The thing about grief

It just walks in dressed however it wants. My mother and sister died after prolonged illnesses. There is something strange about watching the deterioration of a vibrant woman that shakes me to my core. Because I see the person they were, then I see the person they are.

Terminal illness plucks away at a person. It’s strips this ability and that thread of dignity here and there, until it is just an unbearable weight. You don’t want to lose the person you love, but you don’t want them to suffer. You hate yourself for wanting it to be over and you hate yourself because it’s happening to them and not you.

I think that’s why my father didn’t want to linger in illness. It was important to him that we never be his caregivers. I’m 43, and I’ve never taken care of my dad. He always took care of me. Even when I tried, he redirected it elsewhere. He remembered what dying did to Mama and what it took from her. He remembered what it took from us.

I didn’t get to be a real teenager. I don’t even know what that’s like. My rebellions were small because my teenage years were spent being a caretaker. What’s the point of sneaking out with your friends when the bedpan needs emptying before you leave for school? How can you focus when you don’t know what you’re cooking for dinner tonight, because a call came in that your mama is going to the hospital again? My little sisters were barely old enough to remember a life without Mama’s hospital bed in the living room. But even at its worst, I didn’t know then what death looked like until it was…