Cancer

Death is very personal, and not to the person who is dying. Also it is.

We’ve banned the “I’m dying” phrase in my home. No, we’re not dying of laughter. The person in the next room, is dying.

This isn’t my first meet with grief. Won’t be my last time. So, here is why it’s deeply personal but not about you, at all.

One day, you are standing in line at the Post Office picking up your mail. The person in front of you is taking their sweet time. You have to get to Costco before they close. Before that, you need to wash your car. Fill up your tank. “Hurry up fucker.” It’s 8 am but you don’t have all day.

Terminal illness changes that: Need to, to Get to.

One day, it’s 7 am and you know your grandmother has been awake since 5 am, watching the news, with a black coffee, in a yellow, ceramic coffee up. It’s the same mug she used to fill with warm milk when you were little. On nights where you couldn’t sleep. Cold, fridge cereal and warm milk. Just a regular weekend-night for you. Little you. Not older.

The next day, you’re embracing each other in front of an emergency room entrance. You’ve held each other for a life time. You’re holding each other together, this time. Can we go back to needing: go to the bank before closing, strolling Costco for the latest monitor, because she can see ALL her documents displayed on three monitors. Work, work, work. She is up by 5 am but is at the office, or is she? Where is she?

Then comes cancer. Did you hear? No, did you hear? No. My grandmother - but she is my friend someone else says! My grandmother - no, she’s my best friend. My grandmother - No, she’s my sister. My grandmother - She is my colleague, I’ve worked for her, with her, for years. Can I see her? It’s me. No, it’s been two months and she doesn’t even know who I am. She won’t know you . I am, who she says, I am. If I’m James Dean one day, then that’s who I am. The next time she sees me (in a few seconds) I’ll be her grand daughter again. Our doors are open, but please stop walking through them. She’s trying to sleep.

See? Deeply personal. Not about us at all. Fifteen minutes visits: hand holding, praying, playing along, or are we playing a long.. a long time like this? Deeply personal to us: My grandmother. Who can shift the room’s energy with an entrance. Now, she’s shift eyes of the people who probably had a million things to say, she’s skin and bones now. I will feel her, in my bones, in my mind, in my heart. For the rest of my life.

Now, standing behind that stranger in line at the Post Office, who is taking their sweet time, don’t they, realize that your grandmother doesn’t have time left. As a matter of fact, you don’t even know how much time. Will I be doing this, next month? Do I want to see her decline for even more time? There’s nothing I’d rather do. Wait… that’s not right! None of this is.

You’ve stopped decorating in October because what’s scarier than losing someone you love. And also, you’ve lost track of time. Is it so we don’t have markers of time, for her, or for us? Someone please pass the turkey and also a tissue. I’m now celebrating Christmas in November. Wait, my grandmother asks, Where are we? What’s your name? Well, I’m your grand daughter, but they’re your: daughters, sibling, friend, colleague and neighbor. Everyone play nice.

We are all losing someone.

#Cancer #WarmWishes #Grief #Hospice

People usually say… “So much can change in a year” OK. What about in months.

My grandmother’s cancer journey has changed my relationship with time. Might as well change my relationship status to “It’s complicated.”

Let’s start with what Cancer is to me. Cancer is “getting everything in order - so… that…x,y,z.” Actually, it’s more like you’re reading the alphabet from finish to start. Right? So you can go backwards and maybe sound out letters you missed because you were going too fast, you don’t. That’s the thing… how do you go from September 21st. Walking three miles in forty-five minutes to the next day… “Cancer doesn’t happen to me. It’s not in our DNA. It happens to others, other families. “ to Holy Shit. Holy - something. We need some spiritual interference for this. To “She is so strong. So are you.”

They measure a life and give you a Hail Mary. You start saying Hail Marys.

I’ve had rules… rules if my grandmother ever lost her ability to - and the only thing I can remember from the fuzziness that my brain has become is.. Chapstick. She wants chapstick. It’s important. Chapstick becomes the only thing I can do.

I’ve learned the true meaning of capacity. How you show up, fully will look different every day. I really like the quote that says “On the days you have forty-percent and you gave forty-percent - you gave one-hundred percent.” Someone’s percent will look different than mine, that’s OK. Cancer is showing up as you can. As your body lets you. As your heart wants to.

Cancer is you can do chemo - Sorry, you can’t. Cancer goes from doctor appointments to hospital stays. Cancer is going home, and staying there. Cancer is. It’s watching your loved ones do everything for someone who - was healthy, looked good, looked young. (Wait. . You’re 68?!) It’s watching someone wake up in the middle of the night to give her medication, adjust the pillow, adjust the bed. Walk her to the bathroom, stop her from walking because she thinks she’s walking to an appointment. It’s… going along with what she says. Watching my grandmother fold a blanket over, over and over. In two month’s time. Time is a gift but also a thief. Two months time. I’ve seen how hand holding is the only thing you can hold on to. I’ve seen how couches become beds. You start inflating beds and wish you could inflate birthday balloons one more time. I’ve seen how, you’re suppose to just welcome everyone. Welcome, everyone… she’s asleep.

OK now. What cancer really looks like: Holding grudges becomes holding her hand. Watching my aunt change colonoscopy bags. Weren’t those bags… Nordstrom bags in two months time? Draining bags. They told her to drain her bank accounts in two months time. It’s watching my mom, watching her convince her mom that she’s her daughter. My mom has always been the most resilient person I know. I watch her open up her house to people who, she’s known her whole life, yet, they don’t know “Where she’s been this whole time.” Here. I watch her giving her mom medication, wasn’t I just watching her do a puzzle? A thousand pieces puzzle. Now, I’ll be helping her, she will be helping me, pick up the pieces of our lives for the rest of our lives, we’ll piece together, yet it won’t look right. What do you do when a math problem answer doesn’t seem right, you start over: We won’t be able to start over, we will have to start from where we are. They say start from where you are with what you have. We have each other and that’s where we are but remember when I had my center, and Alicia did too? Me, I’m her center. Does this mean I’ll be looking for my footing for the rest of my life? Probably. I’ll definitely be looking for her (my grandmother) , in water, surrounded by seals, smelling like dirty salt water, with the sun hitting my face.The only thing I’ll have is the smell of seal infested salt waters, when wasn’t I just smelling *daisy sour cream, devils food donuts and hamburgers for breakfast? It’s the only place. I already know that. This must be the place. It is. I said I’d be here. Hypothetically, Now, in the future, literally. She (my grandmother) won’t be.

Now more than ever before, I know why they say “Grief is just Love with nowhere to go.” Wait, she’s still here! Grief doesn’t start until the end, or does it? Grief exists because Love existed. Opposites? No, the same thing. Side by side, just like everyone is at my grandmother’s side. Now, not then. If she’s strong now? What was she then? Let me remind you of what you said.

Cancer is. We have no choice, “Putting a fire under it.” Never thought that would become - “Let me put this pillow under you, are you more comfortable like this? Are you uncomfortable, no she’s in pain. It’s, strangers to, using nicknames we’ve known our entire lives. It’s Oh no, I am going to cry. Can’t cry. Too late, your cousin thought of you and bought you vegan cheese.

A gift, A theif.
Gratitude for this entire experience is a prayer.

Cancer is, saying everything but not saying anything. Literally.

Like Alicia said. This is the easy part, so what’s the hard part? Don’t tell me.

But I’ll tell you what my heaven looks like, she said: it’s pictures of you.

#Cancer #PancreaticCancer #Grief