I think I'm losing it. Again.
Six years ago, when our boy got pneumonia for the first time, it really surprised me that my husband handled it so differently than I did. After our son finally got better, my husband decided we should go to Disneyland. I willingly went to Disneyland. I love Disneyland. Still, as I watched my two guys spinning on the teacups ride, I stood by the little houses built for people ten inches tall. The guys were laughing. I'd been laughing too when I went on the ride with them. But one spin is enough for me and I sat the next two out. I stood leaning on a fence watching them and suddenly, I could feel a side to me that had gotten dark and angry that I might lose my boy. That spot remained dark in me for months after we went back home, even through sunny summer days at the lake. I had stood at the abyss, right there in Disneyland, and I didn't see God in there, just a big black empty hole.
When I was thirteen, my dad died. He had cancer and he died from his chemotherapy. The day before, the doctors had gathered us in the lobby and told us the good news: they had gotten all the cancer. My dad died the next day, on April 2. It wasn't anyone's fault. The doctors just didn't know as much back then about the limits of chemotherapy. I'm sure it was lost on them that they had delivered the most devastating April Fool's Joke ever to an unsuspecting family.
You know the drill after that. We got together the whole family plus a lot of other people I didn't know. We had four days of waiting in a room with the casket and lots of people. We were dressed in uncomfortable clothes. We had to cry in front of strangers. Then we went home and our lives were never the same again. Still, even in those early days after my dad died, I sensed something. Maybe it was simple need. I felt like I wasn't alone, like someone was there carrying on when I couldn't move forward on my own. I went with that feeling. I carried it with me for thirty-one years. It was a relief to have that feeling in my darkest moments and, even after being out all night in NYC, I'd sometimes go to church the next day with my friends. It didn't matter much which church we went to, which denomination. It all seemed like a different flavor of the same thing to me.
But then, thirty-one years later, my boy was sick. It was frightening. Everyone I talked to told me their stories about going to the emergency room with their kids. Our boy lay flaccid in a hospital bed for four days with an oxygen absorption of about 75%. Even when you hold your breath until you're dizzy, you have trouble lowering your oxygen absorption below 98%. It was a relief when his numbers started to rise and he wrestled with the tape holding the oxygen sensor on one hand and the IV on the other one. Something happened as our boy was sent home and I began to recover from the lack of sleep and the worry. I realized what my life would become if I'd actually lost my boy. It wasn't pretty. I'm not sure I would have been able to continue breathing. That never entered my mind when my dad died. I was in pain back then. It was hard to wake up and realize, after having forgotten in sleep that my dad had died, and I had to get up and go to school and act normal. But it never occurred to me to give up and go with him.
My grandpa died fourteen months after my dad died. I watched him, a robust man, wither and die. I was so mad at my grandpa. I wanted to ask him 'What about me? I still need you.' But thirty-one years later, I can see just what happened. His boy had died. He'd lost his sweet boy and he didn't know how he could keep breathing after that. I didn't even lose my boy six years ago. I didn't lose him this month either, though that fear is still there, black and toxic in my heart.
As I get older, it seems more seldom that I feel what I've always called the holy spirit. Whatever your religion, even if you doubt, you can stand at the edge of a forest sometimes, and breathe in the smell of cedar and ferns, and feel that sense of awe in the universe, that there is something more to it than what you can see. Or you can feel it in your biochemistry class, a wave washing over you like a baptism, that the tiniest amount of a single chemical makes your life possible and that the balance, that amazing balance of chemicals, has to mean something special is going on beyond your understanding.
But after waking up multiple nights to hear my boy gasping for breath on the couch next to me, I'm back to that dark place. I could lose him and I wouldn't want to continue to breathe. I couldn't imagine a world that warms, blooms, and turns green in springtime if my boy wasn't in it with me. I don't have any idea how other parents have survived this kind of loss. I know some don't. How can I feel God in that?
As a grieving kid, I asked the question, "Why do people suffer?" I have never been given an answer that satisfied me. People suffer. Some people suffer incredible losses. Children get sick and sometimes they die. Somebody told me that God never gives you anything you can't handle. That's not true. My grandpa couldn't handle losing my dad and he died too. Somebody else reminded me of Nietzsche's corollary that whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger. But is despair and cynicism in the living a sign of strength? Someone else told me that God doesn't cause the pain, but helps you through it. Imagine that, an all-seeing, all-knowing God just sitting there and watching people suffer. Now, that just made me mad.
The best explanation I was ever given was about the yin and the yang, that there is no understanding of life without death, that suffering is connected with joy in the balance. So maybe I need to let myself have my moments of standing at the abyss. Will that help the joy be all that much greater when it comes? I don't know the answers. I wish I did.
