Retreat

In lots of ways, my many visitors have been what's sustained me in the past while -- they make me feel engaged with the world, cared for, and distracted from my sadness. However, I'm starting to feel as though I have no time to myself, and I have a lot to do -- my taxes, estate planning, the usual sickness bureaucracy, stuff I want to write down and communicate to my family. And just time to read a book or jot down some stories. I'm still strong enough to run my own life, and like everyone's, it takes a lot of running.

So for the next couple of weeks, while my mom and then Matt and then Isabella are staying with me, I'm going to try to keep visitors and callers to a minimum. I am so lucky to have so many friends and relatives who care to drop by and phone, and I specifically reached out for their aid, but...there you go. The recent news I received needs to be digested and planned for.

(Plus, I'm planning a trip to B.C.! I'm hopeful that in a month I won't feel worse than I do now. It will be luxury all the way, and I'm having so much fun spending the money. Shangri-La Hotel in Vancouver! Spa treatments! First-class plane tickets!)

It's been interesting to contemplate the nature of visits to a terminally ill person. I'm keenly aware that when my friend Adele was sick, and when other friends were dying of cancer, I was pretty convinced that they could never be left alone with their thoughts, or with their disabilities, and that I had to be there with them as much as I could. I realize now that I may have been imposing, that people can be alone with their circumstances sometimes, that my ego was probably bound up in my visits and calls. Of course, it depends on your relationship with the sick person; I won't turn my immediate family away, ever.

A cousin of mine died of lung cancer a couple of years ago; he was just a year older than I, and when we were little we lived next door to one another and played together a lot. But we weren't close through our school years, and I don't think he even liked me very much. Much later, we saw one another at a family funeral and had a nice talk. When he got sick, I called him and then visited him in a hospice. At one point, I said to him, "This is a little weird, I guess, to have people suddenly get in touch with you when you're sick whom you haven't seen in decades. Why do we do this?" I had had my first bout of cancer treatment by then, and I knew a little about people's reactions.

He kindly said that he knew people cared and he accepted their need to get in touch. Of course, when you're one of 26 cousins who all like each other but were never close, you want to acknowledge the family ties and honour your aunts and uncles and parents and grandparents and somehow pay tribute to childhood memories and relationships. That's one motivation.

With friends, I know the call or the visit makes one feel useful, and helps one deal with the uncomfortable subjects of illness and dying. There's a push-pull impulse -- you want to visit the sick person, you'd rather not, the visits are morbid and fascinating, or boring and helpful. There's such a powerful combination of ways in which the visit is good for the patient and good for the visitor -- or the opposite.

In my case, I really do need help a lot, and visitors have all been put to work fetching things for me. But now I need to hunker down, and I'm lucky to have my mom staying with me 24/7.

I also know about illness fatigue, and that after a friend or family member dies, one often feels a great sense of relief. I understand that perfectly; after Adele died I felt energized for a while because I no longer had to worry about her, or about whether I was helping her too little or too much.

I would love to read some comments from readers of this blog about the delicate dance around visits and calls to a sick friend or relative. What kinds of emotions and practicalities come up for you?