Calling on angels

I’ve been mulling over why I wrote what I wrote yesterday and why I thought what I thought the day before, on my hot failure of a run. On the surface, maybe it all appeared random. But I don’t think it was. Here’s why.   

First, I read over what I wrote and I realize now that I didn’t fail. In truth, deep down I knew that already. I figure putting that down in black and white will get it to hit home; make me realize that I do truly believe it. The fact that I was driven enough to get myself out to Newton, which is an hour from here, and then run is pretty remarkable. It was a huge step. Granted, it was followed by not as many smaller sweaty ones as I’d hoped for, but still, it was huge. Gargantuan. I know why I’ve had trouble running lately. I know why I watch the clock the whole time I’m at the gym, why my efforts are half-hearted and why I’m unfocused when it comes to getting going on my book. 

This whole cancer thing is killing me. Since this nightmare journey started back in March, I’ve struggled with coping. I’m afraid for my mother. I’m afraid for my father. I’m afraid for me. And this fear has manifested itself in an inability to move forward. I know sadness is part of it. I get that it’s depression. I see a therapist to work it all out, to harness that strength and resilience that I know I have inside me. 

Here’s another thing that plays into it all: My parents are depending on me. I am the sole caretaker. It’s usually unspoken, but it’s always understood. It leaks out sometimes, a cut that just won’t heal. Like the other day when my mother and I were talking about how I’d be teaching sixth grade again for my eighteenth year, even though I’d tried to get a position teaching a higher grade. When she said, “It’s just as well that it’s routine for you, you have a tough year coming up,” my knees buckled. I had to lean against the counter to hide the evidence of my distress.  I knew what she meant. I’m it. I will be getting phone calls I won’t want to get. I will be spending hours in medical offices and waiting rooms, possibly ERs. There could be more, worse things too.  

I accept it. I am glad to accept it. It’s my birthright. I’m the oldest. Plus, I’m the one who stayed; I’m the sibling who lives nearby. It is an honor to be called into this service. I really truly deeply believe that. They gave me life. I get to say thanks now. But I can’t deny the deep underlying resentment that simmers inside me sometimes. I’m not going to lie about its existence. Lies tend to fester and grow and infect and weaken. No way I’m going to lie. I need all the strength I can get. 

I pick at this resentment, this itchy scab that keeps opening. I study it with my therapist. We talk it out  so I can be strong for my mom and dad. I write this down now because admitting this is a sign of strength. I believe that.  I want to be able to look back at this and read it. I want others to be able to read it and see that it’s okay to acknowledge this. It helps to let it out. If you want to be the best you, you have no choice. You have to let it out. 

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not alone. I have cousins who I know will help me out when the time comes. I have good friends who will always be there for me. I have terrific support. Plus, I’ve got angels on my side. I don’t mean real angels. I mean the idea of what it is they represent. Sometimes I call upon Saint Michael, protector of innocents and La Conquistadora, Mary the Conqueror. 

Michael the Archangel:, protector of the innocent, ultimate bad ass

I lit a candle at the altar of La Conquistadora when I visited the Basilica of St. Francis in Santa Fe. I asked her for strength. I believe in good role models. I believe in strong women. I love saying that name, La Conquistadora: It starts off softly, builds to a tough harsh core, then ends in a trill that resonates and ripples. How can you not feel stronger when you let La Conquistadora roll off your tongue?  I say La Conqistadora and this is what I think: Go ahead punk. Make. My. Day.  I picture Saint Michael, Archangel bad ass with his muscular shoulders and oversized wings, and I think this: Vengeance is mine, saith ME. 

Don't mess with us small women. We're bad asses too.

Again, I’m not saying I believe in the existence of these supernatural celestial beings. First, I’m not nuts. Second, I tend toward the agnostic rather than the Catholic. I have way too many issues with the Catholic Church to buy into its beliefs hook, line and sinker. But I was raised Catholic and so angels, parables, scripture are all part of my collective consciousness and of course influence my thoughts. And maybe as part of my history with religion and with running long distances too, I believe in the power of positive thinking.   

It’s no accident that on my run Thursday I called upon my glorious memories of Cheryl, Anthony, S, B, and D. They’re all angels in their own way. They’re all bad asses too. Thinking of them makes me smile. Even today, they give me strength.