A week ago, we heard the shock of news that my Aunty Lola had lost 14kg in a month. And the next day, the diagnosis, the prognosis... Inoperable pancreatic cancer; 2 - 6 weeks. 2 - 6 weeks of what? How? And... why? Why.
Her daughters and siblings have flown in from all around the world to spend this last chapter with her. And though my heart is breaking with not being able to see her 'one last time' (what horror to even type that phrase) I am scared and ashamed that I don't know how to say this goodbye. What I do know is that this final goodbye is desperately sacred. And the thought of a phonecall frightens all the memories of her out from the bottom of my childhood's heart - a Pandora's Box. I want to keep her alive in my heart - and keep my memories of her locked up tight : pink heirloom pearls in the dark, dusty velvet of my heart.
And yet, I know real, strong and true love demands a goodbye. There is honour in opening your heart in the face of the terrifying confusion of grief-about-to-happen. And this I know. I must phone. Tomorrow.
Insert: Lola as a young mother, holding Tandy, my cousin. (Her photo on my writing wall -- a reminder to pray, her very own votive candle.)
(There is more to tell. Another day. An easier day.)
'Men must live and create. Live to the point of tears.' Albert Camus
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