Time creeps ...

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