Memories

 

Grief is a funny thing.  You experience a loss, maybe several, maybe a whole lot of losses, and you deal with each one as they come.  You compartmentalize the emotions until the rawness of the loss begins to lessen.

But it never really goes away.  It just gets filed away in a dark corner of your mind, your heart, and you carry on.

The loss that nearly 'broke' me was my younger (and only) brother.  His sudden and very unexpected death from massive cardiac issues kickstarted a roller coaster journey for me as his dying saved me from the same thing.  And, because I was going through it, my spouse finally recognized *his* symptoms, and he got 'saved', too.

Mostly when I think about my brother now, it is not terribly painful.  But I had to go through survivor guilt and make a way forward wondering why him, not me.  I was older, after all.  

After I had the angioplasty that 'saved' me, I talked to the cardiac nurse and spent a good hour going through a questionnaire to find out what I had done 'wrong', given cardiac issues/high cholesterol (which mine wasn't, actually) had been discovered and are generally accepted as a 'life style' issue.  In the end, she tapped her pen on the paper and said "Well, you were doing everything right."

I looked at her and said "Why am I here, then?"  Meaning why do I have cardiac issues.

She gave me a long look an said "You can't beat genetics."

It was the same when I was diagnosed with cancer.  I don't have the gene that most people who develop this cancer have, plus I have multiple allergies, which the oncologist said was 'protective' against this type of cancer.

Again "Why am I here, then?"

"Bad luck."

And sometimes that's all it is.  If it isn't genetics, it's bad luck.

Bad luck that I've had injuries - double whip lash, a fall that injured my SI joint and probably led to the damage to my discs when I hit the concrete making a one point landing on my lower back.  I suppose I should be glad I have a thick skull and didn't wind up with concussion on top of it.

The problem now is that I remember my previous body.  I remember what I used to be able to do, and now cannot.

And I have to deal with that every single day.  I am trying really hard to NOT complain because other folk have way worse things they deal with daily.  

But the fact remains.  I cannot any longer do what I used to be able to do.

Tuesday I had errands to run.  At one point I dropped my car keys when I was fumbling in my purse preparing to pay for a purchase.  I stood there and sighed.  And then muttered "The floor gets further away every year."

The young clerk gave me a startled look and I bent over and managed to pick the keys up.  But squatting down?  Beyond me, now.  Thankfully I am still flexible enough that I can bend over and (just barely) touch the floor.  

But never mind.  I *am* still alive.  My brother isn't.  I vowed that because he couldn't live his life to the fullest, into 'old age' and I can, I will.  In spite of injury.  In spite of loss.  In spite of challenges.  I will live.  Until I don't.

And so I will go back to the loom and weave another towel.  I will finish setting up the experiments for the article I'm writing.  And I will keep on, keeping on.  

Acceptance isn't giving up.  It is staring reality in the face, finding out what is possible, and what, sadly, is not.  Acceptance allows me to continue, to find ways around, in order to accomplish what I want to do.  Because just because I can't squat down and stand back up doesn't mean I can't bend over and stretch to pick up my keys.  I *can* still do that.  I just have to do some things differently, is all.

Time passes, things change.  Doesn't mean I don't miss my younger body and sigh a little when I can no longer do what I used to do without giving a second thought about doing it.