In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Powerful Suggestion.”
I was leaving a meeting and someone turned to me and said “You need to stop beating yourself up!” The only thing I could say in response was that I am a master at it. Atlas in the form of a skinny, white guy. Maybe I’m Sisyphus on rollerblades trying to get up the hill and tied to a bungie cord? He’s not the first person to make that suggestion, to let myself off the hook for things I couldn’t control. But I keep seeing some of them as an extension of things I didn’t have a good enough grip on to be able to control.
See I miss my daughter, every day. It’s been 14 months and I still can’t help wondering what we would have been doing today. As I look out the window I see a series of Cherry Trees and let my mind drift to her sitting underneath them. Me clicking away with my camera and abusing my friends with email, Facebook postings. My mother liking every single one of them and forwarding them to her friends, a perpetual chain letter containing a single, bright eyed subject.
The thing i haven’t told anyone is that someone has written me two letters saying that if I had only done things differently, asked better questions, my family would be intact today. Reading words like that, especially when I know I’m at times two steps from the lovely young men with their gleaming white coats shuffling me off to the Funny Farm [where life is beautiful all the time…] How do you find peace when you wait for the next bit of unsolicited admonition to drop in your mailbox? What did I miss that would have saved my daughter, maybe saved my relationship? So the beatings continue.
At this point I feel like that Monty Python bit with Jesus on the cross singing about “Always look on the bright side of life”. The juxtaposition of a sunny outlook coupled with people frying in the desert sun awaiting death. Okay, it’s a little funny.
I’ve shared details, both minor and major, about how things have gone wrong with this blog. Probably to a point where Whitney would be very uncomfortable, maybe angry, if she knew the details were floating about. But the conversations that I needed to have with her in the present, I have with this group en mass. A general psychopathy liking my words at times, sharing their hopes that things change in a way I pray they will but know they won’t. Every morning writing a series of random musings, some funny, others making people hit the backspace key. I’m cool with that.
Today I find out how things are progressing with the chemo. Part of me just doesn’t want to know. Let’s either say we’re making progress or that we should re-evaluate the game plan. Specifics don’t matter right now. A different kind of beating.