It Is What It Is

I try to remember that when death brings what it brings, it does so without malice. It's not evening the score or meting out punishment. It's not flexing its muscles or showing off. It has no need to have the last word, doesn't concern itself with the pain of those left behind. It has a job to do, no more and no less and it cares not at all whether it's a blessing or an injustice. The empty spaces it leaves within us are not its problem. We may hate it or root for it, deny it or rage against it but we need to remember a basic truth - no matter how it affects, wounds, or hurts us - it isn't personal.  In her song “It Is What It Is”, singer/songwriter Kacey Musgraves wasn't writing about death but she could've been: It is what it is til it ain't anymore.

I try to remember this as I sit with Blue and watch her try to stay awake after her afternoon pain and anxiety meds. It's a muggy, after-the-storm kind of day and the old trailer is on the warm side. I can smell fried shrimp and boudain, flowers and leftover perfume and I can hear Bubba, curled at Blue's feet with his head resting on her ankles, snoring gently. She strokes his head with one pale hand and he sighs. He instinctively knows it's his job to comfort her and he rarely leaves her side.

“Go to sleep,” I tell her, “Let the drugs do their work.”

“What if I don't wake up?” she wants to know with just the shadow of a smile.

There's no answer to this. I smooth out her sheets and turn her pillow, brush her hair off her face, check that her oxygen tube isn't tangled and take her hand. She's so wan and wasted away she almost looks transparent but her spirit is still bright.

“Well, then Bubba would have the whole bed to himself,” I say, “And the chicken and dumplings I brought would go to waste.”

Another hint of a smile. “We can't have that,” she says and her words are beginning to mush, “Reckon I'll hafta wake up at least one more time.”

It doesn't take long til her fingers relax in mine and her breathing levels out. I curl up in her old, second hand recliner chair and watch her sleep, hoping it's as peaceful as it looks and praying she won't wake up in pain or struggling to catch her breath. The cancer steals more from her every day and her frailness and breakability are more obvious with every visit and yet she still finds the strength to comfort others, to be grateful for her life, to trust and to hold onto her faith, even for a little humor and an occasional flash of feisty.   In a strange and agonizing way, she's never been more beautiful.