It's Never Come This Close Before

Grief comes in so many forms on this earth. So many times it's linked to death, almost as synonymous as the hooded man with his curved blade, but there's also grief that comes with any bad news. It's a word that describes those intense feelings in the midst of a process. I'm learning more and more about that grief.  Being raised by a nurse who poured herself out and opened her home to the elderly, it would seem to follow that grief would be a familiar friend. But something's happened that has made me realize, I never fully understood it.

I remember one particular moment though. I was 6...maybe 7 and one of our residents had passed away. We lived by the lake then: secluded, quiet, self-sufficient family with a slew of bed-side commodes and dentures. I never said we were normal. By that time, I think we had 2-3 residents and each time mom came home with that slightly-furrowed brow of concern and apologetic tone, we knew we were about to receive another one. I've always said her heart was too big for one family. 

Anyway, on this particular night, Mr. Harry had passed away. He was one of our orneriest residents. I think it came from years of independence being suddenly stolen by old age and a stroke. He had his sweet moments though. When his wife would come to sit and chat about the family or talk about the store they used to run together, he would get this look on his face, all the furrows and wrinkles would smooth out, and he'd settle right down. 

I remember that dark night because I think it's the first time I breathed the same air as grief. Normally, as a young child, I would be ushered into another room or not even woken up when someone passed away. But this time, I stood with Harry's widow. I held her hand. I saw each tear fall as we stood under the front porch flood light. I was so small compared to her. I remember having to look up, wondering what to say. I knew, even at that young age, that the normal offers of condolences and words uttered in the name of comfort were really for the speaker and not for the griever. I didn't want to try to smother her in words that meant more to me than to her, so I stayed silent till the right word came along. It never did. We just stood there; my little hand patting her wrinkled one. 

There would be more moments like that; some even involving those close to me as we cared for my own grandmother and grandfather as they breathed their last. But those were deaths due to age...expected, prepared for. It's an easing into of sorts. Grief was allowed in as part of the process.

With the word "cancer" there comes a slap or a punch, a forcefulness. There is no ease. One day is fine, then the next holds some concern, then it's named and the ripples begin. I say ripples, but in reality, it's an earthquake which lessens in strength the farther out it goes. But the core is felt fiercely and everyone is left hanging on for...well...life.

I have always joked with my Uncle Don that he is my favorite, but not to tell the other Uncles for fear of jealousy. Thankfully, my Uncles are all my favorites and I am one blessed niece, but I have a lot of memories with Uncle Don. As a small child, I feared his gruff manners and his strong tickling finger which felt like it would poke right through your diaphragm and out the other side. What began as fear turned into respect as I became his shadow in the workshop, or rode along in his truck, or helped him stack bricks in the neighbor's yard. He taught me to mow as well. "Straight lines" he would drawl, "straight lines!" I still hear that John Wayne accent in my head when I mow. 

That is the other thing about Uncle Don; He's a good ol' boy. Problem is, he was born and raised in Yankeeville NY. But put him in a steel shop or a concrete truck with some fellow workmen hailing from the rolling hills of Georgia and he would have you thinking he was a native. He always fits in with people who are hardworking and easy going like him. He's a "go out with your boots on" kinda guy.

Punch-in-the-gut words like "cancer" and "metastasized"...I don't know what men like my Uncle can do with words like that. He could take a punch on the jaw or even a jab to the stomach and probably not even flinch. There's a story in my family that apparently, during the war, he once picked up two drunk, fellow SeeBees and plowed through a wall trying to avoid a mortar attack on the local saloon. My Uncle is tough. War, broken engines, yard work...those are all words he can take on and win because he has the gumption, the work ethic, the jaw-setting to get the job done. 

Even now, as I feel grief's icy cold touch, I'm not mad. I don't shake my fists at the heavens or rail about life being unfair. Not yet anyway. Instead, what comes to mind are those straight mown lines in the grass and the fresh baked cookies he always sneaks next to his easy chair so his wife doesn't see the contraband I gave him on the sly. I even smile as I think of his long, drawn-out blond jokes and funny banter with my Mom as he shakes his head in mock exasperation (maybe not mock all the time.) 

The tears only come when I think of that strong, tall man with his snarling lip yet teddy bear of a heart in a hospital bed, wondering what's next. My breath shudders when I think of the long night ahead of him and the moments he will wake up only to remember all over again the fight that's in front of him. I hope he will fight. But more than that, I hope with everything in me, that this hospital-gown journey be his Kingdom legacy. I pray that the long nights are punctuated with his cries of "why" and God's answers. I wanted to celebrate with him at my wedding one day, but more than that I want to celebrate with him in eternity. Please keep fighting Uncle Don, but not just for your body. Fight for those "dark night's of the soul" and wait for the morning to come. Yell at God in the darkness if you need to, but listen to his answers in the sunrise.