My friend is alive and slowly but surely recovering, but her condition was worse than we originally thought. She spent the first night and most of the second day on a respirator because she couldn’t breathe on her own, but she’s off it now. She mumbles incoherently, still unable to talk or follow commands. She has to be kept on sedatives, and under pretty much constant supervision, because otherwise she tries to pull out her IV tubes. She won’t be able to speak or have any visitors for a few more days. The doctors won’t know the full extent of her condition until after the drugs have run their course, and she comes back to full consciousness.
I’ve mostly been staying home, except when it’s absolutely necessary to leave, for food or something. I’ve found that everyone has their own way of dealing (or not dealing) with this subject, and communicating about it. Advice, especially from people who don’t know my friend and what our relationship has been like, is not welcome at this point. It also makes me cringe, I’m not sure why, when people tell me, “Wow, you’re a really good friend.” It’s okay, you know? People don’t know what to say. They’re trying to help, but it’s just not helping.
The problem, I think, has something to do with language. Language is, at best, a poor substitute for actions and feelings, especially concerning subjects like spirituality, or death, or delicate emotions. As Joseph Campbell once said, “There are the things we think about, and there are the things we do, and then there are the things we talk about.” Language is the only tool we have, though, so that’s what we have to use, despite its shortcomings and flaws.
When it comes to difficult or confusing emotional matters, everyone has their own way of coping, and of sharing. It also seems that people tend to do and say what they think they need to do and say, instead of just asking the suffering person what he or she needs. The best thing people have said is, “I’m here, just say the word if you need anything.” My mom had plenty of things to say, but she’s a bit clueless (”Wow, you and your creative friends; such highs and lows. . .”). No, mom, this is a person who is a true survivor, and who has lived ten lives in her thirty-five years, and experienced things that most people, thankfully, will never have to experience. She and I have been there for each other when no one else was. I never imagined that I’d have to be there for her in this way.
When I go out, I see places and things that remind me of her, and that brings a lump to my throat or tears to my eyes. I’m easily distractable, and I’m not a very good driver when I’m in such an emotional state. So I stay home, and I listen to the bird songs in the air, or the wind blowing through the trees, or the rain falling. I check my e-mail a million times a day, in the hopes for another update. I haven’t really been listening to much music, and I haven’t been able to play any instruments either. Today I made a real breakfast of scrambled eggs with pesto and a tiny bit of spicy brown mustard mixed in. I’ve run out of a few things, like fruit juice, so I need to walk to the store again today.
Yesterday I tried to hang a big mirror to open up my dark living room, but it was so heavy that it pulled the nail out of the wall and crashed to the ground, destroying the frame in the process. With any luck I’ll be able to find another one that I like soon.
I’m still trying to decide whether or not I can handle going to work tomorrow. If I feel the way I do today, I’ll probably stay home again.
