Since January I have been culling through my book stacks, the “want to read again stack”, the “started – want to finish”, the “haven’t started – should read”, and the “brain candy – want to read, but won’t until I deal with the first three stacks.” I came across two books I had started December 2012, in preparation for the New Year,2013, the year which I hardly remember. They are both written by Matthew Kelly, one called “Perfectly Yourself” and the other, “The Rhythm of Life.” I remember starting Rhythm and getting to only page 12 when Matthew wrote that I had to put the book aside and ask myself what I wanted from life, to not read another word until I had written down on paper my thoughts. I dutifully hobbled around on crutches, got a journal, hobbled back to the couch and stared at the journal. I threw it, the book, and my pen to the far side of the couch muttering to myself that the only thing I wanted out of life was to be off pain meds and to be able to put shoes on both my feet. What I also was screaming silently to myself was that the only thing I wanted out of life was to have my son back, to have Justin alive, to look at the caller ID and see his name and hear his voice say “Hello”, to picture that mop of curls, him in his threadbare sweater, and the cup of tea that he would have brewed before he called. I stuffed the book and journal to the bottom of a very heavy stack of books. I remember wanting to shred the couch, so frustrated I was with having to be still, having to be still with my grief that I had tried to outrun for two years.
I had slammed two foot surgeries pretty close together. I remember saying to Doug that I didn’t remember the first surgery being so awful. Doug quickly told me that the surgeon had pulled him aside and said “Terri is going to tell you that she doesn’t remember the first surgery hurting this badly, women don’t remember pain.” The second surgery was on December 5th and three weeks later I was still on pain meds. My body liked them, and happily sang “more, more, more.” Christmas night I took my last one and said enough. The next morning I was an unhappy camper. By that evening my skin was crawling and my muscles had started to spasm, I couldn’t relax, and I had cold sweats. I thought of taking just a half dose of the opiate, just to take the edge off the withdrawal, but I knew that would only make it worse. Nothing OTC was touching the pain in my foot, it was an ugly time. Ryan, our surviving son, texted with me at all hours of the day and night, telling me I would be okay. He told me to eat bananas for the potassium, and to pound water, he said the first 36 hours would be the worst and then it should ease. He was right. I read that when we take opiates, our bodies natural pain chemicals hibernate, and don’t wake up right away once the drugs are stopped. I thought of calling my surgeon, one of the kindest and dearest souls we have ever met, but I was embarrassed. I know it is silly, prideful actually. It took a good two weeks before I felt half-way human. I was a humbled bumble, I caught a glimpse of just how easy it is to become addicted, to anything. No one sets out seeking addiction, it is subtle, discreet, and literally before you know it, you are looking for the next dose.
I realize something as I sit with these mixed stack of books and clean journal. Even though I did not write those things that I wanted out of life down in the journal as Matthew had suggested, they were accomplished. Those last dominant thoughts in my head took root and came to be. I got off the pain meds and had my feet stuffed into tennis shoes three months ahead of schedule.
I am going to revisit “The Rhythm of Life” and will write down whatever comes to my mind of what I want out of life, be it silly, whimsical, and seemingly utter fantasy, I am just going to write. Matthew says to put the list away for a year, not look at it for an entire year, and when the year is up revisit what you wrote. I know that I can’t have my Justin back, and I may have to tailor Matthew’s original question, you should not ask a bereaved parent what they want, we all want our child back, alive in our arms. But I am still intrigued. What can I dream, how big can I dream it, who will I meet as I dream? I want to write my list now, instead of flinging the journal across the room, I want to spill out every half-baked, near impossible dream I have ever had and trust. Trust that something good will come from that list. I will share it with my new friend, Santiago, and ask the Saint to be my guide. Ask him to help me let go of what I thought would bring happiness and peace, and to embrace the pilgrim way, to let my pack be light.
Justin, you must have known St. James, because all you had in the world fit into our living room when your dad returned from collecting your possessions from South Dakota. When I reflect on what you treasured, you treasured people. Your family, your brother, your friends. Enduring treasures. Priceless, for your friends have been so tender and caring of us, you live in them, their stories, their memories.
Buen Camino, Justin, buen Camino.
