As Told By Cheryl: Life is Terminal

After running the space of a basketball court, I greet my very deceased, but surprisingly present Mom and Dad.

The next thing I know I’m standing next to Dad, he’s older than I remember, but just as robust.

I realize I only have a few minutes, he’s holding a long narrow ticket, but I can’t identify the destination.

Where he’s going doesn’t matter because I know he has something to say.

I sense it’s importance.

He leans in, whispers into my ear, I strain to catch every word.

He has always had this ability to change my narrative, the one I carry around with me, the one I hold up to everything else. This is his talent. He could turn me in a new direction faster than you can whip cream into butter.

One minute I’m harping about being victimized by the neighborhood bully, when he reminds me of my genius in the kitchen, and just like that I’m the new celebrity chef.

He mentions a craving for chocolate cookies?

I’m beginning to realize this truth does not change because he’s resting in an urn up at the lake house.

It’s time, a gigantic locomotive pulls up to the platform, I reach for him, desperate for a hug before he returns from whence he came.

As I wake the dream quickly fades, replaced by the stark reality – life is terminal.

This is the reality under which we all live.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand.

It’s 6:05 am.

December 16, 2019.

Nine years to the minute since my Dad passed away.

I lay there trying to remember what he said but deep down I know.

He’s worried.

And he wants me to remember who I am.

I lean back in bed, across the room my ghostly reflection wavers on the french doors that frame the courtyard, the light is shifting from inky darkness to a muted gray.

With the dawning of day comes the realization that my Dad has indeed shifted my narrative from the grave.

I remember that flight to Washington (almost a decade ago) as if it were yesterday, it was early morning on the 16th of December, when Nancy called to alert me of Dad’s death.

He died hours before I was to arrive in the Northwest.

With tears streaming down my face the entire flight, I think everyone around me was relieved when the plane landed, and they no longer had to endure the howling of the hysterical woman in seat 22b.

I grab my bag and race to the arrival gate OJ Simpson style.

Frantically searching the cars for her familiar face.

I finally see her rounding the bend, weaving through the traffic, as if Moses parting the Red Sea.

She pulls up to the curb and jumps out of the car with the engine still running.

I’m in her arms, hysterical, holding tight, and for a moment my world stops spinning.

My sister has always been my anchor especially in times of need.

She’s my rock.

Our hearts are not functioning properly but together breathing seems plausible.

She finally steps away, hands me a tissue, and the keys.

“You’re driving.”

That’s sort of our modus operandi.

She navigates, I drive, and this is how we’ve managed thus far.

We gathered up our Mama that very same day and brought her home.

It was the trail of tears as we drove 753 miles down Interstate 5 from Chehalis to Campbell.

We stopped for coffee and tissues speaking almost no words.

Mom was shattered, empty, the word bereft was not adequate to describe her state of being.

This is how death scars ones soul because how is it possible to restore a vessel once it is so completely broken?

Bandaids hold it together but as if a stigmata it continues to bleed.

It felt much the same, early morning the 25th of January, racing to Nancy’s house, devastated by the news my beloved brother-in-law had passed away.

It was still dark outside, we sat huddled around the fire, sipping coffee, tears flowing, watching the sunrise.

Surreal is one word that comes to mind.

What alarmed me most was the vacantness in her eyes as if being present was too much to bear.

I thought I knew grief but this was different.

This is why he came.

She’s finding it difficult to navigate and he wants me to provide transport.

I’m here sweet sister, I’m right here.



Dedicated to: Mom, Nancy, Ana Maria, Elaine, Maryanne, Ervie, and Claire.

Thank you so much to Cheryl for sharing this lovely post with us. It is an honour to have it on our blog. Head over to Cheryl’s blog for more beautiful posts like this one.

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Featured image by Evee,

Images within post by Cheryl.

Sending you peace.

11 thoughts on “As Told By Cheryl: Life is Terminal

  1. A beautiful story Cheryl and oh so true. Life is terminal no one gets out alive and some of them get taken way to young.
    Shona x

    1. So true Gibberish, every loss is different and requires a unique process all its own. Thanks so much for reading and taking the time to comment. All my best, C

  2. Thank you for sharing a part of your life and thoughts!… I too have had to deal with the passing of another over time but rather than let grief take hold, I cherished the memories in my heart and heeded the words of Mary Frye… 🙂

    Do not stand at my grave and weep
    I am not there, I do not sleep
    I am a thousand winds that blow
    I am the diamonds glints in the snow
    I am the sunlight on ripened grain
    I am the gentle autumn rain
    When you awaking in the morning hush
    I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight
    I am the soft star that shines at night
    Do not stand by my grave and cry
    I am not there, I did not die
    (Mary Frye)

    Hope all is well in your part of the universe and life is all that you wish for it to be…. 🙂

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