We are never ready for this,
no matter how many years a loved one has suffered from a terrible illness. Not even when it's your 97-year-old grandma who was mobile and sharp-witted to the very end.
How many times did I think my sister Lori needed to give up her train wreck of a body and go, if she really believes in heaven and the afterlife, just go, already, and be with our sister Julie, be free of your pain and suffering.
Did I really believe it was the better fate?
On paper, yes, I do, and if it were my own body ravaged by 27 years of leukemia, radiation, then five years of dialysis, yes, I think I would roll over and die. Pull the plugs, stop the dialysis, let nature take its course. But I may be wrong. My youngest daughter would want me to hang in there the way Lori did. Hang in There - the last card I ever mailed Lori. Just after Labor Day. If she got it and read it, she was too sick to mention it to me. (She loved kittens.)
Why does it hurt so much
that she actually let go, at long last. She no longer had the strength to fight, the warrior, the lion-hearted Lori. Monday, my sister died. Wasn't I prepared for this, ready for this, even hoping for this relief from her misery?
There are so many, many stories, so many details, so many emotions.
My daughter had a vision of Lori in a hospital bed, Julie nudging her awake and saying "Let's go." Lori opening her eyes, getting up, looking young and healthy, and off they go. Hours later, Claire got the call that Lori was in the hospital. That night, she went to visit Lori, who looked radiant and happy to see the three kids. How she loved kids!
They'd both deny it, but I believe a strong sisterly resemblance here cannot be denied (Lori on the left):
I could devote one post to Bohemian Rhapsody, significant to me since November 1975.
That's our youngest sister on the right. Sssh, don't tell. She's very private, unlike me.
I could blog about our grandson's fifth birthday party which I am forced to miss when I want nothing more than to be there for him, with him, celebrating his life.
However, "spade" is the prompt, and my first thought was "No, we'll need a post-hole digger." And how timely "spade" is.
Lori was cremated yesterday. She wanted her ashes added to Julie's grave. By law, Lori's urn must be interred three feet deep. Our dad was shocked at the unorthodox business of going to the cemetery and doing this thing. (In the TV series "Poldark," an old man and his wife, Judd and Prudie, often muttered It ain't fittin', or 'taint right, taint proper, but I wasn't there to hear what Dad said). Someone checked with church/cemetery rules, and this peculiar form of grave-sharing is allowed. Now, who will dig this hole for this urn of ashes. Our father? My husband? A post-hole digger, not a spade, will be needed, along with a lot of stoicism. I'm reminded of that John Gardner poem in which the man digs a grave for his dog, who stands with him watching him dig, but the man knows the dog has to be put down, because our loyal canine companions will never voluntarily leave us. (It's in one my old Hive posts.) Dogs and cats will be unable to eat or stand or drink, yet they would linger on for weeks or months in this state, forcing us to go to the vet and give them permission (and assistance) to move on to a "better place."
UPDATE 2/10/2021
Lori's daughter dug the grave the day before, with her grandma helping. The service was Sunday, family only, and my husband was asked to bring his guitar. The dreaded song request materialized. Stairway to Heaven. No no no no no. He did it, though. He who stopped playing at weddings 30-plus years ago after the trauma of yet another rendition of The Wedding Song ("rest assured this troubador is acting out his part" - gag). He played from memory, without sheet music. She played sax. They sounded fine together.
Lori did a lot of digging her garden. How old is this photo? I don't know. Her daughter snapped it. It's not very clear, but I do believe that's a spade Lori is wielding.
Part of me, literally, part of me, my bone marrow, went down with her.
We were a 99.9% match, in spite of being different blood types. Radiation destroyed her marrow and replaced it with mine. She became O-positive.
Oh, so many words
so many things to say about you Lori
so many feelings
so much hurt and anger
so much love
We buried one sister when we were all teenagers, and it was hell, so why is it so much harder now, when we are more than half a century old, seasoned veterans, old pros at burying loved ones (grandma, grandpa, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends) - we knew this day was coming! Whence the shock? When does this actual, physical aching in the heart muscles finally ease up? When do the tears stop flowing? Isn't it supposed to get EASIER with practice, especially when someone so battered by disease is finally "released" to the other side?
"Anger is easier than sorrow," so I've found plenty of petty things to feel mad about, but that didn't really help. Especially after flipping open a book and the page that came up was this:
Duly noted. And so often forgotten. How many times have I read these reminders to be a better person? Why do I keep committing sins of omission (the good that we fail to do) and pride, resentment, criticism? Why is it so hard for me to love unconditionally and quit being a critic? Why didn't I show more tenderness, compassion, and generosity to my suffering sister? Every single one of us says we wish we had spent more time with her.
Who has ever said upon the death of a loved one, "if only I hadn't spent so much time with them."
No funeral service, as per Lori's wishes, just a private family-only gathering at Julie's grave. No minister, no church ladies serving lunch. We are on our own. No break from the cooking and cleaning. I keep re-reading St. Thérèse of Lisieux of "The Little Way," reminding myself to do these things for my family no matter what, without complaint, honoring their wishes, and not daring to feel it a bit unjust that I am called to prepare the comfort foods of our Midwest upbringing, none of it safe for me to eat (too many food allergies). I've been fasting, losing weight (and sleep), not by choice, but because I've lost my appetite for the first time in my entire life, and because even corn is the next food to eliminate. Sacrificing gluten (bread of life! bread was my god!) was hard enough, but then dairy and eggs, yeast and casein and now corn, even barbecue sauce with corn starch, but hey, I'm still above ground, and if all I had to eat was astronaut food, I should still rejoice! No matter what maladies come my way, not a single day of my life could have been as bad as the days Lori suffered for most of her life. Lori never doubted the Bible, but I do.
"Jesus did not come to end all suffering in this life, but to transform it." (I heard that on the radio the day after she died.)
Lori and our mom endured stuff I would not tolerate because they see it as their Biblical lot in life. They believe in justice for the wicked and a reward in the afterlife for the righteous. ("In my father's house are many mansions; I go to prepare a place for you"). I've read too much to be able to believe the Bible is more than a myth. Why does one person get so much more than others. Was she Ghengis Khan in a previous life?
Every man has a price to charge, and a price to pay. Yeah, I've paid mine in spades.
--Wolverine, in X-Men
Lori, nobody deserved to suffer as you did, 27 years out of 63, half of a life, a very short life, but longer than Julie's at least.
You two have fun now,
and feel free to drop another frog on my head. (More on the frog in last week's post, Visits from lost loved ones coming to us via birds, butterflies, and...frogs? ).