Oh well, celebrate we will
Because life is short but sweet for certain
We’re climbing two by two
To be sure these days continue
These things we cannot change.
— Two Step, Dave Matthews.
I’m in the middle of several essays on heavier things – and, of course, a death book – so thinking and writing on the hard things is nothing new.
However, this isn’t the first time I’ve had my favorite DMB song in my head and heart – and for this same reason – and the heavier things tonight just suck out loud and come with a weighty feeling of grief I almost don’t know how to express. . .
Just two days ago, a MUCH younger than me spoonie friend let everyone know that she had determined – after much discussion with her family and doctors – that she had exhausted her medical options and was going to take one more trip with her family and then stop her treatments and enter hospice. This will very quickly end her life.
To say she has suffered greatly in her few years doesn’t begin to tell the story (and her medical situation continues to worsen with no solutions available) and – though it just crushed me to read it – I did understand.
I was beginning to collect my thoughts to write about it when more news came down within the past few hours that a health crisis has struck her that is going to require another massive emergency surgery, at the very least, causing a great deal of pain and a protracted recovery – and, at worst, it is immediately life-threatening.
So, now, the fear is that the last trip may not even be possible.
Or that she will suffer greatly first.
And she is so afraid.
I. Hate. This.
So damn much suffering and pain and just crashing waves and stages of grief all around.
This chronic illness life is just a cold hard bitch sometimes.
It is the most helpless feeling – and there are so few answers.
I am praying for her and her family, of course.
I do believe that God will use our suffering, whether it her illness or mine or anyone else’s, for His purpose.
Still, that doesn’t make it any easier to bear witness to sometimes.
It doesn’t remove the boulder sitting on my chest.
It doesn’t take her pain or fear or give her the years or experiences she won’t ever have.
It’s an unbearably hard path to be asked to walk sometimes.
Oh, these things we cannot change. . .
Be well, everybody. Take care of yourselves and each other.
Grace and Blessings.