He wants to live.
He wants to work.
He wants to love me.
Instead, visitors bring food. And a boom box, CDs, a message board, flowers, a plant.
"People think they know what I want," he says.
He eats the food.
What he doesn't want is crazy religious talk, or miraculous cures talk, or talk that goes on and on and on.
Because Rich isn't going on and on.
Each day, another piece of Rich is going, and this isn't what I want. After returning home from Hospice each night, I stay up late in a house filled with him and cry and then watch my anger -- not at the illness (the poor chordoma is just trying to survive, too) and not at any god, and not even at his dying (this is a habit humans seem to have). It's at the times we hurt one another, and disappointed one another, and forgot to ask the question that slams into me now, over and over: What if I never touched him again?
I know the answer.
What a great dance it has been. Even if we forgot too many times that, one day, the music would stop.
Rich is still here. This is all I want.
Candace
1 comment:
I can imagine a few of us are looking sheepishly left and right and hoping we didn't bring or say the wrong thing! In the end, each tries to offer what he or she can. And it's not gonna ever be right and not gonna ever be enough since there's only one thing any of us want for both of you. The stuff are gestures. I guess it's the same in a family, attempts to offer food, or gifts, are just substitutes for what's really trying to be said, which is, I love you.
Those questions, that anger, how well everyone can identify. The times we hurt one another, the times we were so wrapped up in our own egos that we didn't reach out to span that distance between us because of self protection. Ouch. Let this be a good reminder not to let more time go by without reaching out to touch those we can, again, and again, as long as possible, as long as we're still here and can touch. Powerful lessons, Candace. Thank you for sharing them with me. I gotta go realign my priorities - again. And again. And again. Til I get it right. Heather
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