The roller coaster of emotions throughout this time with my Dad has been mind boggling. One moment, I am encouraged. The next, I am so distraught. One minute, I am laughing. The next, sobbing. And of course, at many moments, comes the piercing anger.
This has not bothered me though. I have allowed myself to feel and do whatever I need to get through it. And we are only at the beginning. I’ve done a lot of writing. This has become my outlet over the years, and has helped me tremendously over the past two months. When the anger arises, my keyboard gets a beating. But the act of banging out these words provides a bit of satisfaction.
This poem illustrates my last ditch effort to help my father sleep and swallow. Amazing that our body can forget how to do those things. This is all quite amazing. Unbelievable. Tragic. Downright wrong.
The words help.
Standing by his bedside,
I lay the stone at his throat.
Placed my hand above,
Moving it in a slow, gentle, flowing motion.
As simple, yet as difficult, as that.
Meditating on opening, flowing, functioning;
Breathing energy into this space.
Onto his feet with oils;
Couldn’t believe what I was doing.
Never imagined doing this.
Any of this.