Not long ago, my fourth blogaversary and 600th post passed without fanfare. I can’t believe I missed an opportunity to laud my accomplishments; I must have been distracted by other matters. I’ve told you all many times how grateful I am for your keeping in touch through my blog. Your reading has spared me recounting difficult news, especially of late, to each of you individually. I plan to keep you in the loop of my life by writing for as long as I can.
Lately I’ve been thinking about how my life is going to end soon, and how the story I’ve been telling over these four years will end with it. In my blog, I will continue to share my difficulty accepting my prognosis, the end-of-life decisions I have made, and other honest details of my decline. I imagine you may regret my oversharing, but you’ve kindly hung in there with me.
Lately, I’ve been sad thinking that you will know the end of my story, but I won’t know the end of yours. I want to be there to see how your life turns out, but I won’t be. I think of all my beloved nieces and nephews who are nearing or already settling into adulthood, and I will miss watching their lives flourish. If they get married or have children or flourish in other ways, I will not be there as witness. I’d like to think I’ll be cheering from above, but will they be able to hear me?
And if any of you experience hardship, I won’t be there to offer comfort, as you have done for me and J. so magnificently through my illness. I won’t be able to lend an attentive ear or drop off a lasagna or just be there, to do what good friends do. I’ll be leaving you high and dry.
When I was helping a client through grief, I’d often try to bring the person they’d lost into the room with us. No Ouija boards or empty chairs, but we’d talk about the person. I might ask, “What would your (now-deceased) loved one say about your current breakup/job struggle/pregnancy?” Some clients thought I was crazy, but others took comfort in imagining how their beloved might have supported them through their struggle. Conjuring up that person’s voice when they were stuck helped them move forward.
And so I wonder, could I be that voice of love and support in your ear after I’m gone? If you are feeling low or alone or upset, could you imagine how I might comfort you? You know I’d want to be there, and I’d be overjoyed knowing I might help you muddle through, even after I am gone.
I realize that trying to enlist my help after I’ve died may backfire altogether. There’s the risk you may conjure up Loose-Lips Annie, who has blurted out countless inappropriate statements over her lifetime that she wishes she could retract. Hopefully not, though. I’ll try my hardest to contain my overly blunt persona, even from the great beyond. That is, unless I think you could really use a swift kick in the pants. Then all bets are off.