These have been really hard days lately. Not only was Steve attacked and required surgery and months off work, but my fibro has been in flare since September or October, with a few days of occasional relief in there somewhere. My sitter is broken, and trust me, you don’t want your sitter broken when you have a sit-down job.
We have had my brother-in-law with us since before Thanksgiving. He is not a well man. He has had four surgeries since he moved in. Two of them are amputations. This has been hard on him, but it has been incredibly difficult for me as well. I feel like I am choking on the very idea of the doctors cutting off parts of his body like so much junk.
I feel I need a burial ceremony or something to commemorate the occasion and to honor those legs which have carried him for 55 years. I am struggling with intense feelings of horror, not toward anyone, but toward the situation.
There is something so intensely wrong about this. I know in my head that this is what needs to happen to save his life, but in my heart and in my gut, it feels like an overwhelming wrong. The horror of it is pushing my stomach up my throat to disgorge it’s contents. It is sitting on my chest daring me to move or to breathe.
This is a death. Where is the funeral? Where is the internment? Where do we go to say goodbye to his legs?
I don’t know if I should even be thinking this way, but I keep thinking, They brought Joseph’s bones out of Egypt. They brought his bones out of Egypt. It was important for the Israelites to do that.