They keep disappearing, the boxes that my son has been packing and stacking in his room, oh, for over a year.
Just a couple at a time. But I’m sure there were about a dozen at one point – maybe more. Now only four sit on his bed where they’re easier to lift than prostrating themselves on the floor. He had a hernia a few years ago, learnt his lesson with the weights. His mates didn’t even come and see him after the op.
And he’s lifted these cardboard hold-alls, taken them, obviously, while I haven’t been looking.
Either that or there’s a magician in the house, or the elves keep coming in the night to help him get away. Urge him on his way. Away from the mother who has outstayed her welcome in this world. No more use. Only a dead weight to carry.
Better a hernia from a box of belongings than a break-down from a life of missed longings in servitude.
Oh, I understand. Nothing planned. You don’t set out to be a cripple in a wheelchair. It just happens.
And isn’t it always the way that it’s easier for the victim/patient in these cases? Because they have no choice but to learn to accept, adapt and maybe even find some good in the situation? Beyond the imagination of the other.
So that the carer just feels its wrongness compared to the rest of the world. As they see it - in their own very tired eyes.
And their friends - in this culture of “choices” - espouse materialism and a freedom from responsibility [while frantically chasing the imagined pot of gold at the end of an invisible rainbow].
Following the way of the Self.
Which is what my dear son has been hearing and learning to believe in. Because it’s more comfortable than living with the sick.
And no one would disagree with that. Not even me who is hating watching the boxes disappearing – he’ll be gone soon, days probably. I’ll be alone.
Praying to the ‘good in the situation’ which is God.