Empty and Full

Since Leslie went on hospice, we’ve had few days when there weren’t houseguests.  With Caroline back in Boston, and Emily back at school, and a lull before the next out-of-town visitors, it’s just the two of us for a week, with drop-in visitors.

This gives me a moment to reflect on “empty” and “full.”

Full is Leslie’s voice piping up over the banter, from what appears to be a deep sleep, with just the right word or to correct a faulty recollection.

At the same time, full forces the recognition that an engaged, articulate conversationalist is trapped inside a slowing mind, struggling to complete thoughts and retrieve words.

Empty, as they used to say in cowboy movies, is “quiet. Too quiet.”  The foreshadowing curdles the stomach.

Empty is having time and space - but not focus or energy - to say the things you want to say, to discuss the things you know you ought.

Full is a set table and serving dishes, and maybe even a bottle of wine.  (It’s also covertly reloading the dishwasher to my compulsive standards…shhh.)

Empty is eating whatever you want, whenever you want, wherever you want.  Unfortunately.

Full is a street parade on a lovely day – one person pushing Leslie’s wheelchair, another towing the oxygen, and more lagging behind, in conversation.

Empty is “the fox, the chicken and the bag of grain,” calculating how to get Leslie, her walker and oxygen, and everything else she needs from upstairs down, and back again.

Full is a jigsaw puzzle on the living room floor; empty is overdosing on MSNBC, to have another voice in the house.

Full is exhausting, but empty is enervating.

Of course, empty can also be full, given the prayers and thoughts that beam down on us daily from cyberspace, the phone and the mail.  They continue to be very much appreciated.