Soapbox 

I've never quite understood the saying the time heals all wounds. To be honest, I don't think that is at all how it works. There are some losses, and some hurts that just never go away fully. I think in the same way that muscles grow stronger from carrying a heavy load over time, emotional weight becomes something to which we grow accustomed. Pain and grief don't disappear, we just learn to move on while carrying them.

Earlier this summer, I schlepped the kids into the city for my oldest's orthotics fitting. I had mixed feelings about the whole thing, to be honest. After years of noticing little quirks that pretty much everyone shrugged off, it was a relief to find a specialist who could offer some answers and a plan. On the other hand, putting a name to it all, with the quasi-explanation that maybe it was birth trauma related weighed heavily on me. My son is fine, but seriously, I'm working on a nomination for the "Mea Culpa" Poster Child.

Anyway, the appointment went well, everything fit properly and he was excited about getting so much gear. Grateful to have access to good medical resources, and that my son is so easy-going, I tucked my misgivings and ever-present guilt away and herded the lot to the subway to head home. Now, if you've ever had the pleasure of experiencing a New England summer first hand, you'll agree that hanging out in an MBTA station in the summer would make even raindrops sweat. I won't even discuss how my hair reacts, but my children are no longer frightened by it. They've accepted the fact that my auburn tresses have a zip code of their own under such conditions.

So there we are, bundles in hand, waiting for what felt like hours, underground with no AC. My youngest collapsed on a bench, and my oldest leaned against a pillar, hoping to catch a glance of a train. While we must have looked like a pack of severely damp, wilted flowers, a pack of energetic seniors came down to the platform after spending the day on a foot tour of Boston. Complete with visors, fanny packs and water bottles, I was in awe of their energy level and upbeat spirits. One gentleman came over towards my oldest, jokingly said "Oh, I see you are holding up that pillar. If you don't mind young man, I'm going to help you", and stood next to him. As I chatted with the man, both my boys' eyes bugged out. Like most kids today, they've had the "Don't talk to strangers" speech practically every day of their lives. I didn't see a stranger, though. The man's easy smile reminded me so much of my father before he developed Parkinson's.

For all the shortcomings my Dad had, he was a master of silly jokes, horrible puns, and at times had an observant wit. The way this man spoke to my son was exactly something my father would have done.

Now, it has been a few years since he died. I know he is no longer around, but rarely have time to think about it too much. I've been too preoccupied going from one crisis to the next. In seeing this man, though, I had such a sense of loss that tears welled and my chest tightened. At that moment, I would have given anything to have my father with me at the doctor's appointment or to discuss my son's treatment. I would have given anything to see him smile as he watched his grandsons.

If you believe acting is a talent held only by those in Hollywood, you've never seen a mother pull it together when a child needs something. My youngest tugged at my wrist wanting to know the man's identity and why I was talking to him. Putting on my best poker face, I just smiled and said "A friendly man, just like your Bapa was"

As the train finally pulled in, and we clamored thankfully into the air conditioning, my sense of loss eased. Instead of a painful reminder of what I've lost, I decided the incident was something else entirely. I'd spent most of the day worried about my son, guilty over what may or may not have happened during his birth, and as usual exhausted by carrying it alone. I'd like to believe that wherever my Dad is, he knew and decided to check in on us.

Maybe that's what I need to believe to carry a loss that hurts as much as it did the day he died. Maybe my Dad was helping me carry it through that man. Either way, for a time, I was less overwhelmed. I remembered how he loved his grandsons, and how he thought I was a good mother. It was enough to keep me going.

blessings,

Catie

Copyright 2005 WomanLinks.com

About the Author : Catie Hayes is founder/editor of WomanLinks.com; a community of support, spirituality, growth and empowerment for women. She is a freelance writer, the single homeschooling mom of two, and an avid fan of laughter, spontaneous dancing, cats and chocolate (not necessarily in that order).