Ghost of Christmas Past in And So It Goes

I just stumbled upon this in an old document folder on my phone. At the time this was written, I was so lost. My soul was damaged. I am better now.

The day before my daughter was left for dead, before the hospital, before the detectives, before the ventilator and ICU, before my soul was smashed to shards, I found an old email. Maybe finding it was prophetic. Maybe it was God’s way of saying to me, “the journey is not over yet. Keep walking the path.”

Miss Me
Today I found an old email from 2011. It was sent to an old friend who “gets me.” It was written before antidepressants. It was written when I could still feel things. It was written when I was a good writer and could express myself. It was Me, from the heart and soul. Now, I am some other Me. She’s a soul-less wanderer pretending to participate in the world. I have no emotion. I can’t write any more. That’s why I write so little here now. I miss Me.
“Life is like an onion: you peel it off one layer at a time and sometimes you weep.”
Carl Sandburg
I am healing in the only way I know, by tucking into myself and remaining very still, very quiet. Daily, for long hours, I sit in the sunshine on the lanai and breathe in the peace and serenity of the ancient oaks, each wearing their garb of swaying Spanish moss. I watch the ever busy squirrels, nature’s very own troupe of Chinese acrobats, performing death defying leaps from branch to branch, sometimes landing on a small branch so thin that it bends causing me to hold my breath until it springs back, much to my delight, and the squirrel scampers on unscathed and oblivious to my whoosh of exhaled air.
Today I watched as a fat fat raccoon headed over to the lake’s edge and washed her paws before waddling over to a big oak tree and climbing it with the grace of a lithe cat, belying the waddle in her walk.
I spend hours surreptitiously studying the stately wood storks who have taken up residence at our little lake. During my self-imposed silence, I have been befriended by a young wood stork who visits every morning. It is so tempting to offer him bread as he stands on the other side of the screen staring at me. He is every bit as curious about me as I am about him. As tempting as it is, I do not feed him. He belongs to the lake and the wetlands behind the house, not to me.
I now believe that I will survive, but it’s a slow go, rather like sloshing through a morass of molasses, wearing heavy Wellies three sizes too large for my feet. I remain quiet. I cook, I clean, I manage this house, these dogs, my husband and our lives with the determination and efficiency of a highly paid Major Domo who does his job, but isn’t personally invested of any of the goings on. I really don’t care what we do, where we go or how we get there. It’s the taking care of the details that keeps me sane.
Speaking of taking care of the details, I guess there is an upside to almost having a complete emotional breakdown. We had booked to go to the UK for four weeks beginning March twenty second. No one in their right mind goes to the UK in March, especially one who lives in Florida. UK people come here in March, not the other way around. But, it is BIL and SIL’s golden wedding anniversary and long ago, they begged us to come and we said, “Yes, of course.” Then, they came here when SIL realized how close to the edge I was with the daughter situation and stayed for six weeks as our life slowly went to hell and believe me, hell it was indeed. They suffered every sling, every arrow right alongside us.
So, I owe them. I really do. But, when in pain, I self-isolate. It’s what I do. I told husband that I could not go. I even called SIL and told her I couldn’t come. I didn’t want to be at any parties, make any small talk, smile a false smile to hide my broken heart or even see any well-balanced, happy normal humans. I used the dogs as another excuse since daughter was to be our dog sitter. Every other day we fought over it. I cried. I yelled. I did every behavior in my repertoire of emotional breakdown antics. Over the weeks, I have expended the emotional energy and fortitude I needed to continue this irrational siege of mine and we are going.
I have hired neighbors and we are paying them a king’s ransom to babysit and pander to the dogs at their house. In gratitude Husband and as a surprise hired a painter to come in and repaint our bedroom and bathroom to make it the color I love and that was painted in the master bedroom and bath at the old house.
He also asked if I wanted to go anywhere on the continent while we were across the pond. I said, “Paris.” He said, “I’m not crazy about Paris, you know that.” He asked, “Rome?” I said, “No, Florence. It’s smaller. We’ve been there before and have seen the museums and the statue of David. This time I just want to eat silky pasta at small tables and then meander over the bridge that spans the River Arno, stopping for a hazelnut gelato. I want to look in the shop windows and just sit in Piazza del Duomo and hold my face to the sun. I’ll wear the cream colored leather jacket that I bought the last time we were In Florence and probably I can get back to being the me I was then, on that trip before I got to be the me I am right now. OK?” He said, “OK.”
I put on my Major Domo hat and quickly made arrangements for flights and hotel. Maybe all it will take is a quick flight from London to Pisa, a fast train to Florence and I will be waiting for Me at the station platform and I’ll know who I am again. It’s possible