3:02 a.m. - What day is it? I don’t know. Date? No clue. That’s the one thing I forgot about being on a “leave of absence”, especially a grieving leave, is that you lose a sense of time. Calendar time. Not hourly time. Hourly time you become almost hyper-aware of. “[To Lily’s mom], I’ll be at the hospital by 8:30am...[Dog-Walker], I’ll meet you at 4 pm sharp....or...[To myself] Shit! It’s 9:20 am and I haven’t fed the dogs”.
Back to date, I recall hearing a nurse mention her plans to another nurse about her plans for Memorial Day and they sounded neari-ish, so I know we are in mid to late May, but that’s it.
And this descent into hell began the last week of February or first week of March. I think?
I can vividly remember speaking with Lily the first time we heard she might have 4-6 months to live: “I’ve maybe got to July,” Lily sadly said.
What a horror show it’s been. Mid-May. Fucking hell.
At the hospital today, I mean yesterday, I ran into this Asian-hippie-ish chick, gal, lady, woman, whatever. I think her name is Chang. She visually stands out with her I-don’t-care but I-so-despately-care-about-my-look.
She was wearing a full length green infantry Army trench coat peppered with round lapel buttons on the collar, as well as sewn on patches in a random way all up and down the jacket. She also was wearing Sally Jessy Raphael neon red frame glasses.
Like an East London Asian punk rocker. Or an older hippie in the Haight-Hashbury district, today.
Both thumbing their noses at the “man” even though they’re both well into their 60’s and have morphed into “the man”. (Lily and I have been to both of these places and saw these archetypes. And, admittedly, giggled a little, “with” and not “at” them, I like to think).
Hmmmm...now...I think, maybe I’m writing this “to” Lily and not just “for/about “ about her.
Yesterday, as I was coming out of the elevator on the 8th floor, Ms. Chang, absently mindedly entered. We bumped shoulders and looked up at one another. She immediately put her hand on the elevator door spine, to prevent it from closing on us.
“Oh hi!” she exclaimed just a fraction too enthusiastically.
“Oh hi,” I repeated back with less enthusiasm as my guard went up. Where have I seen her, I thought? Another hospital? Cafeteria? I know her but....she cut my thoughts off:
“I’m the Senior Director of ABC Hospice LLC. We met a couple of days ago at [hospital #1].
“Oh yeah,” I replied. Still soaking in her buttons. Some too hard to read but a few easy to digest. A small black button with a bright but wilting sunflower. Strange, I thought. What message is that sending? Dying? Really?
I then focused on another black button. But this one had the international peace sign in white. That made sense. One of Lily’s favorite artistic pieces, we have some wooden ones hand crafted from wine barrels on our walls, a stainless steel one on her keychain and one of two on the back of her favorite robes she wore every morning. Even in vacation.
But it’s that fucking wilted sunflower that gnaws at me.
+.
Back to date, I recall hearing a nurse mention her plans to another nurse about her plans for Memorial Day and they sounded neari-ish, so I know we are in mid to late May, but that’s it.
And this descent into hell began the last week of February or first week of March. I think?
I can vividly remember speaking with Lily the first time we heard she might have 4-6 months to live: “I’ve maybe got to July,” Lily sadly said.
What a horror show it’s been. Mid-May. Fucking hell.
At the hospital today, I mean yesterday, I ran into this Asian-hippie-ish chick, gal, lady, woman, whatever. I think her name is Chang. She visually stands out with her I-don’t-care but I-so-despately-care-about-my-look.
She was wearing a full length green infantry Army trench coat peppered with round lapel buttons on the collar, as well as sewn on patches in a random way all up and down the jacket. She also was wearing Sally Jessy Raphael neon red frame glasses.
Like an East London Asian punk rocker. Or an older hippie in the Haight-Hashbury district, today.
Both thumbing their noses at the “man” even though they’re both well into their 60’s and have morphed into “the man”. (Lily and I have been to both of these places and saw these archetypes. And, admittedly, giggled a little, “with” and not “at” them, I like to think).
Hmmmm...now...I think, maybe I’m writing this “to” Lily and not just “for/about “ about her.
Yesterday, as I was coming out of the elevator on the 8th floor, Ms. Chang, absently mindedly entered. We bumped shoulders and looked up at one another. She immediately put her hand on the elevator door spine, to prevent it from closing on us.
“Oh hi!” she exclaimed just a fraction too enthusiastically.
“Oh hi,” I repeated back with less enthusiasm as my guard went up. Where have I seen her, I thought? Another hospital? Cafeteria? I know her but....she cut my thoughts off:
“I’m the Senior Director of ABC Hospice LLC. We met a couple of days ago at [hospital #1].
“Oh yeah,” I replied. Still soaking in her buttons. Some too hard to read but a few easy to digest. A small black button with a bright but wilting sunflower. Strange, I thought. What message is that sending? Dying? Really?
I then focused on another black button. But this one had the international peace sign in white. That made sense. One of Lily’s favorite artistic pieces, we have some wooden ones hand crafted from wine barrels on our walls, a stainless steel one on her keychain and one of two on the back of her favorite robes she wore every morning. Even in vacation.
But it’s that fucking wilted sunflower that gnaws at me.
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