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The Vagaries of Dying
What do we see, “before we go?”
When both my parents were diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer, a little over five years ago, we all knew it was the end of the line, but held onto the last flimsy bits of hope for as long as we could.
After about seven months, perhaps more, of my sister caring for them in her home, and literally being on call for them twenty-four hours a day, their condition became such that they had to be admitted to a hospice facility.
They shared a room. Two beds side by side. Funny how the memory of my mother and father in that room…in that last place before tip-toeing off this mortal coil…is at the forefront of my brain, pushing out so many recollections of better times.
Memories are odd, are they not? Often, those events and situations we choose to remember — the good stuff — we inadvertently keep at arm’s length, while the more disturbing elements in our past, are the ones that torture us relentlessly. Like some twisted form of mental masochism.
At least that’s how it is for me. I’m trying to change that, but it’s hard. As I am in turn, hard on myself. Perhaps that’s why I’m not particularly “mindful.”
My mind is full, all right, but the characters taking up residence therein could use a boot in the ass.
