Held in place

For What Binds Us

by Jane Hirshfield

There are names for what binds us:
strong forces, weak forces.
Look around, you can see them:
the skin that forms in a half-empty cup,
nails rusting into the places they join,
joints dovetailed on their own weight.
The way things stay so solidly
wherever they've been set down—
and gravity, scientists say, is weak.

And see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with a great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple, untested surface before.
There's a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,

as all flesh
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest—

And when two people have loved each other
see how it is like a
scar between their bodies,
stronger, darker, and proud;
how the black cord makes of them a single fabric
that nothing can tear or mend.



I seem to be held by these forces.  The scar tissue that stitched Gil's and my lives together ties me to old ways of caregiviing, managing, indulging. Habits, inertia,  I'm having a hard time changing these patterns, for good or for ill. The bond I feel with the farm, family, friends keeps me rooted and nourished , it sustains me.  And held to the way I've been.

I don't know what is next, but I feel more as though the decision has been made and no one has informed me.  I am listening for the urge for something more and to what the forces are, which hold me to this past, (I don't want to be dismissive; this "past" may well be the rest of my life).  If I can't sense and then name what  keeps me so rooted, how will I ever become aware of what new lives I may have yet in this lifetime, and be able to let go and step into them???

Numb and Crabby

So much for the anniversary of his death being an emotional Camile like weep fest.   For the last couple of days I've been feeling kind of numb, going for the naps and ice cream  and generally irritable at family, friends and foes.    I get off on missing him and crying but, you know, I've done a lot of that this year .  Time to move on to feeling other feelings, like anger.   I was surprised when I riffed on that in the last post.  There was a lot about the years from the brain tumor on that was really hard and he could be quite self centered and passive.  And I was never Saint Kathleen; I wasn't always fun to be around.   Grieving  doesn't change the reality of our basic messy humanness.  And crabby when it's upgraded to anger can be energizing.  Which I could use.  I'm sick of wallowing; time to clear brush and move chickens.  And I'm pissed he's not here to help.

Holy Week

A year ago, this was the week before Gil died.  Last week was our 25th wedding anniversary.  Oddly intense little mileage markers, they call out for some ritualistic processing (recovering Catholic that I am).   I went back to Samba on our anniversary, the Brazilian ode to meat restaurant that we went to last year, and I'm planning the ashes/tree planting we'll be doing with Chris and Miya and (ta da!) Isaac et al in a month.
And then there's   now.
Last year this was three days before he died.  I think it was finally starting to sink in that maybe he wasn't going to be able to snatch disaster from the maw of death as he'd done  soo many times before.  Hard to believe.  I think this was the day that I climbed into the hospital bed and spooned with him.  For some reason he needed to be on his side, it was such an invitation to snuggle!  I think I remember him responding, maybe even saying "good".  Mostly I was on the cot they'd made up for me right next to his bed, I could reach out and touch him.
I think this was the day when we could no longer get Gil to swallow his pills. These were ones which couldn't be given by IV but which could have fairly immediate negative impact on how he felt.     I suggested "pilling the cat",  mixing the ground pills in applesauce and squirting it into his cheek.  It worked in the morning and then in the evening he spit it into my face.  
I think he was angry because he felt belittled, and bossed.   I hadn't explained to him why these meds were necessary, I hadn't asked him to let us do it,  I didn't treat him as though he were still there.  Though he seemed mostly unconscious I think he could still hear us.
And I was angry. I was tired of being responsible for everything. Angry that he was fading these last years and I felt chose  TV and computer games, golf and billiards over me.  But mostly I was angry that I was in this position where looking out for his well being left me feeling like a bossy bully.
I wish I'd had the compassion to think of a more respectful way to help him, and
I was doing the best I knew to do; I feel no guilt.
There was a turning point when the magical thinking part of me started to realize,  he was too far gone even for a miracle like  in February, with the gurgling and finally getting the morphine as a steady drip loosing the pain and consciousness.  Those last two days I was in the numb space where it started to dawn on me, something momentous was about to happen and dramatically alter the rest of my life.  Gil was disappearing and I couldn't follow him.    How extremely odd.