I couldn’t fall asleep last night. I felt like I was on the verge of a panic attack, but having honed my emotional-regulation skills over the years, I quickly talked myself out of it with a few deep, lung-filling breaths. That’s one of the benefits of having almost lost a child to cancer—I’ve learned to take down the panic like a professional wrestler.
Lately, though, there have been some big hits on my emotional radar, and I’m finding it more difficult to find mental tranquility. My brother recently fell and broke his shoulder and had to have surgery. He’s on his own and doesn’t drive, so my eighty-seven year old, blind-in-one-eye, walker-using mother has been driving him to his doctor appointments (Locals—for your own safety, please avoid a red Dodge Caliber with clouds of white dog hair drifting out the back windows.) I know that when my mom is no longer able to help my brother, it will mostly fall on my shoulders—as it should—but the thought of adding more to my already heavy life-load is daunting.
As we age, there’s no avoiding life’s sorrow. It seems as if all of my recent conversations with people are centered on death and dying. Several of my dearest friends are in the thick of it right now. One lost her husband in a bike accident a year ago, and the pain is as raw today as it was then. Another recently lost her children’s father to cancer. Although they were no longer married, their history together, as well as their mutual love for their children carried on their bond. Another friend is profoundly worried about her mother, who even after seeing dozens of doctors, continues to experience chronic and debilitating pain. A fourth friend has been watching her best friend gradually lose her fight with ALS. It’s unbearable to imagine watching a best friend slowly fade away and there’s nothing you except be there and love her.
My heart hurts for all of them.
Yesterday, when I was watering the garden, I tripped over my own feet and somehow managed to squirt water up my nose. Hopefully the neighbors weren’t watching as I’m sure it was quite the sight to see. But that burning feeling in my nose was not wholly unpleasant. In fact, it instantly transported me back to the lazy summer days of my childhood, when we would spend so much time in the pool that our lungs would hurt from breathing in all the chorine. After exhausting ourselves from playing Marco Polo for three hours, we’d lay our towels on the cement and feel the steamy heat come through as the sun dried the icy trickles from our tired, wet bodies. We’d smell the delicious aroma of meatloaf and mashed potatoes wafting out through the kitchen window and our stomachs would rumble in anticipation. Our dripping heads close together, we’d plot out in hushed whispers the best way to get our parents to say yes to a sleepover.
In those long ago moments, there was no worry about parents getting old and sick, or our best friends dying—there was only the joy of a long summer stretching out in front of us. I know there’s little we can do to avoid the seemingly constant discomfort in our lives, whether it be physical or mental, as we must accept that life comes with hardship. But maybe—just maybe—if we try hard enough, we can scour our memories for those long ago joyful experiences and recreate them, if only for a moment. We can let the pain and sorrow leave us for the time being—and we can celebrate the innocence of our childhoods once again.
Deep breaths, my friends. Lay the towel down and rest.
Allegro non tanto 