Just Around The Corner

The next two days were spent in quiet isolation, while driving north to MT. I listened to no music nor audio books. I spoke on the phone only occasionally, as necessary, but mostly, simply basked in my own reflections, drowning myself in the overview, analysis, and evaluation of the previous month. I enveloped my mind in a warm contemplation of the past, present and future and dissected and examined without limit or end. Any disruption was an annoyance, as I indulged profoundly in thought.

I knew I had a very beautiful and loving man anxiously awaiting my arrival. However, I was feeling a perfectly synchronized dance between an utter sense of dread and a powerfully magnetic longing. The last thing I wanted to do was to walk back into my home, what had been our happy camping house, alone, without my son. I was being tortured by the my own, personal little emotional terrorist, as I so intensely dreaded the sound of the silence and vacancy, screaming in my heart and echoing throughout the house, as I opened the door. I dreaded the crushing sensation of my aloneness. The umbilicus to my son had been severed, and what had been a bonded twosome of 19 years, was now returning a sole creature stuffed to bursting seams with nothing but question marks.

I also, fervently longed to see my wonderful man, the love of my life. How I had missed him while away. My heart doesn’t beat properly without him. In our separation, my lungs fail to inhale as deeply, and my smile lacks its luster. Unfortunately, with every quickened mile that I got closer to him, his arms, his warmth, his kiss, I also got closer to my dreaded, screaming pain. Why did they have to be in the same location? Drat! However, onward I drove, to the bloody, elated, loving train wreck that lay waiting ahead. With every mile shrinking the distance between myself and my pending…whatever, my feelings intensified all around. My heart was raced, my breathing shallowed. Home was just around the corner.

Final Breakfast

The next morning, my final morning in San Francisco, Walter and I had breakfast at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. Fabulous. I ate oatmeal, my first food in four days. It was golden. Over breakfast we discussed business and me. He made me the most beautiful offer. It was most overwhelming. After extensive dialoguing, however, we left it all somewhat open. He had several projects coming into focus, and wanted me in the mix somewhere. He said that he knew he wanted to work with me, and that I would be an asset to any one of his projects or businesses. I would leave it to him to evaluate his needs, paired with my skill set, and find the best fit. I would have to see where things would go and what time would bring. He felt that I had a great deal on my plate, and that my mother would have to be one of my primary focuses, at least for the short-term, and that his offer would be there when I was ready. He would wait for me to come to him. For now, he thought I needed to take some time for me and my mother. He offered to do all he could to be supportive and helpful.

He gave me the most wonderful support and encouragement. His monologue over breakfast was substantial, heartfelt, and wise. He said that although it was diverting from my normal path, my modus operandi, I had to take care of and think of myself, also. He said that he understood that there were many demands coming at me, all at once, that could overwhelm me and consume my time, right now, but that this was also a time that had originally been set aside for me to explore and learn about me and what I wanted for my future. He said his biggest fear for me, was that I would relinquish this time to everyone else, and it would pass, ever onward. Then, at some point, I would look back and say “what if” or “if only”. He said the biggest tragedy and casualty of this time would be that outcome. He wanted me to never have to say, “what if”. He didn’t want me to miss out on anything, and said that life is not a dress rehearsal. If it feels good, do it. If it doesn’t, then honor that, too, and don’t do it.

We parted at my hotel. I hugged him and thanked him for all he’d done and said. He asked if I would return for more interviews. I assured him I would when he thought he’d found a fit. I was pleased. I would miss him very much. His energy, humor, and insight were pleasures to be around, and I felt that he sincerely cared for me and my future. I loved San Francisco and would miss that, too. He was a beloved and unconditional friend. My blessings are countless. I had much to think about on my two-day drive to MT. Many seeds had been planted on this month-long expedition of mine. Though nothing entirely concrete came from it, I did so enjoy and learn, and I hoped with some time and given the proper conditions, perhaps a beautiful garden would grow from this venture.

