Vulnerability, part 2

Driving to Southern California, I was hyper emotional, more reactive to teen attitude. So I finally explained to the kids why -- that I had a biopsy and was awaiting results. The news silenced the car. I tried to couch it in neutral terms but a stronger parent would surely have kept it to themselves. Who was I to burden them and dampen their spring break?  I was a bad parent.

            The trip was further dampened by the fact I crunched my knee a few weeks earlier during my neighborhood sport of stepping into sidewalk divots. It was an injury where rest is mainly what’s needed; instead I overdid it walking and exercising and my knee grew worse. I had an over-the-counter knee brace to get me through Disneyland.      

Fast forward to 3 p.m. Monday at a packed California Adventure Park, the time I’d pre-scheduled to receive the results. I ushered the kids to a climbing area while I found refuge at the end of a crowded bench where I could turn into the trashcan for privacy and look out over a little foresty green if need be. Ron stood by me. We waited. The call came at 3:05 but the results weren’t in. I turned to the green and collapsed into sobs while Ron rubbed my shoulders. When I looked up, the kids were back, watching. One sobbed along with me and the other stood stoic, vulnerable. I felt incredibly weak. If I was a better parent, a stronger person I wouldn’t have put them through this.

The tears, however, were a cleanser. We moved on and savored the rest of the day. I asked the universe for a sign and landed on old-fashioned oil lamps in the waiting line of one ride. Clogged oil glands, that’s what it will be. Deep down, I remembered the look on the radiologist’s face.

We left the park late. The girls rushed ahead to the hotel and we lagged behind. I thought of my mom and how she died at age 61 from lung cancer. She was a heavy smoker; I’ve never smoked. Still, hobbling slow with my sore knee, I felt like her. That night, I whispered to Ron, “I’m scared.”

Tuesday, the call would come at 1:00 p.m. as scheduled or was it 1:30? Ron and the girls stood in line for the Jungle Cruise while I retreated to a quiet bench in a sunny play area in a corner of Frontierland. I sat, waited, hoped. Flipped my cellphone in my hand and clocked every single minute as it passed. Watched families of all ages taking breathers. Women in strollers with their kids. A couple boys scolded by the security guard for climbing rocks not meant to be climbed. Most of all, this was a downtime space.  People weren’t ramped up. I watched faces for a sign. None looked sad. There was quiet talk, light laughter, neutral interaction. I thought that if this was it, if the news I got was the worst imaginable, there’s nothing I would rather do than show kindness to people feeling vulnerable. What could possibly have more meaning than being kind to people in need?

When you’re feeling vulnerable, you can’t do road rage, you don’t do impatient. You just want reassurance. Hope. The smallest gestures are the biggest things. They are all that matters.

I tend to keep myself protected. In story terms, we talk about the hero acting in identity or ego. This I learned from Michael Hague, a story consultant from Hollywood. Generally, the hero starts out in full protective armor and as the story evolves, the layers are peeled back and the ego is shed. We need ego because we can’t walk around all day with our soft-centers exposed, but as the journey progresses, one’s essence is revealed. I’m mixing story and real life here, but I guess that’s the point.  It is the story. Each of our lives is the story.

I waited an hour for my call. The nurse couched the negative news in positive terms. I felt relief.

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