I believe I have officially joined the ranks of those for whom the holidays are a time of crushing sadness and grief. Annual reminders of what once was that is now lost, or in my case, will be. At some point.
Although I’m not quite there—only in the anticipatory stage, really—having lost my mom, sister and dad certainly tinges the holidays with a layer of sadness. It hasn’t been a pervasive feeling, and up until this year we were still planning—and eating--Thanksgiving menus laden with traditional savory and sweet dishes. We ran (or walked) in a Turkey Trot 5K, and gathered as many of us as possible to relax in front of a fire in the fireplace after dinner as we swore we’d never eat that much again. The holidays haven’t been debilitating and, at least for me, I was able to find something to be grateful for. (Like this and this.) Now, after a couple of years of trying to muster positivity in the face of the cancer that is taking over Annie’s body, I give up. I’m not looking forward to anything about this week, not the activities, not the food. Or the future.
The months leading up to this Thanksgiving have been full of setbacks and hospital stays. Horrible hospital stays. Procedures didn’t work—or needed to be redone. Annie was sent to the hospital four times in as many weeks, and each time I tried to stay with her as much as possible. The first couple of times, the nurses saw me camped out in a chair by the bed and pretty much ignored me. The last time, though, a nurse came into Annie’s room the first night at 11:30 and said I had to go. There were many annoying things about that directive, the least of which was that it came so late at night. I talked to the charge nurse for a few minutes and she relented, once I promised not to make a peep. I went home the next night, but when I returned the next day, after the latest attempt to help regulate Annie’s liver function, I brought my overnight stuff.
Then they came to kick me out again. Also at 11:30 PM. It didn’t make any sense—I had already stayed over once—what was different? And why the hell did they keep doing it at midnight? I argued that not one person had been in to see Annie after her surgery and had I not been there, she wouldn’t have even had any ice chips. The more reasons I gave the (new) charge nurse to stay, the more she (sometimes) made up reasons I couldn’t. (Like the “Patient Lounge” was actually a “staff lounge” and I wasn’t allowed to stay in there, either.) I tried to keep from crying, more to keep Annie from getting upset than anything, but that night, the tears flowed. And naturally I didn’t have any tissues, so I looked like a hot mess. The nurse, suddenly concerned with my welfare, asked if I needed her to walk me down to the lobby. I said, “No…don’t let the tears fool you—I’m fine.” (In her defense, she did walk me down and asked the security guard to walk me to my car in the parking garage.) So, I left, but not happily and not without constantly worrying that my unwillingness to leave would impact the care Annie would need that night.
The crazy thing about all this, of course, is that even though I’m kind of done with Thanksgiving, Annie is all in. As usual. It’s her holiday, she’s always loved it. We’ve made some modifications this year in the way we gather and cook, to relieve her of her typical hostess-with-the mostess role, but we’re doing it. And we get to have our new little grandbaby Aria join us for her first Thanksgiving.
Annie has forbidden me to venture too far into the future since she was first diagnosed and that’s where I’ve tried to remain, but it isn’t easy. I want to kick and scream and cry and throw things. And then I get it: As Annie’s thin body is whittled away day by day, she’s still in the fight. She’s still here. I have faith in Annie’s strength. Not so much our healthcare system—in that I’m almost thoroughly discouraged. But sadness and grief are also composed of love, strength and gratitude. We don’t get one without the other. And that’s what I’m grateful for. Her strength. And my strength.
If she can do it, so can I.
Thinking of you and Annie today.
Sending you all so much love! You are a better woman than I. I would be kicking, screaming and throwing things. Annie has shown amazing strength and grace and you have followed along with great strength and grace, even if it doesn’t always feel that way. 💞Also, you have every right to do the kicking, screaming and throwing things if you want sometimes. Sending hugs!!