Rhythms

My mother buried her husband this past week, the second man she had to say a tearful goodbye to after her had endured a protracted illness. The first was my father, who passed away suddenly, almost violently, from a brain hemorrhage twenty five years ago. It got me thinking about a lot of things, as these events and times do. I began to think about them in the context of the rhythms that they settle into.

We are born into this world, we hope, the objects of joyful celebration, welcomed to the world with open arms and warm fuzzy blankets and the kootchie-cooing of adoring parents and grandparents. If we are lucky, we are loved. Undeservedly, unequivocally, unabashedly, unconditionally loved. We are cared for and nurtured. We grow and learn and succeed. One day, we head out into the world, adults who know nothing ready to control everything, only to finally realize that our true education has just begun. If we are smart and savvy, we learn even more about how things work, how to live and love in a harsh world that owes us nothing, nothing at all. We create, we procreate, we work, we amass, we collect, we build, we inhabit, we settle in for that delicious part of life which is the “we made it” part. We expect that “we made it” leads to “we earned it” leads to “we deserve it” which gradually morphs into “it will always be this way” and “no one can ever take this away from us”.  The train is heading down the track at a dizzying speed, wheels singing on rails and billows of black smoke trailing behind to darken the other fellow’s sunny skies, not ours. Not ours.

Then, a once in a century, a once in a lifetime event happens for the second, third and fourth time. The hurricane leaves nothing but concrete slab and green slime-infested pool at the edge of a sunny shore that once heard the laughter of children and now hears the wails of retirees who find that their physical address, what is left of it,  has moved over three streets. The lingering siren that warned of the monster heralds a dawn in which the rubble is piled three stories high, the muddied teddy bear and the family album strewn across a neighborhood that no longer has landmarks of any kind after the wrath of the mighty winds visited. A casket is lowered into the ground, a tiny one, and is covered with earth, covering hopes and dreams and sleepovers and play dates and senior proms and trophies that will never be displayed, all because of a stray bullet that was stopped by the innocence of a child.

We are born. We grow. We dream. We work. We love. We die.

The virus creeps in on Sandburg’s little cat feet. Yes, I can’t get that descriptor out of my mind in the past few months because it seems like everything that hits us, hurts us, kills us comes in that way nowadays, gliding on silver airplane wings to knock down buildings, hissed in a a quiet string of expletives designed to hold us down, or breathed quietly towards us, inhaled death. Quiet. Stealthy. Deadly. The rhythm of death.

I’m home. I work every day. I talk to everyone and yet touch no one, shake no hands, pat no one on the back, proffer no gifts except my words. The rhythms of this daily pandemic grind are cold and mocking. Upstairs to work. Listen to music that used to soothe but now just bores. Hear the rumble of the construction workers’ trucks and trailers heading into the area to work. FedEx truck by for the first of one, two or three routes that day, always before ten. UPS truck (What can Brown do for you?) close on his heels before noon. Construction guys to lunch, sans trailers. USPS truck chugging out and back, albeit later than usual these days. Rhythms. The daily grind of good coffee and hard work and tedium and our inexplicable complacency with mediocrity of leadership and one thousand deaths per day.

And yet, we do it.

And we do it again.

And we do it again,

until,

one day,

we understand

why.

The masks come off,

and we smile.

F5s

F5
Incredible tornado.
261-318 mph.
Strong frame houses lifted off foundations and carried considerable distances to disintegrate; automobile sized missiles fly through the air in excess of 100 meters; trees debarked; steel reinforced concrete structures badly damaged.

tornadoproject.com

 

We had a strong storm front come through the southeastern United States last week. Of course, this was not the first time this happened, and it will certainly not be the last. It was fascinating to watch it march inexorably across the country, showing up on my weather app as a ragged green diagonal slash from Gulf to heartland to northeast, moving slowly and relentlessly across the landscape. In the center of the ragged slash was a well defined hard bright yellow-orange-red line of destruction. Pretty on the screen, destructive on the ground. Destroyer of worlds.

Texts began to trickle in from my daughter, who lives in Spartanburg, of an apparent tornado that touched down not five miles from her house and destroyed a shopping center. A coworker who sees patients at the mental health center by telehealth connection also reported frightening noises that drove her to her basement to hunker down until all warnings were lifted later in the day. Both reported the loud, surreal wail of tornado warning sirens, something that I have never heard in real life, but that I am sure must be quite distressing in the midst of gray skies, howling winds,  pouring rain and lightning flashes. Not an F-5, but terrifying nonetheless.

When I hear about such stressful situations and see evidence of the destruction they bring,  I think of my friends, family, acquaintances and patients have who struggled with cancer, financial stress, persecution for various reasons, and other stresses that lead to anxiety, fear and emotional upheaval. My aunt who succumbed to ovarian cancer when I was a boy. My mother, who is a breast cancer survivor. My friend, who tragically committed suicide. My patients, who tell me stories of unbelievable trauma, neglect, abuse and hopelessness. Like an F-5 monster tornado, these life circumstances can drop on any of us unexpectedly from the sky. Pretty colored X-rays and scans reveal the destructive power of the cancer underneath. Sirens go off. The mind screams take cover, take cover! The body sometimes is only grazed, shrapnel cutting but not killing. Other times, the impact is devastating. Nothing looks as it did before the storm. The landscape is flattened and only rubble is left. We return to a place, time or set of circumstances that we expect to be familiar, only to realize that all of our old landmarks are gone, destroyed. We do not know whether to drop to our knees and cry, run headlong into the pile of rubble, or turn and walk away.

Is there anything good about F-5s, cancer, abuse, trauma, and destruction?  What an odd question, I hear you asking me.

These scourges, while leaving city blocks, body parts, and psyches in absolute ruin, are often coldly surgical in their devastation. That is, a few hundred yards away, or a few inches outside the margins, or in some other part of the emotional us, the sun is shining, the tissue is healthy, the coping is reasonably good and life goes on. Friends rush to help. Prayers go up. Communities, wonderful , supportive, dynamic communities form. Support is not only offered but insisted upon. Rebuilding begins immediately in the aftermath of the siren’s wail, the surgeon’s knife, and the abuser’s fist.

When the horror and the shock and the denial and the anger and the tears and all of it subsides, victims become empowered survivors.

Strong!

The chorus goes up.

We will rebuild.

Life will go on.

We’re still here.