Thank you for listening, jb
Six years ago, when our boy got pneumonia for the first time, it really surprised me that my husband handled it so differently than I did. After our son finally got better, my husband decided we should go to Disneyland. I willingly went to Disneyland. I love Disneyland. Still, as I watched my two guys spinning on the teacups ride, I stood by the little houses built for people ten inches tall. The guys were laughing. I'd been laughing too when I went on the ride with them. But one spin is enough for me and I sat the next two out. I stood leaning on a fence watching them and suddenly, I could feel a side to me that had gotten dark and angry that I might lose my boy. That spot remained dark in me for months after we went back home, even through sunny summer days at the lake. I had stood at the abyss, right there in Disneyland, and I didn't see God in there, just a big black empty hole.
When I was thirteen, my dad died. He had cancer and he died from his chemotherapy. The day before, the doctors had gathered us in the lobby and told us the good news: they had gotten all the cancer. My dad died the next day, on April 2. It wasn't anyone's fault. The doctors just didn't know as much back then about the limits of chemotherapy. I'm sure it was lost on them that they had delivered the most devastating April Fool's Joke ever to an unsuspecting family.
You know the drill after that. We got together the whole family plus a lot of other people I didn't know. We had four days of waiting in a room with the casket and lots of people. We were dressed in uncomfortable clothes. We had to cry in front of strangers. Then we went home and our lives were never the same again. Still, even in those early days after my dad died, I sensed something. Maybe it was simple need. I felt like I wasn't alone, like someone was there carrying on when I couldn't move forward on my own. I went with that feeling. I carried it with me for thirty-one years. It was a relief to have that feeling in my darkest moments and, even after being out all night in NYC, I'd sometimes go to church the next day with my friends. It didn't matter much which church we went to, which denomination. It all seemed like a different flavor of the same thing to me.
But then, thirty-one years later, my boy was sick. It was frightening. Everyone I talked to told me their stories about going to the emergency room with their kids. Our boy lay flaccid in a hospital bed for four days with an oxygen absorption of about 75%. Even when you hold your breath until you're dizzy, you have trouble lowering your oxygen absorption below 98%. It was a relief when his numbers started to rise and he wrestled with the tape holding the oxygen sensor on one hand and the IV on the other one. Something happened as our boy was sent home and I began to recover from the lack of sleep and the worry. I realized what my life would become if I'd actually lost my boy. It wasn't pretty. I'm not sure I would have been able to continue breathing. That never entered my mind when my dad died. I was in pain back then. It was hard to wake up and realize, after having forgotten in sleep that my dad had died, and I had to get up and go to school and act normal. But it never occurred to me to give up and go with him.
My grandpa died fourteen months after my dad died. I watched him, a robust man, wither and die. I was so mad at my grandpa. I wanted to ask him 'What about me? I still need you.' But thirty-one years later, I can see just what happened. His boy had died. He'd lost his sweet boy and he didn't know how he could keep breathing after that. I didn't even lose my boy six years ago. I didn't lose him this month either, though that fear is still there, black and toxic in my heart.
As I get older, it seems more seldom that I feel what I've always called the holy spirit. Whatever your religion, even if you doubt, you can stand at the edge of a forest sometimes, and breathe in the smell of cedar and ferns, and feel that sense of awe in the universe, that there is something more to it than what you can see. Or you can feel it in your biochemistry class, a wave washing over you like a baptism, that the tiniest amount of a single chemical makes your life possible and that the balance, that amazing balance of chemicals, has to mean something special is going on beyond your understanding.
But after waking up multiple nights to hear my boy gasping for breath on the couch next to me, I'm back to that dark place. I could lose him and I wouldn't want to continue to breathe. I couldn't imagine a world that warms, blooms, and turns green in springtime if my boy wasn't in it with me. I don't have any idea how other parents have survived this kind of loss. I know some don't. How can I feel God in that?
As a grieving kid, I asked the question, "Why do people suffer?" I have never been given an answer that satisfied me. People suffer. Some people suffer incredible losses. Children get sick and sometimes they die. Somebody told me that God never gives you anything you can't handle. That's not true. My grandpa couldn't handle losing my dad and he died too. Somebody else reminded me of Nietzsche's corollary that whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger. But is despair and cynicism in the living a sign of strength? Someone else told me that God doesn't cause the pain, but helps you through it. Imagine that, an all-seeing, all-knowing God just sitting there and watching people suffer. Now, that just made me mad.
The best explanation I was ever given was about the yin and the yang, that there is no understanding of life without death, that suffering is connected with joy in the balance. So maybe I need to let myself have my moments of standing at the abyss. Will that help the joy be all that much greater when it comes? I don't know the answers. I wish I did.
Thank you for listening, jb
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