Please Go

Dear Mimi, 


I wanted you to go. I prayed for it, harder than I've ever prayed for anything. I even begged your still form, once.


Even in the moment, I felt guilty for what I was doing. I love you so much, and couldn't bear to think of your bedroom without you in it, let alone an entire plane of existence. And yet, I was hoping you would leave at any minute. As your breathing slowed, we fell into a pattern of stopping whatever we were doing and watching you until you took your next breath. We were simultaneously willing you to take your next breath and hoping fiercely that you wouldn't. At least I was.


The easy thing to say is that we wanted it for your own sake. We didn't want you to suffer anymore, I didn't want you to suffer anymore. Not that you made any of it look like suffering. You fought and you clawed and you railed the heavens, and you napped and watched Oprah and curled up with me in your bed and read books to your grandson. And it wasn't easy for any of us, so I can't imagine how it was for you. And of course, we wanted the cancer to end. And we knew you would have hated the week in the hospital, and we wanted for you to go to peace and love and shining joy and eon-long worship sessions lead by our friend David Jones. 


But, the ache-in-my-chest honest truth is that I also wanted it for us. For me. I could feel us fraying at the edges. The tumbler of life with cancer had already polished off our edges, and I felt us wearing down, wearing away. Simultaneously trying to carry the weight of the situation, always striving to lift you up and support you, protecting and helping you above all things, while also living complete lives of our own. The first few years were easy. We were strong and full of that foamy and sweet hope that clings to your face and goes straight to your head. We KNEW things would get better, we knew YOU would get better. We had buckets of our Hope Brew left over to pour over our friends and extra tankards to clink with the strangers we met in the chemo room. 


When you started to lose weight, I felt everything grow heavier. You were delighted. I was aghast. There is that strange feeling when everything suddenly seems a little out of place, and things start moving in an unexpected way - you can't tell if you are moving, or if the world is moving around you. I started to feel that way, and I realized the drink in my hand had started to go flat with the knowledge of one too many medical journal articles, and 500 too many family meetings about the place the cancer was this time, and the sobering realization of how long we really had been 'at it'.


I described it to SisterCousin at the time by saying that the gut feeling of 'this sucks but it's going to be okay' was suddenly and irrevocably gone. And as much as I did my own fighting and clawing and railing, it would not come back. People around me, looking at me, might think I lost my hope. In fact, I read it on a few shocked faces when they realized I wasn't praying for you to jump out of the hospital bed. There was still brew in my cup, and it was even still called Hope. It just started to change. Foam doesn't last forever. As much as we would like it to and as much as we pretend that it does, it simply does not. And as much as I would like to think I could have held us up, that we could have held you up forever, I know we could not have. 


I found myself staring into my cup, and hoping for whatever was to come next. Because the thing is, I really can't imagine. Even watching it so closely and sharing in it so intimately with you, I can't really imagine or understand what it was like for you to live through everything you did. Not really. I can infer and transfer and fer-fer, but I can't really know. 


At the end, your strength was gone. You were starting to fade from your body even before the hospital. And our arms, steadfastly holding on and up, were weary. I began to look forward to setting down my burden, to anticipate my life without you. Because even though this world -- that sometimes seems filled with your absence -- is scary, and littered with pockets of longing for you, it is nonetheless easier. I don't fear or worry for you. I know you have peace, and I have peace about you.


We could not have held on a minute longer than you did. But we didn't let go until then. We were huddled on the floor together for a week knowing we were done. Unable to lift up any longer, but still holding on. All together. 


But we didn't lose hope. I didn't lose my hope. Not even for a fraction of an iota of a whisper of one thought. I just reached the grace at the bottom of my cup. And when I did, there was nothing I wanted more for you than to go. 


Love, 


A