I have eight stitches suturing my skin together where they've taken out a large piece of bone that's gone crazy above my right big toe.
I feel it stretch and pinch whenever I move my foot and at odd moments it itches like crazy. It makes it impossible for me to move faster than a worried snail pace at any given moment. It creates this insane electrical pulses that tell me to STOP MOVING THAT WAY this INSTANT and I obey.
I find I do not like stitches.
But my life, the last 39 1/2 years, have prepared me for this surgery. For these stitches. For this week where I am happy when I can sleep with out three pillows and a five pound boot compressing my leg from the knee down. For the ability to walk to the bathroom without someone holding onto me from the dizziness of the medication. For this week of love and sleep and time to stop and stare out the window for hours on end.
I think I may have just had the very worst and the very best summer of my life. I'm not sure where the good ends and the bad begins. Or perhaps, the whole summer was an intense mix of both. I should call it my Sour Patch Kid Summer. Ok, I will. There were these moments in this Sour Patch Kid Summer, like driving back to Girls Camp from my sister in laws wedding where the whole entire sky was vibrant red and orange and purple and blue so pure it actually made me cry outlining the mountains and valleys I passed through, that I thought, nothing I've ever seen matches this beauty. But as I drove, I knew that I left behind some unfinished conversations that were going to be hard and hurt and that created a loneliness that made the tears bitter in spite of the beauty. That is how nearly every moment of this summer has been--joy tinged with sorrow and/or worry or hurt or frustration.
I know, you say, but this is life.
And you, my wise friend, would be right.
But usually there are these moments, interspersed where you get these little breaks where you can breath, where for a few nights, you actually sleep well or if not well, enough. You get a phone call with, if not good news, at least just normal news. It's what keeps you going, right?
Well, this summer, it was sort of standing joke with myself that each time the phone would ring, I'd think who has the bad news for me now? And I'd never really be disappointed. I stopped counting the things that broke in our house. I seriously got to the point where I was actually afraid to touch things because I was pretty sure they were going to break (the counter weights for the garage door breaking was a near miss, I'll tell you) and more often than not they did. The best was when the alternator went out in my minivan as I was driving myself (alone) and the kids from my sister-in-laws remote cabin in the western Canadian mountains. Thankfully I wasn't really alone. My brother-in-law climbed into the car with me and said, "Gun it and don't stop until the car does." And it turned out we made record (and I think I may HOLD the record) time between Pincher Creek and Calgary. We made it to about 10 miles from the car dealership and the tow truck arrived about three minutes after it started pouring so we were only marginally soaked. Blessings, right?
But here's what happened with all the bad news and breaking things, I got so I could laugh(ish) and think, Well, at least THIS or THAT didn't happen. I mean, it was only $1000 to fix and not a new car. Right? RIGHT?! I knew, not learned or came to understand, I KNEW that things could (and probably would) get a heck of a lot worse so why not sit back and enjoy the madness of the moment because, the next worse thing was just around the corner.
There's a price to that cavalier attitude; a hardness, a bitter shell, that forms around your soft spots and your hope and your lightness. You grow heavy and weary and perhaps, just a tiny bit (or maybe more) bitter. I discovered this when I found myself crying into a rough wooden wall in the drizzling rain surrounded by vicious misquotes feeling more alone and abandoned than I knew was humanly possible. I was surrounded not only by people, friends and acquaintances, but by family. And yet, I felt completely and utterly alone. And not just alone, but abandoned by everyone who should have taken care of me. I'm not talking about an "Oh, woe is me" moment. I'm talking about an ABANDONED, left alone, stranded on an island that no one could ever reach moment where I realized that everyone who I needed, who I relied on, had failed me. I was a steaming hot mess and no one noticed. No one could for three seconds look at me (and I'm telling you, it was OBVIOUS) and see now completely wrecked I was. Everyone, it seemed, had eyes only for their own sorrows and hurts and worries.
But WHAT ABOUT FREAKING ME? I cried over and over into the rough, damp wood. What about ME?!
Was I not worth a moment of tenderness?
Was I not worthy of a touch of compassion?
Was all the hours of listening, of helping, of loving and kindness I spent on everyone around me really only answered with averted gazes or hasty questions of how are you without waiting for the answer?
Was my life really only meant to be service without even a few moments of reprieve?
Wow.
That
Totally
Sucks.
And did some magical person appear and help me?
Nope.
A harried, sleep deprived, over worked husband found me and I wiped my tears, put on a pathetic attempt of a smile and went on . . .
and on . . .
and on . . .
the days bled into weeks.
But inside, I was still against that rough wood, sobbing . . . hurt and alone.
An island.
I didn't really sleep.
I felt sick, genuinely ill most days. I'd look at the mirror and be amazed at how horrible I looked. I wondered that people didn't stop me and ask me if I had some horrid disease. I myself wondered if I did.
But I went on. Pasted smile firmly set on my face. All is well, la la la la la . . . sobbing sobbing inside.
I am not sure how long I can go on.
There is no stopping.
Go.
On.
