Only Human

I was late today. I often am. I’d be happy to take responsibility for that character flaw, but it’s really not my fault. Even my arrival on planet earth was late. I started out life a full month after my due date. Tardiness is the cross I have to bear and completely out of my control.

My new doctor didn’t see it that way. 

I did call ahead to explain my dilemma this morning. I spoke to a gracious woman who reminded me that we’re all human, to give myself a break, and she’d be sure to call the doctor’s office and let them know I’d be ten to fifteen minutes late for my appointment.

She lied.

Or maybe she just forgot because it was easier than making a phone call. I was late because it was easier than canceling my appointment. And less expensive. I was also late because I didn’t want to start one more day without Rob. Because I spent too much time crying and not enough time putting on my makeup. Because I fell back asleep for another hour after staying up too late last night because I didn’t want to go to sleep without my husband again.

I haven’t slept with my husband in six months. Excuse me while I go cry about that for another minute.

“You’re fifteen minutes late,” the woman in blue scrubs mumbled beneath her mask, her judgey Jersey eyes narrowed in irritation. She really was from Jersey. I got her whole life story while the blood pressure cup revealed my own emotional turmoil.

“I know,” I said, wondering what happened to the gracious voice on the phone. “I called ahead to ask if I should still come in.”

“We didn’t get a phone call,” Judge Judy replied. “Is your blood pressure always high?”

Only when I’m getting yelled at in a doctor’s office by a medical assistant. “Yes,” I said, tightlipped.

“The doctor will see you, that’s the important thing. Even though you’re late.”

“I apologize,” I said. “It was entirely my fault.”

Her face relaxed. “Well, you’re here. That’s all that matters. And you look nice.”

I let my eyes do the smiling because of the mask over my mouth. My mouth didn’t feel like doing it anyway.

“Have a happy birthday tomorrow,” I told her as she headed for the door. She liked that. Next week she’s going to visit her ninety-five-year-old mother who lives in an assisted living facility back east. She hasn’t seen her mom in three years, but her mom still loves her even though she was the rebel who moved here years ago, raising her family two miles from where I raised mine.

Blood pressure monitors take a while, I noticed.

After she left, I pulled out my phone to play Rummikub and kill time. I had a lot to kill since I was fifteen minutes late. They were squeezing me in now. I figured the doc would be irritable when he finally appeared. I assumed he'd have to give up some of his lunch hour to hear about my aches and pains. If I had to give up some of my lunch hour against my will, I’d be fed up, too.

I felt terrible about the situation. I really liked this foot doctor when I met him two months ago. He joked with me, took his time to answer my questions, and seemed very kindhearted. Suddenly, I lost at Rummikub and took that as a bad omen—a sign that the new doctor probably wouldn’t be as pleasant today as he was the last time.

The door opened and Dr. Omen came into the room, solemn-eyed and a lot less chatty than I remembered. Yup. He was ticked off about my tardiness. So much for me being human and giving myself a break. He took a look at my foot, checked my pain level, and sat back in his chair. His body language said it all, which was fine with me because I didn’t want to read the lips hidden behind his mask.

“You’re doing the stretches, the icing down, using the cream?” he asked. I nodded and let him speed up the exam. I was pretty sure that corned beef on rye he’d ordered was getting dried out.

“We’re just trying to avoid surgery here, you know.”

I knew. “Last time you said you’d be happy if I had thirty per cent improvement on this visit,” I told him.

“And what do you have today?”

“Thirty per cent.”

A few crow’s feet appeared outside his eyes. I guess that made him happy. I relaxed a little.

“The next step would be rehabilitation to stretch that tendon,” he said. It sounded good to me. “After a few weeks of that, I’d be happy to see sixty to seventy per cent improvement.”

“I’d like that, too,” I told him.

“Of course, by then, you’ll be so used to the pain you probably won’t even notice a difference,” he said, almost as an afterthought. We chatted another minute or so, just small talk, where I told him I could start rehab after I get back in August from burying my husband in Florida. He wanted to know more and suddenly the crow’s feet disappeared behind his sympathetic eyes. It’s a sad story and he was sorry. Me, too. By the time he left, I felt like we were friends again, and I even nodded to the Jersey Girl on my way out. I also got a much later appointment for a morning eight weeks from now.

