I woke up really worried about Mike. He hasn't been sleeping well and last night was no exception. Three to four hours of sleep a night is not enough to function on. He rallies for what he really needs to do, but in between, he's not energetic. I've even seen him flagging with Nickie, his sweet boy.
Everyone's fears are based on their own experiences. What a generalization. You know what I mean, though. Our experiences can form our fears. I'm a woman who has seen death. I'm not particularly afraid of my own death. I'll either be dead and gone or I'll be somewhere else. To be honest, I kind of look forward to finding out when I get to that point. Will it be an adventure?
I believe that when I die, my soul will go on, that I'll go through the hell of really knowing the truth of the pain I've caused people and the heaven of knowing what I did right. I believe that heaven is knowing, really knowing, how everything works and seeing the beauty in the system. The other day, I was watching 'How the Galaxy Works' on the Science Channel. Oh, it fed my inner geek. I loved learning that our galaxy has a black hole at the center. The scientists talked about the 'sweet spot' in the galaxy which can support life and I laughed and said out loud, "Life as we understand it! There's probably life in all levels of the galaxies, but we just can't recognize it." Yes, I talk to the television. I was amazed to hear that galaxies together form some kind of structure. There, that could be another large form of life that operates on such a different scale that we can't see it. Kind of like 'Horton Hears a Who.' So, I'm not exactly afraid of death as long as I do what I need to do while I'm alive.
I don't look forward to the pain that precedes death. That part is hard, but I've experienced pain, pain that made me pass out. I'm pretty sure I can handle the pain of death too. Guess I'll have to. It's so different in the experiences I've had. My grandpa died of a heart attack and was gone in seconds. My dad went through so much to try to live with cancer. He hurt. I remember the blanket we had, a velour one, that was the only thing that was light and soft enough that it didn't hurt him. Chemotherapy doesn't just cause nausea. He had so many surgeries that I lost count, at least three, maybe four. That was painful. There was the embarrassment, which for a manly man like him was significant, of having a colostomy that smelled bad and made noises he couldn't control. My dad liked being in control of himself. We were sitting downstairs on the couch, watching TV one time, when he said, "Now I know why God put our butts behind us instead of in front." Chemotherapy made us leave church early, made my dad's carpool bring him home early, made him hide in the far bathroom to vomit with my mother presiding over him for a couple of days after each one.
But you should know that my dad's death was actually peaceful. He went into a coma from too much chemotherapy. This was 1973, before they'd refined the doses. He wasn't in a coma for many hours. They had called us in. We knew it was happening. The nurses on my dad's floor finally relented and said that I didn't have to wait in the lobby, that I could be with my family by my dad's bedside even though I wasn't fourteen yet. I had waited for cumulative days in that lobby, trying to focus on reading a book or doing homework. So at least I was in the room with my dad when he died and not waiting in the lobby. For that, I am truly grateful. My brother and sister were in a nearby waiting room. We were only allowed in one at a time and it was my turn.
I sat at my dad's side touching his hair and talking quietly to him. The nurse had said that sometimes people in a coma can hear you, so I talked. I have no idea what I said. I hope I told him I loved him, though we didn't say that so much back then. There was a woman talking to my mother on the other side of the room. I remember wishing she would go away. I remember thinking that we didn't know her well enough for her to be here at this personal time. She seemed to be trying to take over and was too interested in 'helping' and I didn't like her. But I ignored her and focused on my dad.
I just talked to him in this whisper and played with his hair. He would have wanted a haircut and I hoped what I was doing didn't hurt. One moment, my dad was breathing very quietly, and the next, he wasn't. I had this feeling that his soul moved up and across over my mother's head and out of the room. I remember looking that direction. Then, when I looked back at my dad, I knew he wasn't there in that body. There was just one brief moment when it was just me there, then nurses burst into the room, the lady I didn't like grabbed me by the arm, and pushed me out to join my brother and sister. They could tell that he'd died by the look on my face. I didn't need to say a word. The clock read 4:15.
My sister remembers this so very differently than I did. I don't have proof, but I wrote about it in my diary when I was thirteen. It doesn't matter though. We all have our own truth to tell and this is the most compelling truth that I know. I was there with my dad one moment and in the next, he swept up and was gone. I would not trade that moment for anything. For having him back, maybe, but not for anything else.
So my fear isn't that I will die. I know it will happen. I was in the room with Mike when his mother stopped breathing. I've lived through losing my four grandparents that I loved too. I know death.
My fear, my gut-wrenching fear, is that my son will have to go through losing a parent too early the way I did, that he'll have to worry that he might forget his dad. My fear is that he won't find the words anywhere that tell him how much Mike loves him. My life did a 180 degree turn when my dad died. I searched through all of his books to find his words, to see anything that was his life before I lost him. I tried to follow in his footsteps, but learned that the best way for me to feel my dad's love is to write about him. It's hard to realize, but it helps me to remember that I could never forget him.
I lived through those early years after my dad died, but I can tell you they were the worst years of my life and the loneliest. I came through it somehow and now, for the most part, I thrive in the life I've been given. I believe that in living through the depths of despair, I know what real joy can be. It's a hard lesson, but well earned. Still, I keep telling Mike that he has to take care of himself, that Nicky needs him and he has to take care. I really don't want Nick to have to do it the way I did.