Go.
On.
And I did.
I was in the car again, driving over the Alpine Loop, on our way to another gathering of friends, something that should bring me joy, but I had long ago lost any sense of what joy was. I was doing. I looked out my window and saw the park where we had a last picnic with my sister and brother-in-law before we found out that they were getting a divorce. I pressed my face against the window and remembered that day so clearly it was like I was watching a movie. I saw my sister-in-law's earnest face, so beautiful and kind as she rallied us all together and asked each of the children about their lives and made us wonderful Wassail and sat beside me asked me, with such love and caring, how I was and listened to every word I spoke and answered with concern and love. Two weeks later, she told me about their separation and the very very hard months of coming to that decision.
I had no idea.
She poured out to each of us not just tsp of love, but buckets, all the while struggling with a mammoth beast of pain.
I had no idea.
My eyes filled up with tears. "In the heart is hidden, sorrow that they eye can't see . . . " I whispered as we turned another corner and the picnic place was lost from site.
What? John asked.
"In the heart is hidden, sorrow that the eye can't see . . . Tell me the rest of the words of the song."
He didn't know them.
I looked them up.
It was my song.
It was my sister-in-laws song.
It IS all of our songs.
I realized that just as I had sorrow, SORROW, in my heart that no one could see, well, there was probably a huge chance, that I had been walking by a whole slew of people around me who were sobbing inside, on their island, wondering if anyone would see them and would just for a moment reach out a hand.
John Donne summed this up pretty darn well in his poem, "No Man Is an Island"
I feel it stretch and pinch whenever I move my foot and at odd moments it itches like crazy. It makes it impossible for me to move faster than a worried snail pace at any given moment. It creates this insane electrical pulses that tell me to STOP MOVING THAT WAY this INSTANT and I obey.
I find I do not like stitches.
But my life, the last 39 1/2 years, have prepared me for this surgery. For these stitches. For this week where I am happy when I can sleep with out three pillows and a five pound boot compressing my leg from the knee down. For the ability to walk to the bathroom without someone holding onto me from the dizziness of the medication. For this week of love and sleep and time to stop and stare out the window for hours on end.
I think I may have just had the very worst and the very best summer of my life. I'm not sure where the good ends and the bad begins. Or perhaps, the whole summer was an intense mix of both. I should call it my Sour Patch Kid Summer. Ok, I will. There were these moments in this Sour Patch Kid Summer, like driving back to Girls Camp from my sister in laws wedding where the whole entire sky was vibrant red and orange and purple and blue so pure it actually made me cry outlining the mountains and valleys I passed through, that I thought, nothing I've ever seen matches this beauty. But as I drove, I knew that I left behind some unfinished conversations that were going to be hard and hurt and that created a loneliness that made the tears bitter in spite of the beauty. That is how nearly every moment of this summer has been--joy tinged with sorrow and/or worry or hurt or frustration.
I know, you say, but this is life.
And you, my wise friend, would be right.
But usually there are these moments, interspersed where you get these little breaks where you can breath, where for a few nights, you actually sleep well or if not well, enough. You get a phone call with, if not good news, at least just normal news. It's what keeps you going, right?
Well, this summer, it was sort of standing joke with myself that each time the phone would ring, I'd think who has the bad news for me now? And I'd never really be disappointed. I stopped counting the things that broke in our house. I seriously got to the point where I was actually afraid to touch things because I was pretty sure they were going to break (the counter weights for the garage door breaking was a near miss, I'll tell you) and more often than not they did. The best was when the alternator went out in my minivan as I was driving myself (alone) and the kids from my sister-in-laws remote cabin in the western Canadian mountains. Thankfully I wasn't really alone. My brother-in-law climbed into the car with me and said, "Gun it and don't stop until the car does." And it turned out we made record (and I think I may HOLD the record) time between Pincher Creek and Calgary. We made it to about 10 miles from the car dealership and the tow truck arrived about three minutes after it started pouring so we were only marginally soaked. Blessings, right?
But here's what happened with all the bad news and breaking things, I got so I could laugh(ish) and think, Well, at least THIS or THAT didn't happen. I mean, it was only $1000 to fix and not a new car. Right? RIGHT?! I knew, not learned or came to understand, I KNEW that things could (and probably would) get a heck of a lot worse so why not sit back and enjoy the madness of the moment because, the next worse thing was just around the corner.
There's a price to that cavalier attitude; a hardness, a bitter shell, that forms around your soft spots and your hope and your lightness. You grow heavy and weary and perhaps, just a tiny bit (or maybe more) bitter. I discovered this when I found myself crying into a rough wooden wall in the drizzling rain surrounded by vicious misquotes feeling more alone and abandoned than I knew was humanly possible. I was surrounded not only by people, friends and acquaintances, but by family. And yet, I felt completely and utterly alone. And not just alone, but abandoned by everyone who should have taken care of me. I'm not talking about an "Oh, woe is me" moment. I'm talking about an ABANDONED, left alone, stranded on an island that no one could ever reach moment where I realized that everyone who I needed, who I relied on, had failed me. I was a steaming hot mess and no one noticed. No one could for three seconds look at me (and I'm telling you, it was OBVIOUS) and see now completely wrecked I was. Everyone, it seemed, had eyes only for their own sorrows and hurts and worries.
