Tonight, a dinner invitation I rejected. Not when the anniversary of Rich's death is three days away; I cannot pretend to participate in conversation that doesn't matter with those who didn't know him.
Instead I will scream the only prayer remaining: Open my heart. To break open a pain that can be tolerated in small doses, lest the supplicant go mad. To allow admittance to a future of glistening shards, unlabeled, waiting for me.
I will light a candle, seeing in it the container that once held it all, and always will.
Tomorrow, I will drink wine with friends to remind myself that this is the stuff of now and the future, and I had better get used to it.
I will look back on my list of a year ago and laugh.
I will never forget -- my final prayer.
Candace
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And the idea that you only need to get past the first anniversary of each important event is a false one. We remember all of it, every day. I have you both in my heart and mind. Peace, Barbara
ReplyDeleteHello Candace,
ReplyDeleteI recently ran into your blog about your husband's and your fight against Chordoma and made my way to your newer blog.
I just wanted to let you know, you are not alone. My father recently passed away from a Chordoma last December, and as 1 year approaches it still feels like it was just yesterday that the white flag was thrown up..
You're writing is beautiful and I find inspiration through it. I have always been unable to put my feelings and thoughts into words about what happened to my father, unfortunately I just seem to get stuck. So for that you should feel proud to be so courageous.
Kristen
Thank you, Kristen, for writing (you did put your feelings into words quite well). I expect we will always feel part of the Chordoma community, even as we move on.
ReplyDeleteAll the best -- Candace
Candace, I just read your beautiful essay in the Hospicare News. My husband, too, died in room 5, almost 3 years ago; we had been together for almost 50 years. I had worked at Hospicare, helped to open the Residence that later became our last home together, surrounded by a skilled and loving staff who were an extended family for me and our children.
ReplyDeleteTime doesn't heal, but it does soften. Yet there are those unexpected moments when grief careens around a corner and pulls the breath out of one's body. And then we go on . . .
Nina Miller
Thank you, Nina, for all you have done. And your comment says it all. -- Candace
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