saying goodbye
There is so much I cannot do--speak, write, move as I want to. And to breathe without the support of the bipap machine is labor unimaginable before all this. So much of All This is unimaginable.
How do I say goodbye, never to return? Before this, my goodbyes were paired with an imagined future. Now, my mind full of memories of capacity, I strive to recognize this new self as myself, never to recover what I didn't appreciate enough, never to 'feel better.' Abandon Hope, I used to like to say, with grand jocularity, gesturing at the freedom a Buddhist master embedded in that phrase. Now it is a deadly serious mantra that snaps me out of reverie and back to Just This.
Most excruciating is the idea of saying goodbye to my daughter. I don't think I can do it. I realized this morning that another goodbye has to come first. My body needs attention before I can part from her. From you.
Goodbye, dear feet. The left, with its hammer toe and neuroma. Before the neuroma you were my better turning foot. The right, perfection except for the tiny second toe, which is supposed to signify something but I forgot what. The arches, so lovely, either because of heredity or early experience with ballet, never realized as a skill due to my being special, as they said back in something grade.
Goodbye, knees; amazing how I never had to replace you despite all the trauma you suffered from childhood RA (rheumatoid arthritis). The right hip, not so lucky, now a cyber hip that I love even more. Goodbye wrists, fused since my twenties, and the elbows and fingers that valiantly did their work. "You're as old as your spine," I once heard in a yoga class. My dear neck, at its tip, once elegant, now bowed in helpless submission. Goodbye.
And of course, goodbye, diaphragm. We tried, you and my pelvic floor, we and my throat, humming and talking until we couldn't anymore. Untalking, this mind can't quite touch the others. Thoughts linger, then fade away, neither supported nor challenged. Goodbye, mind; without you I am nothing. And everything.
I love you more than infinity, my daughter and I still say to each other, mathematical impossibility becoming a stalwart koan that tells the truth of continuity.
All of you, dear you, thank you for being part of my life, for being my limbs and guts and heart and mind. We are never separate.
Fare thee well.*
April 11, 2022
*I'm still alive but likely unable to continue writing.
Share Article →
Reader Comments (5)
What a beautiful farewell to a beautiful body...I love you so very much, my friend.
Yukka - I wish you blessings and love on this journey from this world into the next. Dying is one of our deepest forms of practice, and I hope that you know despite the distance and limitations of visiting that all of the Zendo is holding you in our practice as you move through these worlds. Take solace in that death is also impermanent - your cells and body will transform into something else that lives on. You are cared for. You will be be remembered. I have so many amazing memories of sharing retreat space with you - learning how to fold and iron alter cloths in Garrison, laughing at silly things happening around the property at the Grail, getting a coffee from that quaint little coffee shop on our weekend breaks, painting, poetry, and so much more. You are part of my family. I love you.
Dear Yuuka: It made me so happy to see that you were with us this morning. (I did see that, didn't I?) I have no words to respond to your incredibly moving message on your blog. Except to try and appreciate more every moment and every imperfection and perfection. I will think of you when I visit my bees today and as I clean up my garden. Bendiciones...as we constantly say to each other in Spanish...
Dearest Yuuka,
When I remember my time at VZ, I always see your face among all the other faces that welcomed me into Zen so many years ago. I wish with all my being that things were different for you. Safe and fearless journey, my dharma sibling.
With love,
Geido
Dear Yukka,
Thank you for being you,
for your presence and your spirit, Joan