There Is No Stage 5

She's shrinking, folding in on herself. The doctor says it's a twisted stomach but that can't be right. Now they tell her it's a hernia and have given her reams of prescriptions, people to call, plans to follow. Tell her to go away and come back in six months then they'll re evaluate. It's a dingy space, her basement suite. Less light now that the air conditioner is taking over one of the precious three windows. We are solar powered. She needs more light, lightness of being, in every aspect of her life. Times speeding up and slowing down. Her EI is finished and there's nothing new on the horizon. A serious lack of potential prospects. Too old, over-qualified, under-employed, why don't you come back next month, things may have changed. Keeping a place north of the city for when she retires seemed like a great plan years ago. Now she returns from weekends away longing for a retreat somewhere else. Near people and culture, a sense of belonging, community. She fears dying alone there. She doesn't want to stay but can't afford another place. She gives notice and suddenly things shift. Back and forth in her 14 year old Honda, moving box by box. Cleaning cupboards, stripping sheets, steaming carpets. The plan was to move up north and finish the house, make a go of it. Now the doctor says it's cancer. Metastasized. She hopes the car holds up long enough to ferry her back and forth to oncologists and chemo and radiation. Or maybe not. Maybe she'll be in palliative care and this is the final cleanse, the last move. What about her dog? She wonders who will take him in, poor little guy. She really should have spent more time training him. He's out of control. She never did stick to the obedience classes. At the time, it seemed cruel to reign him in, quiet him down. He's such a joyous dog. She'll miss him most of all.