there's been a mistake

Sitting here on the couch tonight, listening to J snore softly as I half watched TV and half perused the internet looking at things I'd buy if that backyard money tree would start sprouting (a Pottery Barn couch and leather side chair, a Coach bangle, a home on Lake Austin next to Sandra Bullock's) my father's voice was suddenly in my head. I know, creepy. I flashed back to something he said many moons ago. Specifically, the summer of 2005. It was July. He and my mom had gone to Minneapolis early that week to be with my Grandma Rita as the doctors performed surgery to remove her cancer. Needless to say, that didn't work out so well. The cancer had spread, the surgery would not save her, there was nothing more they could do for her. Seconds after getting the call from my dad, tears choking his every word, my brother and sister and I threw bags into the car and drove to Minneapolis. To do what, I don't know. To hold up our daddy, to hold our grandma's wonderfully strong hand, to see in person that this was real and really happening, I suppose. The specific moment I flashed to tonight took place very late in the evening of our arrival. Dad, mom, brother, sister, and I, along with my very favorite cousin M, left the hospital and wandered wearily along a busy Minneapolis street. We found a restaurant with tables scattered about on the outdoor patio, twinkly white lights strung in the treetops above. We ordered drinks- the stronger the better- Long Island Teas for all, keep 'em coming. My heart broke looking down that table at my usually strong and stoic dad. The lines by his eyes, the endearing ones that mirrored Grandma's more with each hearty laugh, were deeper that night. I'd only seen this sadness in my dad once before, the first time Grandma had cancer, when I was all of 8 or 9 and was mercifully spared the details of why her hair was gone. We were all so very sad that night in Minneapolis, Teas in hand, so out of place on this festive avenue, revelry all around, our six-some a dark cloud in the midst. And dad says to us that he doesn't believe for one minute that God doesn't give you more than you can handle. How he thought that people who said that were wrong, that it simply wasn't true because this, losing his mother, was clearly more than he could handle. And something about how every single day, people went through incomprehensible agony that was most definitely more than was handle-able. Back then, just two years ago, I didn't think too much about what he said. Just tucked that thought away to think about another day.

But you know, now, I get it, and I agree. I do feel that God got this wrong, and he's given us more than we can handle, there's been a mistake on heaven's part. I hear so often these days how strong I am for handling this mix up of God's. How strong we are. I don't understand this. I'm not strong! Do I appear to be because I'm among the living, because I'm not crying at that moment, because I pretend to laugh and smile when inside I'm sad and mad? Is that what makes people believe I'm strong? But what is my alternative, what would make me not strong? If I crawled into bed, between my cool cotton sheets, and hid? If I didn't fake that smile or pretend I'm enjoying myself from time to time? If I spoke my mind and responded to the gas station attendant's "how are you, ma'am" with "well, I was a whole hell of a lot better before we had two dead babies and a new soul and wallet depleting medical bill in our mailbox each morning, and now I feel like an empty ugly broken shell of my old self, with nothing but 10 extra pounds to show for all this physical and emotional assault, but thanks for asking, and I'll take $40 of regular unleaded on pump 12, thanks". ::exhale:: I wonder if people tell us we're 'strong' and that 'God wouldn't give us more than we can handle' because they don't know what else to say. Because "I'm sorry" gets old. Because they don't want to deal with the ugliness of grief and Hallmark doesn't sell a card that says "you lost a baby or two, it sucks, it's okay to be pissed at the world" that they can stick in the mail and feel they've successfully played and completed the role of supportive loved one. Because they want to believe that God is carefully dosing out the misery, deliberate in his attempt to not make anyone's load too heavy, protecting them from such sadness. I don't know. I don't even know that this all makes sense to anyone residing outside of my mind. I just know that suddenly tonight, it hit me that I understood why my dad thought that sentiment was bullshit. I get it. I'm 1500 miles away from that table and that moment with my nearest and dearest Auses....but for a moment, I was back there, nodding along with dad, now burdened by an all too heavy load of my own. Now if only the waiter would just appear with that wonderfully mind numbing Tea.....

I hope the days come easy and moments pass slow,

and each road leads you where you wanna go,

and if you're faced with a choice,

and you have to choose,

I hope you choose the one that means the most to you.

And if one door opens to another door closed,

I hope you keep on walkin' till you find the window,

if it's cold outside,

show the world the warmth of your smile,

But more than anything,

more than anything,

My wish,

for you,

is that this life becomes all that you want it to,

your dreams stay big,

your worries stay small,

You never need to carry more than you can hold,

and while you're out there getting where you're getting to,

I hope you know somebody loves you,

and wants the same things too,

Yeah, this, is my wish.