We walk hand in hand down the street, following the very old dog at the end of the leash. He is slow but so are we. There is no reason to hurry. The journey is as enjoyable as the journey’s end. Our destination: the small hill at the end of our cul de sac. Our mission: to watch the cars and trucks on the street below.
We climb the hill. I sit in the grass and the very young boy settles into my lap. His sandy colored hair wisps in the wind. Up close he smells like a combination of soft baby skin and the cereal he clutches in his travel cup. This very little boy, who is barely two years old, scans the landscape. With each vehicle that rounds the bend he draws in a breath and points. Each car, each truck is given its due awe and wonder. We sit contentedly, the very old dog, the very young boy and me, the somewhat young/somewhat old GiGi, enjoying the early and unexpected spring weather. I make up a song about the cars and he seems to nod in approval when I sing it in response as a new car drives past.
The dog gets comfortable. He knows we might be awhile. Time passes, (10 min? 20? 30 or more?) I really don’t mind. That little body nestled into mine, the dog dozing at my side, the smell of Spring in the air. This child pulls me into living in the present like no one else has managed to do and for this I am grateful.
Some time passes and I ask him if he is ready to walk back to the house. He shakes his head no and presses his back against my chest as if to hold me in the moment. Cars pass, time passes. We sit, we watch. The warm air turns slightly chilly. Eventually he agrees that it is time to walk back to tell Poppy of our wandering.
We “run” down the small hill as much as a very old dog, a very young child and a somewhat young/somewhat old GiGi can and he laughs as if it is a grand adventure. He places his hand in mine as we make our way back down the street. We talk about cars in the way that we often do, me mentioning all the colors we saw, him nodding in approval. I grasp his hand a little tighter and the very old dog slowly and quietly leads us back home.
In yet another example of, “I didn’t see that coming” I can tell you that Thursday afternoons have now become a predictable highlight of my week. It is the only time that I know for certain that I will gather with people who will stretch my intellect, introduce me to new viewpoints, and engage eagerly when I want to talk or learn of faraway cultures and artistic endeavors. “Gather” is maybe not quite the right word, but each time the Zoom meeting starts I get a little thrill at seeing each and every one of their faces filling my computer screen.
As recent graduates we were excited to share this love of learning with others. Little did we realize that instead of sharing it with the students who show up on yellow buses, we would be sharing it with the familiar faces from class that pop up on our screens.
He says hello to the little ceramic bird figure that sits on the shelf at eye level, (his), opens the cupboard I store his toys and books in, (and then ignores them), plays with the switch on the cable box underneath the TV, (because a blinking blue light is more interesting than toys), walks into the dining room to open and close the door that leads out to the sunporch, (because that feels powerful), walks over to the piano to play a few notes, (because he can reach them), and then begins to climb the stairs, (because they are there). It’s like he is going through a checklist in his head; “These are the things I must do when visiting my Gigi and Poppy.”
Hanging out with a 1 year old during a pandemic is a lesson in perspective. The macro of life becomes micro. News headlines and updates that come at me in a confounding disarray are replaced by board books that tell the same, comforting story with every turn of the page. We work together on learning the theory of gravity by throwing rocks, the biology of insects by observing the tiniest bug crossing the sidewalk and cause and effect by seeing what happens if food is dropped from a highchair tray to the dog waiting patiently underneath it. If only research were this simple in the realm of observational information vs randomized trials and vaccine development for the masses, the world outside these doors would heal a lot faster.
He is teaching me that even when times are hard there is room in daily life for love and laughter, smiles and giggles. Staying in the moment and only concentrating on what is right in front of me, (the block tower, the bouncy ball, the cuddly stuffed dog), keeps the unknowns of all that is outside these four walls from messing with my head. In a world that is screaming for attention from every platform available, his barely perceptible nod when I ask him a simple question is worth celebrating. We are communicating! We understand one another! Oh if it could be that simple in the comments section of any social media platform.
Cancer makes you feel small in an incredibly large and unfamiliar landscape. The first days of knowing the diagnosis felt surreal. Life was buzzing all around us yet we had a secret that was making our world stand still. There was a wall between us and everyone else in our lives and we were pressed up against it’s cold hard truth.
As my children were facing the hurdles of growing up I would often tell them to find the good in a bad situation. Discovering your spouse has cancer feels like no kind of good. It is the worst kind of fear, a lonely vulnerability and permeating sadness all unexpectedly dumped on your doorstep. The script of your life suddenly flips and ready or not you are taken down a path you never planned to travel. But there is goodness in the friends and family in our lives who are willing to show up and walk a piece of that path with us.
I am finding solace in the solstice. The Northern He
Anymore, so much of who we are is tangled up in each other. 5 years of dating and 33 years of marriage pushes the clock incredibly close to 40 years of us. I’ve been with you so much longer than I haven’t. Through the years there has been a part of me that has become lost in that. At times I’ve fought it, but more and more I’ve accepted it. Love is a tradeoff and I’ve traded some independence for an awful lot of comfort. It hasn’t been perfect, but it’s been close enough. It’s been surprising at times, this marriage of ours, but it has also been consistent and predictable.
There will be more hard times. I’m not brave so I am scared of them and long to dream them away. Our incredibly good life will be visited by the sadness, sorrow and pain that is just as much a part of a life-well-lived as the joy and laughter. I’m big into gratitude lately and want to believe that that is the best way to get through the trying times. And so, I start with being grateful for you, for the life we’ve made together, for the absolute promise of “for better or for worse.” and for our unending devotion to us.
If I had the choice though, I probably wouldn’t go back. There are things about this life I’m living now that I wouldn’t want to trade away. The mornings that often start with a cup of tea and the time to write, evenings that aren’t held hostage by chauffeuring children here, there and everywhere, the satisfying view from here as I watch all three of my children create their own life stories, the promise and absolute delight of an infant grandson figuring out his world bit by bit.
the Joyful Second Half 