A conversation in Hospice

He said “mom, this morning I woke up to someone crying and saying ‘I missed it'”. I said “Well, honey, many people wait until their loved ones are out of the room before they pass. They go to get coffee or go pee and when they come back it’s too late. They think they’re saving them from the pain of seeing them go”. He looked at me and nodded, a very thoughtful look on his face. I looked him right in the eyes and said “Don’t be that guy”. He said to me “I’ll see what I can do, mom”.

I spent hours and hours holding his hand. I had Randy sneak a few photos of our hands so that I could remember how it felt. At first, in the hospital, he didn’t want me to take pictures and would get angry about everything, but later in Hospice he didn’t mind. Most of his anger was gone. His true sweet personality shone back through and he was full of love, laughter and kindness for all of his family, friends and visitors that dropped by. He pushed himself to stay awake when he should’ve rested, knowing time was short.

He would make the effort to get up and walk over and wrap his arms around me and say “love you, momma”. He always did a little tickle thing on my back with his fingers. His signature thing. I would move heaven and earth to feel him do that again.

Letter to Colton

Oct 24, 2020

I’ve been procrastinating all day. Yes, I know that you know that I got my chores done early, did the shopping, started the laundry, walked the dogs, everything that I knew had to get done. All done in silence and as if sleepwalking. Thankful that it’s not an expectation that I be sociable as I carry out these tasks, Thankful that I’m wearing a mask, One of fabric, one of grief. I know the front yard needs to be weeded, and the front entryway needs to be painted. Instead, I sit here frozen. My head hurts. I can feel my forehead crumpled as my eyes squint and my brows come together. The pain of losing you, the physical pain is now permanently etched into my face. I see it every day. It’s aged me in a fiercely unfortunate way. Since I’m alone I find myself talking out loud to you, to God, the Source, the Universe, the Angels, to all and anyone listening, to ask to make sure that you’re ok. And that eventually I’ll be ok. And I cry. And cry and tell you how much I miss you. And I let the pain roll down my face for anyone and no one to see. Time keeps marching onwards and here I am because nothing is changing except maybe that I am getting older and sicker and you don’t have to anymore. I’ve made it to my final destination. I’ve made it to the island. It’s so breathtakingly beautiful, and I am fully aware of every sacrifice it took to get here. So I’m making a conscious effort to make the very most of it. I am mindful every day as I look at the water that it is looking back at me and yes, it brings some comfort. Maybe it time, much more time, I can sit here and think of you and not cry so hard. Maybe my chest won’t feel like it’s caving in. Maybe I won’t feel like I’ve been badly beaten. Maybe I’ll have enough energy to get up and get on with my day. I look at your pictures and I can’t breathe. I would not wish this pain on anyone. It is crushing in its weight, and yet it is only I that must carry it around every day. As the wave of grief crests and passes over me, I am thankful all over again that not every day is this bad. Some days, I am thankful that this feels like one of the ‘good’ days….

So hard to understand…

Give me a moment if you can stand it

You need to know that I feel stranded

Tell me what is the boundary,

An acceptable level of misery?

For try as I may I can’t catch my breath

Seemingly unable to accept your death

Just as light starts to shine through the veil

I try and I try but I just seem to fail

I keep being told that it’s ok to cry

That it’ll get easier as the years go by

What they don’t know is that time has stood still

And crying out memory only makes it refill