she is gone.
Her face is white, waxy - still. My eyes keep coming back to it, looking for movement, the hundred and one little clues that we use to read the person inside. She's not there, of course.
But I'm still looking. The brain knows, the heart has begun to mourn, but the eyes are stubborn, holding their picket line with the corner of my self that is stomping it's foot and looking mutinous. A moment for inner toddlerism, a deep breath and I follow her bed downstairs to where the chevra kaddisha is waiting.
she is gone.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
uncurling fingers
Every day, she inhabits her body more lightly.
A few days ago, she was fierce. Her moans became hums, quieting into sighs. She's silent now, lying quietly. It's been days since she opened her eyes and saw, days since she ate, since she drank, since she's worn her body with purpose.
When she opens her eyes now, they are red-rimmed and blank. I do not see her behind them. Her arm and hand move, lift, drop, her fingers seeking something and settling in my hand. But her fingers no longer curl around mine.
It's been days since she raised her hand and curved it around my neck, gently working her hand into my hair.
She barely breathes now, and there are long, stretched out times when she does not breathe at all. And yet, she is peaceful. The fierce insistence on breath, the need to live, with its knotted forehead and gripping hands has left. Two days ago, her feet began pointing stiffly to the window, as if marking a trail for her spirit to follow.
This is fierceness reworked into an inexorable acceptance. Or is this acceptance forced by inexorable reality? I can't tell. She's silent now, her lips closed on the explanations that none of us really need. She's let go of the bed rails, let go of our loving hands, and is letting go of her body. As her body quiets and her spirit disentangles itself from muscle, nerve and lung, something settles into place - I'd naively call it grace. It might, if I were more ruthless, be called absence. Or possibly, quiet.
We buzzed and hummed around her before, smoothing lotion on dry skin, massaging stiff muscles - meeting her needs where we could, inventing needs to fill our own. When she was fighting for breath, I found myself singing the boys' lullaby to her. It's the song I've sung in emergency rooms, during anaphylaxes, RSV, times when we struggled for breath and calm. Now, her quiet has no such need for music. And yet I'm humming again: od yavo shalom aleinu.
For her, peace has already come. Around her, the family is solemn and boisterous by turns, shooting hoops with the wrappers from lunch, rubbing her cold feet, wrapping an arm around a cousin's shoulder. They are holding vigil, and for a little while, I was able to join them.
But now it's time to come home.
A few days ago, she was fierce. Her moans became hums, quieting into sighs. She's silent now, lying quietly. It's been days since she opened her eyes and saw, days since she ate, since she drank, since she's worn her body with purpose.
When she opens her eyes now, they are red-rimmed and blank. I do not see her behind them. Her arm and hand move, lift, drop, her fingers seeking something and settling in my hand. But her fingers no longer curl around mine.
It's been days since she raised her hand and curved it around my neck, gently working her hand into my hair.
She barely breathes now, and there are long, stretched out times when she does not breathe at all. And yet, she is peaceful. The fierce insistence on breath, the need to live, with its knotted forehead and gripping hands has left. Two days ago, her feet began pointing stiffly to the window, as if marking a trail for her spirit to follow.
This is fierceness reworked into an inexorable acceptance. Or is this acceptance forced by inexorable reality? I can't tell. She's silent now, her lips closed on the explanations that none of us really need. She's let go of the bed rails, let go of our loving hands, and is letting go of her body. As her body quiets and her spirit disentangles itself from muscle, nerve and lung, something settles into place - I'd naively call it grace. It might, if I were more ruthless, be called absence. Or possibly, quiet.
We buzzed and hummed around her before, smoothing lotion on dry skin, massaging stiff muscles - meeting her needs where we could, inventing needs to fill our own. When she was fighting for breath, I found myself singing the boys' lullaby to her. It's the song I've sung in emergency rooms, during anaphylaxes, RSV, times when we struggled for breath and calm. Now, her quiet has no such need for music. And yet I'm humming again: od yavo shalom aleinu.
For her, peace has already come. Around her, the family is solemn and boisterous by turns, shooting hoops with the wrappers from lunch, rubbing her cold feet, wrapping an arm around a cousin's shoulder. They are holding vigil, and for a little while, I was able to join them.
