death

Need a hug?

~ yellowlamplight ~ Leave a comment

I was at Walmart the other day. Cart full of groceries and in a hurry. Aggravated because there was only one check out open. I don’t enjoy the self check out. It takes me forever. People huff. Anyway, I was standing there perusing the cover of a People magazine and waiting my time when I realized there was a small drama playing out ahead of me. The lady in front of the couple in front of me didn’t have enough money to buy everything in her cart. She was taking things back from the conveyer belt and handing them to her son. He was probably twelve with huge glasses and a nintendo t-shirt. Skinny arms full of laundry soap and baked beans and toothpaste. My brain immediately started cataloging the cash in my wallet. But, before I could make a move, the man in front of me had his wallet out. “Let me pay,” he said taking a step toward her. She turned and put a hand out towards him. Not to accept, but to stop him. Because he was stepping toward her, her hand ended up in the middle of his chest. Splayed there and stayed. They spent a minute staring into each other’s eyes and then he stepped back in place. Behind him, I quickly stared at my feet. I didn’t want her to see that I saw. Saw the pain and confusion. The resignation. The fear that somehow she might become someone she never intended to be. She paid for what she could, her son handed the rest to the cashier, and me and the man finished our purchases.

When I got to my car, tears started to fall. I wished I knew the lady. Had her phone number. I wanted to call her and tell her I understood. Understood that sometimes things hurt too much for even help to land right.

I understood because the day before, I was at the vet saying goodbye to our dog we loved for ten years. She was the best. Tiny, tough and funny, but completely incapable of beating cancer. In the examination room, I held her until the vet said she was gone and then stood up and froze. Our sweet young vet came around the table offering me a hug. Compassion was written all over her face and I knew she meant well, but I said no and backed away holding out my hand just like the Walmart lady. A physical representation of how much I didn’t want her to hug me. I saw the surprise on her face and felt bad. I wasn’t trying to be mean, but I was completely incapable of accepting a hug in that moment. Too many things were too close to the surface. I needed my shell to get out of there. My shell and my sunglasses.

I didn’t want to accept that hug and start ugly crying and not even really know what I was crying about. The loss of my sweet dog? Sure. My sister’s long wait for scan results? Absolutely. The news headlines? Without a doubt. All of that and more. It was easier to just refuse the hug and make my escape. No reason to upset the poor folks in the lobby.

Thinking about it later, I wondered if Americans aren’t mostly feeling the same way as me and the lady in Walmart. A whole nation of people fragile and hurting and just trying to keep it together. Life certainly seems weird lately. Friends in my circle talk about it a lot. Everyone just seems off. Out of kilter. Worried. It’s like the pandemic happened and we never righted ourselves afterwards. We seem to be a whole nation of little kids waiting and trying to act tough until the grownups show up and fix things. Our bottom lips quivering while we stand in a corner with our arms crossed. Waiting for grocery prices to go back to reasonable, waiting for headlines to be less terrifying and waiting for some sign that things will be better this time next year. Will they?

I read a story about a bunch of college kids the other day at a church service that wanted to be baptized so badly they did it in the beds of pickup trucks. Filled them up with water hoses and got it done. The Walmart man was going to buy the groceries. The vet offered a hug. An election is coming. Some opportunity to choose.

Little signs, but signs I hold onto all the same.

I love you America.

Rest in peace pretty lady, we cared.

~ yellowlamplight ~ 1 Comment

You and I never met. Our paths never crossed. It was more– I knew someone who knew you. But, for those five days after you posted your note on Facebook, turned off your phone and disappeared you never left my mind. I poured over your page looking for clues as to where you might be. Looking for hints as to your mental state. Looking for you.

What I found was me.

Your social media looked like mine. You had a grandson you adored. I do too. You were excited about selling your house and hitting the road in an RV for some adventures. Me too. We had a lot in common. Had we met, I think we would have liked each other. I think if things had been different we might have ended up at the same RV park and ran into each other on a walk. I would have loved your sunny smile and kind eyes. I’m sure we would have stopped and visited for a minute and I would have gone back and told my husband, “I met the nicest lady on my walk today. She seemed so happy! I love this new life and meeting folks like that.”

