Twelve years ago today, I was at my father's side in the hospital. A freak accident had put him in a coma, and he never woke up before he died on January 17. The year that followed was the worst in my life. I had a strong emotional bond with my father, who raised me after my mother died. When I signed up to write this week's diary for The Grieving Room, I planned to share memories of my father, but another loss now weighs even more heavily on my mind.
A special welcome to anyone who is new to The Grieving Room. We meet every Monday evening. Whether your loss is recent or many years ago, whether you have lost a person or a pet, or even if the person you are "mourning" is still alive ("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time) you can come to this diary and process your grieving in whatever way works for you. Share whatever you need to share. We can't solve each other's problems, but we can be a sounding board and a place of connection.
Link to previous Grieving Room diaries
A good friend is in the final stages of a progressive disease. Of all the nice people I've met through parenting groups in the past eight years, I've rarely connected with someone as strongly as I did with this friend. We hit it off immediately. We're only one month apart in age, and our boys (a year old when we met) were born a month apart too. We have similar views on politics and parenting, we both traveled and lived abroad before coming back to the U.S. to raise a family, we're both "academic wives," we both like ethnic vegetarian food, the list goes on.
Many times I've thought about how fortunate we were to meet, because she lives about an hour away from me. Our paths would never have crossed in her town, and she has only rarely ventured to Des Moines, mostly for doctor's appointments and shopping excursions.
We started getting our kids together, even though our toddlers mostly ignored each other for the first year or so. She used to call our visits "extreme play dates," because my son and I would often spend four or five hours at her house. She was happy for the company, having been wheelchair-bound and somewhat isolated since pregnancy. I appreciated quality time with another adult while unfamiliar and therefore exciting toys kept my son occupied. We talked about politics, parenting challenges, pros and cons of living in Iowa, whatever book she was reading, our lives before kids. Why rush to strap my little guy back in his car seat?
We also talked frankly about her health. She knew there was a chance she might not live to see her son grow up, and with my family history of cancer, I've thought quite a lot about that myself. I told her stories about adjusting to life without my mother, how my father and some special family friends helped me through my bereavement. I reassured her that the unconditional love she's given would serve her son well decades into the future, and that her husband's strong bond with their son would also aid his healing.
These early conversations happened when my friend had realistic hope that her multiple sclerosis would go into remission, or at least stop getting worse. Many people live for decades with MS. She ate a healthy diet, had access to medical care, was doing the recommended physical therapy, and had gone into remission before, so why wouldn't her prognosis be good?
Our boys are five now, and it has been so much fun to watch them develop their own games, routines and imaginary world during our "extreme play dates." I'm grateful the kids kept playing well together, because I wouldn't have had time to make these trips to my friend's town alone. But her hope of walking again gradually faded, and even getting around in a wheelchair became difficult. It's been a long time since we could zip over to the park with my son holding my hand and her son riding in her lap.
As her physical condition has deteriorated, I've tried to visit more often. But I feel so much regret and grief. Why has she been so unlucky? It's hard enough parenting from a wheelchair, not being able to dance with her son, or chase him, or teach him to play basketball (a childhood passion of hers). Because MS has limited her use of her arms and hands, she can't even do many of the things a paraplegic could do with a small child: play card games and board games, do puzzles, turn the pages of a book to read out loud. She loves talking about child development and the new things our kids are doing. I feel overwhelmed by the number of milestones she's going to miss.
Watching her cheerful and energetic son, I can't help feeling that this poor kid is about to have his world collapse on him. He never seems stressed out about her illness, which shows how incredibly wise and patient she is. How many times have I snapped at my kids when I'm not feeling well? In the middle of a total catastrophe, my friend manages not to take her pain and frustration out on her child.
I've told my friend repeatedly that losing my mother affected my life without ruining my life. I wanted her to feel that her son will be ok. Maybe I haven't told her enough how much he's going to miss her.
I feel sorry for myself too. I'll keep up regular play dates for our kids, but I'm going to miss our long conversations. She is a great sounding board, especially on anything related to parenting. I know a lot of like-minded "attachment parents", but I don't feel as strong a connection with them. Then I feel angry at myself for feeling sorry for myself, when my friend's life is on the line.
I regret that I haven't spent more time with her. For the first couple of years we knew each other, I'd only come down to visit every month or two. The last couple of years, I've tried to visit every two to three weeks, but many times four weeks or more have passed between our play dates. Why wasn't I able to make more time to get down there?
Thanks to this community for listening.
