We’re sick. Like, really sick. We’re falling to the puking bug one by one like dominoes. How awfully ironic that after I put off a visit to my mum’s for so long in order to visit her healthy, Vincent vomited in the car minutes away from arrival — too late to turn back now.
After a day of improvement, his cousins came over for a few hours, and when that proved too much for him, Vincent quietly picked up his bowl, went to the bathroom, and locked the door. When I unlocked it and went to crouch by him, he said, “I didn’t want anyone to have to see me throw up.”
He damn near broke my heart. Though that’s easily done these days.
Illness dominates life right now. Illness, and how to talk about it. How to wrangle a large family into working together to deal with it. And how to discuss end-of-life issues without causing panic and mayhem.
My mother is ready to have these conversations, but most of my siblings are not. Some are just not talking. Some are blinded by the bright side.
Ghosts and rainbows. Silence and white noise. All of it obfuscation.
Everyone has their own coping strategies, I get that. But if you never leave that state of denial, then you’ll miss the chance to say important things. The most important things of all.