Postscript (P.S. I Love You #2)(45)
She seems confused.
‘I know why in theory, but I want to understand exactly why. Is it because you’re afraid they’ll forget you? Is it because you don’t want to feel left out? Is it because you don’t want them to miss you?’ I take a breath. ‘Is it more for you or for them? Asking for a friend.’
She smiles, understanding. ‘Everything you said. Everything and more. I can prepare myself for what lies ahead of me, but can’t let go before it happens. I can’t simply give up. I’m a mother, I’ve always thought ahead for the little ones. And even though they have little ones of their own, I won’t stop thinking ahead. I want them to feel like I’m there with them, and I suppose it’s because I won’t let go yet. I won’t surrender. It’s the only control I have over my life. I don’t know when my last day of quality will be, or my final day for that matter, but I’m going to make sure I’m around for more than my body could hold out for. I want to live and I’m trying everything; medicine, treatments, care, and now letters and lists. I may have lost control of my body, but I can control what happens in my life, and how life can be for others when I’m gone. It’s the last victory I have.’
As I make my way home, I ponder Joy’s words.
The last victory.
Death can’t win. Life lives on.
Life has roots, and just like a tree in its quest for survival, those roots spread and stretch to find water, they possess the power to lift foundations, uproot anything in their path. Their reach is endless; their very presence has an everlasting effect in some form or another. You can cut a tree down but you cannot kill what it started and all the life that sprung from it.
To most people, death is the enemy, a thing to be feared. We don’t see it as the pacifier or sympathiser. It’s the inevitable fate we have feared and done our best to avoid by minimising risks, by following the rules of health and safety, and by resorting to every treatment and medicine that might save us. Don’t look death in the eye, don’t let it see you, don’t let it know you’re there; head down, eyes averted; don’t choose me, don’t pick me. By the rules of nature, it is programmed into us that we must root for life to win.
For so very long in Gerry’s illness, death was the enemy, but as is so often the case for those dealing with a loved one suffering terminal illness, there came a point when my attitude changed and death became the one thing that could offer peace, that could ease his suffering. When the hope of a cure is gone and the inevitable is inevitable, there are moments in long nights spent listening to short ragged breaths when death is invited. Death is welcomed. Take them away from this pain, guide them, help them, be kind and be gentle.
Even though Gerry was too young to die and he did everything he could to fight it, when he needed to, he turned to death, saw it as a friend and went to it. And I was relieved, grateful to death for taking him from his suffering and embracing him. In a strange and wonderful way, the thing you have avoided, dreaded, feared is right in front of you and it’s bathed in light. Death becomes our saviour.
Life is light, dying is darkness, death is light again. Full circle.
Death is always with us, our constant companion, in partnership with life, watching us from the sidelines. While we are living, we are also dying; every second spent living is a second closer to the end of our days. The balance inevitably tips. Death is there at our fingertips all the time and we choose not to go to it and it chooses not to take us.
Death doesn’t push us; death catches us when we fall.
21
‘I’m thinking of hiring volunteers,’ Ciara declares from the other side of the shop.
‘What for?’
‘To help us out. Maybe we need security, there’s too many things going missing lately, we can’t keep an eye on everything and I can’t afford to pay somebody else. People are always asking to help out, they know we give some of the proceeds to charity. And it would help me for when you’ve got hospital appointments, or when Mathew and I are doing collections.’
A customer at the counter picks up a wallet from the discount tray made up of items that are broken, or aged, too bad condition to offer at full price but too lovely to turn away. She turns it over in her hand.
‘Is this real leather?’ she asks.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘For two euro?’
‘Yes, everything in the tray is two euro,’ I say, distracted, turning to Ciara. ‘I’ve tried to get the hospital appointments on Mondays, Ciara, but they keep insisting on Fridays, I’m sorry.’
‘I know, I’m not blaming you. I think it would be helpful for us, that’s all. To keep an extra eye on things, have extra hands.’
‘I’ll take it,’ the customer says, happily.
I take the coin and give her a receipt. She leaves the shop.
‘And you’re a little … distracted, with not moving in with Gabriel, or currently on speaking terms with Gabriel, not selling your house, helping out with the club, and oh my God I have to sit down, I’m so stressed just thinking about your life right now …’
‘I’m not distracted, Ciara,’ I say, snapping. ‘Everything is under control.’
‘Well, that’s a lie if ever I heard one,’ she mumbles.
The bell over the door rings out as a customer arrives. Flustered, she hurries to the cashier’s desk. ‘Hi, I was in here around fifteen minutes ago and I think I left my wallet by the till.’