With its random bandaids, Tie o’ the Day represents love and the pain love inevitably causes us. We’ve all needed to heal our hearts when they have been broken. If we allow ourselves to love, our hearts will break many times while we live. Family members and friends pass away. Our pets meet death. Maybe someone we fell in love with fell out of love with us. Maybe we lose hope, and our dreams die.
If we choose to, we can empathize with each other’s broken hearts, because most kinds of losses happen to everyone. If they haven’t happened to you yet, they will. We’re part of the human race, and our lives follow similar trajectories. Birth. Relationships. Work. Aspirations. Death.
Loving is worth any pain that might accompany it. A broken heart is often the cost of a full heart. And broken hearts can be instructive. We have the power to look inside that broken heart at all the mistakes we made which caused the heartbreak in the first place. We can learn from those mistakes, and we can get a little better at the practice of love.
Two months after Mom and Dad graduated from Delta High School, they got married in the Manti Temple. Dad had barely turned 18, and Mom didn’t turn 18 until two months later. They were youngsters. Nobody should get married that young, in my opinion. The odds of a couple that young–and therefore that dumb– staying together are miniscule. Mom and Dad somehow found a way to kick the odds and stick together. They lasted 59 years together before Dad died, in December 2007.
Dad suffered through his pain for two years. He stayed with us for as long as he could– for all of us, and especially for Mom. During the last two weeks of Dad’s life, Mom often told him it was okay for him to let go. She told him she would be okay. She told him we would all take care of her. Dad knew we would. But I believe one of the reasons Dad held on for so long is that he was trying to make it another few months, to be with Mom on their 60th wedding anniversary.
Of course, no matter when Dad died, Mom’s heart was going to break anyway. And when he finally did let go, her heart did break. Eleven years later, it’s still broken. But Mom’s heart is also still full of memories and time and the adoration Dad gave her. It’s impossible for that kind of splendid stuff to ever fall out of even the most broken heart.
Tie o’ the Day makes its sweet point with its talky sweet hearts. I’ve always enjoyed getting and giving the little boxes of candy hearts, but they really aren’t very tasty. It’s their shape and their tiny messages that make them an annual have-to-have. It’s a childhood nostalgia thing.
I’ve been posting all kinds of lovey-dovey family lore this week to add to the Valentine’s Day spirit, but I have to make a bit of a sidetrack this morning. I must report on two of this week’s happenings. To put these incidents in context, remember that I had a major surgery six months ago, which I’m sure you’re tired of hearing about in my posts. My recovery has gone wondrously well, although I still feel tugs and pulls and weird pains in my gut on occasion– especially behind my itchy scar. I’m still somewhat limited in my physical activities, especially those which require me to move quickly or use my belly muscles.
The first incident, which occurred a few days ago, is what I refer to as The Calamitous Attack of the Wrapping Paper Tube. The simplest way to explain it is this: One end of a tube of Christmas wrapping paper was sticking out of a storage bin which happened to be temporarily sitting by the pantry– on its way to be stored in the garage until next year.
As I emerged from the pantry, I ran directly into the end of the tube. The wrapping paper isn’t usually in that spot, so I didn’t even think of it before I turned around. I have a normal-size, well-fed tummy– so there’s plenty of free skin-space to be poked hard by a tube, with negligible risk, but of course the tube attempted to impale me precisely on my scar. It felt like someone had rammed a metal cookie cutter into my wound. I can tell semi-important internal things beneath my scar got injured a bit, although I can also feel that it wasn’t a major injury. The normal strange tugs and pulls I’ve felt since surgery are now stranger, and it feels like my scar and beneath it is a complete bruise. Small setback, it is. But who knew a roll of Christmas wrapping paper could even spear a scar? I know it now. Watch out for wrapping paper tubes.
Second incident. Yesterday, Skitter and I were returning home from our walkie to the mailbox. As we walked back, I spied a guy walking a medium-size, leashed dog on our side of the street. Knowing Skitter’s fear of everything, I crossed us to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. A few seconds later, I realized Skitter had seen the other mutt, because she began to shake. On we walked toward home.
Apparently, the other dog noticed The Skit, pulled its leash out of its owner’s hand, and ran across the road to us– baring its teeth at Skitter. I reached down to pick up Skitter, but not quickly enough. Skitter’s absolute, monstrous fear caused her to pull out of her leash collar and run in the direction of home. Of course, the other dog chased after her. I couldn’t think of anything except getting to Skitter before she got hurt in a dogfight, or simply died of being petrified by the entire happening. I RAN! For almost two blocks, I RAN! It did not occur to me running is not allowed at this point in the recovery of my gut. And, of course, I haven’t out-and-out run since the late-90’s. But still, I love Skitter. There was no debate about what I should do, so I RAN!
As I ran after her, I saw Skitter almost get hit by a car. And when I turned the corner and saw her close to our house, the other dog was circling Skitter as she curled into a ball and cowered. (That’s what she does when she’s afraid and doesn’t have a safe blanket.) I had been putting up such a racket during the whole chase that when I finally got pretty close to the dogs, the other dog high-tailed it off to find its owner. Because of my yelling, and because she knew she wasn’t supposed to tug on her leash or leave my side, Skitter also thought I was angry at her. She immediately peed on the porch, in fright and relief. When we got back into the house, she holed-up in her crate. I made it clear I wasn’t mad at her. She believed me and sat between me and Suzanne. But because of the dog almost-fight, she didn’t stop shaking for an hour. She was a walking fur ball of trauma all evening.
This morning, I have two fears which are bugging me: 1. Did the The Calamitous Attack of the Wrapping Paper Tube, combined with the running to save The Skit, cause bigly damage to my healing innards? I’m certainly in more pain than I was before these two incidents happened. 2. Will Skitter now be too frightened to go on our walkies again? Remember, it took her five years to finally be comfortable enough to get excited to do her walkies. She only truly began to enjoy her walkies in the last few months. I’m hoping Skitter and I have not created humongous setbacks for ourselves.
On the other hand, Skitter and I are both tough broads. (We learned to be tough broads from Mom, the Queen of Tough Broads.) The Skit and I have been through a plethora of not-so-good experiences in our different lives, so we already know that these things, too, shall pass.
