Lately, I've been thinking about a number of things most of them political, about which there will be more at another time (such as say, when my boss goes on holiday) but right now a brief and personal note.
The woman who was like another mother to me died a few months ago and the grief of that loss comes upon me intermittently, unexpectedly, in waves. I felt little sadness at hearing of her death because of my beliefs that the spirit continues to live on and that in death all pain stops. I grieved though for the family she left behind, particularly my friend, her son because I know how close they were.
But I do grieve for her illness. It was not exactly a surprise that she had cancer (smoking like a chimney and eating no vegetables really is not a recipe for longevity) but that didn't make me any less fucking sorry that it was the case. And I still feel so sorry for the fact that she got ill, and went through the brutal treatments for her illness, and that she began to lose her breath and her words and the latter particularly made her sad for she was an eloquent, articulate, well-read woman.
My mother and she were close friends and I was glad that my mother was there for her and her family, that she could be. I wasn't really though because my second mother was always very keen to shield me from her disease, to keep me outside of it, and I tried to respect that. We compartmentalised our grief, we skated around Cancer Talk, we shared good times and our silences were rich with care and meaning. I do not have any regrets, only sadness for her and her family.
And today I came across a poem that touched the raw places, and that made me cling to Z like a monkey while I sobbed my heart out on his shoulder. So in memory of that woman I loved, and all the things about her illness that I couldn't or didn't know how to say, here is Emigration by Tony Hoagland
Try being sick for a year,
then having that year turn into two,
until the memory of your health is like an island
going out of sight behind you
and you sail on in twilight,
with the sound of waves.
It's not a dream. You pass
through waiting rooms and clinics
until the very sky seems pharmaceutical,
and the faces of the doctors are your stars
whose smile or frown
means to hurry and get well
or die.
And because illness feels like punishment,
an enormous effort to be good
comes out of you --
like the good behavior of a child
desperate to appease
the invisible parents of this world.
And when that fails,
there is an orb of anger
rising like the sun above
the mind afraid of death,
and then a lake of grief, staining everything below,
and then a holding action of neurotic vigilance
and then a recitation of the history
of second chances.
And the illusions keep on coming,
and fading out, and coming on again
while your skin turns yellow from the medicine,
your ankles swell like dough above your shoes,
and you stop wanting to make love
because there is no love in you,
only a desire to be done.
But you're not done.
Your bags are packed
and you are traveling.
- Current Mood:
morose
- Current Music:the purr of cats
Comments
I'm so sorry for your hurt.
That poem totally made me shiver and cry and wish I'd written it.
I love you and I miss you.
Louise Glück
I'll tell you something: every day
people are dying. And that's just the beginning.
Every day, in funeral homes, new widows are born,
new orphans. They sit with their hands folded,
trying to decide about this new life.
Then they're in the cemetery, some of them
for the first time. They're frightened of crying,
sometimes of not crying. Someone leans over,
tells them what to do next, which might mean
saying a few words, sometimes
throwing dirt in the open grave.
And after that, everyone goes back to the house,
which is suddenly full of visitors.
The widow sits on the couch, very stately,
so people line up to approach her,
sometimes take her hand, sometimes embrace her.
She finds something to say to everbody,
thanks them, thanks them for coming.
In her heart, she wants them to go away.
She wants to be back in the cemetery,
back in the sickroom, the hospital. She knows
it isn't possible. But it's her only hope,
the wish to move backward. And just a little,
not so far as the marriage, the first kiss.
(on an unrelated note, I love your icon)
Louise Gluck writes beautiful poetry. There are lots more here if you're interested. Hope you are feeling better.
If you need me, I'm still around.
Meet me by the tree.
I'm all right really, just still in the throes of my quiet time.
How are you? What's up in your life?
I guess I'm steady... wether that's good or bad, I don't know yet. It seems all signs are pointing me to a time of quiet of my own. There just seems to be more of me all the time. Or less as the case may be.(I am SO glad I don't get all crytic anymore!)
On lighter notes, I am enjoying the hell out of the Sirius radio Rolling Stones channel.
My own melodies are gettin stronger on guitar.
As I wrote some of that just now I became aware of an ant cleaning her face, sitting on my left pointer finger. Hmmmm.
Anyway, I don't know if you still IM. But sometimes I am around on IM under Bowmanderf.