Being With Her

Today, like the countless number of days previous to this one, was spent staring at Miki as if she were one of my favorite photographs.  From watching her sleep, triumphantly struggling to stand up to her walker with a weak leg, or cracking a smile while you think she is asleep, but is really listening to the conversation, the picture never gets old.  It is regretful that it takes a monumental moment like these last six months, for me to prioritize a “photo” in this way.  You can’t go back and recapture the image that's gone, but you can try to capture a new one as you see it to be.

Everyday continues to have its challenges for each of us.  Miki and her pain and concern for the other issues she seems to be constantly battling.  And for me, watching her go through each battle.  Again and again.  I have seen myself go from bursting into tears while driving home alone from the hospital six months ago, wondering what cars going by are seeing me, to performing my ugly cry in front of strangers and only being somewhat self conscience about it today.  Nothing more blogging therapy won’t cure and nothing I love more than to admit it in print.

As Miki’s pain increases in frequency, so do the meds to “help” with it.  The more meds the more unconscious time, the more the bowels retain their slow motion status, the more possibility for pain and the dog continues to chase its tail.  The opportunity for pain grows as the cancer spreads and the toll it takes on her insides, manifesting itself in winces of pain on the outside, which is a signal for more pain control…a vicious cycle to break.

I’ve noticed that I am asking myself more frequently, if the short conversation I just had with Miki, between her “sleeping,” may be the last one, as I try to relive each word we shared.  At some point I will have my last words with her, but will I know it concerns me.  Remember…there are no redos.

At different points along this journey, talking about the worst outcome was talked about openly between us.  For those of you that got to that level of conversation with Miki, of beliefs and what happens after leaving this place, know that she is not afraid of where the road ends here and picks up elsewhere.  She’s referred to it as her next big adventure.  But with all adventures, she does admit a bit of nervous anticipation.  I can only relate to that with the feeling I had right before jumping out of a perfectly good airplane with a parachute, a long time ago.  Her big concern are those she is leaving behind, just as those that are being left behind are concerned with her leaving us.

Getting familiar with the signs that the end of life is near is not what I thought I would be doing the week of her fifty-sixth birthday, but if it helps me understand what she cannot, then I’ll be all over it.  The hospice handbook includes a list of signs that may be observed during the end of life, but I didn’t see any from my list.  They include the increasing size of each tear that begins to stream down my face, the tightness of my hand around hers, and the wrenching sadness that will fill my heart.  After I exhibit the signs from my list, my hope is that I will be able to celebrate her freedom from her pain and suffering, which is on hers, and let her adventure begin.  Until she chooses to go, she is ours to support with all we are and all we have.  Good or bad, happy or sad, I love being with her.