There is a line
from a short story, The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman that
reminds me of the passage of time: But here I can creep smoothly on the
floor, and my shoulder just fits in that long smooch around the wall, so I
cannot lose my way.
A couple of years
ago, I took a course in Contemplative End of Life and much like the course name
we contemplated death, our own deaths, the deaths of loved ones and how we
could help others cope with dying and death. I found it an intense experience,
not simply because of what it required of you, the cold hard truth: everything
has its beginning and ultimately, its end but the realities of death: how to
prepare a body, how to use essential oils to rid the body of odour and if
called upon to, I can remove a pace maker from the chest in
preparation for burial.
We were expected
to do a practicum, work with the dying but I wasn't ready. I needed some
distance, some time.
Time crawls on
its hands and knees
This past May I
received an email asking if I would be willing to be a part of a team with two
women who had taken the same course, and work with a family whose
Father/Husband was dying of cancer. Something inside of me said I was ready. I
was a little fearful. But I held on to the feeling the timing was right.
And speaking of
time, I'm going to start at the inevitable end: Nic, musician, lover, husband,
friend and Father passed away last Thursday at Kensington Hospice. His Wake was
this past Monday. Yesterday morning, I was walking down bloor street on my way
to the house to clean - an act I did many a time since May, an act that gained
me entry, allowed me to be quietly present for this family to build trust and
familiarity.
Inga, a close
family friend of Banuta, Nic's wife, who would clean with me, asked me about
mourning and grief. I thought about it for a moment: throughout this entire
experience, besides the support of the other volunteers, I fumbled my way
through, only my intuition guiding my way.
I thought of my
grandfather who passed away when I was 28 and how the grief creeps up, takes me
unawares, a deep sorrow, as raw as if it was yesterday.
I told her time.
There is no statutory limit on mourning. You carry it with you.
Time creeps,
grief creeps
