The past weekend was a ninety-percenter. By that I mean, it was a really great weekend. We joined some friends at the local drive in movie theater, which is one of our
favorite summer activities. Then the three of us got up together the next day, went to breakfast, followed by the farmers market, and spent the rest of the afternoon playing around the house. It was a lot of laughter and fun, with enough relaxation and activity to make the day just feel good. As the evening set in on Sunday and the end of the day drew near, Tyler and I were engaging in make believe with Moira, all of us giggling our heads off. In the happiness of the moment, my mind suddenly snapped to grief as it has in many joyful moments since December, as a deep yearning for Beckett and the sense that he was missing all of this settled on my spirit. And I was reminded that I can never be whole again.
I saw clearly the very day that Beckett was diagnosed that my entire life was now changed. I could already make out the beginnings of our new existence, listening to the doctor speak. Simplicity was no longer in our grasp. I knew Beckett’s struggles ahead would permanently deviate us from the path we had been on before, and that has truly been the case. Obviously, Beckett’s death seemed like the worst of all possibilities, and here it is. I remember sitting in his hospital room eight months after that terrible diagnosis and being surrounded by the medical staff I had come to feel were some of my closest friends. The news of his brain injury had spread through the unit, and the team that had pulled us through so much was basically coming to pay their respects in the face of what we all knew was a catastrophe. I would weep to them and stop frequently as a catch in my breath broke through my words. And what I told many of them was that this was it. On my very best days, on the days when I was enjoying everything and happy and excited, the best I would ever be again was ninety percent. A perfect day would never again come through my life. Because Beckett wasn’t going to be there.
But as I write this, it occurs to me that this must happen to people all of the time. The day they lose their mother. Or a beloved friend. The countless people that stagger in to our lifeline and influence us. The absence of many of these people keep us from being one hundred percent whole. And such is life, such is being human. Perhaps truly, none of us are as complete as we were in the beginning. Beckett is a perfect example that some of us don’t even come in to the world with all of our pieces. All we can do is be one hundred percent of what remains as life chips away at us. We can choose love over hatred and honesty over pride. We will falter. It must be expected that there will also be moments when our brokenness will render us unable to move an inch and so we must bunker down for a time of doing nothing more than holding ourselves together. We will ebb even lower, perhaps to the single digits. But we must always choose soon thereafter to pick ourselves up and put one foot in front of the other, to rise, to push our limits until we once again run. Until the colors blur and the landscape stretches. Until we are once again the best we can be. Until the percentage of joy is forgotten and only being one hundred percent human is what remains in our mind.
I do miss the days when my joy was simple, and when it was not countered with loss. But to regret it would be to regret Beckett and I find I cannot do that. I can’t not want Beckett, I just can’t. So instead I will run and oftentimes stumble to a stop. My tears feel warm and my arms feel empty and my heart feels broken. But my legs feel strong and my lungs feel full and my soul feels awake. Ninety percent still feels good. Ninety percent still feels great.
Leave a Reply