I Can Only Imagine

I CAN ONLY IMAGINE

For my Grandma Mary; someone I have never met but heard so much about.

Jillian Hand

I can only imagine the fear you felt when you heard the words for the first time. Breast Cancer -- foreign as the cells in your own body, rapidly dividing into a hill of slaughtered white skulls trapped beneath creamy flesh. I can only imagine how your mind began to stew in the poison of possibilities filled with memories you would miss; the future fifty-one years you’d lose.

I can only imagine the utter agony in your gut, hard and sharp like you swallowed the blade of a knife when you tried to turn the page but learned there was nothing left. The sentence stopped in the middle-- your life ended as a comma, an incomplete thought.

There was nothing that could be done. No supply of hope could heal you. The tumor could be severed, but its venom had already spread.

It was too late.

But you were not simply cut -- for that is too delicate a word-- rather, cruelly slaughtered out of the lives of an innumerable amount of people who loved you.

A husband of almost twenty-two years, who still adored you long after your last breath.

A sixteen-year-old son, afraid to admit he didn’t know how to live without you.

An eight-year-old daughter-- your ‘bitty’-- who never fully understood what it meant when someone said, “Mommy’s gone.”

Seven siblings, including several sisters who shared your soul, all shed tears over your grave.

Friends, neighbors, and other family members, all of whom shook their heads and said, what a shame, she was so young, so pretty, those poor kids, the poor husband, it’s just not fair. 

I imagine you knew you would be missed; how terrified you were to leave a trail of grief and sorrow instead of joy and comfort. I can only imagine how unsettling it must have been for you to know the story was still being written without you in it. You’d never read what comes after the ‘and then,’-- but I imagine you spent your last hours picturing every possible outcome.

You knew you’d be missing in wedding albums and at birthday parties. You knew you’d never dance with your son or see your daughter in a long white dress. You’d miss anniversaries and the birth of grandchildren. Calendars would change. Years would increase and you’d still be gone. These thoughts plagued you, as did the miniscule moments you would have otherwise taken for granted, like buying your daughter her first box of tampons and answering her frantic calls when the baby won’t stop crying. There would be no more mornings when your husband hogs the newspaper and drinks all the espresso but saves you the last piece of pie because he knows it’s your favorite. You’d miss hearing the sound of your son’s scratchy voice as he grows into a man. You’d never have the chance to remind him to please take out the trash and please don’t stay out too late or listen to your music too loudly.

There’d be no yellow daffodils to plant. No more fresh bread to bake. No more blue aprons to wear. No more canvases to paint. No more operas to listen to. No more sauce to stir. No more pasta to boil. No more shirts to iron. No more letters to write. No more stamps to buy. No more books to read. No more roads to drive. No more life to live.

I can only imagine your last thought-- I hope it was a happy one. I hope your last, slow, soft breath, felt like letting go of the metal rods of monkey bars after holding on until your palms grow numb. I hope the falling felt like flying.

I hope what you wished for is better than what you imagined.

Your husband is with you now, but you should know that you were his favorite memory, even after Alzheimer’s stole all the others.

That sixteen-year-old son is now sixty-seven, happily married, with two beautiful daughters, and two giggling-and-glowing grandchildren of his own. He’s a damn fine gentleman who could fix any car with his bare hands.

That eight-year-old daughter is still ‘bitty’, but strong as all hell. She’ll cry at these words but cut you with her eyes if you do her wrong. She’s a cook, a gardener, a teacher, a wife, and the type of mother you would have been, had you survived.

I imagined you’d be proud of both of them-- and your four granddaughters, who I often wonder if you could have ever pictured. Kelli inherited your love of baking and talent for painting. Andrea lives behind the replica of your broad, warm smile. My sister has your delicately carved hands, the ones she uses to communicate with, and I’ve been told I have your gentle disposition.

I like to imagine the best parts of me come from you. Compassion is one. I, like you, am the type of person who hugs someone after they drop a glass of milk across the kitchen floor. Also born in May, I love the smell of flowers after the rain. I can’t paint, but I appreciate a good piece of art. I, too, love writing letters and will send a thank you card after even the smallest act of kindness. We may have never met, but I feel like you’ve been beside me my entire life. You are the light to guide me home on every dark night.

And though you yourself were a comma, I’d like to tell you that your story still continued. We all wish you were physically here for birthdays and weddings and barbeques, but your memory lives through us every single day. We would not have been able to continue, if it hadn’t been for you.

I can only imagine you smiling as you read these words.