I’ve had all these posts I’ve meant to write. Posts like learning to hunt with my Dad and how there’s a strange “cycle of life” feeling that underlies those moments, because of his own struggle to survive.
Then this morning, at 2:30am, an ambulance took him to the ER because of difficulty breathing, fluid in his lungs, and extreme pain. My heart hurts thinking about the possibilities.
Conversations we’ve had pass through my mind. Out of the blue—driving up that crazy mountain “road”—he tells me how the drugs are making his septum rot. His words haunt me.
“All I can smell is my own rotting flesh.”
I shrink inside, thinking about it, and then everything is normal. Because, sometimes, that’s what we do. We normalize our pain. “Welp, that’s how it is.” “What? You mean 24 years of chronic emotional anguish isn’t normal? Pfft.”
Okay, that last line sounds bitter and sarcastic. I’m really not, not all the time, anyway. But you get my point. We normalize things that AREN’T FUCKING NORMAL.
I’ve felt sorrow and I’ve cried. I’ve felt hopeless and I’ve questioned everything. I’ve laughed. I’ve been bitter. I’ve felt peace. I’ve felt anger and rage. I’ve felt it all. I’ve been it all.
I am it all.
And then it’s normal again.