I have always been afraid of losing Kamalashila. One way or another. The difference now is: rather than this being a fear, it is an actual knowing. Knowing I will lose him. But not quite understanding what that means, how that will be. So far, it feels like I am in a waiting room. My life is suspended in some ways. Not so much in other ways. I am waiting for signs that something may be about to happen. But at that same time I need to be here, now, alive and present. To be alert to all those signs that all is still well, still going on, going strong. Appreciating all that is here. A better image is a half way house perhaps. Another life may start later, as this one may be coming to an end. But yet it is still very much happening, unfolding, rich with inspiration and love.
The first strong reminder for me of his impermanence, arose in an actual waiting room. This was when Kamalashila took his blood pressure whilst I was registering at a Devon surgery. There was a machine. A sign said that if your blood pressure was over 190 (?) then go to the reception desk immediately. His was a bit over 200. This was a big shock at the time. It led us to reconsider where we were living and how, and to make changes.
Ten years later, in 2017 and back in the UK, KS reported losing sensations in his feet. A few weeks later this partial loss of sensation went all the way up to his chest, as if he was wading into the water. Would this losing of body sensations continue? Would it result in death? His experiences could later be attributed to MS, and luckily a mild variant. But there was a period of having no idea what was going on. Which was worrying and frightening. Yet, even with a diagnosis, also with the current one, there is still a strong sense of not knowing. Not knowing how things will happen, how it will feel, what it will look like. The only thing I can be certain of is love. That will also change, no doubt. But love is here and love is here to stay.
