You Take the Good, You Take the Bad

My good friend (and super talented bloggess) Lynn wrote this lovely piece today. A topic top of mind and close to our hearts these last weeks, so I'm writing my thoughts out here, too.

When we found out Greg was sick with stage-4, metastasized pancreatic cancer, it was a shock, to say the least. He was so young and so strong. He was Tim's boss for several months, a couple of years ago, and they had remained fairly close. You know, beers-once-a-month close. And suddenly, here was this young, strong guy, living under a death sentence. 6 months, they gave him. And Greg, although he and his wife didn't characterize it as "fighting," boy, did he fight. He gave cancer the middle finger in the form of energy work, chemo, immunity treatments, clean eating, etc., etc. He did everything and he and his wife navigated the whole process with amazing grace and strength. And the fucking disease got him anyway. He passed peacefully at home right around the 6-month mark.

Living with animals gives us training wheels for the whole death talk. When Little A. was around 5 months old, our beloved Black Kitty died, peacefully, at home. He was old and sick but mostly like himself until the end. We buried him in the backyard, after making up a special box filled with a cozy blankets and treats. We gave him farewell pats and shed a few tears over his body, all together as a family. She was too young to talk about it, of course, but I wanted her to see that we would miss him and remember him and that was hard, but also that everything alive dies. A fact of life, albeit a sucky one. Since then we have lost another cat, a few chickens, and two fish, to causes natural and not. My grandmother passed away while I was pregnant with Baby G, and of course most recently we have talked about Greg. With every passing and as she grows, the level of discourse naturally becomes more sophisticated and more self-reflective. The questions range from why do we stop breathing when we die to where did Fifi Fishie go when she died to when will YOU die, Mama?  Her questions are hard to answer and I feel it would be doing her a major disservice to duck them. Or to sugarcoat the answers.

We stop breathing because our bodies get tired or too hurt and besides we don't need our bodies anymore when we die, I say

She went out of her body. We put her body into the ground and she stays in our memories, I say.

I am not intending to die for a long, long time, but no one can really plan that. I exercise and eat healthy so my body will stay strong. But I can't promise to live for a long, long time. What I can promise is that when I die I am going to be with you, inside your heart, I say. 

I say these things and will keep saying them and hope she understands. She seems to understand.

My heart was heavy on the day of Greg's memorial service. I had stayed up late making the chocolate cream pie I would bring to the service, so I was tired and feeling many feelings about how the whole thing would be very hard on Tim and, how, in spite of our separation, I wanted to support him because he needed it and I was the only one who could. So, I stood beside him with tired legs and a tired back and rubbed his back while tears streamed down his face, while we listened to many, many people fondly reminisce about Greg. There were plenty of tears from everyone because goddamn it, a good guy was stolen from all of us. But also there was laughter and love and light and a shitload of pies, because Greg loved pie and there was another a way for us to honor him: through the baking of the pies and the happiness of our bellies after eating said pies, all filled with love and sugar. When we got home, Addie asked how the party was. Because she insisted that it was a "party." I said it was a little sad and a little happy and she said It was sad because Greg died. It was happy because you love him and ate the pie you made and wore your pretty skirt. Did you know I got to have A CHOCOLATE SUNDAE with Nana and Grampa? And then she rampaged around a bit and went to sleep.

Little A. has made a little shrine to the ladybug husks she finds in her room and calls it "Ladybug Heaven." She notices all the little lives around her and wonders when they will die and does not seem scared. I wish for her to never be scared of life and all its hard, unfair implications.  She wants me to sing I love you forever, I like you for always, as long as I'm living, my first baby you'll be, three times every night. We add a footnote that she will be my baby even AFTER I am living. I want her to feel everything, not be closed to life, to be realistic and know I will always be here, even if I'm not. And that she will always be here, even if she's not. That is a prayer for both girls as they fall asleep (I have many): Don't be afraid, because I am here. Don't be afraid, because you are here. We will love on each other forever. And pie helps, so take a big slice.

xoxo, A