hiking without happy meals; a modern paradigm chronicling the struggles, pitfalls,
& successes of life, running, writing, urban farming,
& home schooling in these crazy modern days.
Life is our classroom.
“You’re still breathing, that’s a good thing.” He nervously states.
I say his name wrapped in stupid astonishment across time and space.
He laughs at me, “And mentally alert, that’s a good thing too, Sweetness.”
I ask him “To what do I owe this honor, Doctor?”
“I’m calling to tell you not to be scared, not to give up, that everything is okay.”
“He told you.” I say then I begin crying.It is mixture of embarrassment & relief. I had relayed some private medical concerns to one man & he had passed them along to the other, gossiping men, perplexing grown boys still fighting in the play yard.
“Yes,” he lowers his voice.I know him well enough to know this means he is hanging his head, pinching the bridge of his nose carefully finding his words, treading awkwardly, “he is a better friend to you than doctor.” There is a pause.“Misty…” Another pause, “please, don’t give up.” And we start talking. Past our current conversation, past all his reassurances I hear a conversation that took place in the wind a long time ago, shouts falling in whispers of how to be brave. It's hard to believe we ever had that conversation. Hell, it’s hard to believe he and I are having THIS conversation, talking about my body & its short comings with a man who with one look into his eyes renders me totally speechless. One word I am laughing so hard I might pee my pants. One memory I am in tears. One moment in time I was his. I was the woman he loved. At some point I tell him, “This body is like a fucking cage.”
“When you are scared it scares me.” He admits.
“I didn’t know anything could scare you.” “Misty, please, don’t be scared. God has a reason.You were given this fight because you are capable of doing this.”
“You know I don’t believe in God.”
“But you believe in me?”
“Yes Dear.In you I believe.”
When we hang up I hold the phone in my hand & start crying again.I’m no longer scared, well mostly not scared, not scared enough to cry over. These are those tears you get when you line up in a sea of pink shirts for the Race for the Cure or when a baby is born: tears of being overwhelmed by the vastness of universe and all that is to come. Tears of gratitude. I’m also crying because I miss you, and ‘that’s a good thing’.Missing you has always been the iron rod I cling to. Without the idea of you I am totally lost.
I’m going to be just fine; I’m going dry my eyes and carry on with you without you. Thank you for everything.