The Price Of Love

Have you ever found yourself in a position where, when you call someone and they answer, before you even say hello you need to tell them everything is ok? For 60 days, that is the effect my phone number coming up on someone’s call display had. Truth be told, it’s hard to be THAT girl. The girl you want to talk to because you think you want to know what’s going on, but the girl whose call or text you’re not sure you want to answer or read because you’re not 100% sure you actually want to know. 

On Day 58 I headed up for my all-day visit, my auntie coming along with me. Even though the reason she came to town was a hard one, I was trying to soak up as much time with her as I could. When we entered the room, it was still dark, the only light coming from the rising sun outside. I took a moment to consider how peaceful she looked, how relaxed and calm she was. As we moved in for the day, kissed our Queen good morning and got comfortable, there was a soft knock on the wall beside the curtain that had been pulled closed. I looked up to see the Chaplain pulling back the curtain and smiling at us. I returned his smile, invited him in to join us and made introductions.

My family has never really been religious in the traditional sense. Each of us have our personal beliefs and we observe the things that are meaningful to us. Being in a Covenant Care facility means there are Chaplains on staff and they come to visit if and when it is appropriate or if their presence is requested. There had been a couple different ones that came in to chat over the last few weeks, but this particular gentleman is someone I will never forget. The first time we met him, she told him there was something familiar about him and when he told her that people told him he looked a little like Tom Selleck, she smiled and asked where his moustache was. They were instant buddies. Over the course of that first conversation, it was evident that he was created for the work he was doing. He was such a calming presence in the room and he was a wonderful story teller. She and I took turns explaining her journey to him, plot twists and all, including this very unexpected final chapter. She told him about my Papa, sharing his recent visits. She spoke of the things she was beginning to see and experience. She told him she was ready, but wasn’t sure how it worked. With tears in her eyes she said, “I feel ready. I am ready. But I’m still here. How come no one wants me?” I squeezed her hand as tears burned my eyes, unable to believe what I heard. He assured her that was certainly not the case and said that timing is never wrong. She took a moment to consider his words and, as she began to doze off, he asked if it would be ok if he prayed for her. She nodded so we bowed our heads and he began to pray.

As he came around the curtain this time, he walked over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. I couldn’t look him in the eye because I knew if I did I would begin a fast descent into a sobbing pile of mess. I bit down on the inside of my lip as hard as I could stand it. He asked how she was doing so I gave him the update on the decisions she had made and that we were waiting for word on her move to a palliative care facility. Then he asked me the question I had grown to dread: How are you doing? I moved away, began fidgeting with different things in the room and then excused myself to the bathroom. For weeks I have been struggling to find a way to answer that question. Like TRULY answer that question. Most people ask it because it’s what you do, it’s a social norm. Most people don’t want the honest answer though. They want the standard response. The head tilt. The “I’m doing ok. As well as can be expected.” The difference here is that he really wanted the answer, but I didn’t have to say the words. He could see it, hear it, feel it. The answer to this question is overwhelmingly loaded.

In live time, I am trying to reconcile the fact that I am full of grief because I have begun to mourn the coming loss of her physical presence. The logical side of me can see her, touch her, hear her. My soul knows it won’t be that way for long. And my heart is aching in the in between. I have been and am so incredibly grateful for the time I have had with her over the years and during the last 2 months at her bedside. I love her so much, the thought of losing her lovely, tiny human package brings me to my knees. In live time, I am finding ways to do the things she needs because I would do anything for her, even though the pain takes my breath away. The price of this love is grief. And I know that in the days to come the grief is going to kick the shit out of me.

Our time with the Chaplain was an experience I will carry with me. It may not have looked like it, but I found a glimmer of peace in his words. Peace in the reassurance that I was doing the right things, saying the right things and being what she needed. He helped me understand that through keeping my commitments to her, I was helping both her and I heal. He helped me see that my willingness to walk through this transition with her kept her from being afraid. 

I spent a good part of the day reflecting. Her impact in this world has been exceptional. I mean, look at her time in the hospital. Her reputation is beautiful here. The staff have been incredible with us because of the relationships she built with them. Whenever we need anything we can ask anyone and they are happy to help, but not because it’s their job. I can see and feel that they want to love and support us. Many of the nurses come in to visit even when she isn’t their patient. The hugs, the tears. She’s the kind of person you can’t help but get attached to.

Before I know it, it’s dark outside and time for me to head home for the night. I put my hand on her cheek and pause to memorize everything before my eyes. I smooch her forehead, pausing again. I lean in close and whisper “You’re my most favourite.” She doesn’t answer today but I see a slight twitch at the corner of her lips. “I love you. See you in the morning.” And, even though her eyes are closed, I smile and make kissy sounds at her.

The drive home looks the same as always. 36 kilometers later, I pull into my garage and sit there for a moment as the door closes. I take a second to breathe and as I close my eyes, tears roll down my cheeks. I spend so much fucking time baffled at all this. I can’t seem to make sense of the things I’m able to explain to other people. I want desperately to know why, but there don’t seem to be any leads on an answer. I dry my eyes and head in to see my little family. Hugs, kisses, loves. It feels good to be with them. I missed dinner, but made it home for the bedtime routine. Baths, jammies, teeth brushing and cuddles. 

My phone rings. Every time it makes that noise (any noise) my heart skips a beat and it occurs to me that I don’t like being on this side. I take a deep breath and answer. It’s a different auntie. She’s up visiting right now and they got word that the move is happening tomorrow. The adrenaline begins to pulse so hard I can feel it in my eyeballs. She explains how the process works and how it will all go down. It wasn’t a discussion so much as it was a statement and it hits me the funny. I feel sick to my stomach and the second I hang up the phone, I run to the toilet and empty the contents of my stomach. 

As I sit on the bathroom floor, I close my eyes and breathe.