D Day Plus 230: (October 24, 2010): Metamorphous

I’m reclining in the tan brown easy chair I bought last February.  It was the day after we got back from Houston when we were raped of hope at MD Anderson. I was so afraid you wouldn’t make the flight home, but you did. Hannah, my guardian angel, had something to do with it. I'm sure! She helped numb your pain. And whispered calming words into my ear while I stroked your hair and covered and uncovered you as the waves of fever and chills raced through your body.  

I had the guys from Costco take the chair out of the box so I could get it home as fast as I could.   I thought they could hear my heart beat so I probably talked louder than I should of.  I wondered if they knew you how much I wanted them to hurry. The only thing I knew for sure is that it was snowing and I would do anythng to give you some relief -- some relief from the cancer choking your bowels. 

Dad put the chair together as soon as I got home.  You sat on the couch and watched anticipating how much better you’d feel in it.  As soon as you sat in it, you said, “Ah, that’s better.” And I smiled. Then, I put my coat away as a guise to hide and cry. 

 

The chair was in your old bedroom and I rearranged it into an inspiration room.  You’d like it a lot and love that it’s a fusion of our tastes.  Anyway, it’s where I go to meditate or do my infamous yoga nidra.   I hadn’t given the chair much thought until a week and half ago.  It became close ally as I experienced almost the same symptoms from a bowel obstruction that you had from the cancer. Since then, I’ve slept in it, meditated in it, cried in it, prayed in it, and called out to you in it.  

Dad moved it to our bedroom the night I thought I was going to die.  I'll tell you more about that later -- but I think you already know.  Now, I’m just recuperating in it in my bedroom – nursing the incisions and waiting for the swelling to go down.  Oh and I've been watching a lot of trash TV.  All I can say it's a good distraction.  So there!

I’m sharing this part of my story because it blends with our story. And it came as answers to questions that weighed heavily on me a little more than two week weeks ago.  How can I keep joy and hope in your story? How do I edit the helplessness, I felt near the end, of being a bystander to your pain, and be true to you?  Am I adding salt to my wounds, Morgan’s wounds, Katie’s wounds and Dad’s wounds?  What is the right balance of sharing the miracles along with my personal pain and anguish?  What was it like seeing your body finally catch up with your soul? How could I do you justice? I didn’t want to drum up your pain and diminish your magnificence and inspiration by dwelling on the physical pain.    

You heard my questions and the answers flowed during, what I deemed as, my metamorphous crises.

I know how much you like order, but I’m breaking ranks and protocol of D Day Minus  and sharing the aftermath of my metamorphous crises. Besides, I know you love me and accept my whimsy and would want me to share what I learned. So, I will.