The road sometimes seems to stretch endlessly before you.
At least that’s what I thought this past week, as on numerous occasions, the black asphalt seemed to trail on straight to eternity. Yet our destination was getting closer every minute – our goal drew nearer as we traveled further and further – then still further from home. My stomach clenched into uncomfortable knots, mimicking the disconcerting feeling of trapped things, of falling.
What a wild week it’s been.
My 75 year old grandmother had open heart surgery yesterday, and my family and I made the long drive to California to be at the hospital with the rest of the family. We arrived 2 days early, and spent the extra time with my her while she was still upright, lucid, a healthy color.
She spoke of hopes, fears, life, and the end of it all within the same breath – throwing me off balance with the matter of fact way she processed the possibility of death coming for her within the week. Her eyes would suddenly overflow, and automatically, my encouraging smile would snap into place, the words of comfort leaping to my mouth before my heavy heart could stop them. What can you possibly say to someone in a situation such as that? That everything would be ok? That she had nothing to worry about? Those were both lies, and we both knew it. I wouldn’t insult her intelligence. So I’d run down the list of people throughout the country that I knew were praying for her. How comfortable the hospital bed setup in her living room was. How we were so happy to be here with her. And when I’d leave the room, my eyes would fill too.
She’s a tiny, scrappy little warrior. My family paced the waiting room for 14 hours that day, talking about everything in the world to avoid thinking about exactly what step the surgeon was on. What was taking place in that sterilized, freezing environment behind the double doors a floor above us. And when the time drew nearer, we watched as Grandpa stood in front of the “authorized personnel only” doors, holding his bag, silently waiting and unwilling to sit or move. His slightly hunched shoulders were stiff as a cat’s before he pounces, as if he could cure her heart, could make her better with the sheer power of his will. What would you do if you’d spent the last 60 years of your life with the person fighting for their own behind those doors? She was fighting for both of their lives.
The surgeon came out, his soft spoken words reaching our group of 16, spreading comfort like a warm blanket slowly draped over a tired and aching body. I watched his hands as he talked, folded together, then moving through the air like little birds as he demonstrated how he’d replaced my grandmother’s heart valves. Those tiny hands weren’t really just flesh and bone. I saw them as the instruments God had used to save our beloved woman’s life.
The road to recovery will be long and painful. But..she is on the road. And for that, I am so thankful.
I took to the road again today, alone this time in a lighter hearted quest for companionship. No longer the passenger, I let the road lead me back to a place I still think of as home – though I haven’t seen it in over a year. The signs became familiar. I drove into the clouds framing the bay. The hills rose and became brown, speckled with rocks and trees in the distance. And then the white spot on a faraway hill appeared, the water tower I’d climbed so high to reach, all to look out over the entire city an eternity ago. To feel like a bird looking from a lofty perch. I had felt invincible that day, careless, young. Those feelings have long since gone, but that water tower remained as solid and unchanged as ever. How is that fair?
I spent the evening in my old hometown, reveling in the comfort of a familiarity that only 10 years in one place can bring. But like an old sweatshirt you loved as a child and tried on a while later – it smelled the same. It looked the same. But it just didn’t quite fit anymore. Still, I tried to jam my arms in the sleeves all evening.
Now, at 2:40 am, I’ve successfully found my way back to tonight’s resting spot in Grandma’s sewing room, thinking ahead to the coming dawn, which will find us all on the road again and heading for my Washington home. The one that doesn’t quite feel like home yet. The home away from home.
My heart was never the sick one, and yet – I wonder if the heaviness in my own is merely sympathy pains for my grandmother who still resides in the ICU. Heartache seems to be hanging from the very walls tonight, like grotesque wallpaper that I’d tear down if I could. A lyric that I wish was my own is on repeat like a broken record in my head as I sit here, a lyric that repeated itself throughout the long drive back tonight. “Oh God, why can’t I stop licking on my own wounds – when I’ve found my place with you?”
What is it about heartache that holds on like a splinter – a tiny grain of pain in the midst of a healthy hand? The echo of it, the shadow of it, the essence of it…that small piece that you just don’t know how to get rid of. That flap of skin in your mouth that you can’t help but worry with your tongue.
To battle my own thoughts, I made a phone call on the way home. It was an apology. A cry for understanding. An explanation of my heart when none was asked for. All I got in return was an unconditional love that loaded my eyes until the orange road reflectors blinked into a wet shine, as bright as diamonds in the night. What did I ever do to deserve what he offered in the middle of the night, awakened out of sleep, over 1500 miles away?
I’ve found my place, so why am I still licking my wounds? “Make me a better love; make me better, love.”
I know that he is.
It seems like tonight, I found the corner of that wallpaper. I began to peel it, yet as I picked it from the walls, my fingers bled.
It’s 2:52. To battle the Sacramento heat, the window is open. The metal fan is blowing against the wall of young faces in bright color photos, moments of happiness captured and shared – a multitude of grandkids and great grandkids, cousins, aunts, uncles. All blending into one sheet of wallpaper.
I wonder how my grandmother sleeps, so tiny in that big hospital bed. I wish my love for her could make her better all at once.
I wish his love for me could make me better all at once.
“Make me a better love; make me better, love.”
* “Better Love” lyrics by Eisley
Leave a Reply