Jessica Sollander My family is easily the most important part of my life. When we lost a family member this spring, I worked through my grief by writing. I live in Stockholm with my David and try to take every day as an adventure, to make an imprint on the world and to make a difference where I can.
The snow lay still and glittering like a billion diamonds. That only happens when it’s fresh on the ground. And when the moon is shining this brightly.
Her breathing was scarcely noticeable. Irregular. Shallow. As though she didn’t want to wake herself up. From time to time, she would groan. Awful, pitiable moans. Mama said it was the evil spirits leaving her.
The room here is special. She’s been at the hospice for two months. They said that when you come here you don’t leave. This is the final stop. It was so hard to believe that. The place seemed so good for her, with doctors, nurses and other staff there all the time. Everyone was so kind, gentle and caring. Doing everything to keep her healthy.
There are no words to describe what it feels like to know she won’t be coming back. She’s here, isn’t she? She’s alive. But there’s no life left in her. No spark. No energy. Just slow breathing and small, small moans. She hasn’t spoken for days. Nor opened her eyes. Just lifted a finger now and then.
How to explain to someone that their life is coming to an end? That the cancer has spread to so many places that it can’t be removed? That it’s eating you from within? Although you’ve done everything you can? Eaten, exercised and ordered all the household remedies you could find on the internet. Chinese, Arabic, Western – anything that might make you better, regardless of who believed in it. In addition to all the intravenous liquids and shots you’ve already been given at the hospital. Is there really no way of getting rid of it?
We’d taken it in turns for four weeks. Watching over her. Looking after her. Not leaving her side for more than an hour. What more can you do? What more can you give? What more can you say to make things a bit easier? And this happens to so many families every day. And it still feels as though your own grief is the greatest of all.
We hold her hand. Just as we’ve been doing for several days now. Without leaving her side. Drained by waiting for something to happen that you don’t want to happen. Suddenly, she takes a deep breath. She gathers her strength and slowly breathes her last. And leaves us.
It’s difficult to say whether your grief is greater before or after. When it’s mixed with a sense of loss, with relief, with hope. But just at that moment, in that place, there’s only grief.
