Somewhere between closing the metaphorical door of any traumatic situation and getting sucked into the constant vortex of pain and victimhood, there’s a middle place of relative contentment. Of just understanding that it is what it is.
Facebook just shared some memories with me today. Not that I needed Facebook to tell me where I was two years ago and what my friends were tagging me in on their status updates that day.
We alone know that “grueling” reaches a whole new level when it is associated with a ten-hour surgery to extract a brain tumor, and that “waiting,” a word usually associated with boredom, is in fact the most painful word in the English language.
You’ve been posting each one of these milestones at the same rate as runners post their Runtastic stats. You’ve filled my newsfeed with recipes involving Passover ingredients only available in Guam. And seriously? You need to stop.
You’d think that having done this before I would find it easier, much like watching my children graduate Kindergarten. The first time was beautiful and sentimental. The fifth time we arrived late and didn’t stick around for the cake at the after-party. But instead, leaving her at the airport was heart wrenching. Watching her go off, just like her sister did a year before, was emotional and difficult.
That was the moment, the moment when the roller coaster in his world started going up again, the moment that my 10 year old understood the personal power he had inside. He wasn’t passive, he was strong. He was confident. He could ride any coaster, figurative or literal, and come out triumphant.