It feels as if in some way that I have been a bystander watching a particularly brutal match in a boxing ring lately.
The contestants line up at the side of the ring unaware they are about to step into the ring. I see the bewildered expressions on their faces. They aren’t dressed for this. This wasn’t part of the schedule.
Then suddenly they are dazzled by a bright spotlight above their heads and are king hit.
One after the other.
They lie on the ground, dazed, bruised and brokenhearted.
And I stand there. Helpless and hopeless. Wishing that I could go to them. That I could hold them and make it all okay. But we are separated. Geography and time zones suck in times of loss and sorrow.
These “contestants” are all beloved family members.
From aggressive cancers, through to the tragic and sudden death of a beloved partner it seems unrelenting.
As is the pain.
We scrabble round trying the help pick up the million shattered pieces of the heart of one person, only to turn and try to find words that are supportive and helpful to another.
Sometimes there are none.
So right now I am where I need to be.
With my family. Embracing them and telling them how much I love them. Because I can. Because if the realization that this is what really matters is all I can take from the king hits, then that’s good enough for me.
I iron clothes feverishly.
I take pleasure in the constant driving to and from wherever it is I am ferrying the kids each day.
Husband touches my arm tenderly whenever we pass each other by.
Because we know.
We know now that it is all fleeting.
So bloody fragile.
This life.
