We write about widowhood as we live it. Together we examine the good, the bad, and the ugly parts of life as a widowed person. The views expressed here are those held by each individual author. We take no credit for their brillance; we just provide them with a forum for expressing their widowed journey in words that are uniquely their own.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
20 Day Before His Death
I'm not really sure why I'm sharing these vignettes. Maybe so you know me, know him? I think that somehow if you know us, his death will mean something more to you. And if it means something more to you then it will, in a weird way, not be such a loss. Another widow friend of mine calls this Widow Mouth. It's when a widow shares the whole story of how she became widowed over and over and over again, all details included, in an effort to make it more real, or less hurtful or ________ (fill in your reason here). But the real purpose of Widow Mouth is to feel more at peace.
In the retelling of this story I see now the signs that he was not doing well. I didn't see them then. I saw life and fight and being cancer free. In re-reading these posts I now see death and discouragement and tiredness.
Our story, in it's retelling, brings me closer and closer to some weird sense of acceptance. He's not coming back. Ever time I tell it, I feel that and it becomes less and less terrifying. It makes sense of the senseless...sometimes.
March 26, 2009
A Visit To the Cancer Center
20 Days Before His Death
Yesterday, I was afraid of Art.
He had a PetScan.
for wheel chair transport, compliments of the Cancer Center, to take us to the imaging Mark Taper Imaging Center.
At Taper Imaging,
and fill in paperwork.
We move to the you-are-responsible-to-pay-for-uncovered-costs-associated-with-this-procedure-sign-here window.
We move to the waiting room with the TV that no one is watching
We are led to a small, muted yellow toned room where they remove, from a lead lined cylinder, radioactive material. The nurse injects it into his just-put-in-for this-procedure IV line.
We are led to a purple waiting room with semi-comfortable chairs where…
he moves from the wheel chair to the semi comfortable chair.
I wait for him and
for an hour.
They come for him.
The nurse we know. She is sad to see him again, looking unhealthy.
for Art to get back into the wheel chair. He and the nurse leave.
Art waits in a tube that takes pictures of him, six inches at a time.