Nobody told me that my car keys would develop a life of their own and take off exactly when I need them.
Nobody told me that putting an electric mattress pad on my bed—running all those cords underneath--and changing the sheets could turn into a real workout.
Nobody told me that to be
able to drive to an unfamiliar destination at night would require a reconnaissance
excursion in daylight.
Nobody told me that in spite
of having gained only five pounds since college graduation, my navel would disappear
into a tummy I am only just getting used to.
Nobody told me that a text
from one of my adult grandchildren would set me up for the day. Nobody told me
I would learn how to text!
Nobody told me that an hour of concentrated exercising would put me on the couch for the afternoon: that pacing
myself would become an imperative.
Nobody told me that watching
friends become increasingly infirm and die would be like watching the leaves
fall from the trees in autumn, generating in my heart an existential sadness interspersed
with sudden stabs of grief.
Nobody told me that the
ending years of my life would be spent almost entirely with wonderful women.
Nobody told me that over time
my butt would pack up and depart, leaving my trousers to dribble around on the
tops of my shoes.
Nobody told me that the sight
of my older sister, her oxygen tank slung over her shoulder, trudging slowly
upstairs, stopping on every other rise to catch her breath, would bring tears
to my eyes.
Nobody told me that my
creative, quick-witted younger brother, riddled now with cancer, would, as a
result of his recent “milder” chemo, spike a neutropenic fever, lose all his
muscle strength, be hospitalized and cease to know where he is.
Nobody told me that from time
to time I would find myself shaded by a shadow of survivor guilt while, simultaneously
pulsing with gratitude for my good health.
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| Painting by Brandon Stoddard |
And nobody told me that we would plow through these rough waters with everything we’ve got.
