Good Enough

Drinking tea instead of wine at night to smooth the tickle that disrupts the back of my throat, throwing me into coughing fits mid-conversation, my elbow over my mouth, back turned.

Been thinking a lot about sickness and health.

(Till death do us part.)  

Why do we hide from the shared fact that we all die?

We deny this final page as if we can read backwards to the prologue, as if the covers of the book never close.

*****

"Mom, why is the girl just lying down?  And the boy leaving her?"

"It's part of the dance."

Olive and I sit in the back row of East High's auditorium to watch Reni perform with Dance Contempo. The diverse beauty of the girls and boys bodies as they move together across the stage holds us captive. Every dance a different style, from ballet to hip hop to modern to tango, polished to to an athletic art that speaks directly to the soul.

Beauty in action.

Olive never takes her eyes off the stage when she asks me questions about the performance.

'Where's Reni?"

"She's not in this one."

"Why'd those girls walk off stage?"

"They'll be back."

Half-way through the performance, during a love story duet, Olive says: "Mom, she has a pretend leg too," and its only then that I notice the girl's prosthetic.

Mom she has a pretend leg too.

Too.

We all have something wrong with us, an injury, a flaw, a secret we harbor as if it is our burden alone. We waste so much time pretending to be whole when all we really need is to be embraced broken.

As is.

We spent almost every Saturday this winter at the Challenge chalet, an adaptive ski school on the slopes of Alyeska and besides the obvious benefit of skiing as a family, the biggest bonus is being a part of a community of people forced to acknowledge the human condition of loss and flipping it on its head by living even more completely in the present.

*****

Last week I learned I don't have cancer but that my body contains cells that could continue to mutate if left unchecked. I tripped on the word "pre-cancerous" in my report, falling over the letters and the fear they hold.

Not yet, I first thought, brewing worry with words, until I read it again and landed on not now.

*****

"Mom," Elias laughs, "Where's the ball?"

"Did he just call you Mom?" the new kid from Mexico asks in the middle of our recess soccer game.

"Yeah, I'm his Mom."

"Wait, you're a Mom?" he squints his eyes up at me and cocks his head.

"Yeah, I'm Elias's Mom. And I have a daughter Olive who will be here for kindergarten next year."

The ball interrupts our conversation but later he runs near me again and says, "Why does your son need... ?" Not sure of the word, he mimics walking with canes.

"They help with his balance. You know how some people wear glasses to help their vision, well his canes are like that for his balance."

 "But," He shrugs his shoulders, "He's fine. He doesn't need them."

I smile into the sun at this 11-year-old I knew I liked when I first met and say, "You're right, he can walk without them. He doesn't always use them." 

"Yeah," the boy nods, "He's good." And as he runs down the field my heart follows in his wake, arms outstretched to embrace the truth of his words.

He's good.

And that is just it: We are all good.

Good enough.

Here. Now.

As is.

*****

 

Comments

[Sara]

A beautiful post, Christy... "He's good", that simple statement, brought tears to my eyes. Love those simple, beautiful moments.

[Toni]

Beautiful post!

[Tabatha]

I'm glad you were able to pull something positive out of a scare. There's a deep, rich, profound, and necessary lesson here!

[Danielle]

Feeling deep relief for you…and joy in that "We're good" feeling. Best to you all, Danielle in Zurich

[Christy]

Thanks all! Relief indeed, I had almost a month of wondering if I had cancer and a week of fear due to the finding of abnormal cells. But, yes, we're good.

One other cool piece to the recess soccer story is how all the kids have included Elias when he chooses to play, both teams stopping if the ball lands near his feet and giving Elias a chance to lean on his canes and kick the ball. And you should see his smile:)

[Kimberly]

I can feel your joy in that student's positive remark about Elias. I sub at my daughter's school and hold my breath when students make the connection between me and my daughter with mild CP. Sometimes I'm eager to share her miracle, to share why she differs. Other times I just want everything to be 'normal' (whatever that may be), but not interested in being engaged in the topic when trying to do my job and wishing she didn't have to struggle. One little girl made my day when she came up and exclaimed how well Ellianna jumped rope. Her compliment soared me with joy and gratitude. To be celebratory instead of defensive, it was a physical relief to me.
I'm happy for Elias' positive experiences and for you as well. I truly appreciate your writing and insight.