Excavate the heart, and lay it bare.
Today my parents came over. My mom brought chuck roast. I seasoned it with salt and pepper, then seared it on high for a couple minutes on each side. Added dried onion flakes, one cup of water, then in the oven at 325 degrees. My mom, K- and I went for a walk with W-, and talked about how to reply to S-’s invitation for Christmas Eve. I still don’t really know exactly what to say. K- wants me to wait till we can talk more. But the answer already will be some variation of, “No, it’s too awkward. It’s the only day R- said she could be with the kids so I don’t want to infringe on that.” Something along those lines.
When we got back, my mom sat down at the piano and played Christmas hymns while the girls sang along. K- tried to get a video, but once A- saw she shyly backed away.
A few songs in, the roast smelled done. T- and my mom peeled sweet potatoes, sliced them finger thick, poured butter and olive oil over them, with thyme, paprika, salt and pepper. 500 degrees for twelve minutes. I flipped them. After thirteen more they were soft and flavorful. Frozen vegetables to supplement. It didn’t feel like a lot of food at first, but after dividing it up and sharing the meal, we all were full.
My parents left. A- seemed sad about something. K- asked her about it and she said she was worried about her eyes (after finding out she was more likely to get myopia given the rate at which her eyes are getting worse). And she’s worried about her teeth, which I understand. She is missing something like thirteen adult teeth, which is going to require implants in the future.
All the kids’ worries, projected outward, upward, toward me.
I asked my mom how my dad was doing. “The same,” she said. The same means he’s still asking all the same questions. Shuffling around the house. Forgetting where things are. Taking three, four naps a day. Sleeping twelve hours a night. Fuzzy on details. Not remembering I’m engaged.
He asked me all the same questions again today. “Does anyone still go into your office?” “No, dad, the company is ending their lease because everyone works from home now.” “Do you remember that book store down the street?” “Yeah, The Book Trader. I loved going there.” “Your backyard (or basement) has a lot of stuff in it,” “Yeah, dad, we’re working on getting it organized.”
We used to have nuanced conversations about books, movies, life, philosophy, politics, theology. He used to love reading and woodworking. Since retirement, he’s slowly lost interest in everything. His brain is drifting away. Going somewhere. But all medical tests show everything is fine. Nothing makes sense.
All my parents’ problems, pouring down toward me.
It’s a weird time of life. A weird age, mid-life. Midway between life and death. Children looking forward, parents looking backward. Both needing help. Emotionally, physically. And I feel helpless. Like I don’t have emotions or energy to spare. Limited, stuck, empty.
Trying to hold my own life together while balancing others’ emotional and physical problems. What do I do with them all?
Writing can excavate the heart, lay it bare. Even if its only reader is the person who wrote it in the first place, it can promote understanding, not only of others but of our deepest selves. (80, Write For Your Life, Anne Quindlen)
Anne writes about doctors who take time to write about their experiences. How it helps them make sense of all the pain, suffering, and joy they see. To empathize with their patients rather than put up a wall, just to emotionally survive. Because there isn’t enough time in a normal work shift to process all of the emotions they experience.
I’ve felt like that ever since starting to have kids. And it hasn’t stopped, sixteen years later. (Only now there’s a dog and four cats in the mix, too.) It feels like every waking moment is filled with emotions to manage, problems to solve, to-do lists to cross off, and Amazon returns to complete. In some ways, there is less time than ever to write. Which probably means it’s all the more important for me to do. So much goes left unprocessed. Unreflected upon. Writing isn’t to solve problems. It’s like sleep. It gives time and space for healing.
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