Bruce Springsteen is singing “Land of Hopes and Dreams” in my ears just now, the version from his Broadway album. And I am weeping. Again. Just sitting on my couch with eyes streaming while my children play video games, eat snacks, read books, chase the cats. They’ve become used to seeing Mom cry like this, out of nowhere, off and on weepy, seemingly for no reason. So they’re carrying on with their afternoon while I sit here sniffling to Spotify.
I have no idea why the tears are so close to the surface lately, why they come at unexpected moments. Before you say it, no, I’m not pregnant. Nor am I sad. In fact, quite the opposite: I’m happy, I’m grateful, I’m overwhelmed with just how good my life is today.
But I’m also hyperaware of the fear and anger and anxiety and oppression that grips people in every corner of this country...this world. I feel it. My body sometimes vibrates with it. And the tears may just be a recentering mechanism. Crying, after all, is release. I’m more tense and sensitive than I’ve ever been in my life, and my eyes serve as a release valve. Probably better than screaming or punching a wall. (And better than my mouth opening to release a swarm of bees or spew lava, which is what I often feel may happen.)
Today as Bruce sings his gravely gospel-folk-rock song in my ears, the lyrics hit me in the gut:
I will provide for you
And I'll stand by your side
You'll need a good companion
For this part of the ride
Leave behind your sorrows
Let this day be the last
Tomorrow there'll be sunshine
And all this darkness past
This weekend marks my husband’s 45th birthday, and I’m weepy because it just occurred to me how special this milestone is, for paradoxical reasons:
He is healthy — truly healthy, head to toe — for the first time in 15 years.
He is the age my mother was when she realized she was dying.
Honey and I have been through more hospitalizations together than years married. This summer, at the tail end of another hospital stay, I took the kids on vacation for a week to a secluded cabin with my family and my best friend. I needed to be away from my husband’s illness. I needed to be away from my husband. At that moment in time, I thought we may be looking at a horrible prognosis, and I needed to get my head together in order to face whatever came next. Would we have to move - either to Boston to be closer to Mass General or to New Jersey to be closer to family? Would Honey have to go on disability, thus shifting our financial life once again? What would this mean for our quality of life? As it has been, we haven’t been able to make long-term plans nor travel further than an hour from a hospital. And, above all, how much time would we ultimately have together?
That week at the lake, interestingly, was both a high point and a low point in my summer - in my life. I floated in a mountain lake for days, surrounded by the people who love me most and who restore my hope and self-assurance; I breathed out for the first time in months, and they reminded me that I am resilient and our family is amazing. Meanwhile, Honey was at home, cuddling with our new kitten and focusing all his energy on healing. I came home refreshed and ready to support him, no matter what. We hunkered down through August, bracing for the test that would tell him what comes next.
Now that I think about it, the August afternoon of the big endoscopy might mark the beginning of this phase we’ll forever call Mom’s Crying Again, Carry On. When the specialist called me to come to the hospital at once, I went numb. I drove the 2 miles without even realizing it, just praying and breathing deeply. I was sure he was going to deliver bad news.
But he didn’t. Instead, the GI doc said, “I’ve never seen a person heal like this. Your pancreas is completely healthy. I shouldn’t have to see you ever again.”
Water works. Like someone turned a hose on above my face. All the fear and anxiety I’d held for 15 years poured out of my eyes and nose. I shook. It took a full 15 minutes for me to pull it together enough to drive us home. The nurses rubbed my shoulders and brought me tissues and a bottle of water; they’d gotten to know us both pretty well these last 4 years, and I could tell everyone in that recovery room felt good about this news. I wept on and off the rest of the evening, while I sat knitting on the sofa watching dumb television and Honey slept off the anesthesia. The tears kept coming. Sweet release.
Here we are now, just two months later, and it’s still sinking in. He’s healthy! We’re in a whole new phase of life - a phase in which we can finally make plans without fear. For the first time in many years, I have started allowing my mind to imagine life with Honey long into the future. I’m no longer envious of that elderly couple I watched walk into the water holding hands at Kettle Cove. I’m no longer annoyed at the retirement account commercials. I’m no longer angry about that 75-year-old man in Honey’s shared hospital room who had never had an illness other than the broken arm he was being treated for. And I’m no longer irritated by newlyweds who have no clue what’s coming. Marriage is not for the weak, honey.
At the same time, when I am in a moment like this in life when everything seems right, that’s when I feel most anxious. I am especially cautious when I cross the street; I yell at my children to walk down the stairs instead of run. I have horrible nightmares about losing loved ones in the woods or paddling a boat over a waterfall. I am fully aware of the fragility of life, that all of this goodness could disappear in a flash.
Honey turns 45 now. My mother was 47 when she died. That number - 47 - sits like a ball of tar in my belly. That age is frightfully close for both me and Honey now, and I’d be a big fat liar if I told you I didn’t think about it daily. I do. When I have a pain in my foot, I’m certain it’s a blood clot that will travel up my veins and kill me in a moment. When he gets up in the night to pee, I jump up and loud-whisper “What’s wrong?!” I told him this morning that even though 45 is impressive, I won’t really celebrate until we both hit 50.
You know what, though? Plenty of people hit 50. Keep reminding me.
Because here we are, over 20 years into our relationship, finally able to breathe easily. (No jinxies!)
I will provide for you
And I'll stand by your side
You'll need a good companion
For this part of the ride
Leave behind your sorrows
Let this day be the last
Tomorrow there'll be sunshine
And all this darkness past
Big wheels roll through fields
Where sunlight streams
Meet me in a land of hope and dreams
I’m listening to the song again, picturing us standing close, heads tilted toward the sun, riding into the future together. Happy birthday to my favorite man, my companion on this up and down train ride through mostly sunny fields. I promise these are happy tears.
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