It's been another roller coaster kind of day. I didn't sleep well at all last night, and had to be up bright and early because workmen were coming to put a sump pump in our basement--something to do with making sure rain water goes into the storm sewer, not the sanitary sewer. They were here pretty much all day, but I was able to get away to my golf lesson. Dave, my instructor, is amazing. Today he said, "Judge a shot by the way it looks, not by the way it feels." Golfers will know what that means. Late in the day I had a nice visit with one of the bereavement counselors from Arbor Hospice. She helped me see some things I hadn't thought of before, especially with regard to spirituality. She must have done something right because after the workmen left I went to Mass at 5:10; the list of people I need to pray for has piled up recently.
This evening I participated in my online bereavement group with people around the country. There were some exceptionally hard stories tonight. In the middle of it, my sister Terri called to tell me that her friend, Reyna, who was diagnosed with leukemia four and one half months ago, died today. I wasn't totally surprised at the news, Gwen's mom died of leukemia and I kind of knew about how deadly it is if not caught in the early stages. Damn cancer! A member of the bereavement group whose husband died about the same time as Gwen reported that she was told by her doctor today that there were suspicious results from and x-ray and she would need a CT scan. It's a well known fact that caregivers have a higher probability of becoming ill after the one for whom they have been caring dies. Sometimes I think I should just get away from all this cancer-related stuff and get on with living. That sounds so simple, except that the ache in my heart never goes away, and all of these things help me accept the pain. I can't run away from it, it has to be faced, examined, shaken a bit, and then it can be finally discarded. It's a long, slow process that will take as long as it takes. I haven't forgotten what my friend Dave told me right after Gwen died, "When the grief has you down on your knees you have only once choice and that is to find a way to stand up again." This is a poem about that long, slow process:
This evening I participated in my online bereavement group with people around the country. There were some exceptionally hard stories tonight. In the middle of it, my sister Terri called to tell me that her friend, Reyna, who was diagnosed with leukemia four and one half months ago, died today. I wasn't totally surprised at the news, Gwen's mom died of leukemia and I kind of knew about how deadly it is if not caught in the early stages. Damn cancer! A member of the bereavement group whose husband died about the same time as Gwen reported that she was told by her doctor today that there were suspicious results from and x-ray and she would need a CT scan. It's a well known fact that caregivers have a higher probability of becoming ill after the one for whom they have been caring dies. Sometimes I think I should just get away from all this cancer-related stuff and get on with living. That sounds so simple, except that the ache in my heart never goes away, and all of these things help me accept the pain. I can't run away from it, it has to be faced, examined, shaken a bit, and then it can be finally discarded. It's a long, slow process that will take as long as it takes. I haven't forgotten what my friend Dave told me right after Gwen died, "When the grief has you down on your knees you have only once choice and that is to find a way to stand up again." This is a poem about that long, slow process:
THE WATER IS ALWAYS COLD
It’s like washing my hands in the winter,
this grief of mine.
I turn on the faucet marked hot
and the water is always cold.
It’s never ever changes.
Wait patiently for the warmth
to take away the cold pain;
the water stays cold,
sometimes even gets colder.
I fill my hands with foam,
rub them briskly,
sing happy birthday to myself,
rinse in the clear, cold water,
long for the warmth.
In what seems like forever winter
I turn on the faucet,
the one with the red H,
and it’s always cold.
John A. Bayerl, April 28, 2011
I have had exceptionally fond memories of you today, Dear. We're learning that "always and forever" means just what it says.
1 comment:
Lovely! Very well put. Yes it is true caretakers of spouses with cancer have a higher risk of illness themselves. It seems no matter how hard we try "cancer" affects us deeply. Its been three years and I still am very sensitive to those who go through this.
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