This is a portrait of me and Mike. Or Mike and me. We are sitting in a waiting room quietly, with our own thoughts, with our own burdens, together.
Actually the sloth (such a new addition, I cannot remember his name) and Ha Ha the Monkey sit there companionably, per Gabriel's arrangement, on the headboard of his bed while he sleeps at night. And nearly every night when I come in to stretch out beside him and do his bedtime routine, I imagine them as me and Mike, a worn out pair whose present duty is to sit and wait.
I have been writing blog posts in my mind for weeks now. I have told you about so many things, most of them in the bleak dear diary vein. I don't usually compose when things are going well - though truth be told, most every beautiful and joyful thing these days feels at least a little weighted with grief and worry. I never seem able to find the time, or spiritual energy, to translate that 'writing' into actual writing. Maybe someday I will tell you about the past two months.
The first dividing line in my life was when my dad died. Everything was then understood as belonging to either before or after. A few precious things belonged to both sides, but even they became bifurcated: my friendship with so-and-so before Dad died, and my friendship with so-and-so after Dad died. The second line was when my first baby was born: before and after parenthood. Everything changed.
Now I am, muddled and tired and scared, making my way through the swamps of a new unknown. Mike's diagnosis was the third dividing line. It breaks my heart that it also marks the first such line for my children, who are all still very young. I suspect that there will be good things about this transformation for all of us, that we will grow in love and empathy. I hope so. Regardless of the specifics, I feel certain that we will be marked by this experience, changed forever.
I started running more after Mike's treatment started. One day in the heat of August I was at the track and saw a bald, shirtless guy running up and down the bleachers with an enormous sandbag slung across his shoulders. He was sweating and grunting and stumbling every once in awhile. I felt like I could barely finish my run at my usual slow pace, slogging along in the humidity and heat. But look at that guy - geez. What is he thinking??
I am, per usual, a feelings sponge. These days soaking up the emotional flow of my husband and children can be a bit harrowing. But then also the trash still needs to be taken out, the car still needs new tires, the children still protest piano practice. Every so often I get brittle and exhausted and feel so small and mean - a caregiving and general life-living failure. I snap at Frances, I invite conflict over peeing with Beatrice, I cry - a lot - when I can't find a parking spot and walk into the first yoga class in weeks very, very late.
But then I think of that guy with his gleaming bald head and his grunts. It wasn't pretty. But he was doing it. He was getting it done. My sandbag can be a real bitch and the effort it takes to lug it around is evident, but basically, I'm getting it done too.
With, of course, serious help. So many of you have been supporting us from near and far, in more ways than I can count. Without that constant flow of love I surely would have slipped and fallen right off the bleachers long ago. Thank you for keeping me upright!
I've missed this space for reflection and connection. Hello, hello. I'm so glad you're here.
