I Am Not in Control

I am a dolt. Even though I have extensive proof to the contrary, somehow I continually convince myself that a) the current situation, whatever it may be, will continue forever; and b) that I really am immortal.

That's why when something irrevocable happens I am so deeply shocked. A few weeks ago I fell pretty badly, ripping open my left arm and very seriously bruising my lower back. The fall came as a complete shock because there was nothing I could do to prevent it. One minute I was upright, and the next I was flat on my back gasping for air. In that brief second when I realized something that I had not intended -- something I could not control -- happened, I also thought of the possibility of paralysis. It was a fleeting thought, but I realized in that fraction of a section that it could happen to me. While there was pain involved in the fall, what was more upsetting was the realization of just how delicate my control of my world really is.

An old friend is going through the process of losing her father. As I write this he is most likely in hospice care. At Christmas when I saw my mother for the first time in five years I realized that my feeling of perpetual youth is just an illusion. My mother, who has been twenty-five in my head for as long as I've known her suddenly is a senior citizen. While she's always feigned frailty for attention, now the fragility is reality and being confronted with that reality was/is very frightening. When I received news that my friend was losing her father, I of course was sympathetic, but I experienced that fear again because I know that some day soon I'm going to have to deal with my mother's death, my cat's death, throwing away my old bathroom sink.

Even the most mundane irrevocable act makes me uncomfortable; that's why I have nearly eighty gray sweaters. Three quarters of them don't fit and never will again, but I can't bring myself to give them away. If they were a gift from someone, probably now long since forgotten, it still feels wrong. I still have a sweater that my mother gave me for my twelfth birthday. It was a gift and I cannot get rid of it.

But more important, by holding on to these things I am able to convince myself that nothing is changing and that I'm safe.

Yet, my friend's e-mail, my fall, my cat's health, and my mother's advancing age are telling me that things are changing with or without my approval and participation. And by extension my safety is called into question.

Christ, I think too much.