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When a person you love is dying, it shudders through your whole family. Ordinary tasks become
monuments. You erect statues for walking up the stairs without taking a break. Hand out
gold stars for climbing in the car without gasping for breath. In the summers, my father's
skin would turn a deep lobster, almost purple, as he worked all day building garages. What
was a little sun? One time, he accidentally smashed his finger open with a hammer while
shingling a roof. What was a little blood? Bodies were made to heal. They were built
to handle scars. My aunt's passing taught me that death can be a blessing. When caring
for a catheter, remove old dressings. I never would've been this close to her without cancer.
Swab the skin of the person you love in a circular motion. Ignore the hair shedding
in fistfuls. This is not disgusting. Ignore the sunken eyes. It is not disgusting when
the disease is dressed as your aunt. Apply new dressings and tape. She would do it for
you. I would do it for you. I imagine after I'm old, when I die, the funeral prayers will
be of relief, not mourning. At least someone will be wearing my ring. He breathes heavy
on the couch and asks me to help him put on his shoes. I never thought I'd have to help
my father dress. I know you will have to dress me one day, like a roast on the family table.
when you are born, I will not let anyone else change you, future daughter. When my time
comes, better you than a stranger. My aunt was blind but we bought her nail polish anyway.
We buy him special socks to help ease the swelling in his legs. We cook desserts made
without sugar. We visited while she was asleep.We go home when they get too tired at the movies.
We buy heating pads. We buy cooling pads. We buy magazines, we buy word puzzles, we
buy paintings with scripture verses in cursive. We buy. Because we don't know what else to
do. Iguess this is what we are all meant to do. You will be the return on an investment.
I will earn the right to be your monster by chasing them from your childhood closets.
I will forget the name I give you. I will tell the doctors you are trying to kill me. I will
chase you, a stranger, from my deathbed. He doesn't read the magazines. She doesn't paint
her nails. He doesn't eat the desserts. They can't. So maybe we don't buy these things
for them. Maybe the magazines and the paintings are for us. To decorate the house so that
when they die, we can say that we tried. We are only nurses on a bloody field, rifle in
hand. Your death is both the victory and the loss, and some days, I wonder if I will shoot
you before the enemy does. Caretaking is the selfishness - it is the heaviest burden of
love. We do it so that someday, someone will for us. We do it because we don't want to
let go. We can't afford to let go. Funerals are more expensive than sponge baths and changed
sheets. We are supposed to fear change. We are supposed to fear death. There's a solution
to every problem; there has to be a solution. He needs me. I need him. I need him to need
me. Caretaking is a dirty job that pays in guilt-free survival. Since you fought until
the end, the end wasn't your fault. Caretaking is the promise that death is the easy part
and we won't have to feel guilty. We did everything we could. We did everything we could. We did
everything we could. Didn't we?