Kaleidoscope
This weekend has been an explosion of life elements, of extremes. A life kaleidoscope - shifting from vibrant dazzling colours to ugly patterns back to glittery and around again.
The test results came on Thursday, late afternoon. The details about that thing, from down there, the thing I've met before. Friday morning we began the journey to her with the words terminal and inoperable rumbling around in our heads. Oh ya, and a few 'fuck you's" too.
On the ferry, our kids were a delight - they stood into the wind and watched the gulls try to fly when all they could really do was float on the rushing air. Their faces exuded life - that pure joy, unencumbered by the responsibilities and worries we adults carry. It was intoxicating to watch their glee - eyes alive and vital. My husband and I held hands, watched them, laughed and loved.
In the car we blasted the music - our music - and the kids sang along, we rocked out, all of us. Husband did 'punch buggy, no returns' and we all giggled each time at the silliness of it all.
Driving down her street, a quietness took over. Deep, steadying breaths as we pulled in the driveway, and terminal and inoperable make themselves known again, a big thundering echo.
My eldest got to her first. He's 12. He hugged her tight. I couldn't see their faces, could only see her shoulders heaving, knowing she was wondering how much of his growing up she was going to get to see. Then the middle one - Mr. Light himself - "I love you Grandma" - and her eyes filled with love. That boy can heal, I swear he can!
She's thinner, there's a droop about her posture, and there's fear in her eyes. Of course there is! Not fear of dying, fear of what might come before. We waxed philosophical about the meaning of life and what comes after and that we're all dying - just aren't as aware of when and from what. It's fresh - she's still processing, no question.
The next day just my husband and I went to see her. She was in bed when we arrived, she'd been nauseous - she has a bright yellow puke bucket with a happy face on it - we all had a laugh over that. I got on the bed with her, rubbed her back, and we all just talked - about the cancer and the tests, about the kids, about how hard it is on Dad, about the unknowns, about the weather. She told us the Doc had told her it was time to 'eat whatever she wanted and drink beer' - I told her next time I'd get her stoned - solve the nausea problem and the lack of appetite all at once.
It's just the beginning of a road I know too well. Profundity, anger, hope, fear, faith, fight, determination, surrender - all part of the package.
It was a scene from a movie. It was both surreal and more real than anything I've known all at once.
The test results came on Thursday, late afternoon. The details about that thing, from down there, the thing I've met before. Friday morning we began the journey to her with the words terminal and inoperable rumbling around in our heads. Oh ya, and a few 'fuck you's" too.
On the ferry, our kids were a delight - they stood into the wind and watched the gulls try to fly when all they could really do was float on the rushing air. Their faces exuded life - that pure joy, unencumbered by the responsibilities and worries we adults carry. It was intoxicating to watch their glee - eyes alive and vital. My husband and I held hands, watched them, laughed and loved.
In the car we blasted the music - our music - and the kids sang along, we rocked out, all of us. Husband did 'punch buggy, no returns' and we all giggled each time at the silliness of it all.
Driving down her street, a quietness took over. Deep, steadying breaths as we pulled in the driveway, and terminal and inoperable make themselves known again, a big thundering echo.
My eldest got to her first. He's 12. He hugged her tight. I couldn't see their faces, could only see her shoulders heaving, knowing she was wondering how much of his growing up she was going to get to see. Then the middle one - Mr. Light himself - "I love you Grandma" - and her eyes filled with love. That boy can heal, I swear he can!
She's thinner, there's a droop about her posture, and there's fear in her eyes. Of course there is! Not fear of dying, fear of what might come before. We waxed philosophical about the meaning of life and what comes after and that we're all dying - just aren't as aware of when and from what. It's fresh - she's still processing, no question.
The next day just my husband and I went to see her. She was in bed when we arrived, she'd been nauseous - she has a bright yellow puke bucket with a happy face on it - we all had a laugh over that. I got on the bed with her, rubbed her back, and we all just talked - about the cancer and the tests, about the kids, about how hard it is on Dad, about the unknowns, about the weather. She told us the Doc had told her it was time to 'eat whatever she wanted and drink beer' - I told her next time I'd get her stoned - solve the nausea problem and the lack of appetite all at once.
It's just the beginning of a road I know too well. Profundity, anger, hope, fear, faith, fight, determination, surrender - all part of the package.
It was a scene from a movie. It was both surreal and more real than anything I've known all at once.
posted by MysticSpirit (Sass) at 7:52 AM
6 Comments:
You're a strong one, ta be sure Lass - hang in there!
I'm here if ya need me, for any reason.. Healing thoughts your way.
tweeked_halo@yahoo.com
It's a fetid, rotten, stinking package. I hate it.
You're the strong one though.
I'm truly touched. I'm sorry for the life's journey. I'm happy your love for your kids and husband.
can I just say... y'all rock, thank you so very much
I'm sorry to hear about the challenge facing your mom. Having been there, I know how hard it can be because there is only so much we offspring can do, and from the sounds of it, you've already done so much. I'm glad you are able to talk about it with her. My Dad couldn't even say the word 'cancer' until shortly before he passed away. It is an unenviable position but the ability to say what you want to say has a value that is beyond estimation. After all is said and done, love is what really matters. I hope you are able to find peace of mind through the coming weeks and months.
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