The Wounded Healer
- At January 20, 2012
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Life, Roxanne Writes On
- 2
“Only what is really oneself has the power to heal.” – C.G. Jung
Last spring, my daughter invited an acquaintance over to the house to bake cookies. They lived in the same neighbourhood, shared a few university classes and the impecunious eye of a hopeful gas-saver. By the time they’d taken the last batch from the oven, they’d agreed to car-pool.
But it didn’t last.
The day after their cookie-baking date, the friend discovered she was ill. Really ill.
This week, barely six months after her diagnosis, she died.
My daughter visited her early on, before it became apparent that this was not a get-well-soon kind of illness. They hadn’t passed the superficial stages of early friendship and death is nothing if not intimate. Besides, what do you say to someone who had the same plans as you, but won’t even be here a year from now? Or a month from now? How do you claim one second of the time left for idle conversation?
I don’t know the family, and can’t pretend to know what they have gone through, and will continue to go through. But I think I can imagine.
I think every parent can imagine.
It’s what makes us lie awake at night until all the cars are back, what makes us freak out when a cell phone goes unanswered, what makes our heart-rate skyrocket each time the phone rings at an odd hour and we can’t mentally check off everyone as safe and sound.
We can imagine, because from the moment they come to us, we know fear. We can never, ever be absolutely certain that they are safe and sound. The fear of loss changes a person.
My daughter is in nursing school. In her career, she will see all sorts of people in all sorts of extreme situations. She won’t be able to claim she knows what they’re going through, but she will be able to imagine a tiny fraction of their pain.
And she will be a better healer for it.
More Why Some Days, You Just Shouldn’t Talk
So I was in the grocery store the other day with Pik, the youngest of my spawn, known collectively as “The Saffrines.” I brought her along for Sherpa duty… I mean, mother-daughter bonding time. Okay, to shut down the “there’s nothing to eat in this house” refrain.
It wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. She’d brought her cell phone.
“Can you help me out?” I asked, trying not to sound petulant. “I don’t know what kind of cereal you want.”
“Sure, in a sec,” she said. She was ten steps behind me, texting madly, a pound of honey-coloured curls between her and reality. I rounded the corner. Any minute now, she was going to be run over, and I didn’t want to see it. Fine. She could eat toast.
In the baking aisle, she caught up with me, and I tried again. “Do you know if we’re out of baking powder?”
She lifted impossibly wide, blue eyes up at me.
“Huh?”
“Baking powder. Do you know if we’re out?”
She frowned. “What’s that?”
I frowned back. “You baked cookies yesterday. You use it all the time. Baking. Powder.”
“Mother,” she said. “I Don’t. Know What. That Is.”
I swung around to point at the shelves. “Seriously. Look at the container. You don’t recognize it at all??”
“Oh!” The light dawned over her gentle features. “Baking powder!”
“That’s what I said!!”
She laughed. “I thought you said bacon powder.”
Yep. True story.
Road to Crazy-Town
The following post may contain content boring to men and the general public. Hopefully there are middle-aged mothers out there who can relate. Nevertheless, reader discretion advised.
A Day in Menopause-Land, a suburb of Crazy-Town
7:30 am: Drive youngest Saffrine to school. See Why You Shouldn’t Talk in the Morning. Cry a little. I used to be such a good mother.
10:30 am: Finish current day-job tasks. Am now free for writing. Or Tetris.
10:35 am: Begin plotting story for National Novel Writing Month. Feel virtuous for removing Tetris from Facebook.
10:36 am: Plotting is hard.
10:37 am: Simply cannot work with current tools. Brain seizes upon the notebooks recommended by Ivan Coyote at the Surrey International Writers’ Conference. Nothing else will do. Gather journal and other materials for coffee-shop writing, once notebooks have been acquired. I have a Plan! This Day I WRITE!
10:45 am: Do hair, make-up, put on power shoes. Look successful, be successful.
10:46 am: Blot face, following hot-flash brought on by hubris.
