This is my third writing assignment in Birdie’s writing class. It’s never too late to join! (Be kind, writing stories is new to me. I realized that I do not write stories, I write anecdotes and essays. Stories are a LOT harder!)
Finding a way
I pull my dirty brown hair back into yet another uninspired ponytail.
“Maybe I’ll get a shower tomorrow,” I say to my reflection. Life with a toddler – what can you do?
You have to find a way to tell her.
I scoop The Girl up in my arms. “Time to get dressed,” I tell her.
“Cute clothes” she replies. “Cute.out.fit.”
“Yes” I reply, “we will find you something cute.” Thankfully, she still thinks all her clothes are cute.
I lay her down on the changing table, which is actually an “antique” buffet that I got at an estate sale before I ever knew I even wanted a baby. It cost me all of five dollars, and I love it. My mind wanders to that sale years ago. Maybe there’s something there?
There isn’t.
It’s Wednesday. You’re already a day late, you have to find a way to tell her.
I get ready for lunch, and ask The Girl if she would like chicken and rice, or beans and cheese.
“Rrrrrrice!” she says with more enthusiasm than I can muster for just about anything. No surprise there. Given a choice between anything and rice, she picks rice. Rice or corn? Rice! Rice or pasta? Rice! Rice or world peace and the end of the Bush administration? RRRRICE!! She’s committed to her causes, that’s for sure.
Maybe there’s something there? Something about how charming and witty my baby girl is. Something about how she’s not really a baby anymore.
Nope. Nothing.
Think of something. You have to think of something. Tell her.
We get in the car and head into town. We need bread, the good kind with the chewy crust, and peaches, The Girl’s new found love.
At the light, I sit behind a silver SUV, desperately in need of a wash. Through the dust I read the bumper sticker “Great Strides. Taking Steps to Cure Cystic Fibrosis.”
For a moment, I’m back in college, asking my girl friend “what’s wrong with him?” nodding to the frighteningly thin guy in the corner with a big smile and a glass of keg beer in his hand.
His name was Tom, and he had CF. He should have died as a kid, should have died a number of times since being a kid, yet there her was. I got to know Tom then, during undergraduate school. He had a heart of gold and he never let CF slow him down for a second.
Tom knew better than anyone that his life would likely be short, but he didn’t let it stop him. He was president of his fraternity, active on campus, had loads of friends, just an all around great guy. Although Tom spent time everyday taking breathing treatments, and spent a great deal of time in the hospital and generally not feeling well, I never heard him complain. Not once. Not ever.
Tom started law school two years ahead of me, but it took him an extra year to finish. He was exceptionally smart – that was not the problem – but his heart and lungs were failing and school was difficult physically. I always wondered whether, if I knew my life was limited, would I go through law school? It’s generally not something people do just for fun. It’s challenging and stressful. I think a few years on the beach with some margaritas in hand might be the way I would choose to spend my time.
Tom wanted to give back. He never thought about dying, he thought about living. He thought about a cure, or at least a transplant.
Tom graduated from law school and went on to work in the public sector. A few years later, he got a call that his new lungs and heart were ready. We all held our breath while he went into surgery. We all prayed for the family whose tragic loss had given us hope.
The surgery went well, the recovery did not. He caught an infection in his new lungs and after years and years of antibiotics, nothing worked for him anymore. For most people the infection would have been minor, for Tom, it was a killer.
He died shortly after the transplant, and it was crushing to all of us. What bothered me the most is that while I greatly admired him, and while he inspired me so much, I never told him. He died without ever knowing how much he had given me. All I need to do was tell him. I didn’t need the perfect words, I just need to tell him. I missed my chance.
I’m back in my car. The light turns green, the car moves forward and finally, finally, so does my muse.
That’s it! Just tell her. It was so simple!
It’s eight o’clock and I’m in bed with The Girl, nursing her to sleep. In my mind, I’m drafting what I am going to say. I’m going to tell her that when she wrote in the comments “[i]t makes me feel like I’m making some kind of strange difference somehow with these nutty articles” I almost fell over.
Making a difference? Nutty articles? Are you insane? Of course you make a difference! Your words have inspired me for years. You’ve made me laugh and cry with you. You’ve made me dance by myself to mourn the loss of your best friend. You’ve left me awestruck at your ability to write the most private details of your life, and to do it with such grace. You’ve inspired me to keep writing, even when the words are as weak as my spirit. You’ve celebrate the birth of my child with me. You’ve held my hand when the depression was pulling me down into blackness, assuring me that the sun would shine again. And you did it all from a thousand miles away, without ever meeting me.
Your “nutty articles” have changed my life. Even if I never write another story using the “three lists of three” method, it has changed the way I look at the world. I look at the mom with her toddler in the library. I look at her; I see her. I wonder if she will be one of my “three people.” Yesterday I wouldn’t have remembered I even went to the library, today I see a person there. A see a person with hopes and dreams and wishes that probably aren’t that much different than my own. I give her a smile, a kind word. “You look like you’re a good mother” I say to her.
She smiles at me, perhaps taken aback, but looking grateful, maybe even touched. Her arms drop to her side, her body relaxes for a minute. “Thank you” she says. I can tell that she means it. Her son runs to the board books and flops down; she runs after him. She gives me a look that says she wishes she had more time. I know that look too.
I think about her later and wonder if my thoughts about her will be included on my “three things that happened” list. I wonder if my wondering about her will be on my “three observations list.” If I take away nothing more than “three lists of three” from your “nutty articles” my life is richer for it.
I believe that soulmates come in all shapes and sizes and types of love. Without a doubt, Norman is my soulmate, the one with whom I was destined to spend my life. He is my love. But, there are other people too, friends I have known for years, and friends that only feel like years. I believe these people are my soulmates too.
My oldest friend, Brenda, who I have no memory of not knowing; my law school friend, DeAnn, now the godmother of my daughter; and, my dear friend, Monte, whose music fills my iPod and art fills my hard-drive – they are all solemates to me.
As are you, Birdie. My dear friend. My soulmate.
The Girl is sleeping soundly, and I get up to leave. I head down to the computer.
Of course, it’s so easy now. Just tell her. Why couldn’t I see that before? I don’t need to write the perfect story. I couldn’t do it if I tried. All I need to do is tell her.
I sit down at my computer and begin to write the words:
I pull my dirty brown hair back into yet another uninspired ponytail.
