Have you ever noticed that there are distinctly different ways of saying "bad news"? If someone says to you, "I�ve got bad news", you can automatically tell by their voice whether your reaction will be, "Oh, great, here we go again," or if something far more dramatic and consequential is about to be imparted. Last night, when my mother called me for the fourth time since about 3:30 in the afternoon, I thought to myself, "What could she possibly have left to tell me today?" And that�s when she said, "Honey�I�ve got bad news."
My immediate reaction was nothing more mature than absolute denial. While one half of my brain raced ahead of me, trying to predict and be ready for anything she might tell me, the other half worked equally hard to dig its heels in against the inevitable progression of reality. First it suggested I just hang up right away -- the last time I heard that tone in someone�s voice, I was being informed that a friend of mine had died, and I wasn�t ready to hear anything similar, especially not if it was coming from my mother.
Of course, I couldn�t stop the truth. I couldn�t change it, and repeating, "No, no, no" in my head certainly wasn�t going to make whatever had happened reverse itself, so I shut up and let her continue. The good news, I should tell you, is that no one died. I was relieved, for an instant, to find that out. The bad news is that my brother-in-law was in an accident, severed his spinal cord, and is now paralyzed from the waist down.
A million more thoughts surfaced and dove back down, like a school of guppies in a feeding frenzy: what will happen with their six-month-old daughter? Who�s going to finish the house he�s been building? How is my unemployed sister going to support them both? And, incongruously: I picked his name for Christmas�what the hell can I possibly give him that won�t seem completely superfluous and insignificant in light of this?
Those were my immediate thoughts, but of course, this isn�t about me at all. I�ve got no idea what�s going through his head, or my sister�s, or if they feel as weirdly detached and clinical about it as I do. They live thousands of miles away from me, and I have no idea what to say to them that could possibly bridge that gap and make them feel any better, as if physical proximity could make that change. As if there�s anything that could be said or done to fix what�s wrong. "Thanks for thinking of us�now, how about you think us into some bionic legs?" I simply have to call, but I worry that by virtue of my inherent uselessness during crises, might I actually make matters worse and highlight futility and sorrow, rather than hope, by being unable to do anything but breathe silently on my end of the line?
It�s a concern that waxes pretty anemic when propped up next to the million little ways their lives have changed in the flash of an eye. Our other sister, The Jones, will be able to offer comfort, stability, and carefully considered advice bred of experience (she has a close friend who tragically experienced something similar), and for that I am grateful. The only weapon in my arsenal is sympathy, and I selfishly worry that it won�t be enough -- that I�ll let them down by being capable of nothing greater than a profitless emotion.
As I say, though, it isn�t about me; my usefulness, my thoughts, or whether I can find a way to explain it. The more I write, the more I understand that I�m not a part of this and that any impact I feel it make on my life would be a misappropriation of someone else�s grief, someone else whom I care for greatly.
I don�t feel I�ll write much more about it, save to ask that you maybe send some good vibes in their direction. It may not help, but it certainly can�t hurt them to have positive thoughts moving through the Universe in their direction.
Someone Got Here By Searching For: "the gift that keeps on giving"; tv commercial I�m Watching: North Shore, which is predictably glossy-yet-trashily-pointless. And: Not The Casino, because I�ve O.D.-ed a little on Mark Burnett.