Death and dying. I sense a theme. Is it the age I am at? Really? Early forties?! A mite young for contemporaries, but we are exposed to death at any age.
At age of 5, my father died. A few years later, his mother died from grief—god speed Gaga.
The years passed and family friends faded away; some old, many young. Cancer, you fiend, you were often the cause.
Lest you be a stranger, cancer came knocking again. After a seeming lull, you knocked on my door to announce your presence in my husband's life; his leg. You took your pound of flesh, then within a scant few years came calling for the rest.
Thirties—that's what Brad was. Too young, but you don't play with numbers. I have seen children touched by your mark. You are ruthless in your indeterminate arc.
I thought I had made peace with you. After fearing the C-word for most of my life, I saw the other side. Some fought the good fight and won. They looked you in the eyes and met you—survived. They were given a reprieve; the gift of rebirth. Oh, I know it means you lurk forever in the wings taunting with what-ifs, but when given the second chance to cherish every day once more, it is worth the gamble.
But today, you snuck in from the wings. Bert hadn't even seen 60. She lived a good life; rarely drank, drove the speed limit, took care of her mother... No matter. It was enough for you. It seems unjust! She lived for her cats, to do a good job at work, and to make sure her mother was well cared for. Now what? She complained, but not early enough. Surgeons opened her up to find you everywhere. Your chaos was more than anyone could battle. Within a month poor Bertie was gone.
And I found out too late.
No funeral, no mass, no fanfare. It was her way, but leaves me hollow. How does one say goodbye when the guilt of days passed stands in the way of goodbye? I should have called. I could have visited. No more.
I'm sorry Betha. I wish you had been given a fairer shake in this thing called life. More moments, Bigger joy, in depth love to make a heart swoon. It was not to be.
Perhaps this is my reminder to reach for those moments myself. Just this week I noted my lack of joy, the infrequent pangs of love, and the crazy busy life I lead, which, while hectic, doesn't fulfil my heart's desire. Is someone trying to tell me something? Live life before the unknown number of allotted days are gone...
Oh Bert. I am so sorry for your quick departure. I hope you find your way to the next life and discover more joy in it. Blessings to you my friend.
RIP BK. Soar...
At age of 5, my father died. A few years later, his mother died from grief—god speed Gaga.
The years passed and family friends faded away; some old, many young. Cancer, you fiend, you were often the cause.
Lest you be a stranger, cancer came knocking again. After a seeming lull, you knocked on my door to announce your presence in my husband's life; his leg. You took your pound of flesh, then within a scant few years came calling for the rest.
Thirties—that's what Brad was. Too young, but you don't play with numbers. I have seen children touched by your mark. You are ruthless in your indeterminate arc.
I thought I had made peace with you. After fearing the C-word for most of my life, I saw the other side. Some fought the good fight and won. They looked you in the eyes and met you—survived. They were given a reprieve; the gift of rebirth. Oh, I know it means you lurk forever in the wings taunting with what-ifs, but when given the second chance to cherish every day once more, it is worth the gamble.
But today, you snuck in from the wings. Bert hadn't even seen 60. She lived a good life; rarely drank, drove the speed limit, took care of her mother... No matter. It was enough for you. It seems unjust! She lived for her cats, to do a good job at work, and to make sure her mother was well cared for. Now what? She complained, but not early enough. Surgeons opened her up to find you everywhere. Your chaos was more than anyone could battle. Within a month poor Bertie was gone.
And I found out too late.
No funeral, no mass, no fanfare. It was her way, but leaves me hollow. How does one say goodbye when the guilt of days passed stands in the way of goodbye? I should have called. I could have visited. No more.
I'm sorry Betha. I wish you had been given a fairer shake in this thing called life. More moments, Bigger joy, in depth love to make a heart swoon. It was not to be.
Perhaps this is my reminder to reach for those moments myself. Just this week I noted my lack of joy, the infrequent pangs of love, and the crazy busy life I lead, which, while hectic, doesn't fulfil my heart's desire. Is someone trying to tell me something? Live life before the unknown number of allotted days are gone...
Oh Bert. I am so sorry for your quick departure. I hope you find your way to the next life and discover more joy in it. Blessings to you my friend.
RIP BK. Soar...
