This morning was emotionally rough. I described it to Peg this way: I'm at a house with a sloping driveway, standing on the front porch. The car parked there is starting to roll backwards, into the street...and I know there's no way I can cover the 30 yards to the car, get the door open, and pull the emergency brake lever. There is literally nothing I can do but watch the car roll into the street.
That's what came up for me when the hospice nurse asked how I was doing.
Ovarian cancer is one of the nastier ones. High mortality rate with the occasional miracle. I'd been keeping a special fantasy going since 2009: Peg would be one of the miraculous few. Because she's Peg, and she's wonderful, and strong, and gifted. Yes, she would pull through. When she decided to forego aggressive treatment, that fantasy went away...but not entirely.
I realized this morning that while my head knew I was losing Peg, my heart was still in denial. And now it's really sinking in on a very deep level.
So thankful for our family and friends. Your warm embrace makes all this bearable.
2 comments:
OMG I was BIG!!
Eric, such a loss is so enormous, it's natural to accept it only a little at a time. Of course you want to stop that rolling car. If only it were possible.
Like you said before, Peg will never really be completely gone. Just the ravaged body will be.
My sister was Catholic; there was a wake. As soon as I saw her body in the casket, I felt a little better, because I could see immediately that THAT wasn't HER. Instead, I could feel her spirit all around us.
That car may roll into the street, but the essense of Peg-- she's going to be alright. And if I know Peg, she's going to let you and Zoe know it.
Warm thoughts, Roberta
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