Breaking and Mending

A Special Tuesday Edition of Wednesdays at the Well

Last week got away from me. And this week, even before it began, felt impossible. I’ve never struggled quite like this with what to write, or when to write it, or if I should even write at all.

I asked my mother, “What words could I possibly have to offer?”

She said, “Write from your heart. That’s what people connect with.”

And, my heart traveled back to the shopping mall of my childhood. I loved nothing more than wandering the long hallways of stores for hours on Saturdays, usually with little money in my pocket. If I was lucky I had enough to get something from the value menu at the food court Taco Bell or to play a few games at the arcade. If I was really lucky I had enough for both and maybe a cassette single at the music store.

At center court was a gift shop filled with trinkets and pop culture inspired items. This particular day, during the beginning of the holiday season, I was nine years old. Drawn to a small glass box resting on a glass shelf. I remember it being white with a lid made of a red heart. Immediately, I knew it was the perfect gift for one person on my list, the one whose love and approval I’d been seeking my whole life.

Knowing I didn’t have the funds to purchase it that day, I slowly picked it up, in hopes of finding the price tag, so I’d know how much money I’d need to find in the coming weeks. Despite all my carefulness, somewhere in the process of lifting it up, turning it over, and attempting to set it back down, the lid slipped. I watched in slow motion horror as it fell to the floor and the heart broke off.

I froze and then I panicked. Or maybe I panicked and then I froze. And then I ran. Afraid of getting in trouble. With the store. With mall security. With my family. I was sure that even God was mad at me. I broke something. Something I couldn’t fix. That I couldn’t afford. That I wasn’t supposed to even touch. This filled me with not only anxiety and fear, but also guilt and shame and helplessness.

These days just about everything feels broken. This election season is not the sole cause of the brokenness, but is definitely a source of its constant amplification. The news on the screens of our televisions and phones and tablets and computers reflecting hatred and ignorance, apathy and ego. Stoking deep seated anger and suspicion. The dangerous and deadly mixing of nationalism and christian fundamentalism. The dehumanization and targeting of specific populations with blatant lies and intentional disinformation. Truth has been destroyed and trust depleted.

What happens in this election will have impacts far beyond this season and this country alone. What is happening here is not unique. The whole world is breaking. The lid has been dropped. We are watching it fall. Waiting for it to shatter. Not knowing exactly how or where it will break and who will be hurt, who will survive, and what will be lost. While some among us are certainly more vulnerable and likely to be harmed, this brokenness is breaking us all.

I’m writing this on Sunday. Still wondering if this is a week best reserved for silence. Let the Well rest this Wednesday, one part of my mind says on repeat. Yet when I deeply listen my heart, like my mother’s voice, it says, speak and write.

Two years ago my heart was breaking. Waiting alongside my mother for biopsy results that would ultimately bring a very serious cancer diagnosis. The reports and the weeks and months to come were filled with unbearably long days and sleepless nights. I couldn’t cure her. I couldn’t fix what was broken in her body or the health care system that made the breaking more painful than it already was. I was breaking under the weight of grief and trying to hide that from her and from everyone. I wanted to run, like I had from that store in the mall as a frightened nine-year-old girl. But I stayed. I remained close. I recommitted every day, sometimes multiple times a day, to simply being present, to being honest about my limitations and my powers.

After almost two months of hospitals and a rehab center, my mother came home. At the time we didn’t know what the future would bring. Is this where she would live her final days? Is this where she would regain enough strength to resume treatment? Is there where we would break apart or experience a breaking together?

The cancer and the chemo both took a toll on her heart. My daily tasks included taking and monitoring her blood pressure, heart rate, pulse, and oxygen levels. These numbers were transmitted electronically to her care team and if anything was out of range the phone quickly rang. A nurse calling, asking questions to determine if intervention was needed. The intensity of every moment was overwhelming. Life and death and her heart were literally in my hands.

Holding her, I held the weight of immeasurable sorrow and irrational hope. I couldn’t fix what was broken and breaking in her body, but I learned to the mend the things I could. Like her spirit and her dignity. Prioritizing gentleness over speed and softness over perfection. Listening more speaking less. Asking not only what she needed, but what she really wanted.

1 egg with cheese scrambled in.
1 piece of toast with light butter.
1 smoky link sausage.
The exact right amount of Splenda in her coffee, not quite half a packet.
The torn quilt from the closet that belonged to her mother.
Another pillow.
The bed pushed a little farther from the window because of the cold draft.
A heating pad.
The light under the kitchen counter left on.
A thicker pair of socks.
Lotion on her feet and hands, but not that scented kind.
The phone so she can call her sister every night at 7pm.
A poem, a prayer, and assurance that I’m not leaving.
And a kiss on the forehead before she goes to sleep.

There were so many times I felt useless and like all I could do was watch as cancer was breaking her body and our plans for the future, and the home and family we miraculously found in each other. Tracking her heart became my focus, teaching me how our heartbreak modifies our heartbeat, forever altering how I understand hearts as a whole.

The heart of the whole world is beaten and beating, broken and breaking before us. Hearts are on edge, waiting for news and updates, and recovery from disasters and an end to war and violence. The earth, the sky, the oceans waiting for relief from the trauma humanity persistently inflicts while incessantly debating whether the weather is the result of our behavior or a sign of divine retribution. The election cycle has so many of us holding our breath and our hearts in our hands.

Neither candidate or their political party has the cure for our collective brokenness. Or an instant fix to end the breaking. But one will undoubtedly enhance the suffering and exacerbate the fractures acutely and swiftly. Whatever the outcome, the call for healing and healers, guardians and guides, storytellers and sages, listeners and learners will ring loud and long. Will we answer? How will we respond?

I am checking my pulse with ever increasing and intense frequency.  My heart hurts and it’s heavy.  I want to pull the lid off so I can check the price on the bottom of the box. And I’m terrified of breaking it and walking the rest of this life on broken glass. 

Hold your heart gently. Check your vital signs regularly. Listen to your body and your breathing. Tend to your needs and your mothers, and your elders and your neighbors. Gather with your kin and community. Invite in a stranger. Be intentionally kind. Deliberately soft. Tenderly move toward what you consider running from.

When you cannot fix everything that is broken, mend the things you can.

Water-fully Yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels