Roller Coaster Experience

“The things that matter most in our lives
are not fantastic or grand.
They are the moments when we touch one another,
when we are there in the most attentive or caring way.”
-Jack Kornfield

Life with Susan has changed in many ways; still, others are very much the same.That familiar "roller coaster ride effect" continues. The dawn of each day dips us low or raises our hopes high only to be brought down again by the inevitability of things like gravity and death. Today we are riding in the low zone; the place where we coast low and seemingly safe before the next turn. Susan is not good, but steady. We are hanging on, not sure if or when this ride might stop. Even more confusing is that feeling of not knowing for sure if we want it to.

We, meaning (this week): Katrina and Kyle, Kiara and Matt, Jeff and (of course) myself. This roller coaster is not so nauseating when there are buddies sharing the seat, experiencing life’s ride with us. No one should do this alone; not even Susan. We are here with her- they are here with us, at least for today. We will not worry about tomorrow; it will take care of itself.

Together we watch Susan grow weaker and frailer. She is less interested in food, drink, conversation or even who is in the room with her. She responds to pain and irritation more than anything. She sleeps more and seems almost to be fading away before our eyes. It is a very hard thing to watch. We pray for comfort and peace for Susan. For her, we can’t help but want it to end. None of us wants to watch her suffer any more.

We struggle to keep her body from bed sores by turning her bony little self every so often. We prop pillows in every possible angle to keep her knees and ankles from touching or to keep her legs elevated so that her heels don’t rub the bed. This brings back sad memories of my mother’s last four years after her brain surgery. In a way, I am thankful for that experience that helps me care for Susan; on the other hand, Susan being here has kept me from fully grieving my mother’s passing (less then two years ago). Now, as I look at Susan, I see my sweet mother as well. I don’t like to remember my mother’s pain and I certainly don’t like to watch Susan’s.

When I walked into Susan’s room yesterday her eyes were red and wet as she lie on her side starring into space. “What is wrong, Susan?” I sensed that she was having a moment of deep thought that I was not privy to. “Susan, don’t worry. You know that Jeff and I will take care of you as long as you are alive, right? And, everyone loves you.” She turned her eyes to me and more tears came, but no verbal response. “Susan, heaven is a good place to go. Don’t be scared. When you are ready to go be with Jesus, it is okay. But if you want to stay here with us a while, that is okay too.”

There we were, face to face, eyeballs connecting. I thought about this bond we have developed these past two years, two women experiencing some of this crazy life together. I smiled. She starred deep into my eyes as if she wanted to say more. I held her hand and reminded her of my love- Jeff’s love- all of her children’s and grandchildren’s love- Jesus’ love…

I can’t help but wonder if this roller coaster experience that I never wanted to have is coming to an end. And oddly enough, I feel sad if it is. Sad, because nothing on earth is better than truly giving of one’s self in a way that doesn’t give back. It is then, and only then, that we discover that we are the recipients of far greater gifts than this earth could ever give. If I had not been Susan’s caregiver, I would have missed out on all that I have learned and shared, things that can never be gotten in any other way. For that, I thank Susan.

(FYI: The pics on this entry were taken sometime this year on some of her "better days.")