Over the past couple weeks I have felt a frightening loneliness. I was angry for digging myself into a hole that felt catastrophic.
I take that back, wrong metaphor. There was no digging; that would imply effort. Rather, I invited the loneliness in, a charming bully that posed as solitude.
I needed someone to help me make my oppressor leave. I couldn’t tell my friends at work, even when they noticed a change in me. I couldn’t bear the way they would look at me. I said I was tired, hadn’t been sleeping, which was true. I talked to my wife, vaguely, and she gave me answers. I got angry. Strangely, I wasn’t sure I wanted an answer.
I instantly knew who to call. My friend Carol. As sudden as the thought evaporated, I wept.
The same day that the loneliness moved in, I received a photo of Carol’s newly completed grave stone. Her family had gracefully designed it with the words “I love you more than bunnies,” chiseled in script beneath the names of her children.
It has been two weeks since I received the photo. Carol died a year ago yesterday. I’m not sure how I didn’t see the connection.
When Carol died, I had the word “surrender” tattooed onto my forearm in her memory. It’s situated so that I see it continually throughout my day. Each time, I think of her. Surrender is central to recovery and most daunting. It’s scary to admit that one’s life is unmanageable and to trust people who say that giving up control promises freedom. Carol and I talked about surrender a lot. She had moments of clarity, but then someone or something would descend and fill her with fear. She grabbed control with both hands and tied a knot.
I believe Carol did ultimately surrender, in her last days, while in a coma. She held on with all her might but after nearly two weeks a change came over her. She found someone to trust. The children she had raised—she was often astonished by how much she loved them—would be alright. It might take time and suffering, but she trusted them. Then she surrendered her life.
Surrender has transformed my life. Accepting life on life’s terms, finding comfort in mystery, learning to loosen my grip on life, not asking too many questions about what disturbs me, these practices have not always made life better but they have certainly kept it from getting worse. However, I confess, I have not accepted the fact that compulsion and fear loosened their grip on me but took Carol. I am not comfortable with that mystery. I have too many questions and no one to ask. I am angry at this disease.
When I stood in my bedroom on that day I received the photo of Carol’s gravestone, it felt like she was standing next to me, gushing about her children. Our friendship was an adventure of unbearable pain and intense joy, deep truths and shallow deceptions. I did a lot of talking–too much–trying to reach my dying friend. But then, Carol would come back with a gush of wisdom. When I was insecure, overwhelmed, afraid she set aside her greater suffering, even hid it, to point out my foolishness and hubris.
We listened, argued, talked over one another, then she would silence me with a cheap shot, using my own words against me. Or she would blurt out something snarky that made me laugh and and touched my heart at the same time.
I felt Carol in the room with me again earlier this week. She told me to get off my ass, stop blaming lack of sleep, my introversion, my “disconnected” feelings and go out and make friends. Stop feeling sorry for myself.
I did what she told me. I talked to a friend with one of the most generous hearts I have ever encountered. She makes my days better simply by being in the same building. Like Carol she minimizes her own hardships to lift my spirits. She thinks I don’t notice.
I talked to another friend who is working so very hard to recognize those moments of clarity in her own unmanageable life. We are tight. Our conversations are profane and profound, hilarious and honest, and filled with much love.
At the end of a rough day yesterday, I stopped on the way home to get something to drink. I walked past the beer section and grabbed a Coke.
As I opened the cooler, I saw the word “surrender” on my arm.
Thank you, Carol, for being there for me.