What Would Come

The next few days were simultaneously spent in outward wonderment and inward desolation. I love San Francisco. The tour of the city was incredible and Walter showed me the very best of what it had to offer. I was so utterly contented to be in this place. It felt like home. Though I had been there several times, this was new and different. We enjoyed the sights and vistas, long walks, piano concerts, old Italian movies, champagne, and extended, involved conversations. I was unable to eat and felt sick to my stomach most of the time, not surprising, given the emotional wringer I was in. But it was OK, and Walter was very sweet about it, understanding how difficult this time was for me, in so many different ways. It was a time of emotional extremes, and I was extracting from life every ounce of its raw trueness.

Walter insisted we drive down to Palo Alto and have dinner, with my son, my last evening in San Francisco. We had an incredible meal – well, they did – in an elegant restaurant, and we laughed, told stories and jokes, and left, for a moment, some sadness behind. I simply didn’t invite it along. I didn’t want to miss that goodness, right there in the room with me, then, in that instance, by wasting it on worry. What would be, would be; what would come, would come. For now, in this place there was joy. We enjoyed the evening with abandon. Before dropping my son at his dorm, I informed him of grandma’s news. Silence. “Really,” he said.

“Yes. They offered her chemo, saying that she had five years, regardless of what she did, treatment or no treatment. She only has a few cancer cells present, so I believe there’s more hope than that, and I’m hoping she turns down the chemo. Why be sick and miserable, if won’t effect a positive change?”

He agreed, and asked to me to please talk to her about a different path. I assured him I would. I hugged him and told him how very much I loved him. He turned, once again, to walk away. I returned to the car, and cried all the way back to San Francisco. Walter held my hand, saying not one word, as I gazed out the window.

Black

I sat on the bed in my hotel room, speechless, tearless, entirely motionless. I lost my dad when I was five, now I will lose my mother. It was a profound moment, a realization of the orphan vision. There was no sound around me. The room became cold. I was in a vacuum. I was in space. I was in a black box. I was…

 
I looked up at the ceiling, as though God were actually in the room looking over me, and said very emphatically, “You have got to be f—–g kidding me!!!” My head sank.

I began to cry, and then stopped immediately. This had to be tabled. This had to wait. This was not the time to process this. No meltdowns allowed. I had a very important meeting in less than an hour. I was leaving for the airport in minutes. I couldn’t control my mom’s cancer, at that moment –maybe later – but I could control my possible future destiny, occurring presently, and this was the immediate urgency in the room. The potential here was huge, and I had to keep my act together. I could cry all the way home to MT, if I needed to, but this was not the time. I continued to dress. I dashed out of the room, as the driver was downstairs to retrieve me, and we were off to the airport.

It

The next morning, I was in no hurry, as my destination for the day was only a forty-minute drive away. San Francisco, here I come. I researched colon cancer, made my calls, and prepared for fun and a possible new job. I was going to meet a friend of mine there, Walter, who had a possible position for me in one of his companies. We were going to discuss business, as well as tour and enjoy the City. I was so excited and nervous, all at he same time. As I was dressing to leave for the airport to collect him – he was flying in from Houston – I received the call from my mother. She had met with her Oncologist. He gave her five years to live, regardless of whether or not she chose chemo or any other kind of treatments. There it was, her death sentence.

Hidden In Wolf’s Clothing?

As I drove away from the campus, I wafted deeply into my thoughts. I hoped that I would soon, once again, feel the true contentedness and exuberance for my own life that he feels for his. I used to. I have always enjoyed a most astoundingly happy, rich life. Really. I’ve been fortunate beyond measure. I still am, but I have also always been so full of conviction, vision, and direction. I always had a plan and worked toward a goal, and I miss that, and I’d really appreciate this time of drift, this confusing, somewhat empty, frightening, and worrisome time to be over, finished to a positive and most satisfactory end. My arms feel vacant. They’re not. That is, but illusion. A major subject of my conviction, vision, and direction has gone away, moved on, and I am in desperate need of another conviction, vision, and direction. It sometimes feels like my life has imploded, in some ways. Again, I know this is illusion, an adjustment period, but I am tremendously impatient with it. I want it over with absolutely as quickly as possible. Immature? Perhaps, but it’s like going to the dentist or getting a shot. I want it over with, yesterday! Then I can move on to the good stuff. In this moment, I fully understood that everything happens in its own, good time, I did. I do. But I disliked the discomfort.

