Sometimes I just hurt a lot, but the doctors say that’s normal, so I try not to focus on it.
What I do focus on is the future. The one without me in it. I wonder how long my life will grieve. I wonder what her next husband’s name will be. If she’ll ever call him the love of her life. I wonder which of my possessions will be kept, and which will be sold. I wonder what my children will find in the basement that will change their opinion of me.
What I don’t wonder about is my job. The co-workers who haven’t reached out since I first crossed through the doors of the hospice. Or who they hired to replace me. I don’t wonder about how much money is in my bank account, or how well my investments are performing. I don’t even wonder how life would have been different if I saved more, or if I had enjoyed life more by choosing experiences over things that sit on a shelf or in a box.
I don’t wonder, because eventually, worry weighs more than curiosity. I worry about what comes next. How seeing me with wires and tubes sprouting from my arms, unable to sit up in bed, unable to brush my teeth or clean myself, will affect the people I love. I worry about where my energy will go when it leaves this frail shell. Whether it’s back to the collective, to a place of fire and brimstone, or nowhere at all. The unknowns have always been there, but we don’t pay attention to them, especially when times are good. Except, the time I have left is far from good. So, I wonder, and I worry, but more than anything else, I wait.
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Photo by fitra zulfy on Unsplash
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After all you’ve been through this past while, I understand what motivated you to write this sad story. In some way, it is what all of us “of an age” wonder about. We’ve just driven through the Rockies, and having observed at the pathetic remnants of once glorious glaciers, I wonder how we will manage when water shortages are the norm rather than the exception. Always something to worry about, much of which is beyond our control although that doesn’t stop us from worrying.