Holy, Holy, Holy
In which the liminal space between life and death is something sacred.
Gidon’s cheerful nutritionist scratches in her notepad, jotting down what we have discussed: that Gidon should eat six small meals a day that are high in protein and even some potato chips if they get him some calories.
As of today, Gidon weighs eighty-eight pounds. His 90th birthday was 4 days ago.
As Ofri gives us suggestions for Gidon’s caloric intake, his eyes close slowly, and he drowses off. He’s been like this for about a week now. He came down with the same flu virus so many of us have, but it’s taken quite a toll on him, and he’s developed bronchitis.
I cling to hope like a starfish on a rock, and I cook food all day long: soups, bread, spaghetti sauce, and meatballs. Gidon eats only a bite or two. The fridge is overflowing with my attempts to make Gidon choose to keep living.
Our house has grown very quiet. None of our usual conversations have happened - looks like it rained last night! Did you remember the thing? Did you call Leah back? It’s quiet, and I feel lonely. I watch Gidon’s chest rise and fall under his blanket from his spot on the couch. I want to will him to live, but my will is not what is needed here. It’s his.
It strikes me that I am in the presence of something holy. Not death - but life. Stubborn, fluttering life. A flame within all of us that keeps us going until it decides - and nobody knows how or when - to go somewhere else. A tree, a leaf, an open door.
I can’t stare at Gidon’s chest all day. I have to make that spaghetti sauce - maybe he’ll eat a tablespoon or two of it. I can add some of the protein powder Ofri left with us.
Mechanically, I chop the onions and garlic. Chop chop chop, live live live - and I realize that I am surrounded by holiness; life and its choppings and breathings and comings and goings.
The knock on the door as my friend Nancy drops off some salty snacks for Gidon. This is life. The rain pitter-patting outside this cool spring day. This is life. The man lying on the couch, breathing tentatively and slowly. This is also life.
Julie, Please feel my love as I reach out through space to embrace you and your love, Gidon. My heart is with you.
Julie, I’ve only started reading and following you, but as someone who was a 24-hour caretaker for my husband for one year as he died of a brain tumor, I know the holiness of the work. Sending you the strength of all of us who know.