Dad is having a hard time. He’s not in pain, not at the threshold yet (at least I don’t think so), but he’s facing a new level of his mortality. He’s facing into almost 92 years old and he needs help in a life where men don’t ask for help. He’s feeling helpless, scared, and a loss of control, in a life where men men don’t ask for help, don’t feel scared, don’t loose control. His doctor ordered him to use a cane. Dad’s been falling for months now, so stubborn, so proud. Dad’s a wild card slowly becoming sober with years.
Yes, I’m going back. Back to Rhode Island. Back to the home that my Mom and Dad shared for years. Things have changed now. Mom is gone, Dad’s Dad. I cherish that he is still here. Not sure what’s going to happen, but that’s really how life is all the time, isn’t it (I tell myself)?
It’s just at these critical junctures where decisions need to be made, and life feels so fragile, that I have come to freak out and fall into my prayers. I am not in control here. I am swimming in a sea of the forces beyond my conscious control.
I relinquish my fear and my fierce need to know to the current of what is. I open my heart and my gut to the wind and breathe into those dark places. There is silence, there is rage, there are tears of fear and loss. Then, there is laughter too, there is something new emerging somewhere.
I relinquish my need to know, my want of control, my need to be important, righteous, rebellious or helpful; anything other than me. Raw and open, here I stand. And tomorrow a big silver jet will drop me into the origin of all this chaotic swirl of who I have come to be. Wish me well, wash me clean, will me strong enough to be me and breathing.