① Grief Is The Price We Pay For Love Essay

Thursday, September 02, 2021 9:38:57 AM

Grief Is The Price We Pay For Love Essay



Archived from the original on 22 November Is that the way the person we lost would have wanted it to be? They grew apart over the years until he died, and she learned too late that he thought the world of her. Dane opened the bathroom door and Grief Is The Price We Pay For Love Essay cried out, "It's just shit everywhere, Dane. Besides their Brom Island Research Paper connections with Shakespeare, the Second Quarto actually names one of its actors, Will Kempinstead of Peter, in Grief Is The Price We Pay For Love Essay line in Act V. The Daily Grief Is The Price We Pay For Love Essay. What did that mean? It also came with a hidden Grief Is The Price We Pay For Love Essay. We spent every night—every night for an entire Grief Is The Price We Pay For Love Essay the living dead shuffling eternally into frame just before being dispatched to the afterlife by Grief Is The Price We Pay For Love Essay hero.

grief is the price we pay for love

It was just something I did. When I finished, I would lie next to her and use sterile cotton balls to soak up her tears. When she finally slept, I would slip out of bed and go into our closet, the most isolated room in the house. Inside, I would wrap a blanket around my head, stuff it into my mouth, lie down and bury my head in a pile of dirty clothes, and scream. Sometimes at night, Nicole would wake howling and sweating, with a twist in her bowels. I would call for Dane, waking him, and he would hold the back door open for me while I carried Nicole to the car. Then he would sit up with our girls until we came home. Sometimes hours later, sometimes weeks. Eventually I started to notice something strange: little bits of half-digested food emerging from Nicole's wounds.

I called her oncologist, who used a word I had never heard before: fistulas. When there's an infection or some other foreign thing in the body, the flesh works to eject it, forming tunnels to the surface. Her body no longer recognized food as useful and was now expelling it directly out the front of her abdomen, like a foreign substance. Nicole tried to lift her head and look at her belly. For months, we tried to catch it with everything from colostomy bags to special gauzes to cloth diapers, but the stomach acid would burn through any adhesive and eventually started eating her flesh.

There was no stopping it. There were only more narcotics for the pain. I told our family counselor, Julia, I knew things would get worse. Julia is a kind woman, but honest. For months after Dane moved in, Nicole couldn't eat much, so I fed her intravenously. I had no medical training, but it didn't require a doctor; it just required someone sterile and awake. It's difficult to appreciate the sterility of a hospital or lab until you try to impose it at home. In the early months of , Dane and I cleaned ceaselessly—the house, the children, me, the medical equipment, Nicole herself.

Boiling, wiping, filtering. But human bodies defy sterility, with our holes and our sloughing and our fingernails and our wet places. The machine that pumped the fluid into her veins would shriek any time it needed attention—if a tube kinked, or she rolled over on it, or it ran out of fluid, or any number of other possibilities occurred—which happened every few minutes. During those months, Nicole was drugged and mostly unconscious, and I lay awake listening to the IV pump. I turned its amber display to face the wall, but that didn't help; I lay there doing the math, calculating how many milliliters of fluid remained until she needed more. In those months, I may never have slept an unbroken hour.

One day Dane touched my arm and I cried out, unsure of who he was. He started conspiring against me, or so I suspected. From outside the bedroom door, I would overhear him talking with Nicole about my exhausted mental state, which seemed absurd considering her condition. He started calling Julia, the counselor, behind my back. And he was making some sort of secretive arrangements with my other friends. One morning he sat down with me. We would drive up to the foothills of the Appalachians and spend a couple days hiking.

Another friend of Nicole's had agreed to come sit with her, he said. It wasn't for me, he said. It would make me a better caregiver for Nicole. I conceded. We spent the next couple days in a national forest, walking endless trails, crossing streams, climbing rock formations, mile after mile after mile. At the end of one trail, we found a waterfall and sat in the cool pool at its base, looking up at the cataract pouring down.

My body was useless; I could feel my equilibrium shifting left and right, as though I were still hiking. But in my physical depletion, I discovered what Dane had known all along: My mind felt sharper and was more hopeful than it had been in months. After a few minutes, we noticed movement at the top of the waterfall. A half dozen college-aged women had climbed onto rocks jutting from the top of the falls, and while we watched they started taking off their clothes. I blinked at Dane and we both burst out laughing. The girls started leaping from the rock into the deepest water at its base, and then climbing up and jumping again. They looked like angels, perpetually falling to earth. They seemed impossibly joyful and healthy, and we could hear them laughing above the sound of the water.

Finally Dane said, "Let's do it! I had no answer and every answer. I was married. My wife was dying. I knew that every moment of enjoyment in this forest would cost me later in guilt. And unlike Dane, I had not worked out in ages. No one wanted to see that. Instead I said, "We don't know how deep the water is. I watched Dane climb up and chat with the girls on their rocks, all hugging themselves against a cool wind. Nicole's illness had cost Dane; at thirty-six, he had given up a management position and a girlfriend back in New Orleans. She could not grasp his devotion to Nicole and me—it is ungraspable—and their relationship had come undone.

From her perspective, he must have seemed disloyal. He moved to the edge of the rocks to jump, and I found myself on my feet, clapping and cheering and wishing the sun would stop setting, and these young women would never age or fall ill or die, and Dane could hang there in space for the rest of time, a portrait of readiness and compassion. Nicole rallied. She started eating again. She had slept through the months of IV feeding and woke up pleasantly surprised that she could now fit into smaller clothes than ever before.

