I am exhausted, emotionally, physically, mentally.
And yet life is grand, and I love everything I'm doing.
However, there is not enough time in most days to do everything I want to do.
I want to sleep; I want to exercise.
I want to sit on the couch and watch Ted Lasso with my crocheting.
What would I change?
A little more umph with a little less grief.
Time to process all that has happened these past few years.
Happy day ya'll.
Typically I use semi-decent searchable titles for my posts, yet for this one, I could not come up with one that fit what I am wanting to say.
Last Saturday, going through all of the cards, notes, photos, and newspaper clippings my mom has saved, I stumbled upon a photo from an employee album and two clippings from the local Rigby Star. The first, a picture of my very first boyfriend, David T at Macks Inn the summer of 1975, and so very very seductive. The second, two short articles and photos of the missionaries serving in Rigby in 1970 and 1971. These missionaries were cute, friendly, and so mature! Scott served in the same mission, during this same time, knowing two of the missionaries.
About eleven years ago, I reconnected with Dave who was living in Alaska at the time, and he and Scott and I had a sweet tender breakfast at the Anchorage Airport. Since then we've kept in semi-touch, seeing each other a few times, particularly at both of my parents' funerals.
After reading this beautiful post on Cup of Jo, I began to wonder if I had met Scott when we were at appropriate ages (time-travel?), would he have been my first boyfriend.
He and Dave actually have many things in common (or at least the Dave I think I know). Very good -looking with just a touch of nonchalance. Troubled - ready to fight at the drop of look, and just a little volatile. Generous - going out of their way to be kind to others, just because. Hard workers - both having jobs in their teens and working every day since. Suave - know how to get the girl, not sure how to keep the woman. Good looking, great hair, athletic build. Romantic - not in the gift-giving, creative way, but in the soft, gentle, tender, care-for-you way. Athletic - their good looks and ability to drink and still stand got in the way of them being team players. Awkward - just enough to be interesting yet also label them as outsiders. Stubborn - living life on their terms with only small adjustments to those around them.
And, like most things in the real world, I married neither at 19. I married someone so unlike my desires - he was safe, conservative, non-confrontational, simple, calm.
I did end up with the love of my life, and yet it hasn't been easy, for all the reasons I'm attracted to him. And for many of those reasons, Dave is alone, again. He came to my mom's burial two months ago. We chatted for only a moment, before I had to be involved in the service. I watched him at the same time as I watched Scott (and for similar reasons - make sure they're ok, safe, feeling appreciated for their efforts). However, Dave stood outside of the crowd, all alone. Sad. Looked unwell. Didn't socialize. And by the time I could step away to visit (and I knew this would be an intense visit), he was gone.
Later I learned that Dave was recently divorced (again, same wife), had moved away from the city he and his wife lived for many years, away from the people he knew and loved, back to "home," where honestly, reliving the past is not the best thing to do, even if living in the past feels safe.
I ended my short stay in Idaho with a little regret that I didn't talk with Dave, that I wasn't able to console him, give him comfort, reassurance, help him feel as if he belonged, let him know he was safe, loved. But I didn't. I could call him, talk, stir up old old wounds and newer wounds, yet, I cannot turn back time, make anything better.
At what point does time-travel become a reality? For me, this happened 19 years ago, when I met Scott, and he was the literal man of my dreams - the one I saw myself growing old with, and the one, interestingly enough, who brought a little touch of Dave with him.
William Somerset Maughan wrote, "We are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person."
I certainly have changed, Dave has changed, Scott has changed, and I do, I do love both.
And just like that, the 7 Walker siblings are sitting in the front row at funerals and burials. The image that comes to mind is that of manufacturing with one batch of a product all sold out, no more of it, and a newer, better, glitzier, yet similar, product taking its place; my generation is next - to be sold out, replaced, removed, one at a time.
Sitting in that front row at Mom's service two months ago really brought to the forefront that my generation is now the oldest generation, only one Aunt left of the Walkers, and we're up. Facing our own mortality, and questioning - am I doing all I want to be doing? Is this all there is? How do I want to live "the rest of my life." Time feels much shorter, figuring out connecting, looking for dates to gather, renewing and building relationships with siblings and cousins and old friends. Holy moley -
If staring my own "next" in life isn't enough, a week ago I received a call that my cousin, the 60 year old son of the last Aunt, Gary Walker, had died.
One down, and although he isn't the first (two older cousins passed away several years ago), he is the first of my era, and younger; he was at Mom's burial, he was happy, we were making plans together, looking forward to seeing each other "next year."
Time flies on wings of lightening, we cannot call it back.
A young man was in a terrible roll-over accident five weeks ago. He nearly severed an arm and had head, neck, and brain injuries. As well, he wasn’t from Utah, didn’t have family near, and speaks Spanish. With the belief that his death was imminent, Palliative Care was called in. Family was found, quickly came. Our role was to explain the severity of his injuries and talk about Goals of Care for him. The parents, well-educated and employed, did not speak English. We have met with them weekly to discuss the patient’s status and ask about their concerns.
I have worked very hard to create a relationship of trust with the parents, and
we have enjoyed visiting together, using my broken Spanish, their broken
English, a translate app and a translator.
These very religious parents never lost their faith that their son would heal;
he was intubated, sedated, a feeding tube placed, multiple surgeries and grafts
on his arm. His brain injury was so traumatic that he would most likely be
disabled, bed-bound, and needing fulltime care for the rest of his life.
I’m used to asking families what they
hope for, what they’d like me to pray for, and these parents kept telling me
they were expecting a miracle. Not hoping, but expecting, putting their full
trust in God.
Miracles happened this week. The young
man woke, his arm is healing, he is talking, and the family, caregivers,
skeptics, optimists, have witnessed a miracle. In this career, surrounded by
death, this young man is being raised from the dead and living.
