No reason.
No Rhyme.
No sense.
But, through it all, a rhythm persists. The emotional equivalent of a heartbeat. It may be slow and troubled. It may be clamorous. It may be nothing more than there, but it persists.
I watched my husband die. He couldn't breathe anymore, not effectively. But that big ol' strong loving heart of his kept on beating, in spite of everything else in him shutting down.
What a waste that was, once death was inevitable, and of his choosing. (He could have been kept alive, by a machine breathing for him. But being alive and living are two different (too different) things, and if he couldn't live, why remain artificially alive?)
But his heart didn't get that message, and it continued on.
That is where I am, emotionally.
I am worn out,
I am tired.
The joy is gone.
The curiosity us gone.
The drive is gone.
What remains is a beating heart, prolonging the torture of a nonexistent existence.
There is no life support machine for my dying parts (although grandchildren come close) and I'm not so certain I would choose a tethered artificial life anyway. Probably not.
Perhaps there is hope for a cure, or a remission. Some part must think so.
Too bad it isn't a part that knows anything.
Perhaps it is just a reluctance to leave the known for the unknown. Or just wanting to remain where we know love.
Whatever it is, the beat goes on.
Even when there is no hope.
No Rhyme.
No sense.
But, through it all, a rhythm persists. The emotional equivalent of a heartbeat. It may be slow and troubled. It may be clamorous. It may be nothing more than there, but it persists.
I watched my husband die. He couldn't breathe anymore, not effectively. But that big ol' strong loving heart of his kept on beating, in spite of everything else in him shutting down.
What a waste that was, once death was inevitable, and of his choosing. (He could have been kept alive, by a machine breathing for him. But being alive and living are two different (too different) things, and if he couldn't live, why remain artificially alive?)
But his heart didn't get that message, and it continued on.
That is where I am, emotionally.
I am worn out,
I am tired.
The joy is gone.
The curiosity us gone.
The drive is gone.
What remains is a beating heart, prolonging the torture of a nonexistent existence.
There is no life support machine for my dying parts (although grandchildren come close) and I'm not so certain I would choose a tethered artificial life anyway. Probably not.
Perhaps there is hope for a cure, or a remission. Some part must think so.
Too bad it isn't a part that knows anything.
Perhaps it is just a reluctance to leave the known for the unknown. Or just wanting to remain where we know love.
Whatever it is, the beat goes on.
Even when there is no hope.
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