Then the Mail Came

Some days are better than others.

I can slide along - everything ok. Smiles, laughs, walks outdoors.

Then it hits. It's overwhelming. Sadness. Desperation. Confusion.

The tears flow.

Then I remember, the mail.

The note that was delivered from a complete stranger. She didn't even know our names - she addressed it to "Arlington Career Center Neighbor" at our address.

She made me smile. And take a deep breath.

And remember that not all is lost in the world.

Comments

Damn Skin

I honestly don’t know how long it has been there. David and I both have this sort of weird disassociation with time – him much worse than me. But both of us really don’t have a handle on how long things are, how far in the past they were, etc. It is like time blurs or something (which is why neither of us can ever, for the life of us, remember what anniversary we are on until we count back). So, filling out the blank on the processing questionnaire that asks “How long has this issue been there” is sort of impossible. But how do you explain to medical professionals that you DON’T KNOW? So I lie. “Around a year, maybe a year and a half…”. I could just write “Your guess is as good as mine”, but that would be even less helpful and harder to explain, so I assign a number. So yeah, I have this “bump”. That’s what I called it. A “bump” on the right side of the bridge of my nose, very near my eye. It has been there “for...

The Girl Who Can't Ride a Bike

I am “the girl who can’t ride a bike”. I guess to be accurate, I should say that I WAS “the girl who can’t ride a bike”. But it was such a big part of my identity growing up, that the never formalized (but often teased about) nickname stuck in my psyche. You know how most kids love to jump on their bikes and pedal around the neighborhood once they have figured out how to balance, brake, and GO? Yeah, that wasn’t me. I wasn’t that kid. I am not sure WHAT really happened. The one thing I do remember is being on a bike in my family’s garage in Omaha, Nebraska trying to ride my bike. It must’ve been winter, otherwise, why wouldn’t I have been outdoors?? But I think my foot slipped off the pedal and I know for sure my knee hit the handlebar. It hurt. I remember crying. But I am guessing that it hurt my pride more than it hurt my knee. I think I was already past the age where kids were “supposed” to ride a bike. ...

Firsts. And Lasts.

I have been thinking a lot this past week on what seems to be an over-emphasis on FIRSTs in our culture. The first steps. The first tooth. The first born. The first time to have sex. The first haircut. The first word. The first car. The first time to roll over. First. First. First. We photograph them. We brag about them. Heck, we even make BOOKS about them. And I have wondered why the lack of acknowledging the LASTs… Is it because the LASTs are so scary? Too frightening to confront? The last time to drive. The last time to speak to your loved ones. The last smile The last time to walk. To run. To jump. The last time to shop. The last time to kiss. To hug. To make love. The last vacation. The last meal. If we could embrace the LASTs as much as we do the FIRSTs, would that make them more meaningful? More tender? Might...

Random Thoughts

Search This Blog