They didn't get him Monday. We waited up all night until midnight and then did a "gottcha" dance to tell "They" to just plain go away. They can't have him. We want him. He had talked to "They" and he had talked to us. How confused he must have been. He told us the They had visited him and that last Monday was his dying day. We told him that They couldn't have him. It has been a tug of war cross the spaces since Monday. They want him and he most likely wants to go where They can take him.
But now it's Wednesday, oops, it's Thursday and it's the day that They just might get him. It just might be his dying day. In the morning, we will gradually give him less artificial support. Less machines, less medicine, less, less, less. We will bring him home. Broken and full of cancer, but filled with answers and peace. We will bring him home, full of cancer, that ugly creeper that laughed at all our years of effort. We will bring him home with no regrets except the one where our hearts break open and cry out, "not yet, not now, They can't have him yet."
They make me mad. It's like They have the power. But, when I let go of my own selfish needs, I can see that They shine a very bright and inviting light. I like thinking that They are happy to see Jed and have figured out how to take away all his pain and make him walk. He will know where his feet are, and run, skip and be joyful.
I don't want to go to sleep tonight because that will make tomorrow never come. Tomorrow will be too hard. Will he die, will he live, will he talk, will he be himself, has the sedation taken over his brain, can I bear to watch him die?
We thought he had the flu or at least a bad cold. We cared for him gently, soups, jello, "don't want to eat, ok," and monitoring. We thought we could make a difference. Confirmation came with all that high tech stuff. Cancer. Cancer?! You've got to be kidding! After all this, we would have to face cancer? I worry about him making it home. I worry about his ability to converse if he does make it.
Too much. Too late. Tomorrow is a dying day.
But now it's Wednesday, oops, it's Thursday and it's the day that They just might get him. It just might be his dying day. In the morning, we will gradually give him less artificial support. Less machines, less medicine, less, less, less. We will bring him home. Broken and full of cancer, but filled with answers and peace. We will bring him home, full of cancer, that ugly creeper that laughed at all our years of effort. We will bring him home with no regrets except the one where our hearts break open and cry out, "not yet, not now, They can't have him yet."
They make me mad. It's like They have the power. But, when I let go of my own selfish needs, I can see that They shine a very bright and inviting light. I like thinking that They are happy to see Jed and have figured out how to take away all his pain and make him walk. He will know where his feet are, and run, skip and be joyful.
I don't want to go to sleep tonight because that will make tomorrow never come. Tomorrow will be too hard. Will he die, will he live, will he talk, will he be himself, has the sedation taken over his brain, can I bear to watch him die?
We thought he had the flu or at least a bad cold. We cared for him gently, soups, jello, "don't want to eat, ok," and monitoring. We thought we could make a difference. Confirmation came with all that high tech stuff. Cancer. Cancer?! You've got to be kidding! After all this, we would have to face cancer? I worry about him making it home. I worry about his ability to converse if he does make it.
Too much. Too late. Tomorrow is a dying day.
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