I love words. They provide so much comfort. So when the doctors told us gram's cancer was terminal, that they'd missed how extensive the cells were, I had a dizzying moment of grasping at the words.
Terminal. It means deadly, mortal, life threatening. But you know what else it means? Station. Like a railroad station. A place where you wait, grab a cup of coffee, pick up a novel with a shiny cover or a gossip magazine and wait. And where do you go? Well, sure.. some people go to work, or school. But sometimes people go on vacation.
Maybe her diagnosis really means a trip on the Orient Express.
Yes. That's it. She'll be young again in all her finery. The coach will be luxurious. The china, fine. The wine decanted by porters wearing starched white shirts.
I'm always excited to go on a trip. To see what exists beyond the windows. The scenery a blur.
I want her to be excited too. When you're ninety three years old and your body is failing, it can't be bad to view death as a new start. It just can't.
She's had a good life. And now there's a wait at the terminal. I hope she sends lots of postcards.