As I get out of bed every day, one foot at a time; as I follow my daily routines -- shower, breakfast, dress, work, home, dinner, dishes, bedtime; s I blindly feel my way through the hallways of my heart, one wall grief the other side continuing life I find that not matter the day or the time, I am always {and will forever be} vulnerable.
Today's meltdown was unexpected, both in reason and timing. I could blame it on pregnancy hormones, and I'm sure they played a significant role, at least, in the uncontrollable sense. However, I suspect that the motive behind my heart's desire to cry, scream, and shout my love to the rooftops simultaneously is more directly related to my grief and healing, not the pregnancy.
My monthly bank deposit run for my employer was nearing it's deadline, so today was as good of a day as any to get it done. After having one-of-those-mornings (you know, the mornings where every outfit seems to have some wardrobe malfunction, nothing fits right, your hair won't cooperate, and even the make up you apply in hopes of reviving some life in your tired eyes seems to be a waste, yeah one of those days) I decided that doing my monthly bank deposit run wouldn't be such a bad idea. Two hours guaranteed out of the office, just me, the sunshine, the car windows down, and 6 different banks. It was a beautiful morning and at my 2nd stop I got a compliment on my hairdo (a messy bun assembled in less than 2 minutes). Not too shabby for a Monday morning, eh!? All seemed to be going smoothly, only a light sleepiness creeping into my bones, but nothing the sunshine couldn't cure.
As I walked into the 4th bank, Bank of America, the bank I least like to visit, I silently prepared to keep my eyes down and twiddle my thumbs while lost in though since they apparently have a lock down on cell towers in there because I NEVER get any cell service. Then he came in. An elderly man -- correction: I called him an "old man" when telling Ryan this story. He looked poorly, cumbersome, weighed down. Granted he has a hunch back and could barely stand up straight, which could have accounted for the burdens he seemed to carry on his shoulders, but it was much deeper than that. He walked up to the tell next to me. As you well know, in a bank eaves dropping isn't something you have to master. Your business and their business is everyone else's business unless you're whispering. The old man began to ask the teller to transfer $12,000 from his savings to his checking account, then to make a cashier's check for the $12,000. She obliged and began diligently working on his request. After the man's request for $12,000 was spoken, the "welcoming" guy who worked for the bank took it upon himself to walk over the gentleman and start making small talk. "Buying a new car?" He asked the old man. The old man simply responded "No" followed by the true reason for his request. His wife was in a nursing home and they were requesting the money up front for her care until the medicaid came through. He began relaying tid bits of how this seemed like a first time request for a nursing home. Then he mentioned that his wife had taken a turn for the worst. He didn't display any strong emotions one way or the other, but it didn't take a rocket scientist (or a therapist) to see the burdens this old man now carried -- and the heartache. He then mentioned to the same creepy welcoming guy how that he had to "ask certain questions" specifically: if his wife dies, will the money be refunded to him since medicaid is covering her care. After the nosy guy walked away, the old man turned to the teller and asked her for print out of his saving's new balance - he guessed it would be "around $11,000 now." As if my heart wasn't twisting in my chest already, every ounce of my being wanting to comfort this man I don't know, it hit me....this old man, the one who is hunched over, most likely doesn't work anymore because he can't, his wife is in a nursing home and possibly nearing her death, has taken over half of his savings -- possibly the only money he has -- so that his wife could have the best care possibly if, God forbid, medicaid doesn't come through. Tears threatened my eyes. Tick tock -- I wish the teller would hurry up so I could dash to the car before having a melt down! Who knows what the "welcome" guy would ask me!!! The old man finished up his business with a few gracious thank you's. I was able to dart out the door before he was done. In the 20-30 steps it took me to cross the parking lot to the car a myriad of emotions and thoughts ran through my head.
I don't care if I get old. I'm not afraid of dying. No, what I'm afraid of is forgetting. I'm afraid I'll need to be taken care of, that I"ll be a burden on Ryan. No, what I'm really afraid of is that I won't be able to care for Ryan. I'm afraid that one day I'll have to make that decision -- to place him under someone else's care...in one of those homes. I can't. But I might have to. And if I have to, then I'll check in with him! I can't imagine not being with him. I will make them take me with him. I will make them set us up in a room together. I will make them put our beds next to each other so I can still sleep next to him ever night. I don't want to live without him. And I don't want him to live without me.
I was so overcome with this great sorrow that this might one day happen. That I might one day have to nurse my ailing husband in mind, body, and spirit but I'll be unable to. That he might have to do the same for me. We're no where near that now. We're starting our family. We're young. But having been through so much heartache in such a short lifetime together, time, age, dates, days -- they all blend together. They don't have a gap, a length, an expiration date. Time doesn't stand still anymore. The only thing that stands still is me. Life keeps going. We keep getting older. And as I get father away from my son in time, I get closer to him as well. Still, if I've learned anything through this grief and healing, it's that I cannot -- no, I don't want to -- live without Ryan. The other night as I was listening to his heartbeat cuddle up on the couch, this same sorrow gripped me so tight and the tears began to fall. Why do I keep feeling this way? Why do I feel like I will lose him? Why do I fear it so much?
I guess I know why. It is and will always be directly linked to Logan. He would not have existed without Ryan and I coming together......and Ryan and I may not have stayed together if it had not been for Logan.
It's true what they say: Losing something you love so much -- someone you love so much -- especially your child creates this vulnerability within you that opens you up to feel, see, taste, smell, and experience things more deeply, more intense. I thought I loved deeply before. Now, I love so deep it cannot be measured. I love bigger & bolder. Will I get hurt? Yes. But I'm not sure anything could hurt nearly as much as watching your son die in your arms. He has showed me how to love purer.
Blame the meltdown on the pregnancy hormones. It's a good cover. But I know the truth. This meltdown, this trigger, this need to run into Ryan's arms, hug him as tight as I can, and whisper "I love you" intense enough for him to register that this is not reflexive but it is something felt so strongly -- this comes from my grief, from my healing, from having known and been touched by my beautiful son.
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