Sometimes, like last night, I feel as though I'm beginning to get a perspective on things. (I know, that's always a mistake, to think that way.) I attended the Huron/Pioneer basketball game at the invitation of Mae, my friend and former colleague. Our Huron River Rats totally dominated the game, and I saw some other friends from the past. It felt good to be doing familiar things. That's the change in perspective. Nothing changed except everything.
It's been a busy day, an hour at the gym, then a class at Arbor Hospice called Cooking for One. I'm beginning to recognize some of the people at these events from other groups I've attended. We certainly aren't alone, it just feels that way. My friend, Marie, was there, the one who translated Gwen's shorthand note for me. She commented about Gwen's sense of humor. A new idea I came away with was to remember to sit in Gwen's chair so the empty chair isn't always there as a reminder. Also, one of the women said something about living a long life; I thought; I'm guaranteed to have a long life, every single day is so darn long. Anyway, it's nothing compared to the months of long days Gwen spent either sitting in her chair or lying in bed, never with a word of complaint. When it came time to have a hospital bed for her, she may have bent the "don't complain rule" just a little:
HOSPITAL BED
She didn't care for the idea
of the hospital bed;
fought it like mad,
hated those rails,
didn’t want it in the house,
knew what it meant.
I didn’t like it either.
The bed meant so little
in the scheme of things.
It left the day after she did.
All it meant left with it.
Wish she could have stayed,
even with the bed.
I miss her all the time.
All she meant.
John A. Bayerl, February 17, 2011
I do miss you, sweetheart, all the time, with all my heart. Cute how you signed that note: Sleep easy tonight and I'll probably see you tomorrow. Yours, Yours truly, Yours very truly, Very truly yours, Gwen.
