I
met with death today.
Not
my own, not yet.
It
just so happened, I received a call that a gray tree frog that I
rescued last winter had been spotted. He'd moved from a greenhouse,
where I left him, to the patio.
The
lady of the house called to tell me that the Earl of Grey had stopped
by to visit and I might get a glimpse of him if I came over.
I
told her I would, but hesitated.
Her
husband had a stroke several months ago and his health has been
delicate. I felt like
I was in the way the last time I visited and I didn't
want to impose this time.
But
she'd called and invited me over so I hoped that meant he'd
improved.
I
asked if he had.
“He's
fading fast,” was her reply, followed by a short list of family who
were there or in route.
Now
did not seem like the time to visit. It felt like trespassing.
“I'll
be looking for you,” she said before I could back out.
I
got off the phone feeling lost.
I
don't deal with death. And by that I mean, I walk away from it. I
don't think about it, I don't talk about it, and I don't want others
to talk to me about it. I know this isn't healthy, but this is how I
cope.
Today.
Today
I was called to go to the home of a lovely human I care about.
Someone whose appointment with death had drawn near.
Today
I would face death.
The
visit was short.
He
looked small and frail and unaware. His lids fluttered slightly to
the sound of the oxygen tank. His mouth hung loosely.
He
didn't look like himself, but he had a face I'd seen before.
I'd
seen this face in a hospital, in a nursing home, in a bed.
It's
a face I've turned my back on because the reality is too painful.
I
didn't cry. Not there. Not with him. And most certainly not for him.
I
cried in the hall. I cried at home.
I
cried for his wife, his children, his grandchildren, and his friends.
And
selfishly, I cried for myself.
He
is fading.
He
is fading.
He
is fading.
