"Sensitive people feel so deeply they
often have to retreat from the world,
in order to dig beneath the layers of pain
to find their faith and courage."
Shannon Alder
I am worried that I will not be able to go on my planned vacation to Yellowstone with my daughter for I have been ill. Fever and an attack on my lungs by some passing virus that thought I needed a spanking. COVID tests negative. But my fever breaks and while I am far from recovered, I am able to go and to not worry about infecting her or other passengers. I have never been to this park and it gives me a chance to spend time with the woman I birthed all those years ago and to familiarize myself a bit more deeply with who she has become.
When children are little, we know almost everything there is to know about them....when they wake up, what they eat, who their friends are, how they spend their time. But that little slice of time does not last long, nor should it. They grow, they change, they become. As a parent, this means loss, but it also means pride....pride that she is self-sufficient and no longer needs me to ensure her survival, pride in her accomplishments, pride in decisions she made.
I need this break for I have struggled since the loss of my brother, even thinking sometimes about just leaving this world so I don't have to lose any more people or pets that I have known or cared about. I am weary of loss. I find myself withdrawing from friends a bit, pushing them away and keeping them at arms length, not really wanting to care about them, to run that risk of future pain. Never seriously suicidal because I know the damage that is left behind and because I have responsibilities and because God has blessed me by not allowing me to sink so low that there seems to be no other way out. There are, after all, cats that need to be taken care of and a few people who would grieve my passing. There are grandchildren to be hugged and to be proud of. And there are children who, while they no longer really need me on one level, will continue to need me on another. And there is my new bicycle that has not yet arrived but which I eagerly anticipate.
Of course, the pool of those who give a damn is getting smaller. Both best friends from high school are now gone. All my family other than children and grandchildren are gone. I find myself sympathizing with Job, praying please don't let me lose what little is left. It is not impossible to leave these worries behind. But there are parental responsibilities. We never stop trying to role model appropriate behavior I suppose. We never stop worrying about their well-being. And again, there are cats to be fed as they have no hesitancy in reminding me in the morning when I try to sleep in a bit. People say I am strong. They don't know the cowering, shivering individual inside. They see the shell that moves stoically forward and talks using intellect rather than emotion. But while we may know something with our minds, emotions don't always mirror that knowing taking us in different directions.
There is also the realization that if genetics holds true, I probably have about 10 years or less before I join my siblings and friends. Unless I am like my mother who lived to almost 100. While we try to fool ourselves, human life, all life, is so darned fragile. 10 years does not seem like very long. But that is, I suppose, the thing. If that is what is left it is so important to enjoy and make the most of it, to squeeze every little bit of pleasure out of life wringing it dry. I just hope that when it is my time, I am fortunate enough to leave quickly, not lingering in one of the death warehouses that we call nursing homes.
I don't mean to be critical of those that work in nursing homes. They do what they can, often selflessly for little pay, but having witnessed them with my mother and sister, I do not care to be in one. There is such a thing as living too long I guess. One reason I try so hard to take care of myself is the desire to live on my own and be capable of caring for myself as long as is possible. I detest being dependent, and I don't trust it. I have heard the begging and pleading in the voices of my elders, felt it seep deep inside me kindling a fear I had not known before. But I must look forward or be turned to salt I suppose.
We meet at the airport, both of us excited about going someplace new. And our flight is on time, something that no longer happens with the regularity of the past. Once in Bozeman, there is a long wait for the rental car, but then we are on our way. (I was supposed to get a Ford Fiesta but they give me a Mustang.) We run to Walmart to pick up some groceries, and head for Yellowstone to check into our cabin. Travel and still not being completely well has depleted me and I will be glad to check in.
The scenery is lovely, so different from home. We drive through a long valley for what seems like forever before reaching Gardner and entering the park. The drive from the entrance to Mammoth Hot Springs seems like forever despite being on three to four miles, but the curves need to be taken slowly. We arrive and check in. This cabin will be ours for four nights. Female and younger elks are grazing nearby. We cautiously make our way to the cabin door and put our things away before going to explore. While out, I see two cyclists, bicycles loaded, enjoying a brief stop before heading onward to wherever they are heading. I am briefly envious, but so glad to have the time with my daughter.
We get up early each morning and drive to different places. Once to Old Faithful, once to Lamar Valley, once to Fairy Falls. We hike. We talk. We soak up the beauty. And we laugh. It is so nice to laugh together. We laugh at the call of 24, an older bull elk, as he proclaims that these females are his. Once he is right outside our cabin and the sound is as loud as if he has joined us. We rush to the windows. I don't see him but my daughter catches a glimpse as he charges around the corner of another cabin. We laugh the next day at how a young elk still needs and wants his mama despite the fact his legs have grown to where nursing is a chore. We laugh on a hike at a ground squirrel and how his tail disappears as he enters his burrow. We laugh at his caution in emerging and then his cheekiness in trying to join us once he smelled our food. And each laugh is a breath of life, a reason to endure.
We see a fox, a coyote, buffaloes, a raven, and other wildlife. We experience Old Faithful. We hike and we ride and we just enjoy the newness and each other. The only real issue is the food. Unlike the Shenandoah Park the food pretty much sucks though my daughter had a few vegetarian meals that she thought were okay.
The trip home comes all too quickly. I treasure the time we had together, this child who once was inside of me, totally dependent, but now stands on her own two feet and who is kind to me, patient when I forget something or get confused or anxious or sad. I treasure this child who shared laughter with me helping me heal. This time was not about bicycles, but about family, about finding the strength to move on, and perhaps realizing that I am not quite as alone as I thought that perhaps I was and that perhaps I matter. The child who was part of helping me find once more, if only for a bit, faith and courage to move onward as I shuffle through the different blows that have been dealt to me in such an amazingly short period of time.
So, to friends that have noticed me backing off, I am sorry. I am just trying to find my balance on the shifting sands beneath me and to reconcile recent happenings. It is not you. It is me. But this time away hopefully helped. And being with you, despite my pushing hard against the love I have for you, will hopefully help. And bicycles, bicycles and the freedom they bestow, will hopefully help. And eventually, perchance, I will heal, though possibly not as I was, who I was, before. Eventually a scab will form and despite my weakness, I will put one foot in front of the other and move forward until moving forward is no longer a choice and the time has come to rest.
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