When my sister was 18, she was so sick that she almost died. I was away at University and didn’t interact with her on a day-to-day basis. I didn’t understand how serious it was and we’d never gotten along well anyway.. I just never asked her about it or went to doctors appointments with her, I was only 21 and selfish and busy and it never occurred to me that she would want my support.
He was the husband of a family friend and he was helping to decorate our house. He’d lost his well-paid and responsible job because of his alcoholism. His wife and young family and indeed he were going through such an extreme crisis that I felt repelled from helping them. I was afraid for the welfare of my own young family, afraid we were being drawn into a place of need so deep we’d get out of our depth, that perhaps I’d need to ask them to come live with us or support them financially if I really did step up to help them. And I strongly resisted doing that partly through selfishness, partly through a sense of self-preservation, partly fear, and inexperience. Then he killed himself. That act was a clear watershed and thereafter our families slowly but surely drifted apart.
My clearest sense is that fear stopped me from acting, but also I have some sense that I shouldn’t have interjected myself into another’s destiny and also I hold a judgment about how one should resolve problems of one’s own making. Of course, I know how that these are just excuses for the cowardly act of my failure to react and reach out as I could have done. I wonder how I’d react if it happened again and I’m not sure what I’d do. Sometimes when one is in the eye of a storm it’s hard to see a way out and you just have to take cover.
I was sure it was the right choice - in the moment. Then after she was gone…I questioned the choice to let her go. Was I too tired? What watching her slowly die too hard? Was it for me - or her? Her – or me? She said she didn’t want to go. But, when she could no longer say, it was my responsibility to talk for her. Was that in a way support? Was it in a way my final time to not let her hurt me – again, any more? Why should hse leave me to ask such questions Perhaps some day I will forgive myself and realize that supporting myself and everyone else in the room was part of my decision, a valid part of my decision. Perhaps though her body was hanging on, she was trying to tell me that it was okay – I’d like to think so.
MY FRIEND IS A FRIEND OF LETTERS – TWENTY-SIX BUNDLED IN INTRICATE, INFINITE COMBINATIONS. LAST SPRING SHE LOST HER OWN DEAREST FRIEND, A GENTLE MAN OF LETTERS. A SPIRIT-MATE OF LITERARY AMBITION, OR ARTICULATION AND CURATION OF COMMUNICATION. THOUSAND OF LETTERS – SCRIBBLED BY HAND IN ANXIOUS SLEEPLESS NIGHTS, POPPED OFF WITHOUT EDITING VIA EMAIL, LONG SPRAWLING, ON EASY AFTERNOONS WERE SHARED BETWEEN THEM. HE DIED OF BRAIN CANCER SLOWLY. HER GRIEF WAS ENORMOUS, HEAVY, FILLED MONTHS, EMPTIED HER. I WISH I KNEW HOW TO HOLD HER LOSS. MY 5 LETTER WORD, SORRY, SIMPLY WAS NOT ENOUGH.
He was the husband of a family friend and he was helping to decorate our house. He’d lost his well-paid and responsible job because of his alcoholism. His wife and young family and indeed he were going through such an extreme crisis that I felt repelled from helping them. I was afraid for the welfare of my own young family, afraid we were being drawn into a place of need so deep we’d get out of our depth, that perhaps I’d need to ask them to come live with us or support them financially if I really did step up to help them. And I strongly resisted doing that partly through selfishness, partly through a sense of self-preservation, partly fear, and inexperience. Then he killed himself. That act was a clear watershed and thereafter our families slowly but surely drifted apart.
My clearest sense is that fear stopped me from acting, but also I have some sense that I shouldn’t have interjected myself into another’s destiny and also I hold a judgment about how one should resolve problems of one’s own making. Of course, I know how that these are just excuses for the cowardly act of my failure to react and reach out as I could have done. I wonder how I’d react if it happened again and I’m not sure what I’d do. Sometimes when one is in the eye of a storm it’s hard to see a way out and you just have to take cover.
I was sure it was the right choice - in the moment. Then after she was gone…I questioned the choice to let her go. Was I too tired? What watching her slowly die too hard? Was it for me - or her? Her – or me? She said she didn’t want to go. But, when she could no longer say, it was my responsibility to talk for her. Was that in a way support? Was it in a way my final time to not let her hurt me – again, any more? Why should hse leave me to ask such questions Perhaps some day I will forgive myself and realize that supporting myself and everyone else in the room was part of my decision, a valid part of my decision. Perhaps though her body was hanging on, she was trying to tell me that it was okay – I’d like to think so.
MY FRIEND IS A FRIEND OF LETTERS – TWENTY-SIX BUNDLED IN INTRICATE, INFINITE COMBINATIONS. LAST SPRING SHE LOST HER OWN DEAREST FRIEND, A GENTLE MAN OF LETTERS. A SPIRIT-MATE OF LITERARY AMBITION, OR ARTICULATION AND CURATION OF COMMUNICATION. THOUSAND OF LETTERS – SCRIBBLED BY HAND IN ANXIOUS SLEEPLESS NIGHTS, POPPED OFF WITHOUT EDITING VIA EMAIL, LONG SPRAWLING, ON EASY AFTERNOONS WERE SHARED BETWEEN THEM. HE DIED OF BRAIN CANCER SLOWLY. HER GRIEF WAS ENORMOUS, HEAVY, FILLED MONTHS, EMPTIED HER. I WISH I KNEW HOW TO HOLD HER LOSS. MY 5 LETTER WORD, SORRY, SIMPLY WAS NOT ENOUGH.
