No one is surprised -- to a degree, we've all been expecting that phone call for years now, ever since she had that chest scan after her nasty wreck almost 10 years ago. There were spots on her lungs. The doctor told her about them, about what they likely meant, and she chose to wrangle a different truth from his words.
She knew it, we knew it. She shut her eyes tight and never spoke of it again. Things like that don't go away on their own.
Expecting the prolonged death sentence of a loved one is one thing, but being prepared for its announcement is quite another. In that respect, it caught us all off-guard today: Ant fell apart while waiting tables at work; I went 95% autopilot and forced myself to inch closer to next week's deadlines, just in case something even more terrible happens unexpectedly next week; mom filled her experienced role as the bearer of bad news phone calls, because at this point in her church office career, she's done it enough to barely have to think about it. Haven't heard from Jen yet, but since the woman practically raised her, I don't expect her reaction to be pretty. Aunt Tammy wasn't even able to go to my uncle's funeral when he died years ago, because she was so hysterical. Though I'm not looking forward to facing my Aunt's expression of anxious grief at the doctor's office on Monday, where we'll learn how much time we have left with Grandma, I need to be able to look my Aunt in the eyes and handle the raw pain she releases, because it is reality.
That's what everyone feels like when they're reminded of how fragile the most important things in their lives are; when they have to face, yet again, the fact that their strongest bonds have never physically been more than bridges built with toothpicks. That's how everyone feels when death gets too close to our homes -- even if some don't express it so honestly, we all feel the chill that stays in the corners when the wise bastard leaves in the middle of the night with one of our own.
I've never been able to lose it at work, or fall into kicking-and-screaming hysteria on the way to a funeral. I've never been able to let grief sweep me away like it's supposed to, wailing and pulling hair, unable to understand the point of tomorrow after the mortality of today. It always feels so terrible, such an unhealthy a thing to keep inside of me, like a smothered sneeze or a swallowed ice cube, but multiplied by a thousand and spontaneously recurring for years afterward. The honest, raw release of grief is instead reserved to those who truly seem to need it -- at least, that's what I've always thought, that's how I've always rationalized it; I must not need it if I cannot do it; it's better to stand if I'm capable, to protect the ones who must fall to pieces.
I don't think I believe my own explanation anymore, though. Not this time. This one is too close. It's going to hurt in an audible and visceral way, and I am not going to know how to handle it when I hear in my head what she told me the last five times I hugged her goodbye -- when I remember how serious, how terribly heartbroken she looked, every time she said it, not knowing if it would be the last chance she ever got to tell me she loved me.
"Next time, please, please don't wait so long to come back."
She knew it, we knew it. She shut her eyes tight and never spoke of it again. Things like that don't go away on their own.
Expecting the prolonged death sentence of a loved one is one thing, but being prepared for its announcement is quite another. In that respect, it caught us all off-guard today: Ant fell apart while waiting tables at work; I went 95% autopilot and forced myself to inch closer to next week's deadlines, just in case something even more terrible happens unexpectedly next week; mom filled her experienced role as the bearer of bad news phone calls, because at this point in her church office career, she's done it enough to barely have to think about it. Haven't heard from Jen yet, but since the woman practically raised her, I don't expect her reaction to be pretty. Aunt Tammy wasn't even able to go to my uncle's funeral when he died years ago, because she was so hysterical. Though I'm not looking forward to facing my Aunt's expression of anxious grief at the doctor's office on Monday, where we'll learn how much time we have left with Grandma, I need to be able to look my Aunt in the eyes and handle the raw pain she releases, because it is reality.
That's what everyone feels like when they're reminded of how fragile the most important things in their lives are; when they have to face, yet again, the fact that their strongest bonds have never physically been more than bridges built with toothpicks. That's how everyone feels when death gets too close to our homes -- even if some don't express it so honestly, we all feel the chill that stays in the corners when the wise bastard leaves in the middle of the night with one of our own.
I've never been able to lose it at work, or fall into kicking-and-screaming hysteria on the way to a funeral. I've never been able to let grief sweep me away like it's supposed to, wailing and pulling hair, unable to understand the point of tomorrow after the mortality of today. It always feels so terrible, such an unhealthy a thing to keep inside of me, like a smothered sneeze or a swallowed ice cube, but multiplied by a thousand and spontaneously recurring for years afterward. The honest, raw release of grief is instead reserved to those who truly seem to need it -- at least, that's what I've always thought, that's how I've always rationalized it; I must not need it if I cannot do it; it's better to stand if I'm capable, to protect the ones who must fall to pieces.
I don't think I believe my own explanation anymore, though. Not this time. This one is too close. It's going to hurt in an audible and visceral way, and I am not going to know how to handle it when I hear in my head what she told me the last five times I hugged her goodbye -- when I remember how serious, how terribly heartbroken she looked, every time she said it, not knowing if it would be the last chance she ever got to tell me she loved me.
"Next time, please, please don't wait so long to come back."
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