I've never been the kind of person who writes about personal subjects on the Internet well, especially subjects I would consider Shared Human Experiences. Lots of people have kids, lots of people gain and lose jobs, lots of people gain and lose loved ones, and I feel excessively narcissistic when I try to express thoughts on those things -- like I'm some kind of authority to whom people should listen when it comes to things we'll all do eventually.
But it occurs to me such writing requires a level of bravery I don't possess. My cousin has a blog on which she describes her personal triumphs and challenges in an absolutely brilliant manner, and more than once while reading it I've regretted not having that sense of purpose in my writings.
Maybe it's time I got it. After all, Alan Shore never was shy about sharing his thoughts on matters when he thought it important. While there's a fine line between educational and overbearing, you'll never find out where it is unless you walk up to (but hopefully not over) it.
It was just about a year ago mom decided to forego further treatment for the metastasized lung cancer in her brain and spinal cord and went into hospice. The four months that followed were a roller coaster of moments both good (her appearance at my cousin's wedding, probably the last time she left the house in her life) and awful (the final days as she faded away both physically and mentally). While she's never far from my thoughts, she's even more present now with Mother's Day coming up, and I've been thinking about the ways my life is different now that she's gone.
I was reminded of one of those ways the other day on the train downtown, as I was thumbing through the Trib and happened across the obituary page. At the very top was a story of an older gentleman who, according to the headline, had succumbed to "complications from prostate cancer".
"Complications". The usage here is almost meta. A single word describing so so so many things ... things I have much more of an appreciation for today than I did a year ago.
It's also what George Carlin would deride as a euphemism. To describe what mom went through as "complications" is an injustice. For me, the experience was equal parts gratifying and horrifying, swinging more from the former to the latter as time went on. In the final days, it took everything I had just to walk through the door of 9139, and I envied the strength of my brother (who was living there at ground zero) and my sister (who was in charge of the medical decisions) as they endured something I probably could not have. As hard as I thought I had it, they had it much much worse.
Reading about "complications of cancer" brings those days back to me in sharp relief, and sometimes I bristle at what I see as the insufficiency of that single word. But while it's insufficient for me, it's probably sufficient for public consumption, so I resolve to say a little extra prayer for the loved ones and their likely "complicated" lives in the time leading up to the person's passing. Because sometimes when they say "it's complicated", it really is.
