Category Archives: Grief

Should have been

Today, August 2, 2013, Susan should have been 56 years old. Instead, she died of cancer seven months and one day ago.

Massager Susan with the crazy hair

By next month, she might have told you she was 57. She always aged herself a year, almost a year in advance. Sometimes she thought she was actually turning a year older than she actually was. And yet she was so young. Too young to die. She was still young enough to be a pied piper whom any kids within a ten foot radius would follow. She was still young enough to mold her hair into a crazy flip and appear as Massager Susan, with a technique “inspired by the Japanese ‘Tofu’ Style.” Continue reading Should have been

So much loss

So much loss.

Every day. Every day: she still isn’t here.

It occurs to me I should take a picture of her crocuses to show her…later. I’ll show her later. It gets later and later. She still isn’t here.

I try to do as we mourners are told: “live in the moment.” In that “now,” I forget sometimes that our life together even existed. Then the abyss that is my loss of our life re-veals itself. The child’s voice in my heart asks, “why can’t I have her back. Can’t she come back? Please?”
Continue reading So much loss

Here. Blink. Gone.

It was a long time coming, her leaving. It took almost 3 years for the stage IV ovarian cancer to do her in. Almost 3 years, that is, after she was diagnosed. Who knows how long IT was there, festering, until she got that terrible, loud, hacking cough that wouldn’t go away, and they found liters of fluid in the pleural lining around her lungs and a rotten ovary.

So much time: me worrying, her focused on beating it. So much time: us living with cancer, around it, in spite of it. It didn’t stop our son from growing 3 years older, 12 inches higher, and into a deep voice. It didn’t stop us from our fights over nothing and agreements about what was important. It didn’t stop her from working, until there were only weeks left. By then, time had begun to move like roiling thunderclouds across the sky. So dark, yet we could still see. We thought we could still see. We couldn’t really see. When it came, when she had to go, it was a complete surprise. To both of us.

So much time. So little time.

She was here. Now she’s gone.

Measured in years, or by the blink of an eye.