Back in my truck, I closed the door on my tears and let them flow, unhindered. I read it’s safer to sob in a parked car than when driving on a freeway. Why am I always late? I asked myself, pummeling my lousy character flaw. It’s so inconsiderate. Thoughtless. Selfish. I wasn’t exactly being kind to my grieving heart because, the truth is, I’d gotten a lot better about being on time before I lost Rob. Now, it takes me twice as long to get up and get going and get out because I don’t want to face another day without him. But I’ll have to face a million of them, I’m guessing. Who knew an overweight widow could be so dang healthy? Except for that aching foot thing.

Blowing my nose, I checked the mirrors and pulled out of the parking lot, still stinging from the interaction. This had been my big event for the day—thank God it was behind me. Now, the rest of my Friday stretched out before me like a long, Texas road. I can do anything I want to, I thought, with a tiny sense of relief. I’m not that unfamiliar with being alone. When Rob was working long hours at the Fire Department, I spent a huge amount of time alone. I did anything I wanted to and enjoyed it.

But in those days, Rob always came home.

A stabbing pain in my heart killed the piece of delight I’d just felt. He’s not coming home anymore. I’ll never see him on earth again. Next week I’ll drive to his hometown and sit in front of the headstone with his name on it and listen to a bagpiper play and a preacher talk and accept his veteran’s flag. Officially his widow. I carry this pain around with me all day long every day, all night long every night. There’s no getting away from it. No relief. Just the constant pressure of being trapped in a vice of grief. Sometimes it moves to the back of my consciousness, but never very far. It throbs in concert with the beat of my broken heart.

“By the time I see you again, you’ll be better, but you’ll be so used to the pain you probably won’t even notice any improvement.” The doctor’s words from a few minutes earlier surfaced in my mind. “You’ll be so used to the pain,” he’d said.

“Are you being kind to yourself?” my counselor often asks.

“What does that even mean?” I responded the last time it came up.

“It means to allow yourself to be human. To experience the suffering, the grieving. This is very hard. Ask yourself what you need to do to give yourself room for what has happened to you.” That’s a toughy. Every time I give myself a little room, I take a mile and, the next thing I know, some doctor’s pissed at me because I was late.

“We’re all human,” the forgetful voice on the phone told me this morning.

“Allow yourself to be human,” my counselor reminded me.

“There are no rules for grief,” a card in my room reads. “There’s no time frame. No judgment. Do whatever is right for your soul.” I love that. Every time I read it, my heart rate slows down.

Thank goodness there really are no rules for grief. Because if there were, trying to figure them out would be like understanding how to play one of those role-playing games my son loves so much. You'd need a master’s degree just to get through the manual.

Right now, I have very little emotional space for the expectations of others or the expectations I put on myself. And the main expectation we have for me is that I’ll be the way I’ve always been in time. Getting back to normal is the goal. Getting over my grief is the target. Be myself again.

That’s what is called an ‘unrealistic expectation,’ and it’ll bite you in the butt every time.

I may never be the person I was again because my life will never again be what it once was. The same way Rob is never coming home, I will never be the same again without him and the life we built together. Accepting that is the key here. Resting in God’s timing is the lock acceptance will open.

After she told me to be gentle with myself, I showed my counselor the tattoos on my wrist and foot—the same sore foot that I keep babying. There’s a quarter rest on my wrist and the word “Selah” on my foot, both reminders to pause. To rest. Stop tapping your fingernails impatiently on the table.

“I see a theme here,” she said. “Other cultures are good at incorporating rest and pause into their days. But in this country, productivity and performance are wired into us. Remember, transition affects how much you can get done now. Change of any kind slows you down.”

Maybe that’s good. It’s brilliant to pause. To give ourselves permission to rest. After all, it's my birthright to be tardy. My tattoo says so. It may not be easy to give myself space in this difficult season, but at least I can start giving myself permission to try. And to remember I'm only human.

I’ll try it on my own time, though, not when I have my next doctor’s appointment.

I think I owe that guy a new sandwich.