I also detested, perhaps more than anything else, the discomfort of my indecision, and the unknown variables that I couldn’t ascertain or control. My mother’s illness was something I simply had to be patient with, and I had to allow time to work its magic, along the path that circumstance would take. That scenario is completely out of my control, and unfortunately, something that I can’t fix. However, my life, the indecision and hopes for my future, were tapestries that only I could weave. Clear vision is mandatory in the creation of that weave. Furthermore, and interestingly, part of my confusion was the presence of the confusion itself. It didn’t seem, on one hand, to make much sense to me. Why was I confused about what I wanted to do? I’ve never been that way in the past? Why was it so hard to make a decision? This frustrated me to no end. On the other hand, I knew that as time passed, and I got used to my new childless sea legs, decisions would become easier and my vision clearer. No longer, did every thought, word, or deed have to revolve around what was best for the child. It was weird and would take some getting used to. I had to cut myself some slack.

Therefore, after, much deliberation, I concluded that all of this was going to be temporary, and that this bastardization of my mental processes would not last forever. It was a time of normal adjustment, transition. And I would have to take one day at a time and stretch my patient muscles, even though I detested it. All things would be revealed in its own, good time. Meanwhile, I could have some fun and experience the goodness life offered. I must admit, also, that my discomfort in this, might just be a catalyst for the change I’m so eagerly seeking, and actually endeavor to propel me onward more passionately and more determined than ever. It might be an ally hidden in wolf’s clothing.

A Supreme Cheat?

However, here’s the rub. As I scratched my head and contemplated my line of thinking, later, the catch in my get along about the whole seeing-him-again thing, is that I was consoling myself, finding comfort in, placating my grief and filling the holes of emptiness, in this empty nesting period, with episodes of seeing my son, thinking of times we would be together, instead of rebuilding a life individually of and for myself. It was a supreme cheat. Wasn’t this wrong? It’s like an alcoholic daydreaming of his next drink, and getting through his dependence with small doses of alcohol, instead of quitting it cold turkey. My mind set seemed wrong for true, long lasting healing and transitioning into my independence, and the ultimate strength of the foundation of my separate structure – my life without children, my letting go. I’ll have to give this more thought, and evaluate, as I am seeing many sides to this. I knew then, that I had to stay aware of a possible pattern that might give me some wee trouble to come. I couldn’t rely on seeing him, for my lack of sorrow or my joy. But it sure was nice to see him.

