29. I Am Dying
(Marjorie, you shouldn’t read this one to Mom).
(You probably shouldn’t read it, either).
I am dying.
I know that. I’ve been told that. I’ve told you that. But the other night, in the middle of the night— during the slice of time when I’m sufficiently drugged enough to sleep through just about anything, I woke with feelings of anger, and regret, and fear, and loneliness, and profound sadness, and, and, and.
I actually woke in tears and I didn’t bother trying to stop them — in fact, I welcomed them, and needed them, and suffered through them. And then I made myself say the words that I’d been holding deep inside.
“I DO NOT WANT TO DIE.”
When I managed to pull a few steady breaths, I went from being sad to being pissed — really pissed. I wanted to push from my chair and work off some frustration. Instead, I sat my ass in my buff-colored leather prison and let the sadness seep back in. I whispered into the darkness, “I’m dying and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it. I’m dying, and I don’t want to be. I’m dying. Dying. What the fuck?”
My mind automatically took me to the people I love. I started thinking about how sad they’ll be — and how much they’ll miss me — and how different their worlds will be without me. I ached for each and every one of them.
And. Then. This. Happened.
I stopped thinking about them and started thinking about me — what all this means to me — and then I admitted that I haven’t been brave enough to go deep into what that means — beyond the whole physical part — because waiting at the abyss is effing scary — and that fear has kept me from going anywhere near the edge.
So like a crazy person, I started angry-talking — raging at the universe. I’m not sure what my first ramble was about, other than to say there was A LOT of swearing.
When some clarity of thought broke through the outburst, I peeled away the top layers of what I’ve been avoiding — and with the energy of ONE ANGRY-ASS WOMAN, I began excavating and exploring my emotions. My need to do the work was unavoidable. I was on a dig of self-awareness — and for the first time during this shit fest I was giving myself permission to be pissed, and profoundly sad, and scared shitless — because that’s what I’ve been feeling — sometimes — all the time — maybe.
I’m pissed that I won't be seeing Wells Beach again.
I’m profoundly sad that I won’t write another novel.
I’m scared shitless by what’s next and how it will play out.
In the light of day.
My work that night revealed the source of my night-terrors. I’m feeling good right now, but I know that I’ll wake up one day and I won’t be feeling this way — and I know that in due time my twice-a-week visits from Nurse M will become more frequent — and it will signal my decline — and it will become more difficult for me to get off my recliner for bathroom trips — and I’ll need more help taking care of myself — and my pain will become stronger and less manageable — and my nurse will broach the subject — and then she’ll help get a hospital bed in my living room — and arrange for nursing services to come in — and I’ll begin sleeping more hours each day than I’ll be awake — and I’ll no longer be included in decisions about my life — and I will slip away day by day — and minute by minute — until there are no more minutes, or seconds — and it will be the end of my life.
I can barely type through my tears remembering in great detail my need to call out to Tim that night — to have him come sit with me — and how overwhelming the urge was to rage at someone. So I chose God because I knew He was there with me. I’ve felt Him near me so often lately. Without my reaching out to Him in prayer, I have felt Him near.
In that moment of darkness I was angry at God and I let him have it — not because I blame Him for this, but because there was no one else to be angry with. I know the things happening to me are no one’s fault — certainly not His. My faith in Him assured me that He’d take and accept my rage — and He’d keep me safe while I faced my truths.
That’s why I found the strength to call this out in the darkness that allowed such things — “I am angry that I am dying!” And then I said the words that surprised me to my core.
“WHY ME?”
Reality sucks.
After lots of reflection, I found my way back toward acceptance. My world is different. I have become a spectator in life. People are coming and going, planning and doing, living and loving.
I am waiting to die.
These shit pieces of realization makes me almost crush from the weight of guilt and shame. Let’s face it — I’ve been blessed with time to be present in my life, even if it is different, even if I am losing it.
I now know guilt is why I didn’t allow myself the luxury of a good-old wallow — and fear is what kept me from looking into the abyss. Guilt and fear is why I didn’t want to rage at God. I didn’t want Him to think I was ungrateful for the time I have — because I am so grateful.
I am still well enough to forget that I’m sick and dying. I’m well enough to play games with Hadley — and to write my blog — and to share the grief of a beloved friend who’s suffering through the sudden loss of her stepmom — and to build friendships with people I am going to have to leave, again. I’m well enough to enjoy a snowy morning, or a star-filled evening — and to find joy in the news that new babies will be born in the fall.
But one day, things will begin to change and I won’t be well enough to do anything — to remember anything — to feel anything?
My new prayer.
“God, I pray that the love of those who will sit with me as I leave this life finds me, and that they feel my love — the only true and valuable thing any of us have to give.”
They say change is good. I don’t know who THEY are, but I’d like to tell them this.