Illness can do collateral damage to healthy people. I mean the healthy people who suddenly find themselves feeling obligations to care for the sick. While they may willingly take on those obligations, the sense of responsibility and the demands of care must eventually evolve into unwelcome burdens. Lives that had been punctuated by freedom and enjoyment begin to be defined by the burdensome tethers of unplanned commitment. Caretakers, who gladly took on the responsibility, are surprised to witness soft tethers transform into cast-iron chains affixed to shackles. The softness of caring stiffens into the rigidity of obligation. Caretakers are not at fault; it’s the real or seemingly endless nature of responsibility. A blemish that grows in size and scope and need.
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After two consecutive days of extreme fatigue, today began in a way that looked remarkably like a third was about to unfold. I woke early, stumbled through the process of putting on comfortable clothes, and wobbled out into the kitchen. After feeding the feline beast, making espresso, and doing the other mundane things I do most mornings, I went to my study to explore news of the world; to attempt to escape the private reality to which I have grown unhappily accustomed. The news did nothing positive for my mood. But a promotion for My Unsung Hero, a National Public Radio program, caught my attention. The program tells real-world stories about brief but impactful interactions between strangers that changed lives for the better. I read about a reunion, after 15 years, between two such strangers. It was a simple story, but one that stripped away the grey shroud that had covered me from the moment I woke. I remain tired and weak, but my perspective on the day and on the value of compassion have improved considerably. Each of us needs a daily shot of positivity like I experienced this morning. It may not solve all our ills, but it can open our eyes to buried possibilities.
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I am missing. My whereabouts are unknown. I was last seen crawling into an overused bed, where I sank beneath the blankets like an iron anchor in a murky ocean. Even after the authorities tore off the sheets and covers and emptied the ocean, I was not found. I was hidden between cotton fibers; they looked in the wrong places. While they were scratching their heads at my inexplicable disappearance, I slid through a wounded window-screen and into a USPS truck that took me to an Amazon warehouse. From there, I skipped from shelf to shelf, always a step or two in front of Jeff Bezos, until the occasion of the fullest moon, when I rose to the occasion and planted my face there. A face, though, is not the same as a person; it is only a symbol of the secrets buried deep inside the brain. My symbol, then, resides on the lunar desert-scape, but my secrets remain in orbit around one of the sun’s planetary children. The astronomically-trained eye might see me as an asteroid, while the astrologically-trained eye might see me as a symbol of the confluence of time and anti-matter. But the fact remains: I am missing. My whereabouts are unknown.
