Should We Dive Deeper When Loss Is Imminent?

Or avoid the pain by distancing ourselves?

It’s interesting to me how sudden changes in life circumstances inspire us to completely turn our world upside-down in order to help loved ones or spend time with them before a move or someone’s imminent passing.

This is a good thing, right?

Like when my grandmother was ailing and we started spending extra time with her at the assisted living facility, neglecting other duties so we could be with her in her last days.

I always thought of this as a good response to impending change. I try to soak up as much time with the people I love, in general — you never know what separations tomorrow will bring, after all — but the truth is, when you get the final call…you never feel like it’s enough.

I have nineteen days left with my nieces and nephews living just across the highway from me. I’ve already spent an inordinate amount of time with them over the past 14 years.

I suspect most aunts are not this involved with their nieces and nephews — they’re probably taking care of their own kids. But I didn’t have kids and though I love all my nieces and nephews, my sister’s six kids are like…god, I don’t even have the words. Honorary children? The children of my heart?

Something like that.

And #6, most especially. I feel more connected to little Alex than I have ever felt to anyone in my life. When he toddles to me from across the room with his arms outstretched, I feel like a missing part of my soul is reattaching itself to me. Picking him up and having him throw his arms around my neck…it’s heaven.

Just as I did with my grandmother, I am turning my life upside-down this month in order to spend extra time with these little darlings. In this case, the change is not a permanent thing, thank god, but it is just as heartbreaking. We’ll get to see one another again, but 200 miles and a mountain range between us will not make things easy.

So I have put everything on hold. I keep canceling the few get-togethers with my besties that I had planned this month because once I spend time with other people, I will no longer be able to hold Alex. His health is vulnerable and we can’t afford to expose him to the COVID-19 virus.

This month, that was supposed to be filled with a week with the kids, walks with my friends, and visits with my dad at his new assisted living facility has now drastically changed into a very tiny universe with only eight inhabitants — me, my sister, and the kids.

I go over there almost every single afternoon and don’t come home until late. If I don’t stay until I get Alex down for the night, he will have a tantrum when I leave. So it’s easier to stay late and sing to him until he falls asleep. Then I realize, I might as well stay for a while longer and chat with the older kids now that the little ones are in bed.

And then I go home and try to finish the hours of work I didn’t do while I was visiting.

I’m so behind on chores, it’s become genuinely stressful to walk through my house. I’m barely keeping up with work deadlines. I only get a few hours of sleep each night.

But I don’t mind. Isn’t it worth it to stop everything in my life to soak up these last few weeks with the kids?

Yes, I think it is. But also…I worry. I worry it’s going to be all the harder when the time comes to say goodbye.

I doubt anyone who spent extra time with an ailing loved one at the end of their life regretted it. In some ways, that makes it so much harder, it’s true. You’re removed from the normalcy of life in so many ways. You’ve eschewed your normal schedule, your normal routines. You’re hyper aware of the impending loss. You build a deeper bond with the person departing. Together, this strange world you have built far outside of your normal routine forges an even deeper sense of connectivity and intimacy.

And then one day, it happens. What you always knew would happened. They pass on.

I think the inconveniences, the strangeness of the world you create, the deeper bond you forge even in the knowledge that that bond is about to be severed on the physical plane is all worth it. So worth it.

Because this is your last chance to be together in these two bodies in this world.

I wonder, though, does this translate to other circumstances of loss? To situations that don’t involve death?

I am forging even deeper bonds with the kids right now. They are coming to rely on me for little daily things in ways they did not before.

They might not notice when this is gone — when I am no longer seeing them every day. When I am 200 miles away. In fact, I’m banking on that. Hoping for that. That would be so much easier for them.

But I, of course, will notice. One day, all too soon, I will be in my little house all by myself, with no one who really, truly needs me. Will it hurt more for me now that I’m a daily presence in their lives?

And Alex…

Alex is my best pal. I’ve put him to bed almost every night for the past two weeks and will continue doing so for as long as I can. He runs to me when he’s happy and wants a hug. He runs to me when he’s upset and isn’t getting what he wants.

I think he thinks he has three parents. I genuinely think he believes I’m “Other Mom.” I’ve never experienced a relationship with a niece or nephew like this before — one in which they seek me out constantly, cry when I leave, want to spend time cuddling up with me.

Am I making it worse for myself to have this time with him before they leave?

It already hurt to lose access to him when the pandemic first hit. I’ll never forget the pain of that separation.

And this is a worse separation. A bigger one. I genuinely fear it. I suspect it’s going to feel like losing part of my body.

But should I choose differently, knowing that?

I don’t think so.

I don’t want to miss a moment of what I have while I have it.

I remember once, in my twenties, a man I adored stayed the night at my place for the first time since we’d started seeing each other. It hadn’t been a great night, but I’d let myself get lost in fantasy. I was so lonely at the time and it had been such a long while since I’d slept with someone’s arms around me.

I remember forcing myself to stay awake the entire night because I knew that was the last time that was going to happen for a while. That knowing voice within me told me he would ghost me the next day, that I’d never see him again, and that I would not find another lover for quite some time after that.

So I laid awake all night in the darkness, holding on to his arm that was wrapped around me, and I watched the light outside my bedroom window change by degrees so faint, my eyes barely registered it.

Then came dreaded sunrise. We went out to breakfast. Spent the day together. Laughed. Then parted ways that afternoon.

And I never saw him again.

I have such a strong memory of that night. Watching the light at the window. Begging time to stop. I didn’t want to lose what I had.

Or maybe I shouldn’t have let him in, in the first place. Maybe I should’ve walked away the moment it became clear to me that he was not interested in anything beyond casual hookups.

But I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to dive into him, even though I knew I would probably only get that one chance.

Should we jump in headfirst or keep our distance? Maybe diving in isn’t always worth the pain…?

When I made a slideshow for the kids recently of our years together as a family, there were conspicuously no photos of my brother, Jack, holding Alex. I mentioned this to him, he said, “You know I couldn’t get too close at the time. I couldn’t handle the thought of losing him so I just stayed away.”

The entire final three minutes of the slideshow are, instead, selfies I took of me and Alex. I have literally hundreds of them.

I was terrified, too. Initially, I wanted to keep him at arm’s length, too.

But the moment I looked into his eyes, I was a goner. I dove right in.

And I’m still diving.

What happens when someone leaves the deep waters you entered together? Are you stuck in the dark all alone? Do you lose your bearings and can’t remember the way back to the surface? Or maybe you get back up there but only to find an empty horizon, no boats, no relief, nowhere to go?

After my grandmother died, I just kept paddling. After that man left my bed and never returned, I kept paddling. I doubt I really headed anywhere or knew where I was going. I just stayed above water and cherished the strength that I had received from the happy memories.

I don’t know what that moment will look like here. In some ways, that’s the scariest part of all.

I do know that this choice is a risk. I do know that I will pay a high price for it come October, when my life goes back to normal and I’m facing all the things I neglected, while dealing with my grief. When I return to my normal routines in silence, in solitude, missing the child that has been on my hip for hours every day the previous month.

It’s gonna hurt. Badly.

But I refuse to miss this. I refuse to hold these kids at arm’s length right now. I refuse to preemptively distance myself from the little child who makes my soul light up and sparkle.

I don’t care how bad it will hurt.

I will dive in and stay in the deepest depths until our last second together.

© Yael Wolfe 2020

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