She started entertaining visitors. People would drop in to see her and she would sit up, beaming. Apologizing for the state of her dress, or the house, or her hair, which had started growing back. She would describe all the things she wanted to do, and people—wonderful, kind, well-intentioned people—would nod and encourage her and marvel at her bravery. This happened again and again throughout She would disappear into herself, silent, sleeping, afloat on powerful drugs, and then she would awaken with a new item to cross off her list: She wanted to visit New York one last time. She wanted to be the grand marshal of a Mardi Gras parade. She wanted to jump into the downtown fountain with all our friends.

We did it all. What her life lacked in length, it made up for in height. Each time she went down, doctors and nurses offered dire timelines. Months to live. Even days. Each time, she rose again. It was magnificent to behold. It also came with a hidden price. Each time Nicole faded, Dane took over many domestic duties—washing clothes, cleaning, shopping, cooking. I took over the rest. I woke and dressed and fed the girls, Molly and Evangeline, who were ten and seven. I helped them with their homework. I scheduled dosages, ordered supplies, checked the mail, paid the bills. I juggled money because nobody would die if we didn't pay our taxes, so the hospitals and surgeons came first. During those times, Nicole was adrift on an opiate sea.

We kept so much liquid morphine in the house that the doctors warned us about burglars. Then she graduated to Dilaudid, which is seven times stronger than morphine and ran on a continuous pump around the clock, alongside a terrifyingly powerful drug called fentanyl. These potions interrupted the signals between her mind and body, along with everything else in the physical world; her hallucinations disturbed Dane and me and would have terrified the girls. So we had to start keeping them away from her. One night, she called to me and said she needed help to the bathroom. I tried to help her sit up, but she said, "No, I'm a Barbie doll. I can only move one limb at a time. I moved her left foot, then her right foot, and so on until we had completed the task.

To this day, her lead nurse, a woman named Faith, saves a photo of one of Nicole's Dilaudid pumps, which she shows to other nurses. That one pump recorded more than twenty thousand milligrams poured into Nicole. When she would emerge into one of her better periods, she would awaken, aghast at the way I was running the house. One morning, she staggered into the kitchen, shocking us all, and announced that she planned to make eggs for the girls. Where had I hidden the spatula? Why was there so little milk in the refrigerator?

Was it spoiled? It didn't taste right. Nothing tasted right. With each decline and rise, she became more manic. One morning early last summer, I found her standing over the stove with the gas wide open while she tried to teach Molly how to light it. She couldn't remember how. I moved to switch off the gas and Nicole glared. She was unrecognizable with hatred. Daddy needs to fix the stove. There was nothing I could say. Her impending death stripped our relationship of every external measure of fairness. I could offer no arguments; I could not say "That's dangerous" or "Please don't use the girls against me. Technology started to loom over our lives in a new way.

Dane continually found packages arriving on our front porch—packages of the most mundane items, like toilet paper or school notebooks—and assumed I was ordering them. Then medical supplies started to arrive. And clothing. We discovered that Nicole was secretly ordering things online, clinging to her role as shopper. I let it carry on a long time, in part because she couldn't keep track of her phone. She would call Dane and me to her bedside, enraged, to accuse us of stealing her phone as it sat on the pillow beside her head.

Finally, when she tried to send money to someone in Iraq, I changed our accounts without telling her. Sponsored by A dmitRx : We are a group of Chicago-based medical students who realize how challenging medical school admissions can be, so we want to provide our future classmates with resources we wish we had. Our mission at AdmitRx is to provide pre-medical students with affordable, personalized, high-quality guidance towards becoming an admitted medical student. These are all words one would use to describe their motivation by a higher calling to achieve something great. Such an experience is often cited as the reason for students to become physicians; I was not one of these students. Instead of waiting for an event like this, I chose to get involved in the activities that I found most invigorating.

Slowly but surely, my interests, hobbies, and experiences inspired me to pursue medicine. As a medical student, one must possess a solid academic foundation to facilitate an understanding of physical health and illness. Since high school, I found science courses the most appealing and tended to devote most of my time to their exploration. I also enjoyed learning about the music, food, literature, and language of other cultures through Latin and French class. I chose the Medical Sciences program because it allowed for flexibility in course selection. I have studied several scientific disciplines in depth like physiology and pathology while taking classes in sociology, psychology, and classical studies.

Such a diverse academic portfolio has strengthened my ability to consider multiple viewpoints and attack problems from several angles. I hope to relate to patients from all walks of life as a physician and offer them personalized treatment. I was motivated to travel as much as possible by learning about other cultures in school. Exposing myself to different environments offered me perspective on universal traits that render us human. I want to pursue medicine because I believe that this principle of commonality relates to medical practice in providing objective and compassionate care for all.

Combined with my love for travel, this realization took me to Nepal with Volunteer Abroad VA to build a school for a local orphanage 4. We are ready to develop unique papers according to your requirements, no matter how strict they are. Our experts create writing masterpieces that earn our customers not only high grades but also a solid reputation from demanding professors. Don't waste your time and order our essay writing service today! Make the right choice work with writers from EssayErudite EssayErudite is an online writing company with over 10 years in academic writing field.

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