Sacred Tears
I turn the water on and pull the plug to switch from the bath faucet to the shower head. It’s my daily routine, but today I am tired. Today, I have more to cleanse than the just the day off my body.
I am exhausted, to be exact. The kind of tired where you have been in survival mode for so long you don’t know how depleted you truly are.
I step into the shower, let the hot water run down my head, my face, my body.
I reach for the shampoo bottle, the same one I reach for every day. I push the nozzle on the lid to squeeze shampoo into my hand, just to realize I’m squeezing it the wrong direction.
“Wow,” I think. “Even shampoo is hard today.”
Today marks 6 weeks since I got the 4AM phone call. The call that took me from being just a phone call away from him to not knowing if he would be able to speak or hug me again. The call that replaced his name on my speed dial with the direct number to the ICU. The call that made the couch of that ICU feel more like home because I am only 6 feet away from him than my own bed because it’s 1300 miles away. The call that consumed my brain space with not only the emotional mountain that is picturing life with a question mark version of him, but the countless other question marks of insurance, long term care, logistics of the 1300 mile gap - logistics that surely, I am not enough of an adult for yet. I mean he’s my dad - my dad - how is this real? Wasn’t I shooting hoops and playing H-O-R-S-E with him in the driveway on Morrow Road just yesterday?
The call that took me from being excited to pick his able body and mind up from the airport to catch up on life to me falling on top of him in utter relief and excitement just to see his foot twitch in a hospital bed when he hears my voice.
The call that changed everything.
I lather my hair and slowly feel the heat rise from my stomach, to my chest, and finally up to my face. My eyes start to burn.
They say the shower is the best place to think. Something about the warmth of the water activating parts of your brain that aren’t activated otherwise. This theory has proven true multiple times, but today is different.
Today something is happening I can hardly put words around. Today, I become completely unhinged.
My hands and arms slowly fall to my side and subconsciously, I reach for the wall of the shower.
My fight or flight kicks in and somehow protects me from falling to the ground as I realize I cannot hold it all up, not even my physical self in this moment. I turn slowly and lean the entirety of my body weight against the wall.
I slide slowly down the wall and into the tub, the hot water now beating on my back.
What do you call it when you’re crying, but with your whole body?
I sit, my face buried in my hands that are buried between my knees, the hot water still doing it’s cleansing work. I’m not sure if the water running down my face is from my wet hair or my tears.
How did I get here?
Why am I crying?
Why can’t I stop?
My breathing is far from regulated - far from the box breathing techniques I had practiced with my therapist just an hour prior.
My body finally reaches the point of exhaustion where it can’t even cry anymore. I breathe in slowly, and as I exhale my knees slowly fall to either side. I am sitting criss cross applesauce in the tub of my shower. I am suddenly a 5 year old little girl again, just wanting to curl up in her daddy’s lap with his safe, strong arms wrapping me up and telling me “It’s alright, Babygirl.”
If I’m honest, the hardest part of all of this has been convincing that little girl inside of me that I am, in fact, a 31 year old woman with responsibilities to protect him now.
Motorcycle accidents or not, this is one of the most tragic life experiences one goes through, I think. When the tables of life turn and the people in our lives who have always been the ones to take care of us become the people who need us more than we need them.
The circle of life. The natural cycle of things. Beautifully sacred mixed with incredible grief.
After a few more breaths, I lift up my head. I don’t know how long I’ve been down here, but I know the song playing through my speaker is different than the one playing when I stepped into the shower. I stand my weak body up and wash what’s left of the shampoo out of my hair. I finish my shower and step out. As I towel my hair dry, I look at my face. My eyes are red and puffy, but I feel lighter. I feel capable of what’s left to do before bed. I realize that what felt impossible a half hour ago is actually as simple as brushing my teeth, moisturizing my tired face, making tea, and finding my way to my bed.
I can’t quite put my finger on the formula for healing, except for maybe that there isn’t one. Sometimes it’s as simple as adjusting your routine. Sometimes it’s remembering to drink enough water in a day. Sometimes it’s a self-help book or journaling 20 minutes a day.
And sometimes, moments hit you like a truck, literally take your breath away, and somehow you are changed without words to explain what happened or how, you just know that now you are lighter and clarity and peace have somehow graced you with their presence. And these moments? They remind us to walk through every moment with open hands, welcoming whatever comes - the good, the hard, the ugly, the painful - because you just don’t know in which form the healing will come.
