Life: An explosively circular cycle of emotionally puke filled insanity. Life: an emotionally filled set of circumstances laden with love and connections.
When you’re on the rollercoaster of life puke your mind tells you that you’re alone. No one knows what you’re feeling. They can’t associate the ache in your soul. They don’t understand how deep the pain resides. And why should they? Your mind tells you it’s ok to suffer in separateness. That you shouldn’t share your misery and pain. It’s not their problem and it’s too hurtful to explain. But one day life shows up with a deck of cards offering connection and love. Offering the remembrance of relationships that you have built out of love and support. People who bring the love, people who bring the cooperation of familiarity that you have made through out the years. You don’t have to explain your pain. They aren’t here to solve your shit stained puzzle of circumstance. They show up to look you in the eye and squeeze you so tightly that you can feel the transfer of their loving energy. “You look so beautiful Danielle. You look so good,” they say with sincerity. “Thank you,” I reply without truly considering their words. They sit on the surface like a duck wading in the water. I’m not letting them in. I can feel that. “You’re doing so good. I always knew you had it in you,” another person says. Their words are chipping away at my brick wall, cracking the exterior. “To be going through everything, holding your head up high, you are doing great.” The wall starts crumbling, dust falling to the ground, pieces of my barricaded emotions are deteriorating. “I don’t want you to explain anything or discuss the details, we see you, we love you.”
I exhale.
Yes. The words fill me with light. I don’t have to be constantly reminiscing or reiterating the script of my existence. I don’t have to explain the forced lesson of acceptance when I learned that my husband is with another. I don’t have to express my continued acknowledgement of my cut, ripped and replaced body. All I have to do is feel the love. Feel the connection of energy filled with utter affection and support.
Recently after looking at my work torn hands I decided I needed reinforcement so I meandered myself to a manicurist. He was an older Asian man. He held my hands like a father. He looked at me gently and smiled. Oddly enough I let it in. I could feel his concern as he began the process of attempted repair. After a minute he gently ran his finger over the long scar on my right hand. He touched the entirety of it. The full length. So gently and with so much care.
“What happened?” He asked with a heartfelt wonder. “I broke my hand,” I replied matter of factly. “How?!” He asked his left hand cradling mine with his right pressed firmly on top. “I was receiving chemo and I banged it on a door frame. Because my bones were weak it shattered.” He didn’t reply but stared seemingly shocked. “When did this happen?” “In May,” I whispered. “Not this May?!” He said in disbelief. “Yeah,” I replied. It happened this May.” He put his head down somberly and gave my hand one last warm sandwiched touch before continuing the task at hand (no pun intended).
His touch made me emotional. What the fuck? Why am I tearing up as I sit in a semi Italian based themed nail salon operated by Vietnamese staff? And then I realized… No one has ever touched my scar.
His loving energy and attentiveness was the first I have felt toward my injured hand. I apologized to my hand for not giving it the healing love it deserved. I haven’t emphasized the significance of my broken hand. It has seemingly fallen through the cracks of the puke filled rollercoaster.
I’m having surgery on Tuesday to repair a screw that is backing out. My surgeon is going to open it up, screw that bad boy back into place, cheeky little fucker, and smooth out the incision. I have a second chance to show my wound some love. I promise to be here for you right hand. Let’s heal properly this time.
