The Blue Zone
happily unhappy man
I like this photo. Used portrait on my phone. It’s an oak trunk. Hello there Oak.
Song lyrics sometimes capture the moment. The mood. The current philosophy of life. Listening now to “Smile More” by Deap Vally and yeah… When folks asked me this week how I’m doing it’s mostly “OK”. I gave out a “getting by” but yeah… really… down in the blue zone. and it’s okay.
My favorite lyrics from the song?
“Stranger at the the bar tells me to smile more. I look at him and ask what for. I am happily unhappy man…”
followed up with…
“I am not ashamed of my mental state…” and a whole bunch more.
Have a listen if you’re brave.
The blue zone? Well yes. Of course.
About a year ago was the last time the Hospice doctor came to the house and talked to Katie and me about end of life stuff.
About a year ago she went to the hospital to get some relief and was hopeful… but they coudn’t help.
A little over a year ago was her last day.
It’s hard, in the quiet moments, to not have my mind wander to these places.
So - blue. And it’s okay.
Tuesday I noticed a parent walking across our courtyard with her son. She has been battling cancer for over a year now. She looked like she was moving slow. I noticed her wig and how the hair color exactly matched her sons. I wondered if it was actually his hair. That would make sense.
Thursday morning I was in cross walk duty. My moments, admittedly, are good. I can be quite happy in the moment. When things are happening. There are people to interact with. I was chatty to folks. My little friend came by and gave me a thumbs up and a double slow high five. It was a good morning.
I noticed the parent again as they drove up. The car parked in a handicapped spot and she got out of the passenger side and walked in with her son. Still moving slow. My heart reaches out. Sometimes things can be so rough. Sigh. More people come by. More ‘hello’s and ‘hi’s and ‘good morning’s though I am a little less cheery.
A few minutes pass.
I see some people coming but turn to look toward the gate and see the parent walking back down the slippery stone path in front of the parish offices. Her arm flails out and she goes down. She falls forward and lands on her knees and then full frontal on the sidewalk. I check traffic. Make sure no one is about to cross and then hurry, then run, over to her. She’s up on her hands and knees when I get there. Moving very slow. It’s a weird twilight zone moment because it is crowded, but somehow no one is there. No one notices. The other crosswalk guards are all turned the other way. It’s just us. She barely responds when I ask how she is, but takes my hand as I offer to help her up.
Her hand is soft and spongy and larger than it should be. Puffy. Soft but dry. Puffy. Bloated. Not as dry, but otherwise exactly as Katie’s hands were her last few months.
I gasp a bit and collect and walk with her holding her hand back to her car… asking if she’s okay. Her knees hurt a little. I let her know she had some mud on her front and she wiped it off. I joke with her when a kindergartner trips on his own feet as he walks toward us. We get to her car. It must be an elderly parent driving. I don’t know if they even saw what happened. They didn’t get out of the car… they may not have been able to.
And so I return to the crosswalk and tears are welling in my eyes. I can feel Katie’s hand in mine as I held her that final morning and I feel for that boy and his mother and I hope that my interpretation of her puffy hands is not right.
And so life goes. Sometimes it’s a battle. Sometimes we leave it. It’s our time. Yet, then, in the distance at a different crosswalk I see a pregnant woman with her pregnant waddle moving along slow. And it’s beautiful and that’s why we’re here. All part of the cycle.