Have you ever looked into a stranger’s eyes and just known that person?
I’m not talking about that romantic crap . . . that whole, “Our eyes met across the crowded room, and then I knew . . . “
Because that’s just bullshit.
No, I mean a smaller deeper kind of knowing.
I was at the hospital with the girls the other day. Waiting. For those of you who have never been to the hospital? There is a lot of waiting.
Bring something to read.
As I had not on this day. So I watched the people instead.
My girls were both plugged into their music, and so I was alone.
With the people.
I am good at being alone with people.
On this day? A couple caught my eye. Both around 55.
They walked together into the waiting room, the husband solicitous of his wife’s every movement. She did not appear to be in pain, but his attention was clearly required. She was bent slightly into his shoulder as though seeking comfort and also refuge.
There was a tension about them, an anxiety . . . that just charged the room.
I know what you are thinking . . . we were in a hospital. Stressful is the name of the game in a hospital. This was something else.
And so I watched.
Watched as they made slow progress when the woman’s name was called . . .
Watched as they left the waiting area.
Waited. Watched other less intriguing people go about the business of having small urgent needs addressed.
Waited.
Until it was just my two musical daughters and I in that room.
And so really? I was alone.
Waited.
And then they reappeared, the couple who had caught my attention. The door was flung open, and there was a flurry of harsh movement and anguish and pain. The woman threw herself forward and out of her husband’s arms, and then collapsed to her knees, wailing about how the thing couldn’t be done. She couldn’t do it.
And her husband bent beside her and rubbed small circles into the spot between her shoulder blades and reassured her with invisible murmurs tucked into her ear.
She gasped for breath and seemed to shrink in upon herself as her husband more fully enveloped her within his arms.
A few moments passed.
Her breathing calmed.
But when she finally spoke, it was with that ragged edge that too much panic and adrenaline gives a voice. All uneven and sharp and painful to hear . . .
“You know I cannot allow anything in my mouth. No one can put anything in my mouth.”
My mind conjured up. Well, you know what my mind conjured up.
The husband knew as well, and he looked to meet my gaze.
I was frozen for a moment, because despite the fact that the waiting room was not that large? I had clearly been too much noticing and observing their pain. I had intruded, and I waited for the consequences as I met his eyes.
But in his eyes? I saw no blame or anger. I saw instead a pleading for compassion and understanding. I saw exhaustion and heartbreak and an overwhelming love for this momentarily broken woman beside him. I saw a lifetime of small accommodations and compromises and sacrifices. I saw dreams that had slipped away and the smaller dreams that had replaced them. I saw settling and making peace with that settling. I saw loneliness and pain and fear and sadness. And patience and kindness and so . . . much . . . love.
For this broken woman.
I saw a marriage.
I saw a very good man.
I couldn’t look away.
You know how time plays tricks? I have no idea how long we stared into one another’s eyes.
Long enough to see.
I wonder what he saw?
When he looked into my eyes?
A marriage.
A very good man.
And a slightly broken woman.
Perhaps.
When I usually don’t have anything to add to your brilliant writing, I just make a silly joke.
This time I’m going to just shut up.
I will just sit here quietly, then.
As well.
You are such an unbelievable writer. Reading that, I was right there with you. Feeling that mans pain, seeing his pain in his eyes. It’s humbling. Thank you.
Thank you.
Long term care. Geriatric rehab.
I have seen many such moments. Many such relationships.
Love that exists between the breaths and the outstretched fingers. Commitment that defies all reason. A broken body reaching where it should not reach to support another, more broken but beloved body.
Or mind.
Not many people on the outside get to see that.
No, that’s not true. They’d see it every day – in the grocery store or a crosswalk – if they noticed.
They just don’t notice.
You do.
A world of validation happened for that man in the moment someone else saw what he felt.
What a lovely gift you gave him.
And he?
Also left gifts with me.
I am unsuccessfully fighting off tears and wondering at how your words and way with them can make my heart hurt.
Awwww . . . I did not mean to make you cry.
Virtual tissues to you.
Tomorrow? Giggling.
I promise.
Oh, how well I know hospital waiting rooms.
I know what you mean. You see these people there, and you know, you KNOW, that their love is eternal. Before Fiance, it gave me hope. Now? It gives me joy.
How wonderfully you write.
Much love.
Much love to you.
Much love.
And also?
Joy.
You deserve joy.
“A marriage.
A very good man.
And a slightly broken woman.
Perhaps.”
Perhaps.
Much love to you. Also? I miss you.
I miss you as well.
We seem to be traveling on slightly different tracks lately.
I do miss you.
Summers? Are difficult.
Yes, very. Very difficult. They make me feel all squeezed and pushed. Which I am, so I guess that’s a reasonable feeling.
Yes.
Squeezed and pushed.
And pulled.
Sigh.
<3
Alright, you know I read that as “pointy mustache over boobs.”
Much mustache-boob love to you as well.
Sigh. Lovely writing.
I hope you and your musical daughters were just there for a routine visit. Or at least everyone is OK now.
It was routine.
Hence the long wait.
Thank you for asking.
And just . . . thank you.
I have had that feeling of knowing before. And for me, it has always knocked me a little off balance.
Love like that is beautiful. Thank you for sharing this.
Love like that is beautiful.
Painful and beautiful.
What a wonderful soul you have.
Plus also?
I am a noticer.
The day I took my second adopted daughter home from the hospital I looked into the birthmother’s eyes of my two beautiful daughters and although no words were spoken we both knew exactly what each one of us were thinking. It was one of the most important exchanges of my life.
There is so much emphasis placed on words.
And so much communication that is possible without.
If you just look.
And see.
Love to you and your daughters.
first? i hope everything is ok and the doc office was just a regular checkup or something.
second? sigh. noticing.
sigh again.
Everything was fine. Just regular stuff.
I love your lowercase noticing sighs.
The look my Grandfather had when he realized my Grandmother was not going to make it.
That is a look I hope never to see.
But a look that comes for us all.
Sigh.
I am so sorry.
I enjoy your thought provoking and slightly dark posts, but lately you’re killing me! A little sunshine would be wonderful.
You are easy to kill, then.
This makes two in a row.
Happily, though? There is always sunshine with a new day.
Also?
Slightly dark?
Snort.
Has it really only been 2 in a row? I guess so. But! I read each post a couple of times, usually, so I can get all the bits and pieces I may have missed the first time. I’m a speed reader and purposely slow myself down with your stuff. So in all fairness, in my mind its been like 5 or 6 posts. And yes, slightly dark is one of the many ways to describe you! You should totally let your readers write your “about me” section..
I am all kinds of flattered that you slow down and read my posts several times!
Because I do not write anything ahead of time? When I sit down to post? You get what you get. Tomorrow feels like a happier lighter day, but I will not know what the post will be until I sit down to write it. My apologies for the darkness, if it upsets you . . . but Pretty All True is me and it is all true.
Sometimes I am dark.
And my earlier snort? Was at your use of the word “slightly.”
I am way dark.
I’m sitting here typing through teary eyes. My mother has been sick the past year or so but took a turn for the worst Tuesday. You have described the look my father gives my mother, gives to us kids when she doesn’t make sense, while he stares at the wall with tears in his eyes. Thank you for this as I have needed to cry this past week and have not been able to let myself go until now.
I am just going to be quiet.
Never be quiet! You make me laugh, make me think, sometimes make me cry, but it’s all for the better in the end!
I am so very glad to hear that.
Thank you.