Thank you for listening, jb
Everyone's fears are based on their own experiences. What a generalization. You know what I mean, though. Our experiences can form our fears. I'm a woman who has seen death. I'm not particularly afraid of my own death. I'll either be dead and gone or I'll be somewhere else. To be honest, I kind of look forward to finding out when I get to that point. Will it be an adventure?
I believe that when I die, my soul will go on, that I'll go through the hell of really knowing the truth of the pain I've caused people and the heaven of knowing what I did right. I believe that heaven is knowing, really knowing, how everything works and seeing the beauty in the system. The other day, I was watching 'How the Galaxy Works' on the Science Channel. Oh, it fed my inner geek. I loved learning that our galaxy has a black hole at the center. The scientists talked about the 'sweet spot' in the galaxy which can support life and I laughed and said out loud, "Life as we understand it! There's probably life in all levels of the galaxies, but we just can't recognize it." Yes, I talk to the television. I was amazed to hear that galaxies together form some kind of structure. There, that could be another large form of life that operates on such a different scale that we can't see it. Kind of like 'Horton Hears a Who.' So, I'm not exactly afraid of death as long as I do what I need to do while I'm alive.
I don't look forward to the pain that precedes death. That part is hard, but I've experienced pain, pain that made me pass out. I'm pretty sure I can handle the pain of death too. Guess I'll have to. It's so different in the experiences I've had. My grandpa died of a heart attack and was gone in seconds. My dad went through so much to try to live with cancer. He hurt. I remember the blanket we had, a velour one, that was the only thing that was light and soft enough that it didn't hurt him. Chemotherapy doesn't just cause nausea. He had so many surgeries that I lost count, at least three, maybe four. That was painful. There was the embarrassment, which for a manly man like him was significant, of having a colostomy that smelled bad and made noises he couldn't control. My dad liked being in control of himself. We were sitting downstairs on the couch, watching TV one time, when he said, "Now I know why God put our butts behind us instead of in front." Chemotherapy made us leave church early, made my dad's carpool bring him home early, made him hide in the far bathroom to vomit with my mother presiding over him for a couple of days after each one.
But you should know that my dad's death was actually peaceful. He went into a coma from too much chemotherapy. This was 1973, before they'd refined the doses. He wasn't in a coma for many hours. They had called us in. We knew it was happening. The nurses on my dad's floor finally relented and said that I didn't have to wait in the lobby, that I could be with my family by my dad's bedside even though I wasn't fourteen yet. I had waited for cumulative days in that lobby, trying to focus on reading a book or doing homework. So at least I was in the room with my dad when he died and not waiting in the lobby. For that, I am truly grateful. My brother and sister were in a nearby waiting room. We were only allowed in one at a time and it was my turn.
I sat at my dad's side touching his hair and talking quietly to him. The nurse had said that sometimes people in a coma can hear you, so I talked. I have no idea what I said. I hope I told him I loved him, though we didn't say that so much back then. There was a woman talking to my mother on the other side of the room. I remember wishing she would go away. I remember thinking that we didn't know her well enough for her to be here at this personal time. She seemed to be trying to take over and was too interested in 'helping' and I didn't like her. But I ignored her and focused on my dad.
I just talked to him in this whisper and played with his hair. He would have wanted a haircut and I hoped what I was doing didn't hurt. One moment, my dad was breathing very quietly, and the next, he wasn't. I had this feeling that his soul moved up and across over my mother's head and out of the room. I remember looking that direction. Then, when I looked back at my dad, I knew he wasn't there in that body. There was just one brief moment when it was just me there, then nurses burst into the room, the lady I didn't like grabbed me by the arm, and pushed me out to join my brother and sister. They could tell that he'd died by the look on my face. I didn't need to say a word. The clock read 4:15.
My sister remembers this so very differently than I did. I don't have proof, but I wrote about it in my diary when I was thirteen. It doesn't matter though. We all have our own truth to tell and this is the most compelling truth that I know. I was there with my dad one moment and in the next, he swept up and was gone. I would not trade that moment for anything. For having him back, maybe, but not for anything else.
So my fear isn't that I will die. I know it will happen. I was in the room with Mike when his mother stopped breathing. I've lived through losing my four grandparents that I loved too. I know death.
My fear, my gut-wrenching fear, is that my son will have to go through losing a parent too early the way I did, that he'll have to worry that he might forget his dad. My fear is that he won't find the words anywhere that tell him how much Mike loves him. My life did a 180 degree turn when my dad died. I searched through all of his books to find his words, to see anything that was his life before I lost him. I tried to follow in his footsteps, but learned that the best way for me to feel my dad's love is to write about him. It's hard to realize, but it helps me to remember that I could never forget him.
I lived through those early years after my dad died, but I can tell you they were the worst years of my life and the loneliest. I came through it somehow and now, for the most part, I thrive in the life I've been given. I believe that in living through the depths of despair, I know what real joy can be. It's a hard lesson, but well earned. Still, I keep telling Mike that he has to take care of himself, that Nicky needs him and he has to take care. I really don't want Nick to have to do it the way I did.
Thank you for listening, jb
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