Then, I would have pulled out a sack of potatoes and hummed while I peeled them. Conscious of needing to get dinner started. Needing to keep my life moving. And, just like with you, nobody would have ever known that sometimes I’m really sad and overwhelmed and just unable.

Or at least they wouldn’t if I didn’t tell them. If I didn’t go sometimes and put my head on my husband’s shoulder and say, “Babe, I just need to be close to you for a minute. Can we sit here and be still?” If I didn’t call my sister from whatever place is breaking my heart with memories of my mom and say, “I’m crying in public again. I’m such a dork.” If I didn’t sit on that white, rustling paper at my doc’s office and say, “This year has been a lot. The pandemic and selling our house and losing a grand baby I never got to meet. I think I need a little help for a minute. Is there something you would suggest?”

It’s a hard thing to ask for help. Almost impossible. We are women. We soldier on. We peel potatoes and meet needs and do it all with a smile on our faces. Our social media looks just like yours did. People hate-like our posts wondering why they can’t get it together like us. They don’t know that some days are like that, but a lot aren’t. A lot of days are spent in a bed in the cool dusk crying into a flowered pillowcase and thankful for the fan blowing on us as we try to get our bearings. They are days full of bugs in the trash can and flat tires and slammed doors. They are days full of pain and regrets and things that haunt us. Our days look just like yours did.

I wish I could have told you that. That I understood. I so wish I had happened upon your car in that parking lot. I would have gotten in the car with you. I would have given you something to wash your face. I would have told you I had the whole day to sit there with you. I would have told you I am a great keeper of secrets. That you could deposit anything into my heart and I would hold it for you until you could take it back. I would have cried with you until I thought you needed to laugh and then I would have cracked a joke hoping to see a smile break across your face as the first sign that maybe you were going to be ok. When you were ready, we would have gotten something to eat and a hot cup of coffee. We would have made it through that night. And the next day. And the next. Most of all, I think I’m not the only one to wish this. The women who loved you are wishing the same thing. The women who only knew you from work, or church or the neighborhood are wishing it too. Every woman who reads this blog will wish it. All of us. Wishing to be in that parking lot with our hand on that door handle. Before. Before you took that last step. Before you finally asked for help in the only way that wouldn’t help anyone.

I’ll be honest, from the first moment I got the text message about your story, I settled in my mind that you were going to be ok. That that scene I described above was going to happen. That someone would find you in time. I imagined you in a cheap hotel watching bad tv and eating multiple cans of Pringles. I imagined you picking up the phone numerous times, but being too embarrassed to hit send. I imagined you stepping outside the door for just a few minutes every morning to let the sun hit you, before you ducked back into your gold and green room to continue working your way through it all. I always believed someone would find you in time to help. I was wrong.

Now, I’m left wondering what I’m supposed to do with the knowledge of you. With this heaviness I’m carrying.

It’s such a hard thing to be too late. To know, but not in time to help. I hate that feeling.

You with your sunshine smile and broken heart have made me understand how dangerous it is to not be known. To feel alone. To not ask for help.

So, today, on this Tuesday while your family is planning your funeral, I am going to reach out. To my girls. My crew. They’ve been with me for years. They know that life is never a Facebook page. They know that because they also have hurt and trauma and a messy house. Everybody has stuff. Big and bad and sad stuff. We just never talk about it. Today, we will.

I’ll tell them if they ever need me I’m here. That my own life isn’t perfect. Maybe, I’ll tell them that I am dreading this holiday season. It should have been a lot different than it’s going to be and that makes me cry every time I let myself settle there. I’ll tell them that I love life, and my husband with the gentle eyes, and the way dust floats in the air on a quiet afternoon at home. But, that sometimes life is a heavy load. I’ll tell them I’m sad and they can be sad too. I’ll tell them they can deposit anything into my heart and I will hold it until they are ready to take it back. I’ll tell them I will always be in that parking lot with my hand on the car door just in time. They just have to tell me where they are so I can find them.

May none of us ever be too late.

Rest in peace pretty lady, we cared.