But now it's time to come home.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
pools and rushes
oh, the drama and the gentle melancholy of the post of yester-year. Or, at least, two days ago.
I am here. No sad, solemn faces greeted me at the airport, neither tragedies nor triumphs. And, faced with the reality of this slow wait, the rollercoaster of slow then terrifying is it now? then slow again, I can almost relax. I nearly know this pattern, know how time pools, then rushes past - all while I stand gaping, trying to parse, to understand, hell, to catch up and keep the pace.
Pace? There is no pace. Silly woman.
She gasps for breath, body tense, her hands gripping the side of the bed. Her hands look almost angry at those moments, fierce and ruthless. She vomits, and I'm rubbing her shoulder, saying the pragmatic loving things that I say to my boys. Go on, get that out. Your body wants it out. And helplessly, she does.
And then she's quiet. Leaning back on her pillows, the mask on her face and a calm waiting look in her eye. Around her, family swirls. We chat with her, to each other, laughing and enjoying the family coalescing. When she's quiet, we let the reason for our gathering rest. Hello! How have you been? Did you bring photos of the kids? Of course. And I lean over her bed, showing her the photos while I show the others.
Here's the Eldest's sewing, the Toddles writing letters, the my wonderful kid this, and my wonderful kid that. She reaches out a shaking hand and tries to wrap her fingers around a photo. I hold her hand and together, we admire a child's face. Time pools gently in the room, and I start to relax.
Come on, says an aunt. And I do, kissing a silver hair goodbye, the soft sueded skin. Damn, but I'm lucky, I think. I wish the nurses a good night and we leave. The nights are, of course, the worst time, the aunt admits. I nod. I know this, and yet I can see how we might let ourselves leave this informal vigil, fooling ourselves into thinking that maybe, possibly, there is a pattern. It's a more comforting thought than unpredictability, than waiting for an unexpected ending, and I can see now how little grace there could be in such an ending. The gasp, the body striving, the desperate need of lungs, starving for air - oh, no. Not grace; need.
Pool, rush, pool, rush, pool. The pattern is there, tempting us.
I am here. No sad, solemn faces greeted me at the airport, neither tragedies nor triumphs. And, faced with the reality of this slow wait, the rollercoaster of slow then terrifying is it now? then slow again, I can almost relax. I nearly know this pattern, know how time pools, then rushes past - all while I stand gaping, trying to parse, to understand, hell, to catch up and keep the pace.
Pace? There is no pace. Silly woman.
She gasps for breath, body tense, her hands gripping the side of the bed. Her hands look almost angry at those moments, fierce and ruthless. She vomits, and I'm rubbing her shoulder, saying the pragmatic loving things that I say to my boys. Go on, get that out. Your body wants it out. And helplessly, she does.
And then she's quiet. Leaning back on her pillows, the mask on her face and a calm waiting look in her eye. Around her, family swirls. We chat with her, to each other, laughing and enjoying the family coalescing. When she's quiet, we let the reason for our gathering rest. Hello! How have you been? Did you bring photos of the kids? Of course. And I lean over her bed, showing her the photos while I show the others.
Here's the Eldest's sewing, the Toddles writing letters, the my wonderful kid this, and my wonderful kid that. She reaches out a shaking hand and tries to wrap her fingers around a photo. I hold her hand and together, we admire a child's face. Time pools gently in the room, and I start to relax.
Come on, says an aunt. And I do, kissing a silver hair goodbye, the soft sueded skin. Damn, but I'm lucky, I think. I wish the nurses a good night and we leave. The nights are, of course, the worst time, the aunt admits. I nod. I know this, and yet I can see how we might let ourselves leave this informal vigil, fooling ourselves into thinking that maybe, possibly, there is a pattern. It's a more comforting thought than unpredictability, than waiting for an unexpected ending, and I can see now how little grace there could be in such an ending. The gasp, the body striving, the desperate need of lungs, starving for air - oh, no. Not grace; need.
Pool, rush, pool, rush, pool. The pattern is there, tempting us.
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