Sunday, July 27, 2014

Humans Being

     As someone who runs her mouth a lot more than she probably should, it's rare to find me at a loss for words. It's never mattered if I'm speaking them or writing them - they're always there, waiting to be brought into the light, coherently or otherwise. Right now though, I'm struggling like I never have before - I've just had someone reach out to me for help that I have no idea how to provide.

     I logged into my account and found that I had a comment waiting for me. Usually, I publish them after a quick read-through to make sure it's not a troll's ramblings, because I like the different points of view that I see. This time, though, I decided not to publish, because words were damn-near physically painful to read, both in their content and their sense of grasping for something that I don't know how anyone eventually finds, because so many don't. The comment was left, you see, by a young woman whose husband was lost to her just a few days ago. Cause of death? Undiagnosed Marfan's. And now my nightmare is front and center.

     I've already sent her a private message, the contents of which will stay that way, but I'm continuing my thoughts here, with the hope that something that pours out during my dialogue with myself will offer her an answer or a comfort that I didn't think of previously.

     When I read her message, saw what it was and what she was asking me for, which was help trying to understand what had just happened to her, I didn't feel a weight of responsibility. Instead, it was a disbelief, a strange lightness that this could NOT be happening, not to someone like me, someone even younger. Then my bleeding heart kicked into overdrive and I couldn't get to my email fast enough. I hope, more fervently than I've ever hoped for anything in recent memory, that I was able to convey my sympathy, my sorrow, and my sincere offer to provide a willing confidante. If I was someone who believed in prayer, you better believe I'd be on my knees right now, begging any god who'd listen for comfort for a stranger.

     It's my greatest fear, what she wrote to me about. I'm always, in some part of my heart, in a constant state of terror that one day, my husband will be taken from me long before I'm ready. And yes, I know that everyone dies and everyone who loves someone faces this eventuality - I understand how biology works. The fear I'm talking about is one that springs from knowing too many statistics about survival rates for Marfan's patients, knowing too much about what happens when an abdominal aortic aneurysm goes undetected, knowing too much, always, about what's wrong with my husband's body and never enough about how to fix it.

     I want to let the rest of it sit in the back of my mind for awhile, mostly because I don't want the other thoughts I've had about this particular fear to be tied to this post. It's not really about me or my husband, not completely, not this time. My heart's bleeding, but only a part of the bloodletting is for me and mine; the vast majority is for a girl I've never met, who's somewhere in the world and found something, something in my words that drew her in during what are surely the darkest, coldest nights of her life. I don't know what it was and I don't care, I am only extremely grateful at this moment in time that I must have done something right and provided a light in the blackness.

     I know I've referenced this quote before, but Ms. Dickinson was exactly right when she said, "If I can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain, I shall not live in vain." God, I hope I did, even just a tiny amount.