There was a night in the hospital, just before I accepted I would never get to speak with Mary again.
I was alone and bargaining and begging for God to save any part of her. Anything. I dreamed of a life always by her side, I would take care of her in a bed, or a wheelchair, whatever, as long as He didn’t take all of her.
I got angry with myself for not accepting what my heart knew was coming.
I put my earbuds in and played Iggy Pop. I don’t know why, but he takes me away, helps me smile at a traffic jam, makes me laugh in the angriest of moments without mocking the anger.
“So messed up, I want you here
In my room, I want you here
Now we’re gonna be face-to-face
And I’ll lay right down in my favorite place
And now I want to be your dog
Now I want to be your dog
Now I want to be your dog
Well, come on
Now I’m ready to close my eyes
And now I’m ready to close my mind
And now I’m ready to feel your hand
And lose my heart on the burning sands
And now I want to be your dog
And now I wanna be your dog
Now I want to be your dog
Well, come on”
-I Wanna Be Your Dog
I cried a lot that night. I didn’t want to be strong. I wanted my Mary, I wanted to be her dog.
Mary didn’t want me to be her dog. There was something in her soul that told her this would happen. There was a reason she chose me to be her husband and the father of her children. She believed in a strength in me that would weather this storm, maybe any storm.
She believed there would be a day like today, when I could sit with a friend and laugh about dating, then cry about what I had lost, then make a joke about crying and get back to laughing.
She believed in my extremes, Rage Against the Machine and Shelby Lynne, slide tackling and slow art, or The Three Stooges and Shakespeare. None of it made sense without all of it.
I feel those extremes more keenly now. They press right to the edge of unbearableness, exhausting me.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason