Haiku about My Nephew, Oliver

It's been two weeks since my beautiful nephew died. One week since his funeral. I recognize that I am trying to accept this new sadness, this addition to myself I have to agree to live with. It is becoming a part of who I call "me." Two weeks without Oliver physically with us. The sadness at times is immense.

And yet, I found myself singing in the shower this evening. It's been a long time since I've done that. A very long time.  And I ask, how? How can we live with it? To live with "losing" our Oliver. To live with only being allowed to see him in our minds' eyes and in the hundreds of still pictures. It is not enough, will never be enough. We ache to touch him, and to hear his voice, and to have his eyes meet ours. What a surprise it was when I heard my own voice singing. It seems impossible that I was singing in the shower. What a content thing to do. The words to this song that we sang often at mass when I was a child was coming out of my mouth as I poured conditioner into the palm of my hand. And I felt that it will be alright. Even with this heavy addition to my emotional map.

Tonight, I write a haiku, inspired by my dear little nephew, Oliver, whose acknowledgement of his happiness and whose joy of living in the moment has become something I admire and will strive to do often, regardless of what has  happened and what may be coming around the corner.

Yesterday is done.

Don't fret about Tomorrow.

Right Now is what counts. 

Haiku for My Sister

Today is the first day in a week that I have felt like writing. My brain has been too busy processing some news I received last week to write. I've written over 60 posts, and there is a part of my life that is almost always there on my mind, and yet I've only mentioned it once here. And that was in my Haiku about a Last Visit post. It is a difficult one to write about because it is so emotional. It is my nephew's cancer. My brother-in-law writes about it a lot. He says it is therapeutic. It allows him to release some of those pent up feelings from time to time. One thing I have learned from creating these postings is that writing, indeed, can be therapeutic.

My nephew was diagnosed with neuroblastoma about two and a half years ago. He is six. Last week we found out the last treatment did not help the cancer. He has gone through all the treatments available to him save one. His cancer will be biopsied and studied, and we will find out if he is eligible for the study treatment in two weeks. We also found out that if the treatment is not available to him, or if he is too ill, or that it doesn't work, hospice will take over his care, and that his life will end in months or even weeks. It is an incredibly sad thing to hear. We have all known that this time would come eventually. It doesn't make a difference. Hope always reigns, of course. But....what can I say? It's been a long up and down ride of hope and disappointment for our family.

Today's haiku is a very hard one for me to write. It's a wish for my sister, who I love so much and who has this pain I wish I could remove with my words or deeds, but I can't--ever. 

I wish to carry 

Your bag of heartache awhile

To give you a rest.

Haiku about a Last Visit

Cancer. Twenty years ago, I could pick up the phone and have a nice little chat with my dad. Today, because kidney cancer took him away, I'm missing him and wishing to exchange a few words with him. Twenty years ago, my husband helped his dad with repairing fences on their ranch. Today, my husband aches to hear his dad tell him a story about some cattle that wandered and was found, but he can't; colon cancer took that away from him. Twenty years ago or so, I heard a high school friend had given birth. Today, a 22-year-old is planning a wedding without her mom, who died in 2007 from cancer. Twenty years ago, my husband's cousin was working at a courthouse and enjoying  a fun life. Today, she worries, recently diagnosed with lymphoma, a blood cancer. Twenty years ago, my sister and brother-in-law were raising two children, looking forward to more. Today, they drove their six-year-old to receive chemo, hoping it will help him fight neuroblastoma, a cancer of the nerve cells. Twenty years ago, my mother enjoyed visits with a dear friend named Mercy. Today, my mom visits Mercy one last time at a hospice house, while her friend is within hours of dying of uterine cancer. Twenty years ago, it was a pretty abstract idea to me. Today, it is too concrete. Cancer.

Today's haiku I wrote  after witnessing my mother's one-sided conversation with her friend, as she tells Mercy good-bye, and that she loves her, and will always remember the laughter and fun talks they shared. That she will miss her. (Manita is a Spanish word of endearment meaning Little Sister).

Manita, I'm here.

Caresses, then a last kiss

Farewell, Amiga.