The gift of presence
This morning while meditating the tears come gushing out. Amy has melanoma on her right arm. The dermatologist biopsied it two weeks ago and yesterday she was told it's malignant and requires further surgery. Fuck. Just Fuck. While it doesn't seem to be dire, he does want her in as soon as possible and it's a surgery that adds more stress to our lives. Hopefully, she won't have to do chemo or radiation. Of course, this means more uncertainty, money, time, and discomfort for her. Last week it was our dog, Bella, in the ER for 24 hours. The pace of challenges being thrown our way feels relentless and I'm buckling under the weight.
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On Tuesday I kept losing my shit and finally, Amy sat me down on the couch, her body acting as my grounding rod so that I could work. She gave me strength, calm, peace. She kept me focused, was 100% present, applauded my little successes, and provided me with something I've rarely experienced in my life-- someone simply being by my side, holding space for me.
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I learned in infancy to rely on myself-- self-sufficiency was highly valued and believed to be the foundation of a fully functioning human. Of course, this aligned with parents that were not securely attached. Buried underneath and woven into my mother's neural pathways was profound loss, undigested grief, and never expressed emotions. Her father lost his first wife and child during birth. Somehow he found the courage to marry again a few years later. Their first child, Peter, was stillborn. How did my grandmother deal with her loss? They were both stoic teetotalers who regularly attended a Presbyterian, liberal-leaning, church. Did they find comfort in the liturgy? The bible is certainly full of loss, grief, and hardship. Did the stories and teachings help? There were no grief groups or therapists in Philadelphia at the time (early 1930's). Did my grandfather blame his wife for the child's death and his added grief? Did he have an opportunity to feel his losses? My mother was born a year after Peter died. I imagine the daily terror my grandparents felt that they might lose this child too. And so, they were distant both because of their history of loss and because of how they were wired. We seem to think that if we don't open our hearts fully somehow that will make it hurt less if and when we lose the object of our love. I think it makes the suffering more profound though-- especially when someone dies.
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Despite feeling eviscerated by Hunter's death, I have no regrets about loving him as fully as I did. If we are here on earth to become masters of love (as I believe we are) then opening to the deepest, widest love possible to the only way to be. Francis Weller's words echo in my ears, "Everything you love, you will lose." When I was younger I would have railed against this idea. Now I simply know it's true. And given that it's true, I ask myself, every day, how can I love more, open more, give more, grieve more fully?
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Amy's capacity to be with me in my deepest sorrow and in my ecstasy, as I muddle through work or struggle to unpack a box left from our untimely remodel in September, is the most amazing demonstration of love in action. I do not need to be fixed-- because I'm not broken. I'm just very, very human, which means I need my tribe and loved ones to comfort me and celebrate with. I need companionship. I need to know it's not a weakness to want her or you by my side, it's actually strength and vulnerability and love all rolled up in one.
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Who in your life could use your presence right now? No words or gifts or food needed. Just your presence (even on Zoom or on the phone). No demands to talk (but an invitation to do so if desired). Nothing other than holding space for them. This is what will heal our hearts in this time of mourning. Being. With. Each other.
Sending all of you an open invitation to be still, be loving, and be in this most precious moment with those you love.
