I’m bundling airborne gift boxes of energy, picturing you as you had been before, hoping that you’ll continue to be after
I thought about you today, my friend.
You were on my mind as I made the beds. I sent a silent prayer up for you, to have the ability to make your children’s beds for many years to come.
A mutual acquaintance texted me early in the morning, surgery today, say Tehillim Leah bas Ruchel Esther. I appreciated the text; it spurred me into action. It also had me thinking about you, a lot.
I thought about you as I stirred my coffee, thinking of the lattes we’d shared over the years. I davened that we share many more in the future.
I remembered your plight as I did my grocery shopping. I recalled the dietetic dishes you dolefully ate, laughing at the futility, yet dreaming of results. You’ve lost more weight than I care to think about during the last six months of treatment; we’re not laughing about the scale anymore.
I shivered as I trudged through the puddles, pushing the stroller to my daughter’s playgroup. You must be really cold, now. Surgery and recovery (I’m sure) are no joke. I wish you warmth. I would love to give you a big hug right now. I will, at your daughter’s wedding, three months from now, b’ezras Hashem.
I said your name as I reached for my siddur, for my Tehillim, as I let the tears I’d been blinking back all morning slide down my cheeks, provide a little comfort, infuse my day with light.
On hold with the insurance company to change my son’s primary care doctor, I wondered how you managed all your medical bills and schedules. At work, I marveled again at your courage and tenacity, and at your insistence in maintaining as full a workload as possible while you went through so much.
You flashed through my mind again when my keys went missing, when the load of towels wouldn’t dry, when the house turned upside down and the freshly washed floor became a sticky swirl of apple juice. I pictured your face while I held my tongue when my six-year-old stuck his tongue out at the cutlet-smiley-face on his plate and requested cereal and milk. I smiled and read the same book over and over and over and over to my toddler.
As the day bled into evening, and then night, I fought the weariness that settled into my bones. You’d been so good about your diagnosis, so upbeat, so sure of the light at the end of the tunnel. You didn’t overshare, but didn’t beat around the bush. You said what needed to be said, and I’d treasured our relationship more than ever. Illness has a way of waking us up to what’s really important in life. You are, in my life.
I yielded to my teenager’s begging for ice cream, I let my eight-year-old bring out all the bedding to build a fortress under my dining room table, I served my husband supper on real dishes and said yes when my ten-year-old asked if she could bake cookies because she was bored.
I nodded and agreed and said yes, yes, and yes though my eyelids were drooping and the laundry pile wouldn’t budge. I thought of you all the while.
I telepathically sent you thoughts of good health. You taught me to believe in mental healing. You took courses to develop your intuitive skills and shared so much information and positivity, it was impossible for that enthusiasm not to rub off on me. Now I’m bundling airborne gift boxes of energy, picturing you as you had been before, hoping that you’ll continue to be after.
I won’t call you or your family to see how you’re doing. Not for a week, at least, and maybe even longer. We aren’t that close, I know, and maybe you don’t even know that I’m thinking about you.
But I am, you see. And I’m doing all the things I should be doing. For you, and for me.
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 698)
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