Would I be sharing a secret if I told you I find goodbyes heartbreaking? Would I be admitting cowardice if I told you that the thought of releasing the ribbon that tethers the brightest floating balloon to my fist sends a fear slithering up my spine as slickly as the ribbon slips? Would I surprise you if I said there are pieces of me scattered, a bit here, a bit there, left willingly and hostage to people, places, memories? Would you listen if I urged you to stop, kiss your love, breathe in life?
I was compelled to drive home Thursday, home in this sense being the tree-lined bumpy sidewalks of my youth. I drove with my windows down, letting the warm air pick up my hair. Letting my mind just lift.
I needed to see him. Hospice has been called in, and they (not hospice, necessarily), have said he is given to fits, depression, catatonic spells. He knew me when I walked in, which is humbling. I've walked away from any entitlement I had to the priority of being remembered. But he said, "wellllhelllo", a tumor-slurred version of the "well hello lis" I've heard since my youth, and he patted his bed.
I sat next to my uncle on his damp sheets (they change his bedding often), told my nose it smelled the cologne he always used to wear, looked into his blue eyes that squinted against the vapor swirling from his breathing treatment. He took out the mouthpiece.
"Debcametoday" he murmured. "Idintknowher"
"Well." I patted his knee, swallowing my surprise that he'd forgotten his sister he'd seen just a few weeks ago. "Well. She IS getting old."
He sort of laughed, then moaned. "notthatold" and he sort of folded in on himself.
"Oh..." I so wanted him not to cry. I touched his chest. "But, here, you knew her, right Uncle Mark?" He nodded, his face crumpled. "And listen, that's the part that stays. And it goes forever. You know that, right?"
"ihopesoihopeso" And he kept saying i hope so, over and over, and his hope and fear were with us, leaping over exhaustion and pushing away things less tangible like his swollen face, to sit with us, palpable and demanding to be recognized.
I had much more to say. I had a thousand things, really. I needed to tell him every single thing I could remember about him, so he knew he wouldn't be forgotten. I needed to tell him what I knew about Heaven so he wouldn't be so frightened. I needed to keep smiling and joking and feeling like I wasn't about to let go of the brilliant balloon that has been such a joy bouncing about my life since I was a little girl. I needed to stay until the fear of saying goodbye faded from his eyes. I needed to find courage and give it to him. I needed to say it's okay to be scared and that the living wouldn't stop here. I needed to yell at my aunt that he wasn't ready to go to where she needed to take him, because I wasn't ready...
But in that way that so mimics the time that slips from our desperate grip, she came into the room, sort of annoyed, I think, that I had stopped by un-announced, wrapped her hand around the belt at his waist that he sometimes allows people to hold onto to stabilize him, and said, "Sorry to rain on your parade, Lis, but there are people we are supposed to meet at 5..." And I watched as he struggled to his feet.
And I knew that it was one of those moments. One of those places I would regret letting go of without screaming and shaking my fists at and saying, "BUT I'M NOT READY and THIS IS NOT OKAY WITH ME RIGHT NOW!!!!!" And on the outside, I waved a breezy hand.
"Oh sure," a casual shrug. "Thanks for letting me pop in." And I walked out. Just tossing "goodbye" back as if I hadn't just given another part of myself to a balloon that I had to let go of.
Would you believe me if I told you that I sometimes resent having to have the strength to walk away?