It is funny how grief can be both a vacuum and a weight. I still have that friend on my mind. The one who went from fine to unresponsive in a matter of days. How I wanted to be at his side, a presence, a reminder that he is thought of, that he will be missed but that I was not ready to miss him. But how grief also strong armed me. Forced me to be distant. Because seeing him would be a touchstone. Memento Mori. I didn’t want that reality. I didn’t want to know. To see that degeneration, disintegration. I did go see him. (I may have posted about this earlier, if so, my apologies, I don’t go back and read my posts.) I sat with him and played his favorite songs. The pain he was in agitated him and I knew this but somehow still worried that it was I that was agitating him as I sang The Spinners, “Love Don’t Love Nobody”.
Or Bobby Womack’s, “If You Think You’re Lonely Now.” I touched his arm, his leg, and spoke to him. Let him know I was there. Asked him not to leave, to fight, pleas I had no right to make and yet I did. But only because I’d spoken to him before he ended up in that hospital, in that room, in that bed, sedated. And he was ready to be transferred, he was lively and hopeful, he was ready to continue.
He is now in hospice. He is now further than I can drive but I have all the info I need to find out how he is doing day by day. Better. Worse. Same. There is hope he will be transferred closer again which means he is fighting. For now, though, I am grateful for the distance.
That must be so hard. I'm sorry you're going through that.