I am waiting again. Not the “small” waiting of the checkout line but the “big” waiting. The waiting we can fall into when we think, “Once I get through _____(fill in the blank), life will get back to normal and all will be fine.”
This “waiting to live” is familiar to me. In my early years I waited for those pesky 10 pounds to come off before I could be seen in a bathing suit. I waited for the phone call from the guy who promised he’d call. I waited to begin living.
Often in our daughters’ youth they’d be sharing their adventures of the day with me and I’d hear, as if through a fog, “Mom are you listening?” Usually I’d shake my head and pull myself from whatever past or future event I was trying to work through and answer, “I’m sorry—could you repeat what you just said?”
Andrea’s death pulled me into present time—the pain of grieving made each moment real to me. Recently, during the months prior to our daughter Jocelyn’s illness with Guillane-Barré (please see the posting “Glad to be back” for a complete explanation) again I realized that I had slipped back into waiting.
I had spent the nine months previous to Jocelyn’s illness waiting for summer. It was to be the first summer since Andrea’s passing that I would not either be studying or writing a book. Tom and I had planned to take a cruise together following a week’s vacation with our daughter, son-in-law and grandson. This would be the summer of relaxation. All year I’d looked forward to summer’s two months of “easy living” and rest. How glorious.
Life happened and that imagined summer was not to be, but what of those previous nine months? I had spent so much time thinking about the future that I did not experience my present. I was waiting again and Jocelyn’s illness jerked me back into the reality of each moment.
Last Wednesday Jocelyn had an emergency Cesarean Section. Her daughter was born five weeks premature. Because both mom and baby are fine and still under the watchful care of experienced nurses, Tom and I were able to keep our speaking engagement at Bryn Mawr College near Philadelphia. While sitting on a campus bench watching the crimson and yellow leaves fall to the ground, I was stunned by the realization that I was “waiting again”. I had been holding my breath wondering how in the world we were going to manage this unexpected turn of events. Would we be able to return to our 24-hour shifts in the hospital? How would Joc and her husband manage this new stressor? How would Tom and I manage this new stressor? Would the hospital allow our granddaughter to continue breastfeeding by living-in with her mother while mom finishes physical therapy?
On this bench I recognized my need to surrender to what is. This situation is guaranteed to change—on that I can depend, but the energy I was putting into worrying about its outcome was costing me dearly. So often when our child suffers with an eating disorder we play this waiting game. We think, “As soon as they are well we can…” “When this hospitalization ends then we’ll…” If I wait, I rob myself of the joy that is in each moment; I reject what is real and true and miss the chance to be alive in my “new normal.” I am going for a walk out into the crisp chill of fall and be here.
Blessings until next time,
Doris
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