Comforts of Home

 I find myself wishing there was an instruction book for times like this, some “how to” guide that I could refer to and follow, maybe even find some comfort in. I find myself wishing I had Blue's courage or her faith in the afterlife but I'd settle for the acceptance she seems to have found. All I seem to be able to do is witness and grieve and it feels hollow. I tell myself her suffering will be ended. I tell myself she's had a grand ride. I tell myself what she tells me, that's she's tired, has made peace with her Maker and is ready. And none of it helps worth a damn. I can't bear the thought of her not being here in this sorrowfully fucked up and impossible world. I can't bear thinking about missing her.

So we sit in her crowded, cluttered, old trailer home, listening to the soft, steady hum of the window unit and not speaking much. Home health arrives to bathe her and shampoo her hair, her daughter and I put fresh sheets on her hospital bed and make up her afternoon meds. Her cell phone rings a half dozen times and a steady stream of visitors come and go, bringing food and flowers, puzzle books and hugs. Her stocky, short legged old dachshund watches from a distance, confused and a little anxious about all this activity but when the home health nurse finishes and brings his mistress back to her bed, he jumps up to join her, curling snugly around her small, waiflike body, comforting her in a way none of us can. It's a feeling I know well.

In the courage of the dying, there are lessons about living.