I started reading a book, recommended by 21st Century Mom, about a woman’s travels along the PCT and through her undying grief which had pulled her down to rock bottom. I’m only as far as Chapter 3, but already have shed tears of recognition. In the two short chapters I have read, the ties of familiarity have been drawn between the author’s story and mine.
- Lung Cancer;
- a year of hope cut down to roughly a month of torturous decline;
- death tearing apart a family despite extreme efforts to hold it together;
- and healing.
Thank God for healing…
Just yesterday, I sat beside YaYa in church feeling both at home and lost in the broken routine of changed tradition. The readings did not speak to me in any particular way. In fact, the readings only confused me with words that seemed to contradict each other. I waited for the priest to make sense of it for me but got equally lost in his translation. Hung up on the terms, I missed the point completely. Yet, I was sure that my decision to attend church for the first time in months was perfect and right.
I glanced over at YaYa, guessing that he was going through the motions as well. Perhaps recognizing the commonality, we exchanged smiles in that also-with-you sort of way. In that moment, we were bonded.
With the wafer still stuck to the room of my mouth, I closed my eyes and immediately began my conversation with Tom. It’s odd that this is where we connect since both he and I had strayed from the church during our marriage. Nonetheless, this was where I checked in with him.
Time was short. There were fewer remaining in line than usual, a product of summer vacations I suppose. I got right to the point. I said “hello”, “I love you”, and “I hope that you are happy with the way that I am carrying on.” It was not about me and theMAN today; Tom and I have had that conversation many times over. There are no issues, no questions; it’s all good.
Today, it was about YaYa mostly. I gave the update, or highlights as I saw them — in case he wasn’t paying full attention. I laid out the plan and once again asked for him to stand by our son as YaYa made his way into adulthood. “He needs you,” I reminded him, “I cannot give him everything he needs.”
I did not hear his answer but, since I did not pose it as a question, I did not persist. He was a good father; of course he’d be there. At least I hoped.
Tears ran down my face and I could hear everyone sitting down in their pews. I opened my eyes, wiped away the tears, and glanced over at my boy. He smiled weakly, “You okay, Mom?” I smiled and nodded. “I am okay, YaYa. I am.”
Mass ended and we went back out into the world of cars, text messages, weekend chores, and peace.
Thank God for healing.