cousin

all around me, you falter,
you fall
leaves in autumn, drifting
in winter wind.
in the spring you are heavy
leftover snowflakes,
gathering in april descent.
i have fallen, too--many, many times,
perhaps not nearly so far. but
i know what it is like to feel
the ache in your knees, your hip
where it connected with bruised pavement.
i find as time runs hand over hand
that it is harder
to watch as
all around me, you falter.

***

my cousin donna was diagnosed with cancer about six months ago. it was right as my friends darin & cathy welcomed their new little daughter into the world. donna was being treated for a bladder infection, and when the pain got to be too much, she was flown south to larger hospitals, where it was determined that she was far gone with colon cancer. they took her uterus, part of her stomach, part of her intestines. 90% of the cancer was actually removed; she is now going through chemo.

since i seem to have either allergies or a cold that's been coming and going, i've been afraid to visit her, for fear that i'll pass along bacteria or virus. she has a caring bridge site, just like my uncle jed's, where she updates from time to time; i try to read whenever i can, as she chronicles her path.

this last round of chemo was particularly rough. she says she knows it is working. when i read what she has written i see the demoralizing aspect of medicine, how low you must go.

when you're young they don't tell you these things. how could anyone draw a map of suffering, or of comprehension? there is no outline for how to be compassionate, no directions on what joy or fear or loss feel like.

donna wrote that she could not believe the sounds that were coming out of her body, when she sobbed during treatment. there is no describing them--they are the unholy side of your self, the darker half that is hidden with makeup and a smartly matched outfit. but to each there is a balance.

sometimes it is just hard to see that balance.

i forget that the trees must lose their leaves, in order to withstand winter. i forget that fire sometimes scours the earth, burning back life only to allow room for the new. i get mired in the here and the now, the suffering of those around me, their pain. it is more difficult, i think, to watch your friends and loved ones in agony, than it is to undertake that pain yourself.

unbidden my throat tightens; if i speak now, my voice will be harsh and rough. my eyes are warm, ready to weep. the line is so fine between weeping for joy--that the chemo is working--and weeping in sorrow--that she must go through this process in the first place.