A couple times when my lover called last week, I had to remind myself to be strong. I worked hard not to let my voice waiver as she drew upon my strength. When we were out shopping, I couldn't hide behind the telephone and I think she caught a few of the tears as they fell, but I hugged her and told her I loved her anyways.
Her calls brought me directly back to my experiences with Hospice. I knew her fears, her worries, and the ending. I would hang up the phone with her and listen to the song "Keep Breathing" by Ingrid Michealson and pray. I'm not sure if my prayers mirrored theirs? I prayed for a safe exit. I prayed for her family to stand united in their decisions and act with love and grace.
I think they were probably praying for another good day, another good week. I remember the roller coaster ride. At the top of the hill I would pray for another peak; just give me one more day when he can talk to me. At the bottom of the hill I would pray to end the suffering; don't make me witness this another day, not another hour, not another minute.
When I listened to my friend, I didn't pray for one more day. I prayed for a quick, safe exit with minimal suffering. Death is tough, but the roller coaster makes it worse. She was called on a couple separate occasions: "this is it, come say goodbye" and then her uncle would rally.
I remember calling my brother. You should come home, J, I think it's time. And then my Dad would wake up and talk to me about when I was younger or ask for my kids or tell me to go to work. Everyone would fill with excitement and hope, but the ending doesn't change when you agree to Hospice care.
All I could do was keep breathing as she would tell me about her fears, her worries. They were mine only a couple of years ago. I wanted to reach through the phone and make it better, less painful, less real.
But some things you simply can't make better. Not even with the most perfect words. Not even if you shop for hours to find the most perfect gift. Not with the most sincere hug.
Because the most perfect words aren't coming from the right person. The perfect gift isn't from the one you just lost. Everything stands still, but it's different.
As Thursday quickly approaches, I have to remind myself, "All we can do is keep breathing". I have to remind myself so that I can remind my friend and her family, my extended family, that all they can do is keep breathing.
I need my lover to know that even though I don't hug as good or as tight or as perfectly as her uncle, I'm always here for one when she needs it. I'm even willing to share my uncle with her because he gives really good hugs, too. She said that's what she'll miss the most: his hugs. What a perfect thing to be remembered for!! HUGS: the perfect words, the perfect gift, the perfect love, all wrapped into a warm embrace.
I need her family to know that they're welcome to a hug from me anytime, too. And that even if I let a few tears escape when I hand out the hugs, that I'm lending you all my strength, too. Because you did the same for me, until I could breathe again without reminding myself to do it.
In Tom's very words, from his obituary linked below, "Don't cry for me, I'm the lucky one. I get to go home. I didn't fight cancer for the past year. I lived my life to the fullest and enjoyed every day God gave me. I'm going to see my daughter Jennifer. My mom and dad will be there to greet me and I can finally find out if dad has been doing any farming in Heaven. I'll now have the time to chum around with my buddy Jack Wagner and see how much trouble he's gotten into. The hardest part of leaving is saying goodbye, after that it should be smooth sailing. If you want to see me again accept God's plan of salvation, it's the only way to enter into the gates of Heaven. I want every one of my family and friends there, so please don't let me down, it's going to be so great."
http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/toledoblade/obituary.aspx?n=thomas-burdge&pid=161037244#fbLoggedOut
Until we get there,
All we can do is keep breathing.
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