Day 172: Tending & Taking Care
I’ve been thinking about writing all day, and having the kind of day where I seriously wonder (and yes, worry a little) whether I will ever be able to write again. These words helped:
“Let them be sure that every little deed counts, that every word has power, and that we can—every one—do our share to redeem the world in spite of all absurdities and all frustrations and all disappointments.”
We ate dinner tonight in shifts. I ate half of a leftover burrito while making a box of Annie’s Mac & cheese for Pearl. Half hour later, V texted me from her room asking if I’d heat up some fried rice from last night. On nights when I actually cook a meal from scratch and we all eat together, I feel victorious. On nights like this, I feel simply grateful that there is plenty of food, choices even, and appreciate that we are not wasting any of last night’s take out.
Last night was take-out because Pearl and I spent three hours in the ER getting him checked out for a mild concussion following a nasty spill off a BMX bike. He does not remember the actual accident, though, mercifully, his memory of events beforehand returned steadily in the hours following it. The ER doc did a neuro exam, checked his vitals, and reviewed a flow chart with us of how they decide whether to conduct CT scans for pediatric head injuries. I decided to forgo the scan, consulted by phone with Pearl’s dad and with Mani (both of whom concurred), and then waited until they felt he was ready to be discharged. A nice tech came and cleaned up his road rash, the looks of which would make an innocent bypasser wonder how the other guy made out.
Today was quiet. I set out for a run this morning but after half a mile, Pearl texted met that he wasn’t feeling well so I turned around and came home. Earlier, before I’d even gotten out of bed, I read harrowing news from Oregon that left me completely shook. These stories can’t not change us. These fires can’t not change us. The harrowing realities we are facing – as Americans, as a species – can’t not change us. Maybe this is a kind of prayer.
Tending to a loved one who is sick or injured has a kind of clarifying effect. You know what needs to be done. You do it. Whether you do it with a sense of reverence, pragmatism, or both, whether you are exhausted or rested, whether you are calm or frightened, whether you are preoccupied with other things or singularly focused, you take care of your person. This person might be your child, your parent, your spouse, your sibling, your friend. They might be appreciative or they might be unable to express appreciation. But the exchange between you, on some deep level, is formative. It can’t not change you.
I remember my kids being sick as babies. Staying up through the night. Wet washcloths or extra blankets, curling my own body around them, lying there awake as they snuffled and coughed. The immense relief at signs of improvement. The calls to the doctor. There are few things that have ever brought me into greater presence than moments when I feared for the wellbeing of my children. I imagine that most, if not all of us, can relate to this on some level, whether with children or some other loved one. Everything shrinks and expands at the same time. You kick into gear as if by instinct. Other things that seemed important – those emails you haven’t replied to yet, the grocery shopping – fall away.
This earth is a body. Like each of our bodies, it is an extraordinary wonder of fabulously intricate, wondrously complicated and precise systems that, when in concert, allow us to live and even thrive. But our bodies do not exist in a vacuum. We exist in relation to other bodies, and all of us rely on the body that is essentially the mother of us all: The planet. What we are seeing right now, what we have been seeing escalate and accelerate and intensify for many decades, is the result of human negligence. As a client so wisely said on the phone Friday, “Nothing just happens.” We could say the same of the unraveling of the U.S. Constitution, of the rampant racism, of the deadly virus that has claimed 66 times more American lives than 9/11.
All day, I tended to my son. I checked on him. I brought him water, Tylenol, small meals. Sometimes he was FaceTiming with a friend. At one point, he’d fallen asleep. My sense of purpose was crystal clear. Alternately, I baked, bathed the dog, swept the floors, scrubbed the pink mildew from the shower. I used my body in simple, direct ways. I read the news in utter astonishment and went down an Air Quality Index rabbit hole. We are contending with loss after loss, all while taking care of our lives, our families. All while making room, so essentially, for rest, for joy, for presence in whatever forms it comes.
How are we supposed to do this?
Rosh Hashanah is a week from now. We will celebrate the birthday of the world, this world that was once pristine and that is experiencing so much ruin wrought by humans. We will be reminded, in some of the most powerful liturgy of the Jewish year, of the need to be accountable for our actions, the need to acknowledge where we missed the mark, where we forgot what mattered, where we fell asleep at the wheel, where we caused damage that may or may not be reparable.
We will look ahead to a year to come, an act of faith if ever there was one, knowing that each of us and we collectively will surely misstep again. We will ask for forgiveness – in advance – even as we vow to do better. We will dip apples in honey and wish each other a sweet new year.
If these times do not transform us, it is because we are unwilling to be transformed. Maybe we are frightened that the pain will be too much. Maybe we have buckled under so much grief. Maybe we are frozen, barely able to keep the pieces together, wishing someone would come care for us, too.
And so we must tend to each other. Everything depends on this. Not everyone will make it. Too many have died already. I shy away from writing this – too dark, too heavy, who needs to read dark and heavy things when the circuits are already overloaded? But I will not delete, because to name what’s real is also to name the necessity of doing what each of us can and must do – the next right thing.
This might be giving the kiddo another dose of Tylenol, or getting down on the kitchen floor and snuggling the dog. It might mean climbing into bed and binge-watching a show. It might mean delivering dry goods to the shelter or calling your mother.
One thing I know for sure is that there is no wrong way to meet this moment.