That was the good part. The rest was hard. Damn, I wish I didn't have such supportive, concerned and wise friends. I wish they would let me let my life crash and burn, but no.
"What do you want, Lauren?" she asked. "What do you want? This is your time to figure out you. Don't attach a face to what you want. Just think about you."
She is 100% right, and she is like the 18th friend who has given me this advice. I keep searching for someone who doesn't ask me to be introspective. I want companionship and a partner, someone who can help carry the load. I am sure there is more, but that is it for now.
This morning, I picked up Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor Fankl. If I hear of a book from three different reliable sources, I figure that is the universe's way of telling me to read it. I started crying the second page of Harold Kushner's intro.
"Frankl saw three possible sources of meaning:
- In work (doing something significant)
- In love (caring for another person), and
- Courage in difficult times."
Right there, I saw the gap in my marriage. My husband gets his meaning from work, where he also cares for people. Two birds, one stone.
My meaning for so many years been caring for others: my family and most recently, the Boy. At 8:03 this morning, I missed him. By missing him, I mean I had a full-fledged grief attack. At that moment, I should be making sure he is awake. I should have walked to Seven Roasters Cafe, the coffee shop around the corner from the Ravenna house, and gotten him an egg sandwich, or a muffin and maybe a latte. I should be rousting him from bed, shaking his foot like my dad used to do to me, making sure he is awake and ready to go to school. Sometimes I'd throw the dog on his bed and have Fox poke around him. There is probably a cross-country meet today after school. Jack should be taking to him about his plan for his run. Maybe we'd talk about the plan for the post-meet dinner.
So when I think about what I want, there is a face. So much of my source of meaning was the Boy, being a mom. I know all mom's jobs have an expiration date, that things change and progress. I talked to one of my co-workers yesterday about sending her son to kindergarten this week.
I know the Boy is in a better place, but that also makes it sound like he is dead, and that sucks. I don't want him in "a better place." I want him in my kitchen, looking for milk for a bowl of cereal.
It is hard to compare grief to grief, but missing him is almost as bad when Ada died. The hardest part about this love, and love in general, I suppose, is that when someone you love needs something you can't give them, and they need to get it someplace else. I don't know how many people have told me "You are such a great mom. You are doing the right thing by helping the Boy get the help he needs."
But that is of no comfort when on Thursday morning when he is not in my kitchen. A good mom makes sure her son has breakfast. I want to be that kind of good mom.
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