not alone

This is the end of the summer of 2012, the Olympic games are on TV, in UK, and my life is fabulous and amazing and yet I am stuck in the midst of a cluttered condo with both literal and mental piles of things to do. I’m ready to be unstuck. I’m ready to let go of piles of stuff to keep and to do, and ready to let go of thinking that one day a guy will come and help me to be unstuck. Ready to let go of thinking that one day a guy will show up and finally, finally, it will be alright, that I can breathe again and be safe. Ready to cut the white satin ribbons that tether me to Roger & Hammerstein’s version of Cinderella, where Cinderella goes from suffering quietly (even a bit happily) taking care of everyone  else, to a place of being taken care of by a Prince, and a boatload of servants, including footmen. 

They say you will find love when you are least looking for it, so I am scared sometimes that I will never find it because I am always looking. Always thinking that being in love, spending time with someone who is not your child, who is a responsible adult, would be amazing and fun. Would be the way life is supposed to be. I’ve let go of a lot of silly things I’ve believed in, but I am still hanging onto to the hope of finding someone to be with, and when all is said and done, to be married to, just for the fun of it. It occurred to me this morning that maybe I’ve kept a bit of chaos, kept some of the piles, just in case it was really true, that I would need to be rescued, even though, I am quite possibly the least likely person in the world to be in need of rescue. 

I am ready to not be so alone. Oh, over the years, people have said, “You’re not alone, you have your children.” And this of course, is true to a point, but only parents might truly grasp, too, how untrue this is. Because part of being a parent is holding the place of always being responsible, of being the one who is on call, the sober cab, the one who must have milk in the fridge and some money in case of emergency. This gets exhausting. I’ve not had someone to stop and pick up the milk, put gas in the car or make sure the bills get in the mail. I don’t think it’s too much to think that it is possible to find another responsible adult to love and live with. One who does not call me mom. 

I write this after spending Friday night in the emergency room with Megan, who had her appendix removed early Saturday morning. While we mostly waited in the ER in the hospital room, we watched the diving games on TV. The minutes turned into hours of the nurses coming and going. Finally, close to midnight, they took her into surgery. I waited alone, for two hours in an empty lobby, watching it storm, reading the sci-fi edition of the New Yorker magazine. In the back of my mind thinking, the world is not the same as I remember. I remember while female nurses, and now the hospital staff is not divided by gender or color (except for the doctors, who are still mostly male). I got home Saturday morning at 2:00 am after she was settled in her room. I am the caregiver again. 

This just weeks after my mom had a mild heart attack and spent a few days in the same hospital. I hate hospitals. They are noisy in the weirdest way, constant hummings and beepings, and having TV’s on. Even watching a few brief hours of TV was weird, we don’t  have TV at home, and I was annoyed by the pace of the shows and the commercials, as if I had no attention and was brainless as well. No depth. Hospitals mess with your sense of time and reality, I was told Megan would be able to go home by noon Saturday, we left at three. Where did those three hours go? How can a place where people’s lives are saved be so bad at time management? 

And truth be told, I hate caregiving. Saying so makes me feel like a terrible person, a terrible daughter and mother, but it is God’s honest truth. It seems like such a female centered role, that I nearly feel unwomanly even thinking how much I hate it. When I’m expected to give care, I feel trapped, and then I feel angry, and then I feel guilty and wonder, what the hell is wrong with me? 

So, this Sunday morning, in a messy house, with my recovering daughter, I try the best I can to center myself, to take stock. To know that I can put things in order, eventually, that I can find someone either in order or in chaos who might be able to love me enough. Because to be in this caregiving place makes me feel too horribly vulnerable. It reminds me of being a child, who needed attention and time to play, being expected to watch my younger brothers, too young myself to know what to do. It makes me especially want to be with someone who can be responsible, in a way neither of my parents ever could be. 

Neither of my parents knew how to care-give. As children we suffered alone in our rooms when we were ill. All of my grandparents ended up in nursing homes to die alone. So, what is this telling me I need to do? To let go of my parents’ fear of disorder and of their need for the appearance of control that I’ve internalized, and to find a place of compassion for those who are suffering. To remember that I’m no longer a vulnerable child, caring for other vulnerable children. To let go of the sickening feeling that no one is in charge. And to let go of thinking that there is anything I can control, outside of letting go and resting in the gentle ebb and flow of the amazing good energy of the universe. I am so ready for a wonderful date.