I’ve been crouched down on my knees for so long that I can’t remember if I was looking for something or praying. Maybe it was a little of both. But my knees are bleeding from being down here so long, and, since I am days away from turning 50, I’m willing to accept the fact that it’s getting more difficult to get back up again.
Dammit. Please come out. Please allow me to express all of these horribly horrific experiences that are holding my brain hostage. I’m tired of having them in my head… a screenplay for the tragedy that is relentlessly playing out, whipping into a frenzy that I pray will stop but am afraid will stop. I can’t even begin to edit all the footage so it will make any sense and the maudlin soundtrack refuses to modulate to a different key, which I just know would melodically pull us out of this quagmire of defeat.
Ben is in decline. I cannot make my mind conjure up an image other than me standing on a parapet waving a white flag, conceding defeat. Only it’s not my flag to raise. So I rewind the footage in order to erase that it looks like I’m trying to tell him what to do, even though I don’t want him to do that. I’m just tired of seeing him hurt. And I’m sure he’s tired of hurting. He’s got to be so tired.
The kicking is getting slower and the urgency of survival is giving in to the promise of rest. Each push of his patient-controlled morphine allows him to exist in this state of in-between… giving us time to love and grieve and all the terrifyingly beautiful things most people would probably rather avoid.
It’s just shocking how much it hurts.