I Cried The Whole Way Home
This morning I found myself needing to run to school right quick to drop something off (which is the case more often than one might think). I drove into the school circle and parked behind another parent. I swiftly hopped out of my van, dropped off the item, and bounced back out the doors to head home, all while this dad was doing the laborious task of unloading a wheelchair for his child, loading his son into the chair, and gathering the supplies he’d need for the day. They hadn’t even gotten far enough to head into the school before I was back on the road.
But as I drove by the father and son duo, I looked over at the son and had the good fortune of witnessing a smile on his face indicating pure joy.
And I lost it.
I cried the entire way home.
I initially thought I was feeling sorrow for the boy and the father. Not a pity for, but just a connection with the grief of life. Having a child with a medically complicated history means I have had my own instances of things not turning out how I thought. I have experienced how the normalcy of life fades away as every act feels Herculean.
I had just so-easily gone in and out of the school to drop something off, and this boy would never know what it is to easily do much of anything requiring physical activity.
But then my mind raced back in time and I thought of his dad when he was preparing to be a father, and how he could have imagined his son playing baseball. Maybe he even dreamt of coaching his teams and taking him to Twins games, propping his son on his shoulders while they both ate hot dogs.
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I imagined his dad having to mentally return the trike he’d push his son around the neighborhood on and the bike he’d eventually teach his son to ride.
I thought of his dad worrying about his son entering kindergarten–will he fit in? How will he make friends if he can’t run around and play tag and do all the typical kid things?
I thought of the dreams deferred, the daily efforts, and the weightiness of reality.
But that smile on the boy’s face. That smile told me there was nothing that kid would rather be doing in that moment than the all-too-familar ritual of his dad preparing him to enter a building. I thought of the tender act of care it takes to get this boy from point A to B.
And the ways this sweet child needs others and how that creates connections that lead to joy.
And dammit that moment I started crying was because of this whole scene being a microcosm for the grief and gratitude of life.
Some of us might have more public struggles, but we all have hopes and dreams that we need to grieve. And yet, it’s our need for others to help us navigate those acute moments of pain that life is truly all about.
If we’re lucky, our struggles will force us to rely on others; they remind us of our utter need for one another. These are the times we cannot deny our place in the connectivity of all of life.
So often when we ask for help, we think we are a burden. But on the giving end, we know what a gift it is to care for those around us.
My life has had its public struggles and private struggles. It’s no secret that I now find myself a divorced, single mother of three, who is trying to build a business. This is not how I thought life would go.
I grieve the difficulties of the everyday and the loss of what never was or will be. I witness in-tact families on vacation or during the holidays and mourn that my kids don’t get that in their lives. (Cue mom guilt)
I grieve the loss of the only home my three boys remember.
Some moments I want to shout “THIS ISN’T HOW OUR LIVES WERE SUPPOSED TO BE.”
And I bet that dad in the school parking lot does too.
But if we’re all honest with ourselves, there’s not a single one of us that couldn’t shout that into the abyss from time-to-time.
(And if you have a desire to drive to the woods and shout it, please do. I’m a fan of grieving in big ways that don’t harm others.)
But once we move through the grief, do you know what’s waiting for us? The gratitude. That smile on the boy’s face that wrecked me. Because life doesn’t stop at the pain and loss. Life is really damn beautiful.
Life requires us to need one another, to hold on to one another, to touch one another, and care for one another.
If our lives were perfect specimens of realized hopes and dreams, we wouldn’t need to cling to anyone else.
And if I know nothing else, I know this: love cannot happen in a vacuum.
That’s ultimately what I saw in that flash of a moment: I saw the way grief and gratitude and need and generosity lead us to smile in a way that is so powerful, a passerby can’t help but break down and cry in the presence of such beauty.
