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My Ativan Prayer

By the end of her life, my grandmother had accumulated a staggering number of painful physical afflictions. She managed to live independently until the end, albeit with a lot of support from the family. Her house had many stairs; she had advanced osteoporosis, arthritis, and she was functionally blind. Bent like Yoda, she navigated that house as if the Force was guiding her. And yet she never lost the ability to laugh freely.

At less than half her years, I often look to the memory of my grandmother to support me. This is the first time in a while where the fog has lifted enough for me to write, and my soul has been settled enough to want to. My grandmother retained her ability to think clearly even when things were at their worst; I have not. There are many nights where if you ask me to create a mental image of the simplest thing in my mind—a house, or a car—all I can draw is a tense blank.

And yet there are still many good moments; sometimes, even good days. Those good days are rare because it means both the experience of present suffering and the fear of worse in the future have both abated for a while. Seeing friends can help; and I am lucky to have many. So can the practice of faith.

At the point where a wild animal would take its cue from from nature and stalk silently into the forest to lie still until death takes them, still we humans can go on. In fact, we are expected to. Sometimes we can even find meaning from the experience.

Each time I go to the chant, each time I open the medicine bottle, I pray. Not for recovery; not yet, because it is too hard to believe in right now. But I pray for more good days. And somehow—with a lot of help from others—they come.