But I Don't Want to Say Goodbye …
Sometimes life just seems like chapters full of good-byes. There is an end to things no matter how much we want to hold onto them.
Sometimes my heart just aches. I've lost too many people. In the quiet, the sense of loss overwhelms. I miss so many people but then I stop to consider Stan's perspective.
Stan retired in 1994. The VA needed to downsize its senior staff and offered an irresistible retirement package. He called my office on Tuesday morning and said that he was retiring on Friday. It was exciting! I took a disability retirement two years later due to asthma and chronic bronchitis. I was okay, just slower than I had been, and I tired easily. I was certainly prone to infection and had repeated sinus infections. I didn't realize how limited I had become until I was put on oxygen - and eventually had a lung transplant.
Stan fussed and took care of me. He is still overprotective and still fusses.
But since he retired, together we taken care of many critically ill people in their final days. We've lost Stan's father, his Uncle John, his Aunt Stephanie, my mother Bette - and so very many close friends. Our circle of close friends included many transplant recipients and their support group. And all the while, Stan fussed and took care of me.
When we first approached the idea of a lung transplant, the team talked in terms of one year, three year, five year survival rates. It trades one fatal condition for a different condition that is complicated medically and usually short-lived. [Stan continues to fuss and take care of me.]
We all know about the survival rates going in, but the alternative is unacceptable. So we go forward. We do it together. We become very close, sharing such a live-changing experience. When a transplant friend dies, there is a missing piece in the group and a missing piece in my heart. I hate a friend going through the pain of loss of a close loved one and not being able to do anything about it.
Stan has grieved for family and friends. He is stressed watching transplant friends struggle wondering if we're next. It's hard for me to lose people, but I always know that I'm all right. I can feel the strength. Stan watches my face for a sign. He can't feel what I feel and is never certain that I am all right. It's harder for him than it is for me. He never says much. He just fusses over me.
Sometimes my heart just aches. I've lost too many people. In the quiet, the sense of loss overwhelms. I miss so many people but then I stop to consider Stan's perspective.
Stan retired in 1994. The VA needed to downsize its senior staff and offered an irresistible retirement package. He called my office on Tuesday morning and said that he was retiring on Friday. It was exciting! I took a disability retirement two years later due to asthma and chronic bronchitis. I was okay, just slower than I had been, and I tired easily. I was certainly prone to infection and had repeated sinus infections. I didn't realize how limited I had become until I was put on oxygen - and eventually had a lung transplant.
Stan fussed and took care of me. He is still overprotective and still fusses.
But since he retired, together we taken care of many critically ill people in their final days. We've lost Stan's father, his Uncle John, his Aunt Stephanie, my mother Bette - and so very many close friends. Our circle of close friends included many transplant recipients and their support group. And all the while, Stan fussed and took care of me.
When we first approached the idea of a lung transplant, the team talked in terms of one year, three year, five year survival rates. It trades one fatal condition for a different condition that is complicated medically and usually short-lived. [Stan continues to fuss and take care of me.]
We all know about the survival rates going in, but the alternative is unacceptable. So we go forward. We do it together. We become very close, sharing such a live-changing experience. When a transplant friend dies, there is a missing piece in the group and a missing piece in my heart. I hate a friend going through the pain of loss of a close loved one and not being able to do anything about it.
Stan has grieved for family and friends. He is stressed watching transplant friends struggle wondering if we're next. It's hard for me to lose people, but I always know that I'm all right. I can feel the strength. Stan watches my face for a sign. He can't feel what I feel and is never certain that I am all right. It's harder for him than it is for me. He never says much. He just fusses over me.
~~~
For family, and for so many friends: it gets harder and harder every day knowing that you are no longer in this world with us. We still haven't been able to accept the fact you're gone... we miss you: Stan, John, Margie, Stephanie, Bette, Donna and Donna, Elaine, Patty, Judy. Gary! Sheila. Heidi and Mary. John, Isabel, Bill, Dave and Dick.
For family, and for so many friends: it gets harder and harder every day knowing that you are no longer in this world with us. We still haven't been able to accept the fact you're gone... we miss you: Stan, John, Margie, Stephanie, Bette, Donna and Donna, Elaine, Patty, Judy. Gary! Sheila. Heidi and Mary. John, Isabel, Bill, Dave and Dick.
Everyone loses people they love. Families feel it because it's part of living; soldiers feel it and it affects them forever; medical teams feel it every day. People always sympathize and suggest that it will get easier, that time will help heal.
I don't want it to get easier. All those people, the family, the friends are too important to forget. It shouldn't be easy. In life, the things that are really important are never easy.
Softly the leaves of memory fall,
gently, I gather and treasure them all.
Unseen, unheard, you are always near,
so loved, so missed, so very dear.
~T, 02-9-2013
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