Watching Uncle John slowly die is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. He told me yesterday he was in the midst of a great transition, that this place is not a permanent place and he was preparing to go to a more suitable location. The ravings of a dying old man, or the absolute truth?
I realize now, and the end of this phase, that I was NOT being lazy by not writing every moment down-instead I was living it to the fullest extent, and will recall what I need when I need it. I'm glad I had that little bit of insight-it gave me some comfort.
I feel such guilt-because he did ask for help when (in my opinion) he was in his right mind and could have made a decision to go easily. The pain of feeling responsible for his suffering is unbearable at times. Logically, I know I didn't give him Parkinson's. Logically, I know I took this task on myself. Logic logic logic-it's so cold, colder than the grave. The grave seems warm and quiet, with no shaking or tremors or fear.
Death does not frighten me-this living half life I see in front of me scares the bloody hell of out me. And sometimes I wonder what good I do anyone by not looking away-why I feel compelled to witness it. I'm pretty much on auto-pilot with this one-doing what I feel moved to do, blindly feeling my way along the dark cave walls with the tips of my fingers. But at least I'm feeling the walls, not stumbling around in the dark crying for help.
Of course, that is where the spiders hang out. (I'm sorry Teri, I couldn't resist, and thinking of you shivering just then made me laugh out loud my friend).