What You Are Picks Its Way

(Written June 21)

Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is scanted,

Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are picks its way.

- Walt Whitman

Before coming to Denver, D and I took a drive out in the country like old times. It was just near sunset as we traveled back into town, and as we did, two girls on horses crossed the street. It seemed the scene was ripped from a movie, with the reddish sun casting a silhouette on their horses and the long grass below. How far that day seems. Now, I'm watching mom's chest expand as she sleeps. She has her C-Pap on, which muffles her snoring. I never thought I'd be in the position to actually yearn for that sound, but tonight - of all nights - it would be a welcoming comfort. I'm writing from the couch after sitting by her bedside. She was woken earlier by a certified nursing assistant (CNA), who we've gotten to know over the past months. The CNA stopped in to give me a hug, and then proceeded to lead mom in prayer. After the prayer, mom said thank you and the CNA left us to sleep. I asked mom if she would mind if I held her hand just for a bit - I didn't want to leave her side, not after today. So I lingered at her bedside a little longer than normal, holding her hand and watching her tummy rise with each breath. While sitting there with my hand on hers, I couldn't help but remember that this is how she used to tuck me in. She'd buzz our backs until we'd drift off to sleep, and then, at some point unknown to us, she'd lift her hand ever so slightly so that we'd still feel her presence long after she had left. I let my hand linger on hers just as she did, and then at some point, I slowly lifted mine from hers, keeping my hand at a hover just in case she stirred.

With every shallow breath mom takes, I realize just how much I'm not ready for this -- no one ever is. The idea that there's a perfect fulcrum of emotion, a resting place of peace and acceptance when the time comes, is void of all things real, and oversimplifies human emotion. We've been through the whole gamut, feeling our way as we go. We're hopeful, and afraid; content and melancholy; at peace and, at the same time, not ready to let go. For all the bravado, there's an honest fear, a fear that there will soon come a day when mom is no longer with us. With that fear, there's also a peace and understanding that mom is, and will be, okay.

It's hard to come to terms with how this is impacting us individually and as a family. We've had our good days and our not so good days. And there are those brief and often private moments when the reality screeches out like Mariah Carey searching for a note. You can sometimes catch these 'a-ha' moments on people's faces or in their eyes, but they're often fleeting. For me, the only constant is this pressure on my chest. I've become the resident heavy breather, but flaring nostrils and heavy sighs are no match for this emotional strain. Given the circumstances, however, I'd say we're handling things as best we can.

That we've arrived at this point after nearly a year is terrifying and comforting. We've known from the outset her prognosis, and have lived each day with the knowledge that this one day - the day most young people fear - has been out there lurking. Before, we were picking out big occasions that mom would miss, like seeing us walk down the aisle, or being a grandmother. Now, the thing I want most is for mom to be happy, comfortable, and at peace; the moments we've had are more than enough to sustain us. She'll live on in the woman I am and will become. I'll see her in my sisters. Her voice will guide me in my dreams and memories; the feel of her lingering touch will provide me comfort when it becomes simply too much to bear. More importantly, she'll be at peace.

Strength in my mind is calmness, clarity, realism, and honesty. In our family, those components seem in harmony. To quote Erin, when climbing, you have no perspective or scale; it's only when you take a step back that you can see the breadth of it all. Talking seems to help give texture and dimension to what we're feeling. It's important we let the sadness surface, talk about it, let it linger and then let it pass on naturally. When our mom is teary-eyed, an "I know, mom" seems to help. With Craig, music and laughter seem to help tie things together. We recognize that our lives have and will change, and that we have a tough road before us. We're matter-of-fact when we need to be, and idealistic when it counts. It's a careful balance.

Conventionally, you grow conscious of happiness at the very point that it begins to elude you. We're lucky in that we can tell mom everyday how much we love her, and how proud we are that we are Mary Lawler's daughters. But knowing there's nothing we can do to stop this is painful. We find ourselves helpless amidst the laughter. We have to remind ourselves that there's something bigger going on - bigger than ourselves and the situation. Acceptance is sometimes a bittersweet pill to swallow. - J