The Path We Are On...

The last four times Sherry has been awake have been stolen by pain. I think it is primarily abdominal pain caused by gas and the slowing down of intestinal activity, though Sherry agonizes over her shoulder, her chest, her abdomen, her chest. It could also be blood clots, a cardiac event, the tumors sending erratic signals, or who knows what else. With Hospice help we have been able to increase Sherry's comfort. The price is that when Sherry is medicated she sleeps. Her forehead is smooth, indicating the absence of pain, and her head is tilted back, her mouth is open. The figures in Picasso's Guernica, mouths open in terror, invade my mind's eye. While Sherry is comfortable, I feel the horror. The root of it is my helplessness. I can tend to her desperate desire for water when she awakens to a parched mouth. I can feed small bites of applesauce and spoon tips of her favorite yoghurt into her willing mouth. When doing this I can also see that her ability to swallow is diminished. She holds water and the small bits of soft, smooth food in her mouth working up to a swallow. A substantial part of the trouble with this is that her ability to take medication is compromised. So, her medications are prioritized. The steroids to control the edema surrounding the tumors are first. Then the seizure medication and so on. Even with these priorities I wasn't able to complete her medication schedule yesterday. Sherry was determined to take the pills, and she did all that she could. To push beyond that would have risked choking. The pain and the sleep rob communication, mugging the opportunities for quiet, intimate connection. I hope for a balance where the pain is controlled, the cause eliminated, and connection elevated beyond reactive custodial response.

The path appears to be narrowing to pain and anxiety relieving medications that are liquids, more easily administered. It is a path through forest floor cushioned by deep resilient duff. It climbs above the timberline to vast meadows where the wind is easily felt but hardly seen. As it approaches the ridgeline leading to the peaks it becomes faint, obscured by wispy clouds as it scrambles to the top.

Jes told me yesterday, his arms wrapped around me, that this was his best Christmas ever. I re-live the grief as I write, and recall with gratitude his strong, supportive arms. I understand what he was saying. I agree. It is a Christmas, as is every Christmas, about unfathomable, inexhaustible, renewable, durable love...