Of Waves of Panic and Waves of Change

I had it all planned out: Go to bed at a reasonable hour, get up early, and drive the long distance to attend a wedding.  It was a good plan, and like most good plans, it didn't happen.  Boyfriend and I were just starting our huge fight at the reasonable hour, I slept in, I was late getting ready, and we started the day yelling.   It was only morning, and it was already a ruined day.

The long drive was made longer by the palpable awkwardness of our relationship and the heaviness of our issues crammed into the car with us.  We drove and drove and it seemed like we would be driving forever.  Finally we hit a body of water, and we had to stop driving because that was the destination.

We checked in, we went to our room.  We had an hour to prepare for the wedding, I knew this because it was in the plan.  I felt rushed, the hotel lighting was unflattering, my leg had gone tingly and painful.   It was a recipe for a meltdown. I caked on makeup trying desperately to conceal the rash of acne that had taken hold of my face due to my new medication.  I thought of all the people, the strangers, I would be shaking hands with.  I thought about forcing a permanent smile so rigid that my face hurt, I thought about pretending to be overjoyed at the good fortune of two people I would never see again.  I thought about the unavoidable prayer they would say before dinner, thanking God for his many blessings.

And that's when I lost it.

I was overcome with rage at the person in the mirror I didn't recognize and her ugly face, the 22-year-old newlyweds who would certainly be sending out pregnancy announcements within a year, the people who praised God for his mighty benevolence without knowing that one of the poor, sad people they pray for had somehow made her way into the room.  The fight with Boyfriend, the long drive that made my back ache and my leg go numb, the overwhelming anxiety at the thought of a crowd of people, the feeling of not belonging anywhere, not even in my own body.

It was Just. Too. Much.

I fell into a heap and told Boyfriend to go without me.  It was hysterical, and probably crazy, but there was no way I could go.  I tried to tell him that I just couldn't deal with this stress, that I knew I was being so difficult but things seem to be harder for me than for everyone else.  But all that came out was and unintelligible rash of blubbering and, I just can't go.

It is times like this when people turn to Nature.  It occurred to me that I happened to be about 100 steps from one of the lakes they call great, and when I looked out the window over it, it seemed to call to me.  I went outside and stared.  It was beautiful, and still, and quiet as if it knew that the noise of the world had overcome me.  It was cold, and I was dressed for a wedding.  I could not see the other side.

And that's when I knew.  I can't see the other side of Cancer.  It is too huge and too vast and too deep, it is Just. Too. Much.  Somehow everyone else knew how to take to the lake, to move on, to go about the business of life.  But I just stared, no boat in sight, dressed in an evening gown in the middle of the afternoon on the end of a pier, poorly equipped at the wrong place at the wrong time.

I shuddered, and became aware of how cold it was.  I felt like a picture of myself. All dressed up and no place to go. A ticket out of Cancerland and no idea of which ferry to get on.  Standing on the bank of these mighty waters, I was a metaphor that only I could understand.  For the first time, I did not feel like crying.  I was sad, but there was some beauty in the sadness, a symbol, a place, a moment where the sadness at least made sense.

By the time Boyfriend got home, I had washed and soothed away the outward signs of despair, but my afternoon at the lake was still in the forefront of my mind.  He was too mad to ask for an explanation, which was fine because I doubt I could have supplied one.  I wanted to tell him what the lake had told me, how someday I hoped to look back upon my pain and consider it beautiful despite its darkness and danger, that somewhere very far past the horizon we see there is, in fact, the other side.  I knew it wouldn't have made sense, and partly I wanted to keep it a secret between me and the water.

The next morning, before we prepared to leave, I sat out on the pier one more time.  The lake reflected the early morning sun, making it doubly bright.   I had to shield my eyes.   I wanted to say, thank you for making me feel just a tiny bit less alone.   It was only morning, but it was already a beautiful day.

Comments

[cancerbaby]

I wish we didn't have to know such beauty, Rae.

BTW, i you haven't already, talk to your doctor about taking antibiotics for the acne rash.

[Noelle]

Oh, Rae. This just ripped my heart out, but in a good way. A knowing way. Not a cancer knowing way, but a water knowing way. There is something to be said for the soothing effects of water. I swear, some of the most spiritual moments I've had have been by the ocean or by a lake.

This is a beautiful post. I'm sorry things were/are tough.

[Katie]

I live very close to one of those lakes, but perhaps I don't really look. Once again your post was eloquent

[sunnyside2day]

I read this post shortly after you posted and wanted to leave a comment, but didn't know how to put my thoughts into written words that would make any sense. But I keep thinking about what you said here and decided to come back and leave a comment after all. I still don't know how to put my thoughts into words, other than.... this post has touched me on several levels for several reasons.

And.....thank goodness for large spans of water. When I lived in Santa Cruz, California, I used to go down to the ocean and sit for hours when I needed to think or work something out. It worked well. I miss that.