Life

Unfortunate Manifestations p

in

Archived

This page is no longer being updated. Thank you for your past readership.

Screen Shot 2019-06-10 at 12.25.42 PM.png
 

I knew when she sat down that she had a complaint. She plopped in the seat as my mother did after the grocery store. My mother, at least carried six bags of groceries as triplets clung to her waist. This woman had neither groceries nor any visible ailments to contend with. I wonder what was her foe?

She was unhappy that she had found herself pregnant again in her forties.

She already had a grown child who gave her trouble, and since recently married, her husband was happy about a new child between the two of them.

What was she covering for?

Having gone through the loss of a child, I could not imagine being this unhappy with being pregnant, especially with a husband who was over the moon. She was covering for something.

There have been times I've downplayed happiness with unhappiness. Not wanting to appear overjoyed, scared of what may come next, I've used sarcasm to hide my fear. She was doing that.

I wanted to congratulate her, to slap her out of it, to inform her that life was indeed precious and given her age she should be on her knees thanking God that he saw fit to provide her with another child and make the dreams of her husband a reality. I wanted to tell her my story about how loss can happen without warning and thwart all plans for the future. However, I knew she hide the fear that often accompanies joy.

She buried her happiness like a child does their misbehaving. She tucked it away to present to the world the image of a woman "with too much good she ought to complain."

Months later, I saw her again. She showed no signs of pregnancy. Her body and speech betrayed her. She lost the baby.

Had her disgust spoken out load manifested itself into reality? Did she know what the future held and pretended to be unhappy to hedge her suspicion? What story had she told herself up till this point? None of that mattered now.

I gave her a gentle hug and did not mention a word.

 

Find Your Center

in
 

I noticed an older man teaching a young girl how to ride her bike on the walking trail yesterday. He firmly held the seat, the other hand gently on her back, while she peddled. She could not comprehend the up-down peddling motion and how to center her torso to stay upright. He gave it all he had. 

When my father and his new girlfriend bought my sisters and me new red bikes one Christmas, I don't remember him behind me, one had placed firmly on the bike the other gently on my back. I remember peddling, feet slipping, chain burns, stubbed fingers, frustration. I was learning to ride a bike the best way I knew how, through practice. 

The day is burned into my memory because I knew what he was doing. He was preparing his triple daughters for a world without him. He was doing what a man with conflicting views about family life, love, and commitment does; he watched from a distance. 

I learned to fly that day. I learned to steady my center, focus my attention, and ride the line.  I learned that in this life the most significant lessons come from what you learn on your own, lessons learned through practice, trial-and-error. My father provided the vehicle for exploration. 

 

Hospital Visits

in ,
 
photo credit: https://unsplash.com/@daanstevens

photo credit: https://unsplash.com/@daanstevens

You learn a lot about yourself in a hospital, like what the end of life looks like, how to exist in a space where death is breathable, what comforting the sick and injured feels like, and how to accept that this life, like everything in it, is fleeting.

My father-in-law had no idea what he was getting into when a caramel girl, who loves books, art, and the insides of people decided to marry his son. It's not like I knew I was gaining a father who loves cookies, spending time at his car shop, having the backs of his oldest friends, and a man who would not leave Cleveland, Ohio if you told him the world was ending exactly where his house sits. We got each other. A decent exchange.

This past weekend, my father-in-law of one year and ten months lay still in a hospital bed at the Cleveland Clinic. He looked tired. I guess triple heart bypass surgery will do that to you. All I could do is stare at the man my husband loves with all his heart. The room was dark, except for the dancing medical machine lights. I sat in a chair next to his bed. He heard us come in and said, ''oh, I'm not sleep" as if he wanted and needed the company.

While sitting in that chair across from my father, I thought about his life, the many choices that led to this exact moment. This distress was what he had hoped to avoid after watching and caring for his mother. She died of a health-related disease.

My mother spoke of generational curses often growing up, and at this time the bad omen of diabetes has my older brother and older sister in its grip. We do unspeakable things to ourselves.

As I do to my husband nights when I can not sleep, in the dark, I rubbed the back of dad-in-law's head and whispered you're okay, its okay, you're safe now.

What I learned that day in the hospital is that family can comfort you in your darkest moments. They have the ability to whisper in your ear -- you're okay, its okay, you're safe now.

In those moments, you and I remember what we have in each other; we remember that in order not to labor in vain we need mission and purpose, we remember that what we have given, we will receive.

This piece was originally posted here as "You're Okay, Its Okay, You're Safe Now"