When someone transitions over in body and spirit, there’s space between grieving, trying to make sense of what just happened, and moving forward. When a death is involved, it’s not so easy to just shake it off and move on. It’s forever stitched into your being. When you’ve been caring for someone who is terminally ill, you can say and do and make peace, but you are never fully prepared for the aftermath. We mourn, find solace in support of others, and sometimes we surprise ourselves with how it changes our perceptions of life. Grief is a very personal experience. For some, it takes days or weeks to grieve, and for others, the grieving never stops; it just morphs into a form of idolization. The trick is not to let it consume you to the point where that grief turns into depression or a way to gain sympathy well beyond its expiration date. We forget that the body gave out, but the spirit stays behind to gently usher us into a new stage—a stage of gratitude. We are grateful for the lessons learned from our recently deceased. Grateful for the reminder that nothing is permanent except death; nothing is ours to hoard or covet. We acknowledge the person we were before and anticipate meeting the person we will become after. That last breath of a loved one is the breath of a new life—a life we now have to live without them.
Shortly after my father’s death, I went to a body cleansing clinic. His failing health was the catalyst to getting my health in check, and for that, I’m grateful. One of the daily requirements was to do regular enemas. I had never done one before and was shocked when I learned I had to put what where and with that?! I was sharing a room with a stranger, who happened to be a retired substitute teacher from my old high school (I didn’t remember her), so we took turns. She would take the morning shift while I went off and did morning classes, and I would take the afternoons. So on my first afternoon, I sat in disbelief that what I was about to do was not on my bucket list, but there I was, pants around my ankles, on the toilet, reading the instructions with lube and a tube in one hand, and a bucket in the other. I put a towel on the floor, filled said bucket up with lukewarm water (because we didn’t want a scorched colon), and laid down, bare assed up; I sighed, and at that moment, I heard clear as a bell, my father’s voice reverberating in that tiny loo, “SUCK IT UP!” at which point, all I could do was laugh uncontrollably at my plight. After I calmed down, tears streaming down my face, I resigned to the fact that I had, in fact, asked for this and proceeded to put the stuff on the thing, and in my thing, run to the toilet and repeat. An hour later, I had completed my first enema. It was messy. It was over, and I.WAS.GRATEFUL!
Balancing Cat 