Or is it the other way around?
Tomorrow marks one week since my uncle finally allowed himself to succumb to the massive, brutal tumors in his abdomen, on his spinal cord, his brain stem, lymph nodes, just everywhere. Four months he fought tooth and nail against this foreign monster, while no doctors were able to identify the cancer, and tried test after test and treatment after treatment.
He survived bowel resection surgery, a chemically induced coma, weeks of chemotherapy, his spinal cord being snapped in two by the tumors, and pain... neverending, horrific, body-sapping pain. Not to mention the piercing heartache watching his wife mourn, lose her business, pour everything she had and more into fighting this... THING... with him and for him and in every way she could think of.
She never left his side. She kissed the Chapstick onto his lips when they were dry, and even from the depths of near-paralysis, he would pucker. Ever reaching for one more moment, one more touch, with his beloved. He refused to let go... until one day, she lay in his arms and whispered, "Bri... when you're gone, we will miss you horribly... but we'll be okay. I'll... be okay."
Almost immediately, he relaxed into a swift expiration. Unable to speak, stand, or even open his eyes for most of the time, he waited for death with a resigned peace. His parents and wife kept vigil constantly, assuring him over and over that he was loved. Finally, last Tuesday afternoon, Molly sent everyone away-- hospice, friends, family-- and curled up with him on the bed with her head on his chest.
She listened, tears flowing unchecked into her hair, as his heart slowed. One more beat, then nothing more. He inhaled once more-- and with that she gave him all of herself, all her energy and love and devotion and protection-- and as the breath escaped his lips for the last time, she absorbed all of him back into herself-- all his life and love and presence, all his energy, to have him with her forever.
It was over. He was out of pain... but the pain for all of us came as a shock to me, at least. We had known he was dying since we first got the diagnosis months earlier... but to know that he was actually gone was-- is-- somehow so much harder. There's always that strange, futile hope for a miracle, I suppose... until there's nothing left.
In the midst of all this, my own husband will be here to stay in about three weeks. I feel guilty, so horrifically guilty-- as though my happiness crowded out the ability for any other joy in the family. As though finally being able to have my own beloved meant Molly had to lose hers. I know that's foolish, I know it's selfish and crazy. But my heart just tears itself in two trying to reconcile this great loss and great gain, all at once.
- Mood:
Miserable
On Men-- Who Aren't As Dumb as Originally Thought
Sweet
Tender
Triumph
Irritated
