I wrote this when Sally was still alive. It was in January, before she went into the hospital. Things had been different since we’d gotten back from NY and CT. We’d taken two trips. Our last two trips as a family. On in November to see folks in Albany and to revisit our home area, including The Farm. And one in October for a family wedding.
I don’t know if this is valuable for folks. I didn’t write it originally to be valuable for anyone. It was valuable for me when I was writing and it’s valuable to revisit it, I can tell but I don’t know. So much of the life I see has nothing to do with death and I guess I think that’s a problem, because death is about the only thing we can rely on. If we never talk about the only certainty in life, honestly, what the hell are we doing?
But I get it. I was about as close as anyone to death for the last six months of January and Sally was closer, even with that, we didn’t talk about it much. There’s all kinds of reasons for this, some which will become clear in future posts but some which will remain shrouded in the mists of our humanness and fear, never to crystalize into any kind of an “answer”.
Oh well.
One thing I know about this post is, I was “in it” when I was writing it. I was deep and so maybe there’s some value there. I edit a little but not much, as always. Thank you for reading. Please share and subscribe.
Chapter 8 – THIS NEEDS WORK
My wife is not dead.
I started this off by writing, “my wife is dying”. It’s weird. It’s true. You have no idea what I mean. I mean, you have no idea what I’m talking about. You think you know. You read my words and you make up your own meaning based on what you read, but you don’t really know. You don’t really know what I mean by writing “my wife is dying”.
We’re all dying.
Some of us die on the way to dying.
Some of us die with no warning at all.
Some of us take control of our dying and do it ourselves.So let me tell you what I mean, to the best of my ability when I write, “my wife is dying”.
It means I’m aware that she may not be with us, my son and I, much longer. I can’t imagine putting her in the ground. That’s not where she belongs, it’s not even where her body belongs.
Like the Indians of the plains, the ones you see in lonely pictures, black and white, on horses that were not native, with rifles that were not native, all equipped in the clothing of the usurper…they won’t be around much longer and yet, there they are.
No one knows what’s to happen.
Sometimes when I talk with her, I don’t find it feasible at all that she would die. She’s vibrant and alert. She can’t get out of bed or sit up or go to the bathroom, but she’s engaged. The new normal.
Boy, the way we humans can adapt…boy o boy.
We have adapted. We’ve adapted to mommy on the couch. To the decrepit muscles, and pain and care and time and absence. We’ve adapted to all of it. Now we just go about our day, around her, while she’s dying. We go about our day.
It’s hardest when I imagine being her. To be “dying” in the way she is. To have a desire not to die and yet be experiencing your own body dying no matter what you think. That level of helplessness, hopelessness, I almost can’t bear to imagine she’d going through it.
Everything is relative. Everything…and dying…dying is no different. I don’t know but my guess is the human brain is not designed to comprehend death. Our brain is about reason and logic and answers and knowing. And if I’m using my brain to try to figure any of this out, I’m in a hopeless and deeply suffering position. But what else am I supposed to do, accept it? What is she supposed to do, accept it?
Accept it?
Accept it?
Edited 2/25/24