I can’t stop thinking about my cousin’s death.
Yesterday morning, I spent a couple of hours with my best friend and her newborn. I was so relieved, the entire time, just to be with them – Nicole’s story could have been hers. She was sick right before she gave birth, she had a c-section, she had complications – she could have died. She didn’t, but I keep seeing the possibilities in my head.
When I had my miscarriage, I thought the world was going to stop. My heart felt like lead and every beat surprised me. A part of me wanted to die, to make the hurt stop. But then I would look at my little boy, my sweet little five-year-old, and I’d keep going. Somehow I kept going.
And I know that’s what we’re all feeling now, my family and I. We keep going. We look at those we love, and we keep going, and we love them all the more because we’re taking them less for granted these days.
I feel like my immortality boat has been rocked. I was sailing along, feeling immortal because that’s how we get through our lives – that’s how we do things that don’t make our hearts sing, by pretending that there’s always tomorrow. But then I looked down, and suddenly I realized that my boat is sailing through a lake of acid! With sharks! And lasers!
Death is everywhere! We’re oh so very mortal and fragile, and we take it for granted, and we fill our time up with stuff that doesn’t make our hearts sing, and then we look down one day and fall into the lake of acid and sharks and lasers and wonder where the time went, oh my.
I don’t want to lose this feeling, this sense of urgency about life, this utter refusal to spend my days doing anything that doesn’t make my heart sing. But at the same time, I can’t spend all my time fearing the shark-and-laser-infested acid lake, either.
Balance. That seems to be what I’m flailing around reaching out to find; balance.