I Reveled

We ate and talked and laughed. I reveled in his stories and excitement. We was so truly contented. Truly contented. How many can really say that? Or how many people really feel it or are able to acknowledge it or recognize it when they have it? It was awesome to see him this way. He was exuberant about his life. We discussed school, his professors, classes and new friends. He explained some of the volunteer work in which he had gotten involved, and what it’s like for him at the collegiate level. We spoke of grandma and her cancer. I told him that I would let him know what the oncologist said at tomorrow’s meeting. His attitude was positive, like everything else about him, and mine was, too. At this point, we found no purpose in assuming the worst. He lectured me strongly on talking to her about alternative, non-toxic treatments, if she indeed would have to have some kind of treatment. He wanted me to talk to her about all the “stuff” I had raised him with, in dealing with health care issues and diet. I assured him that I had already begun my research, and would mention alternatives to her, but would not push the matter. It was ultimately her decision, her path to choose. It was urgently important to him, however, that she look and think outside the box and think non-toxic.
After gorging on a fabulous meal, I drove him back to his dorm. He asked if I could come to dinner one more night, before I left San Francisco to go back to MT. I was staying there several days, and I thought I might be able to make something work, but I couldn’t promise anything, as I was not solely in charge of my own schedule. We decided I would try, and then call him to confirm. That was another surprising and happy prospect. We hugged good-bye in front of his dorm and I didn’t feel the need to cry. I felt sad, but I felt like it was OK. I didn’t get that rush, that wave of desperate sadness. I was so cautiously grateful. I was possibly going to be seeing him, again, in a few days. And perhaps I’d be working in the area sometime soon. And there was a concert in early December that the boys were planning on attending. Maybe I would be here for that. I didn’t know for certain what lay ahead, but our separation seemed temporary this time, like camp.
I was quiet and pensive, as I watched him walk back into his dorm, and my demeanor was demure. I was humbled by the weight of watching him walk away from me, but I wasn’t falling apart, not breaking down. I floated through the wave without sinking and remained cautious, aware, and grateful. I was grateful for the evening, I was grateful for skating through mildly, at the time of his departure, the good-bye, and I was grateful that I would be seeing him again soon. Of that, I was certain. This time it wasn’t really good-bye. I suppose it wasn’t the last time either. It was only my illusion that it was.

A Sacred Hour And A Half

There he was, walking toward me, looking exactly the same, as when I left him more than two and a half weeks earlier. Wow. He hadn’t changed at all. Why would he, in such a short amount of time? Yet, I was surprised. He was smiling. He was smiling that enormous smile that crosses fully from one side of his face to the other. His hat was on backwards, and he wore shorts and a Stanford t-shirt. There he was. He was the epitome of pure joy. My heart leapt. I wanted to cry with joy, but I contained myself. “He’s so beautiful,” I thought to myself.

In that exact moment, as he was walking towards the car and me, I could feel the little pitter-pat of my heart, and then, only for a micro second, I felt sad. Not only did I miss him as I saw him, but secretly, I also felt a bit envious of his life, his joy, his conviction of who he is and what he wanted. I didn’t wish it away from him, in fact I wanted to lavish him with more, but I also wanted to share in that feeling for myself. He knew what he wanted. He knew where he wanted to find it, he had chosen well, and was reaping the rewards of his labors. I felt a bit lost, uncertain of so many things, worried, and a wee bit fearful. I wished, for a second, that I were him, in his shoes.

When he spoke and approached the car, the spell was broken, and I was euphoric. I ran out to greet him with hugs. My heart was bursting with pure happiness. I didn’t cry, though I wanted to. We jumped in the car, began chatting away, and drove to an Indian restaurant on University Ave. He informed me then, that he had an Amnesty International meeting in an hour and a half. He only had an hour and a half. Oh, I was disappointed that he didn’t have more time, but I didn’t show it. I was so grateful for whatever time he had for me, on a school night. It was an hour and a half…a Sacred hour and a half.

Change of Direction

I left Coronado according to my original schedule, and drove to Huntington Beach. Paul greeted me at his gate with a huge hug. What comfort. He carried my enormous bag into the house and up the stairs to my room. I danced with the puppies. It felt good to be there – not to mention that I overshot my exit off the freeway and ended up in east LA. Yea…but everything turned OK. It just took a really… long… time… to… get…to…the…house… Needless to say, I was a bit tired when I arrived, and utterly thrilled to be safe. But all’s well that end’s well. We had a long, delightful meal that evening, at his favorite restaurant, and we ate for hours. My kind of dining. Where does the time go?

My two days there were lovely, and as I left, Paul gave me a pep talk, that only the soul brother that he is, could deliver. His words sunk in and resonated with me. I drove away feeling powerful and full of potential, smiling, yet sad to leave, once again. My drive to Palo Alto was uneventful and I arrived on time. I checked into my hotel and freshened up before I left to pick up my son from his dorm. I was so excited and nervous. “Oh, please, don’t let this OUCH me.”