But I actually fell apart in yoga. I mean, I went to the bathroom to blow my nose and then started to weep. I don't know why it had to happen just then, and there, but I was just suddenly overwhelmed by grief, and the pain of being so far away from him, and for so long. It's always worse on this side of a visit, especially be he obviously suffers too. The whole situation is generally good for him, but there are really hard bits. It should be easier.
Anyway, beautiful Joan, who is in her early 70s, came in and hugged me. She told me that two of her sons had died, and that she understood. "You just love them so much," she said. Then she started to cry, and told me that life was hard, and that that is why she's a Buddhist, and that she was strong and so was I. So I managed to get back out on the floor and to do sun salutations, feeling comforted that she was nearby. I felt just a little bit as though Mom was there in the room, too. But when I looked around, I saw that Joan had gone, and felt awful because I thought I had spoiled her yoga practice. If I hadn't been crying in the bathroom, she wouldn't have thought about her sons, and she wouldn't have started to cry... So of course I couldn't go on with the class, either. I will write her a note.
I'm okay. Really. Just a stormy weather system today, as my favorite Buddhist teacher would say. I'll be okay. I have some errands and chores to do today. THe Jeep is leaking oil, and has to go back to the shop. I have to go get a TB test so that I can volunteer for Hospice. It's a huge pain. When I come back I hope to have the energy to paint a little. Maybe get out some of this anguish on the canvas.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Missing him
August 1:
B announced, within 30 seconds of getting into my car, that he had plans for the weekend and was not leaving. So, there went the camping trip I had planned.
I was so tired, and even in pain, that I welcomed the idea of "camping" at a hotel. B and I checked in, went across the street for pankcakes, and then huddled together on one of the beds, checking out the facebook profiles of B's friends and listening to music he likes --even some that he's composed. Then we watched the end of Borat and a documentary about the 1967 anti-war demonstration at the U of Wisconsin. It was fun.
August 2:
As I was driving back tonight, feeling really terrible and sad about how awful it was that I was driving away from B, when every part of my body wanted to turn around and return to him, in whatever possible way, I was thinking about how, when you grown in your heart, as it were, for a child, when your heart becomes inextricably bonded to someone, you just don't factor in having to be separated from them for months at a time. Or having to see them on such limited schedules. The heart rebels against this impossible and unnatural situation, and then it gets sick.
August 3:
I haven't spoken to a single person today. I didn't unpack the car until well after 6 pm. Only then did I bring in the sleeping bags, the tent, the air mattresses---unopened, unused. I hung the rain jacket I bought for him back in the closet. I put my clothes away, started a load of laundry. I thought about the clean sheets and new carpet I had put in his bedroom, but didn't go up to look at them. In the fridge, I saw the corn tortillas that I got to make a special dinner; the bag of semi-sweet chocolate pieces. I rearranged the magnets and photos on the doors. Before I left, two days ago, I had gotten used to being here alone. Today and tonight the house feels empty, too big, and barren.
At 3 pm, instead of mowing the severely overgrown lawn, or washing the dishes, or unpacking the car, I watched a DVD while eating a big bowl of leftover pesto pasta, a bag of popcorn, some sugared almonds and a piece of chocolate. I also drank half a bottle of red wine and fell asleep on the couch before the fim ended. I woke up feeling ill, bloated and gassy. I forced myself to finish my chores.
Then I took a long walk around the neighborhood. There were couples and parents and children circling the reservoir, a big crowd of people lingering at the fountain. A tall man in shorts, slightly hunchbacked and bow-legged with arthritis, walked ahead of me, toward his car with his round-shouldered wife. I envied them their togetherness and wondered if I would ever have a partner. The old thought, that I will always be alone, came into my head. I drove it out again with an attempt to make contact, somehow through space and time, with that someone--there must be someone--who will love me someday. I cried a little. Then I walked back to my lonely house.
B announced, within 30 seconds of getting into my car, that he had plans for the weekend and was not leaving. So, there went the camping trip I had planned.
I was so tired, and even in pain, that I welcomed the idea of "camping" at a hotel. B and I checked in, went across the street for pankcakes, and then huddled together on one of the beds, checking out the facebook profiles of B's friends and listening to music he likes --even some that he's composed. Then we watched the end of Borat and a documentary about the 1967 anti-war demonstration at the U of Wisconsin. It was fun.
August 2:
As I was driving back tonight, feeling really terrible and sad about how awful it was that I was driving away from B, when every part of my body wanted to turn around and return to him, in whatever possible way, I was thinking about how, when you grown in your heart, as it were, for a child, when your heart becomes inextricably bonded to someone, you just don't factor in having to be separated from them for months at a time. Or having to see them on such limited schedules. The heart rebels against this impossible and unnatural situation, and then it gets sick.
August 3:
I haven't spoken to a single person today. I didn't unpack the car until well after 6 pm. Only then did I bring in the sleeping bags, the tent, the air mattresses---unopened, unused. I hung the rain jacket I bought for him back in the closet. I put my clothes away, started a load of laundry. I thought about the clean sheets and new carpet I had put in his bedroom, but didn't go up to look at them. In the fridge, I saw the corn tortillas that I got to make a special dinner; the bag of semi-sweet chocolate pieces. I rearranged the magnets and photos on the doors. Before I left, two days ago, I had gotten used to being here alone. Today and tonight the house feels empty, too big, and barren.
At 3 pm, instead of mowing the severely overgrown lawn, or washing the dishes, or unpacking the car, I watched a DVD while eating a big bowl of leftover pesto pasta, a bag of popcorn, some sugared almonds and a piece of chocolate. I also drank half a bottle of red wine and fell asleep on the couch before the fim ended. I woke up feeling ill, bloated and gassy. I forced myself to finish my chores.
Then I took a long walk around the neighborhood. There were couples and parents and children circling the reservoir, a big crowd of people lingering at the fountain. A tall man in shorts, slightly hunchbacked and bow-legged with arthritis, walked ahead of me, toward his car with his round-shouldered wife. I envied them their togetherness and wondered if I would ever have a partner. The old thought, that I will always be alone, came into my head. I drove it out again with an attempt to make contact, somehow through space and time, with that someone--there must be someone--who will love me someday. I cried a little. Then I walked back to my lonely house.
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