I've struggled to write something on here for a few weeks, and the bare truth is this: I am watching a beloved coworker die from cancer before my eyes. I swear that there are really good, awesome things in my life right now, too; it's just that this has been so consuming for the last three weeks that I can't think or write about any of the great stuff.
We are so very close to the end now, and everything is happening so fast, yet it all feels like slow motion. I knew she was in treatment, but the cancer was in remission; all of a sudden, the day before my last post, it came back with a vengeance to finish the job.
I'm too busy at work to even breathe, let alone cry. We've all taken on this coworker's responsibilities to order to lighten her load so that she can stop working and spend time with her family. Work apparently never stops. She's a mother of three daughters. I saw her yesterday for what was probably the last time, and it was so surreal to have her standing before me. She was altered, definitely, it was still very much her. Her voice was weaker than usual, her gait more unsteady, but she was still witty and sarcastic. She was still beautiful, but her face is yellow, the sign of liver failure.
I was with my grandpa when he died, and yet, that was so different from this experience. To be saying goodbye to someone who has not had the chance to finish everything, her own life; to actually know that the conversation you are having with this person is last conversation; to pick those words out is impossible.
I know there's no hope left, but that doesn't stop hope. Hope is irrational; it lives on, clinging to your emotions, aggravating your grief. After a while, it becomes a ghost that haunts you, never letting you let go.
Bunk Beds and Book Battles
1 day ago