But WHAT ABOUT FREAKING ME? I cried over and over into the rough, damp wood. What about ME?!
Was I not worth a moment of tenderness?
Was I not worthy of a touch of compassion?
Was all the hours of listening, of helping, of loving and kindness I spent on everyone around me really only answered with averted gazes or hasty questions of how are you without waiting for the answer?
Was my life really only meant to be service without even a few moments of reprieve?
Wow.
That
Totally
Sucks.
And did some magical person appear and help me?
Nope.
A harried, sleep deprived, over worked husband found me and I wiped my tears, put on a pathetic attempt of a smile and went on . . .
and on . . .
and on . . .
the days bled into weeks.
But inside, I was still against that rough wood, sobbing . . . hurt and alone.
An island.
I didn't really sleep.
I felt sick, genuinely ill most days. I'd look at the mirror and be amazed at how horrible I looked. I wondered that people didn't stop me and ask me if I had some horrid disease. I myself wondered if I did.
But I went on. Pasted smile firmly set on my face. All is well, la la la la la . . . sobbing sobbing inside.
I am not sure how long I can go on.
There is no stopping.
Go.
On.
Go.
On.
And I did.
I was in the car again, driving over the Alpine Loop, on our way to another gathering of friends, something that should bring me joy, but I had long ago lost any sense of what joy was. I was doing. I looked out my window and saw the park where we had a last picnic with my sister and brother-in-law before we found out that they were getting a divorce. I pressed my face against the window and remembered that day so clearly it was like I was watching a movie. I saw my sister-in-law's earnest face, so beautiful and kind as she rallied us all together and asked each of the children about their lives and made us wonderful Wassail and sat beside me asked me, with such love and caring, how I was and listened to every word I spoke and answered with concern and love. Two weeks later, she told me about their separation and the very very hard months of coming to that decision.
I had no idea.
She poured out to each of us not just tsp of love, but buckets, all the while struggling with a mammoth beast of pain.
I had no idea.
My eyes filled up with tears. "In the heart is hidden, sorrow that they eye can't see . . . " I whispered as we turned another corner and the picnic place was lost from site.
What? John asked.
"In the heart is hidden, sorrow that the eye can't see . . . Tell me the rest of the words of the song."
He didn't know them.
I looked them up.
Lord I would Follow Thee
I sang this song under my breath the rest of the ride, letting tears leak out of my eyes. It was my song.
It was my sister-in-laws song.
It IS all of our songs.
I realized that just as I had sorrow, SORROW, in my heart that no one could see, well, there was probably a huge chance, that I had been walking by a whole slew of people around me who were sobbing inside, on their island, wondering if anyone would see them and would just for a moment reach out a hand.
John Donne summed this up pretty darn well in his poem, "No Man Is an Island"
No man is an island, entire of itself;
every man is a piece of the continent,
a part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less,
as well as if a promontory were,
as well as if a manor of thy friend’s
or of thine own were.
Any man’s death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind;
and therefore never send to know
for whom the bell tolls;
it tolls for thee.
We are all interlocked together. I had put myself on that island. Yes, people around me had failed me, failed to see that sorrow, but I had too. I had failed to see it in my sister-in-law. I'm sure I'd failed to see it in countless people around me. So could I forgive them? Yes. Because if I couldn't forgive them, my friends, my family, then I could never forgive myself. And why didn't I just tell someone? I'm hurting. I'm confused. I'm feeling alone and could really and truly use a hug? Because sometimes, our loneliness builds up huge old walls and we just want, desperately, for someone to break them down.
Well, here's the sad truth: They may not.
They may fail you. But you shouldn't give up on them. Because, darn it, you don't know what sorrows they're hiding. You should give them a chance to know what's inside your heart. Because none of us are islands. We are all the diminished without each other.
And that's what I did.
I opened my heart. I poured it out and I'm telling you, it was the best thing I've ever done. And I found myself "finding strength beyond my own." I found myself "pausing to help and lift another" because gosh darn it, I knew/know what it's like to have your face pressed against the rough wood wondering, "what about stinking me?"
And the end result?
Toe surgery.
Yep.
Toe Surgery with my parents here to help and friends (and I'm telling you right now, I'm going to challenge anyone in this universe to see if they have better friends than me) pouring on the love and tenderness so thick you couldn't even swim in it.
I am not alone. I am not an island. I have sorrow the the eye can't see, but I'm trying really hard to let that make me a softer, kinder keeper of my brother because hearts matter. Hurts matter. And love, kindness and tenderness changes everything.
Mary, thank you for your honesty and tenderness. I must admit that I sometimes feel that you are superhuman in your capacity for loving service. Knowing that you too feel these very human emotions and needs helps me to believe in my own capacity to love and serve more freely, as I see you do. I love you.
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