and togetherness.

I texted to a friend 

"I’m kind of like this weird mess of anxiety and concern for Jim stuck in a purgatory that I don’t want to end. Luckily Ezra the social worker is coming for a visit today & Tegan is bringing dinner tonight so I’ll be able to shake these emotions."

Wandering my gardens in the early morning before he rises, or tending it in the afternoon as he sleeps, and watering it in the evening, the air scented by flowers, bird songs enveloping me, and the light and form dancing around me, brings calm. It may seem silly to plant vegetables we will not eat together, or tend flowers he can not walk through but somehow, these acts are my tiny prayers, my everlasting hope. When Jim sleeps on the back deck, he takes it all in and watches the birds and butterflies fly about him, the waterfall and fountains singing merrily and catching the gathering of the light. It brings him peace too.

I struggle with what my life will be like afterward and what lies next for Jim. I've landed on the fact that I know there is God. Therefore if there is God, those S/He loves also have an eternity before us. For what parent willing ends such beautiful lives? Of course, I am also selfish and wish to join Jim but my faith does not extend to the point of knowing what "next" really is, but I am hoping. And then perhaps faith is not a knowing kind of thing. I pray constantly these days. Those I call on most frequently to bring me strength and patience, to bring Jim a peaceful, pain free, love filled passing are our parents and grandparents. That in itself must be a form of faith—they are there, somewhere, having our backs. I pray that they can give me what they gave us in life—support along our paths, their wisdom of having done it so beautifully.