Another day that you get two posts from me. I wrote this for my group while on the first leg of a flight heading to a retreat. We had a layover in Atlanta and the tears that were threatening to leak out the entire today finally burst out of me while walking through the airport. I hate this.
The forest was my landscape, where everything was lush and green and spectacular. I was surrounded by beauty. Life was in technicolor, vibrant and bright and exciting. I couldn’t wait to see what was over the next hill, behind the next tree, hiding in the grass. Even after D-day, diagnosis day, the forest sustained me. It fed me, nourished me. Was something to look forward to after the desert of the hospital. Reminded me of the beauty to which we would one day return. The promise of the forest, of life, of renewal, kept me going.
But then. Then everything changed. The promise of the forest was gone. Back to the desert I went. But this time it was even more barren, more arid, with no more promise of the rejuvenation of the forest.
The world around me is now brown, dull, devoid of color, smells and sounds. The desert surrounds me like a bubble. Life goes on around me with the optimistic sounds and colors of the forest. The birds chirping, the frogs croaking, the dew glistening on the leaves of the trees. Animals scampering about. A world of hope and beauty and adventure. But here in the desert all is quiet. No signs of life. Nothing to do, no reason or purpose. The sand seeps into my every pore making me so uncomfortable in my own skin. It begins to pile up around me, threatening to bury me. People can see me in the desert bubble. They see me suffering, panicking, in pain. They want to help. They try so hard to help. But they can’t break through the barrier. Even when seemingly surrounded by people it is lonely and oppressive inside this bubble. I am alone.
I can see outside of this bubble. I can clearly see everything I no longer have. Intact families. Children. Motivation. Joy. Excitement. Satisfaction. Contentment. Relief. Optimism. Something to look forward to. I desperately want to pull it inside this bubble with me but the bubble is impenetrable. I helplessly look out while the world goes on living, moving on. Wanting to join them but unable to.
The desert is suffocating. I can’t breathe in here. I start to cry and my anxiety kicks in. I scream and yell but no one hears me. I want out. I am pounding on the walls trying to escape. I don’t know how to live here. I don’t like it here. My body and soul weren’t made for this. I want the forest back. The beauty, the promise of new life. I want to go back to the way things were. But I know even if I return, if I manage to tunnel my way through this dark hell hole, the forest will never look or feel the same to me again. All the hope and joy has been sucked out of me. Instead of experiencing the beauty I will be frightened and sad. Wondering what is lurking in the dark corners where the sun doesn’t reach. Scared of the animals baring their teeth at me, ready to attack. The forest is now filled with monsters that I can’t escape. Pouncing when I least expect it. No place is safe anymore, no matter the landscape.
As I write this I am literally changing my landscape. I am on a plane traveling from the hot and humid Maryland to the hot and dry Arizona. Heading to a retreat for bereaved parents. I had always thought that there was something to be said about a change of scenery to help with a new outlook. But now I realize it’s just one’s perception. You can be in the most beautiful place in the world and still feel hopeless and suffocated. It’s impossible to appreciate the beauty when you feel dead inside. I haven’t yet learned to live in this new landscape. It is so different than what I am used to. It’s a place I would never voluntarily go. And yet I’m sentenced here for the rest of my life. I guess one day I’ll figure it out, even if it is just surviving minute by minute, but the world will forever look different to me. The beauty is no longer in the simple things. Just one more thing I lost along with the death of my daughter.