Selah // Something Witty

Day is'a breaking.

Date: 09.05.17 -- Day 52
Music: "Bright Morning Stars" / Abigail Washburn

My house is still in mourning. A soft kind of mourning that lingers in the bone like a morning damp mist. Her funeral is on Friday, but my mother is too unwell to travel and as her caretaker, I just can't. So the old songs come out. "Bright Morning Stars", "The Parting Glass", "Down By The River", and other laments from former deaths past. It is in these times that I am reminded of my mother's mother's people. While I grew up in house both firmly steeped in Filipino and Black traditions, it is my maternal grandmother's traditions we use to mourn, the roots of our Irish and Scottish Catholicism peaking through. These were the first songs I learned as child - laments, gospels, and three-part harmonies. It was one of the few times it seemed acceptable to grieve if you didn't have whisky in your hand. This morning, however, all I have is a cup of deep red hibiscus tea and the sound of a hymn at the back of my throat as I wait to greet the dawn.

There was little sleep for me last night and have been up since 3am. My mother woke up with a deep cough in her chest and the inability to breathe. I have an ear for a cough like I have an ear for music. The wrong sound and I'm up from sleep in a flash. I don't sleep that well anyway, so being up with her isn't bad, although she hates waking me. In truth, it's just the life of a caretaker. One just sleeps with one ear open. This August marked seven years from my transition from part-time to full-time caretaker. She's my best friend, so any hardships are mitigated by my love for her. She's helped me through everything, so the least I can do is do the same.

The one thing I fear about doing this work is seeing my future. My mother has been battling her illnesses since she was thirty; she turned sixty a few days ago. Even trying to do the best to stop the ravages of my genetics, there's a very good chance my own illness might progress to the point she's at now. It frightens me. It's not the death part; it's the dying part. Years of muscles and bones breaking down into nothing. Not knowing which organ system your body is going to fight today. Struggling to breathe. Struggling through thick mental fog. Struggling to stand. Struggling through unending pain. It is one my biggest fears. And yet, I get up every morning, and try to tackle it once more. I'm so tired though. I'm not even thirty yet, but I'm utterly exhausted of my broken body.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, the sun does not wait on broken bodies. There are errands to run, calls to the doctor,
post office drop-offs, funeral flowers to buy, pharmacy pick-ups, and so on. So I'll finish my cup of tea as the sun rises, and somewhere along the way, begin again.