Charlestown Beach

Have you ever been to a beach in the winter? It’s an odd thing. Eerie even. For a place that’s usually filled with people and families, to see it empty and abandoned can be a shock, even if you are expecting it.

It was that shock and emptiness that reminded me of what it’s like the moment you realize you’re going to lose someone you love. Some moments, diseases, things, you can do something about, others; not so much. This past fall, I was facing everything but told to do nothing. “It’s better this way,” they said. Better medically, perhaps, but she was still here, she had not given up, how could we?

In the end, we were outnumbered, and I was overruled; chances were small, quality of life would be low, and doing it now would be better than later. And so I turned to her and said the right things, over and over again, hoping that they were heard and understood. My greatest fear wasn’t losing her, it was that in that last moment, she would feel confused, scared and think I had given up on her. All of which brings me back to the beach.

Towards the end of my trip, I noticed a couple walking their dog. He did not seem to mind the snow as he dashed through it to get his ball, and it flew out in small chunks from beneath his paws. A few minutes later, a truck pulled up and another couple got out, bundled up and looking like they were just out for a walk. In that moment, I realized: some things you just have to be okay with, because they aren’t changing and not doing anything is the only thing you can do.

It might be freezing out, the place covered in snow, and not a warm breeze for miles, but a beach is still a beach, and you can still find ways to enjoy it, if you try. So that’s what I did, I turned it into a post and a memoriam to you, because it was something, the only thing, I could do.

In memory, 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

October 4th, 2014.