11:00 am: Staples in town does not have the aforementioned notebooks. Must go to next town, a half-hour away. There is no option. My focus is laser-sharp and unbreakable. Plus, I’m all dressed up. I can’t go back home.
Noon-ish: Second Staples store, no luck. Mall, no luck. Side-streets I took accidentally because I’m directionally-challenged, no luck. Feet starting to hurt. Worse, I pass a young woman with happy, blonde toddler. Wave of nostalgia comes over me. I was her, once. My Saffrines looked just like that! Did I enjoy it sufficiently? Did I treasure those precious years? Did I make macaroni collages with them? No, I did NOT! I should have another baby.
12:15 pm: Repair make-up in car. Give head a shake. New baby would require new husband. And new brain. Also, ovarian function.
12:20 pm: Go to Chapters for a restorative book browse. Perhaps caffeine. Feeling a little shaky. After shopping, I will calm myself by journaling my thoughts. Yes. I will Write.
1:00 pm: No tables in Starbucks.
1:30 pm: Go to nearby heritage town where there are cafes aplenty, all of them cute, independent and NOT CROWDED. See more serene mothers with happy babies, all wearing natural fibres and using non-violent voices. Come on! Where are the scary-eyed ones?? And why didn’t strollers have cup holders when I had babies??
2:00 pm: Latte and soup in a delightful antique store/cafe. The quiet soothes my ravaged soul.
2:15 pm: Have written one line in my journal, mostly expletives, when the antique doorbell tinkles, and a group of people enter. I attempt to ignore them. This Day I WRITE!
2:20 pm: Hard to ignore, as they are moving furniture. One of them carries a clip-board and a bull-horn. Turns out the quiet, tucked-away cafe I chose for my rare day of out-of-the-house writing is hosting a movie shoot. Yes, today. Seriously.
2:25 pm: Walk back down cute heritage-town streets back to car. Feet now throbbing.
2:26 pm: Start car but don’t know where to go. Anywhere but home. Still haven’t gotten any writing done! Consider following highway until I run out of gas. Who would miss me anyway? Put head on wheel and sob! In an earlier life, this would be PMS. But I haven’t done That in seven months, so it’s “just” menopause. Hurray.
2:27 pm: “Cat’s in the Cradle” come on the radio. Weep for lost opportunities. Better not drive yet. “Butterfly Kisses” comes on next. Switch to traffic station. After all, there’s a tw0-hour parking limit.
2:30 pm: Hot flash and with it, existential panic. Chest tightens. I can hear my pulse in my ears. Am I having a heart attack? I can’t have a heart attack yet! I have too much left to do! My Mr(Always)Right is already wildly successful. The Saffrines are on their roads to success, their lives ahead of them, full of promise and potential. Me, I’m just on the road. Driving. To Crazy-Town.
2:31 pm: I miss my exit, which seems somehow fitting.
2:32 pm: Remember Pic is waiting for after-school ride. Call Hic to do it, since I can’t, having fallen into my own navel. Motherhood skills definitely on the wane.
2:45 pm: My day of writing and notebook acquisition has been an utter wash. Although I did find a new brand of underwear which I am hopeful will change my life.
3:00 pm: Take one last swing through local Staples, on a whim, since I took the wrong exit and all. And VOILA! How did I miss them the first time around? Ivan was right. These are so cool! Surely this will be the tool that catapults my writing career to stardom!
3:31 pm: Realize that I’ve wasted an entire day. A day I can ill-afford to waste because, hello, I’m not getting any younger! The next heart attack could be real!
3:32 pm: Crazy-Town, here I come!
3:33 pm: Mental slap upside head. Get a grip. Seriously. You know that Everything’s Fine. This is just Life. It’s called a Mid-Life Crisis for a reason.
4:00 pm: Remind myself that Crazy-Town is populated by some very nice people, many of them writers.
Plus, in about a month, I’ll be able to drive there in my new car.
After all, if you’re gonna be a cliche, you might as well enjoy it!