A Fine Line

It's a hot and humid almost-July afternoon when I get to Blue's. She's sitting upright with a notepad and a pen, making a to-do list with Bubba napping comfortably at her side. She looks even thinner than yesterday but she's alert and clear eyed and her voice is soft but strong. Except for the ever present oxygen tube and the tray of medications nearby and the hospital bed itself, I might just be dropping by for a casual visit with an old friend. For a brief and precious moment or two, that's exactly how it feels. My mind somehow forgets the cancer in much the same way I sometimes forget that dear friends are dead and not just not keeping in touch as well as they might. It's a fleeting thought and I'm brought back to reality when I hug her and can feel her bones through her paper-thin skin.

She reads me her list - bills to be paid, friends to be called, arrangements to be made – end of life things to be done and an accompanying timetable. There's no maybe about any of this, my mind reminds me, these are not just in case reminders. This, if you're lucky and loved, is how life wraps up, with enough time to prepare and sort things out, to get used to the idea, make your peace with it if you can and say your goodbyes. It's a kindness and yet an unbearable cruelty.

After a time, she sets her list aside, curls up on her side with her arms wrapped around Bubba and drifts off to sleep. At first, the steady drone of the window unit doesn't quite cover her uncertain breathing and I hesitate to leave but after several minutes, her sleep seems to turn peaceful and I slip out. The sun is setting behind me as I make my way home and the traffic is light. I find myself thinking about the choices we make and the courage it takes to make them, especially when it's bread and water and not a well stocked buffet.

Twelve step programs teach there's a difference between giving up and surrendering but it can be a fine line. Blue sees it clearly and for that, I'm grateful.