Comparison

My friend Alex gave me a book to read. She was really hesitant – she didn’t know when would be the best time for me to read it. It’s a book about death and mourning and the deep and manic pain that comes when a loved one dies. It’s called The Long Goodbye by Meghan O’Rourke.

Meg’s mom died of colorectal cancer at the age of 55. The first half of the book is about the lead up to the death – the journey from the diagnosis to the passing of her mom. The second half (which I haven’t read yet – I’m saving it for later) is post-death, and the aftermath of the loss. It’s brutally honest, and reveals Meg’s pain and the brave and insane ways she deals with this loss. She’s caring, needy, selfish, and giving all in one messy package – it feels like me.

Even though I try not to compare my experience to anyone else’s I can’t help doing it, especially when reading a book where Meg’s mom’s cancer had spread to her brain. Meg’s mom, Barbara, even had the CyberKnife (read: a pointed radiation “knife” that cuts out brain tumors) that my mom chose not to have.

But Barbara didn’t have a stroke. And the cancer spread to her bones as well. So Barbara was in lots of pain, on lots of narcotics, and slowly loosing her ability to function. She alternates between being her old self – aware, capable, focused – and her cancer-created self – confused, unfiltered, declining.

And after reading Meg’s account of her mother slowly losing her mind, I realized I’m really glad my mom had her stroke.

Yes folks, that’s right, I said it: I’m glad my mom had her stroke.

Because if she hadn’t she would have slowly lost her ability to function. She would have slowly gone from speaking normally to being unable to complete full sentences. She would have slowly moved from being able to care for herself to being completely dependent on others.

Instead, she had a stroke. Things didn’t slowly change – in the blink of an eye everything was different. So instead of seeing her slowly decline, we got to see her slowly improve. We were thankful for every word she gained instead of cursing God for every word she lost. We were ecstatic that she remembered us at all, instead of pained that she couldn’t remember who we were. Each word, each thought was a gift that we could have easily not had. It’s still painful seeing her now, slowly loosing some of the words and movement she gained, but it’s easier than seeing her decline from herself at 100%.

The stroke was a mercy. A small mercy, mind you. But a mercy nonetheless. It gave us a new perspective, a new shape to the world. And it gave her a childlikeness that keeps her laughing through it all.

And so Meg, thank you for sharing your story. Thank you for being so honest. Thank you for giving me a community in which to experience my pain, and for a clearer perspective on my own loss.