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A friend sent me a blog post by a dad whose young son just died of a rare medical condition. I read the whole thing, because it was a beautiful muse for those of us seduced by grief. Grief is my gateway drug, beckoning with a dismal finger until the sadness builds into raging anxiety. “I can’t imagine…” I wrote back to my friend, but it was a lie because I can totally imagine. I imagine all the time– when the boys lose a ball in the street, when they go swimming, if they stay asleep for too long—I can’t resist the snowball of doom that claws its way from my mind.
Like when Toby and Charlie stand in the church parking lot watching a train go by. The wheels shriek wildly down the rails carrying a bazillion tons of metal. “Be careful!” I say as if the train might suddenly derail, mysteriously roll across the highway, strangely bounce upon their fragile, tiny selves. You are overreacting, I think, but I pull them back a little anyway.
Before nap, when I sat beside Charlie on the bed, he rubbed at his legs as if some invisible agent were eating at his bones. “Boo boo,” he said whiningly and I kissed his shins, mentally sprinting past growing pains or itchy pants and aiming straight for cancer. Later when Toby scratched his legs too, I realized it was just bug bites from the yard. Of course…
Yesterday I tried to get some stuff done. Every few minutes Toby would poke me with some irrelevant question about tornados or train tracks. Over and over Charlie opened and slammed his bedroom door, running in and out with extreme cheerfulness yelling, “Night, night!” and “Good morning!” They fought over the blue steam engine, a crinkled CD insert, cheese sticks. Sometimes they drive me crazy. I hope I don’t take them for granted.
That is how I make the best of things like loss or uncertainty. What better gift could I offer a grieving father? I scoop Charlie up and press his cheek against my chest, feel his runny nose wet the collar of my shirt. I am so grateful that this noisy, strong-willed boy is mine, even just for today. A beautiful muse, indeed.
Tags: Doubting God, Motherhood
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Oh so true. Thank you sister for the loving reminder.
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I think we were cut from the same cloth. Like if we were paper dolls, our arms might be touching before the scissors snipped through. I do the same exact thing. When Maddie comes running to me from across the room, I see every fatal obstacle in her way and can almost see myself weeping over her limp body.
It’s sick, but I know that mind well. Thank you for the reminder to enjoy the beautiful, alive, daily moments we are privileged to experience.
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I amassed years worth of sleep deprivation on seizure watch with Corban during his early years. Not sleeping became a habit so now I’m just up but not checking his room every hour like I used to.
This past Sunday, Corban kissed Greg’s hand and I remembered the day that Greg spent the day at Cook Children’s with Corban so Beth and I could function. It was a long two weeks of Corban’s first brain surgery and Greg brought much relief. I never forget people who care for my boy.
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