I met some new people the other day. It was the usual, how do I explain to them who I am and why I am she, and also not emotionally vomit the trials of the last 4 years from the outset? How do I explain that I am both super chill and super tired, and sometimes panicked, but mostly just painfully (in the hurts so good way) aware that life is fragile and oh so short?
Inevitably the cancer convo came up with one lady and it was received with real tenderness.
“I can not even imagine,” she said.
“Neither can I,” I replied.
Because really, I still can’t.
–
I took down all my pics of Instagram. A couple weeks ago someone sent me a post from a “Warriors for Cancer” or something page. The post was Beau’s picture and had hundreds of like. And it was just weird. So within the hour I said, “yeah, fuck that.” and pulled down all my pictures.
For some time, IG felt like a documentation lifeline for myself and those on the perilous road around me, but recently it’s switched. It’s switched to a view of the past that I can’t entirely make sense of, and surely don’t want random strangers with no actual connection to pediatric cancer filling up their Instagram feed with.
The internet is weird.
–
The night before Sweet Emily’s funeral, the family had a potluck at their farm. It was there that I met Emily’s great grandmother, Annice, who upon meeting me grabbed hold of my forearm and didn’t let go for much longer than you’d think that the strength of a 90 year old woman would last. Tears gathered in her eyes as Lorin explained to her who I was. As guests arrived and came over to give her their condolences, she showed me off like a relic.
“This is Betsy. Her and her husband traveled all the way here for Will and Lorin from Colorado,” she announced over and over again, the extended family there to offer her sympathy, not to meet me. Her grip was not something I dared to pull away from, nor could I if I had tried. Because though her skin was the paper thin translucence of someone who has lived almost a century (Annice is 95!), the muscles below that translucent skin were clearly those of someone who has seen some stuff. So I sat with her for close to half an hour, while everyone came through to say ‘hello,’ and sat in the reverence of her grip.
It was one of many times that weekend that it was clear I was merely a single thread in a beautifully, painful tapestry. I sat next to Annice and felt the power in his grasp, that frankly started to ache after while. I wondered if the ache was from her grip, or from her knowing. She understood that it wasn’t about Josh and me, it wasn’t about Will or Lorin, in some was it wasn’t even about Sweet Emily. We had come from Colorado to stand beside our dear friends as they buried their baby, not because we are friends that rank above any others, but because we are all sojourners, just walking each other home.
Her grip was the knowing that we can’t get through any of this, except with one another held close.
–
“Well, you know sometimes they join me in Macon for church, but Emily’s service will be at First Baptist Starkville because you see, Will and Lorin had planned on becoming members there. It’s just been such a hard couple of years….They had been planning on going there once Emily was well…” Annice explained in a slow southern drawl that trailed off at the end.
“I suppose she is well now, isn’t she.” I replied, tears pooling because the words came from a place within me I didn’t realize was still beating.
“Amen,” Annice confirmed.
–
Eventually Annice released her grip on my wrist and yet I found myself not getting up to leave. I’d have sat with that woman all night, but the crowd was growing and there were more people to meet, and more people who wanted time with her. I eventually rejoined Josh and he asked who I’d been chatting with.
“The matriarch,” I whispered, hot tears on my cheeks.
–
The next morning, Joshua and I walked the few blocks from our AirBnB to First Baptist Starkville for Emily’s funeral. The sky was audaciously blue, the sun bright and shinning in a way that made me want to scream, “HOW DARE YOU God, HOW DARE YOU HAVE THIS DAY BE ANYTHING BUT STORM CLOUDS!!!”
As we turned the corner onto E. Lampkin Street, the line of mourners wove it’s way for blocks down the sidewalk. We found our place at the back of the line. I looked ahead and saw the white church steeple pierce the blue horizon, and then I saw Will.
Emily’s dad, in his Sunday best, perched near the doorway to the church, scanning the endless line of mourners. He was calculating how on earth they’d greet all of these people in the time before the service was meant to start. Even in his grief, he was being a good host.
I stared ahead at him, Lorin, and Caroline, dressed in black, the blue sky, and the steeple of First Baptist Starkville behind them and realized that Annice was right.
My throat was tight as I pieced together the conversation with Annice from the night before. I grasped Josh’s arm, I couldn’t breath for the realization.
They had finally found there way here after all, now that Emily is well. Eternal.
It just wasn’t the way any of us thought it would look.
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