That’s what I’m telling myself this last day of November in the year 2018. How hard can writing a book be? After all, dropping dead this past January was ridiculously easy. Recovery and the realization that death had come visiting — not so much.
It’s not dying again that I’m afraid of. It’s losing those I love.
There are times when I can see the fear of losing me in their eyes.
I want to ease that fear so badly. Make it go away. Let them know that everything is alright. After all, the double implant is done and I am a proud cyborg now with my pace maker and defibrillator combo.
It’s just below the skin and its outline visible, something my eldest daughter does not want to see. No one does. Can’t blame them. It is a little freaky to see the implant shift with each movement.
It’s actually hard not to play with it, see if I can move it just a bit, something my doctor strongly advised against. It’s interesting when you freak out your cardiologist a little. But I’ve been doing that since the beginning.
In January of this year I had been thinking there was time for coffee while I waited at a Connecticut train station for my train to Boston. Then everything went black. No pain. No nothing.
Came to in the back of an ambulance. Pried open my eyes to see two young EMTs, one on either side of me and looking worried.
When I spoke, saying, “Something really bad happened, didn’t it?”, their relief was palpable. Which said a great deal.
People’s reactions continue to do so.
It helps to have a sense of humor about the whole thing.
In fact it’s absolutely necessary. Besides I love making people laugh and if I can get them laughing about death and dying and god knows what else, then perhaps, just perhaps, some things become a little less scary.
Because I do have other “scary” things to write about, things no one is comfortable discussing. But none the less, they must be. If we don’t then we are putting lives in danger. If we don’t, how do we let others know they are not alone? How do we let them know that healing and life are possible? How do we let them know that there is so much wonder and beauty to cherish?
Did it again, didn’t I? All hope for humor vanished. Sorry about that, but I have just begun this story. It will take time to sort out.
To find balance.
The natural world has always been my comfort, my heart’s home, my balance.
Been thinking about the farm down the road where the youngest grandson and I went pumpkin picking before Halloween. We walked the length of that field on a bitter windy day before he found a pumpkin that satisfied him. We took it home to his house where he carved its crooked smile, a smile that would glow on All Hallows Eve.
There are still pumpkins in that field down the road, half buried in snow. Orange mounds rising out of a field of white. A treat for birds and animals. Pumpkin popsicles.
A red fox took a nap in our back yard a few weeks ago. I stood at the window and watched as she moved with the sun, keeping the shadows at a distance. I wonder if her territory includes that pumpkin field. I wonder if she goes in at night to snack on pumpkins that are slowly returning to the earth from which they grew.
The fox was back last week as I was cooking Thanksgiving dinner. No napping this time. Not on white cold ground. She was in a hurry, Just passing through with time for a bathroom break.
I worry about her. There is so much traffic around here, so many vehicles for the fox to navigate.
I’m so thankful that she has a place to nap in the warming sun, a safe place for her to travel through.
I have always wanted a home that is sanctuary for people and animals alike. One summer I refused to mow the lawn.
Two does and their four fawns were bedding down in the yard at night, nibbling on all the wild and cultivated green growing things during the day. The does trusted us enough to leave their babies napping while they went foraging. Glimpses into their world, the natural world we are a part of, are always a cherished gift.
This beautiful blue world and books were saving graces for the terrified and abused child I once was. They continue to be.
I woke early this morning, worrying about my youngest brother, worrying about all my sisters and brothers. We've made it thus far and I'm proud of them in so many ways. But the growing up left wounds, scars that are barely healed, like crusted over lava still dangerous to the touch. Especially for those siblings who have never dealt with their growing up. As far as I know, he is one of them.
Found out yesterday that my youngest brother has just up and divorced his wife. Moved away from her, their children and grandchildren. Severing all ties. It's something he has done with us, his brothers and sisters. Now this. I remember the hurt terrified little boy. The man who could not be around his father without drinking multiple six packs of beer. And I wonder where he is heading, what he will do.
I wonder if all his ghosts have caught up with him, the crust over so much fear and loss finally having broken open.
I woke up early this morning, dressed, and went out beneath the moon and stars past the snow blanketed pumpkin field to get coffee.
I woke up early and prayed for those I love and no longer know. Woke up and prayed for everything.
Woke up early to write, apparently another kind of prayer. Perhaps, the beginning of a new journey. After all, the grand boys don’t need me as they used to.
One of the ironies of this stage of life is that just as you’re dealing with your own mortality and how much time may be left, time is suddenly freed up. I’m retired. The children are adults. The grand boys are either teenagers or fast cruising towards the teenage years. Suddenly time is free to unfold and play. Suddenly, I’m free to be something other than what I was. This is a benefit of getting older that no one told me about.
I don’t know how much time I have left to love, for laughter, for grief, for thankfulness, for all of it. None of us do. What I do know down to my soul is that each day, all of you, are gifts.
Each chance to pay attention to the world around us is a gift. Each sunrise. Each sunset. The moon rising through leafless tree branches, casting moon shadows on the snow. A loved one’s voice. The grand boys growing at light speed.
I promised them I’d be around for another ten years. So perhaps there is time to put down word after word and see where they lead. After all, each word is a gift too. There is so much to be thankful for.
Yeah, I died. Think I’ll write a book. :)
Blessings to all of you on this day. Thank you for being all that you are. The candles are burning for whatever the need, always.
Hang in there. We will make it through together.