In the last week since this latest 1,400-mile drive to Massachusetts, I have shopped, ellipted, run, weight-trained, spaced out in front of the TV – wow there’s a lot of crap on TV, wasted too much time on Facebook and political websites, and even tried reading a book.
It was in the process of trying to read the book that I realized something was wrong. “Trying” to read a book? I don’t normally “try” to read books. For me, reading isn’t a trying kind of thing. I try to run. I try to watch what I eat. I try to not scream every time I read about our democracy dying. But for me, reading – real reading as in books, not this dopamine-hit social media stuff, is like breathing. It’s not something I need to think about. It's simply something I do. I sit down, open a book, read.
I tried that last night, opened a book I mean. Stared at the same paragraph for a while, then realized I was daydreaming. Force myself to read the paragraph, the page. Tried to remember what I read. Couldn’t. Repeated the process. Same result. No recall whatsoever. Dropped the book and popped open my phone screen to Duolingo. Practiced French for a half hour or so. Was able to focus a little. Evidence? I graduated to the next level. Have no idea what I read or said, but Duo keeps giving me points so guess I generated just enough focus to learn a little and/ or game the system.
I realized that I’ve been operating on autopilot. I know why too. A horrible thing happened on my drive here from Iowa. I’m shattered. No that’s not it. I don’t know yet what the word is to describe what’s going on. I don’t have the words. Been trying to find them. Three times now, including today, I’ve tried writing about what happened. Not there yet, but each keystroke, each attempt, feels like a chipping away. Not like Michelangelo breathing life into stone, Instead, think axe to iceberg to beating heart. Getting there but it’s coming slowly. A person can only take so much.
A ten-pound cat? Even less. And there. That’s the horror. My cat died while we were traveling, and it's my fault. Or at least partly my fault. But it feels like it's all my fault. And that's an awful feeling.
Hey friend. You know about my Sam Henry. And now I know about your friend. Death of our good and faithful friends wrenches. If it’s any consolation (and it probably never is) I wrenched my way through the same set of daily weirdness, especially the reading. I kept looking at his empty place on the sofa. I believe it is much more difficult to lose our buddies than it is to lose any human. Why? Because our live-in friends’ love is unconditional. Humans are not capable of unconditional love. I also believed I somehow had responsibility for Sam Henry’s death. How? By not confronting the worthless vet concerning her diagnosis of his condition sooner. Please be gentle with yourself. I don’t know details and am not asking for anything you haven’t already shared. But know this, no matter what or how or when, your friend loved and loves you unconditionally. And this is what makes all this more difficult—our heart-knowledge that we humans are incapable of such love even as we know we love deeply and broadly. Don’t find yourself trapped in guilt because our friends’ hearts are so all-encompassing and ours are not. These hearts are who they are and your friend loves you still without judgement.
ReplyDeleteUgh. I totally get it.
ReplyDeleteIf you need to talk, give me a call!
(We do need to get together soon for many reasons!)