The Man, The Woman......And Three Words

The man next door is dying, and has been for several years. I understand the cancer has moved to his brain. His bedroom window faces my garage and side yard.  I often wonder as I stare at the window if he knows where he is?  Does he know anyone other than the woman? He does not speak any longer so it would be hard to know what he is thinking.  I am sure the woman speaks his unspoken language.  “She is so brave”, what does that mean?  How is taking care of the one you love being brave?  I choose to call her courageous.  She wakes every day and loves him even though I doubt there is much left of the true self once residing in his vessel. 

I mowed the grass this evening and I stared at the window, and wondered.  How does he know spring is here?  Does he know because he hears my mower, or the birds have returned singing the songs of spring? Does he know the ice, snow, and cold has left? Can he smell all that spring embodies? Does he understand the words of the birds songs? 

I listen to music when I mow the grass, actually when I do anything outside.  I do this because I feel all things in the world have a rhythm.  It is this rhythm that makes all things easier.  Does the man still feel the rhythm of life or has that started to move out as well? I hate doing yard work if I am honest, but I also feel like a real jerk for having these feelings because while I hate yard work I am sure the man wishes he could do it just one more time. 

If he could have just one last wish what would he wish?  What would the woman wish for him as a final wish? If they could have just one last day what would they wish? 

The woman waves when she sees us outside, or when she sits with the man on the front porch.  She rarely gives the impression she is under any stress at all. I suspect her stress must be all consuming. Her life as she knew it changed when she heard those horrible words “he has cancer”.  Are there any three words that make a greater impact? Perhaps the three words that follow those,“I love you”.  I love you and I will stand behind, beside or in front of you through this process. If only “I love you” was enough.  If only it could make the man better.

How does the woman wake up every morning and keep her promise of I love you and I will support you?  Surely a piece of her dies with each passing day.  She enjoys recanting their great adventures when she and the man traveled the world and their joy in dancing with their dance group. Does she still dance for him? 

The blackberries she has planted along the side of the house have dried and withered, a perfect metaphor for what is happening to the man and the woman.  She must feel withered and tired.  How will she weather the storm, will the love be enough?  Her hair a little grayer, her smile slightly less pronounced, only complicate how difficult it must be to hold her self up? 

Helpless, I can’t, what if, is that possible have all been replaced with we will, it is possible, who has time to be helpless.  What deals have been made with their God, for promising to resurrect the man?  When will the truth be told, the man is not going to be the same, he is not even going to live.  He is dying; he is experiencing the circle of life.  We will all have the experience some will do it with grace, some will not.  If we are lucky we will have a woman or a man to hold the space for us; someone to carry our memory, someone to remember how we were, not how we ended.  Someone who will say “I love you”.

The day was cool I wonder if he can feel the breeze on his face any longer.  Does he notice the music and how it fills the body and calms the spirit?  How can anything that will or has happened to me today compare to the man, he is dying.  How can I let an off color comment or gesture ruin my day, he is dying.  He is dying enters my head every time I gaze at the window.  What makes him hold on, is the woman holding him on planet earth?  Who has to release the tight hold of the hug first so he can pass?

The man next door is dying, he is lucky he has a wonderful wife who cares for him and is making the last days of his life more comfortable at her own sacrifice.  She never complains or takes credit for what she is doing.  Does she choose not to talk about it because it hurts too much?  Does she ignore the questions of how she is getting along because she feels as if she will crumble if she tells the truth?  If some how all the balls would fall if she acknowledges she is an important part of the man’s process.

Bob is dying, “he has cancer”, and Ann is helping him die with grace, “she loves him”. She holds space for Bob, she is the rhythm to the song of his life.