One night at dinner, Isaac was hyper and acting a little crazy while Dad got all flustered by the amount of food on his plate. I looked at Mom and said “We have sunrising and sundowning here.” We laughed because it’s true and, well, you have to laugh. Crying is not an option. Such is a typical night in our household that runs like some kind of machine but not a well-oiled one. We’re more like a pre-revolutionary refrigerator in Havana—still keeping things cool, somehow, since 1959. Then a shoe drops and things start to break down a little like they have these past couple of weeks.
A basal cell carcinoma was spotted on Mom’s leg last year and the skin center decided that it needed to come out. A quarter-sized dollop was taken from her lower left leg and she was sent on her less than merry way. Flash forward 9 months later and that leg has gotten infected and reinfected, necessitating visits with the wound center, visiting nurse for months, hospitalization for debridement and IV antibiotics twice, and now a midline for an antibiotic. Cursed with an infection with a somewhat rare bacteria, Mom is less than pleased that this little growth was dug out in the first place. Why I didn’t throw myself in front of the dermatologist that decided to do this, I don’t know. I should have. The woman is a lung cancer survivor and this current stint is really wreaking havoc with the quality of that survival. How is she supposed to go to parties, dinners, and Homegoods with her leg all messed up? Seriously.
To say it has been a hectic couple of weeks is an understatement. The only consolation is that Covid restrictions are far less strict now and we can visit Mom daily in the hospital. These visits are especially important for Dad who misses her familiar pitter patter putzing around the house. “Where’s Mom?” he asked when going to bed the other night. “Oh she’s still in the hospital, Dad. She should be able to come home soon.” The kids are now much more aware that Grampy does not remember everything all the time. “Why did Grampy ask where Nana was?” J.D. asked. “He forgot and that happens sometimes when you get older.” Oh my heart.
As we brace ourselves for all that this week will hold, I find myself praying and clenching my jaw. I’ve often thought that maybe I should just go back to church. Maybe church will help me clench less, find more peace, and achieve measurable results in my life. That was until I tried to explain what communion was to my daughter and thought “Nah. Not for us.” My life is my church; the people, trees, plants, and animals in it are the congregants. I’m fine with that and all that rests on my plate. “Imagine the space between your chin and the top of your head.” my therapist tells me, a trick to help me relax my jaw. “Imagine the space. Imagine the space. Imagine the space.” I repeat that to myself at least 47 times a day and I’m buying a mouth guard so I don’t grind my teeth to dust in my sleep. If years of therapy and medication has taught me anything it is that each day, no matter the shit storms and stress, is a gift. Were I still living on Kaua’i, this piece might have been about a hike in a tropical forest or a swim with a gentle sea turtle. Were I still living on Kaua’i, however, this piece would not contain such gritty yet gorgeous love, joy, heartbreak, and pain. I will embrace the sunrises and sunsets on this side of the globe, mouth guard in place, thankful to always be surrounded by light.
Such a heartfelt piece! I find that there are all kinds of ways to go to church - walking has taught me that...