By the end of her life, my grandmother had accumulated a staggering
number of painful physical afflictions. She managed to live
independently until the end, albeit with a lot of support from the
family. Her house had many stairs; she had advanced osteoporosis,
arthritis, and she was functionally blind. Bent like Yoda, she
navigated that house as if the Force was guiding her. And yet she
never lost the ability to laugh freely.
At less than half her years, I often look to the memory of my
grandmother to support me. This is the first time in a while where
the fog has lifted enough for me to write, and my soul has been
settled enough to want to. My grandmother retained her ability to
think clearly even when things were at their worst; I have not.
There are many nights where if you ask me to create a mental
image of the simplest thing in my mind -- a house, or a car -- all
I can draw is a tense blank.
And yet there are still many good moments; sometimes, even good
days. Those good days are rare because it means both the experience
of present suffering and the fear of worse in the future have both
abated for a while. Seeing friends can help; and I am lucky to have
many. So can the practice of faith.
At the point where a wild animal would take its cue from from
nature and stalk silently into the forest to lie still until death
takes them, still we humans can go on. In fact, we are expected to.
Sometimes we can even find meaning from the experience.
Each time I go to the chant, each time I open the medicine bottle,
I pray. Not for recovery; not yet, because it is too hard to
believe in right now. But I pray for more good days. And somehow --
with a lot of help from others -- they come.
