Dear Readers,
I've had a hard time trying to find my voice lately. It seems like my energy is all used up by the time I make it to my keyboard to type out whatever it is I need to get out of my mind. Funny how you cling to the sad stuff, isn't it? That achy feeling of grief settling into your marrow like cholesterol in veins after a big steak dinner.
My friend Stephanie gave me a gift when Michael died. It's called a Glass Baby. It's a hand blown glass orb that you put a tea light in and it glows with an amber colored brilliance. The makers of the Glass Baby say to light it when you need comfort. Skeptical as usual, I lit the candle last night. I expected it to be beautiful because it already is a pretty object. I didn't expect it to bring the comfort that it promised though. I fell asleep looking at it; Shay had to wake me up to blow it out. It was in my dreams though. It followed me there, I guess it sneaked it's warm glow into my psyche knowing that I would need it all night.
My dream last night was a strange one. I had made plans with Loren to meet him at a festival at a park. I kept finding other people I know and love; Chris, Jenny, Jason, my aunt Ruth, my sister Kate. I'd greet them and hug them. "Have you seen Loren?" I'd ask. "Yes! You just missed him! Keep going and you'll catch up to him," was their reply. So I kept going. Obstacles would distract me, but I kept going. All along there was a beautiful amber colored orb in the sky reassuring me with it's warm glow.
The dream had a lot of love in it, but I never found Loren. I woke up feeling like I had failed and disappointed my friend.
A few short weeks ago (it seems like years now) when the bad news started rolling in, my friend Andrew gave me some advice. We were sitting in the dimness of Tenth Street, and I was crying into square cocktail napkins as quietly as I could. "You just have to feel your way through this," he said. I've tried up until this point to avoid feeling anything. Instead I've been an over involved and most likely unbearable friend, especially to Loren. My thought process was full of good intention: if I'm there, I can try to take pressure from him and put it on myself. I can be strong for him. I can be his voice to others. I can be mad at the hospital, mad at his situation, mad at everything on his behalf so that he could just focus on being happy and positive and okay. But that's not really how it worked out. What I realized over this weekend was that I probably wasn't helping him at all. He knows I'll be whatever he needs me to be right now -- but that's no different than before he was sick. He knows that I love him so much I consider him family -- but that's no different than before he was sick. It ends up that my going to see him everyday (or at least close to it) isn't going to save him. But rather, it's saving me.
With all of these sad changes of loss and sickness, I've been lucky enough to distract myself by comforting those closest to me. I've focused all of my energy on making sure everyone else is okay. But those in-between moments where my mind can wander I become immensely angry, and my poor husband has received the brunt of that pent up hostility. He tells me that I can be either the nicest person or the meanest person he knows, but I never fall in the middle. It's fortunate that he is a Taoist and can find middle ground, because he can help me be centered as well. He's right though, my pendulum swings wide. No wonder he's on my grateful list every day...there isn't a soul on this earth other than Shay that can handle my kind of crazy.
Back to the subject at hand. The long and short of it is, I'm a mess. I cry sporadically. I bombard Loren and my friends with text messages, visits, emails, and phone calls, hustling my love and affection like a street drug. "Who wants it? I know you need it! This here is some WMD, son!"
Not surprisingly, Lucas (he is the White Lama, you know) consoled me with the wisest thing I've heard through this whole ordeal: "Mom, don't be sad. One day you'll die and you'll forget this ever happened. And we'll all come back in our next lives as penguins, and we'll all find each other, and it will be okay."
I don't know how to stop taking care of my friends and family. I don't know how to back off or allow them to take care of me. I'm not convinced that I'm capable of learning these things. But if you're on of the people (you know who you are) that I insist on being with, please know it's just my way of "feeling my way through this". I can't wait to get a fresh start in Antarctica with you. I'll meet you under the glowing amber orb.
Sincerely,
h.
