One of the most important things I’ve learned.
A few days ago my wife was having one of her episodes. She saw it coming, sensed it getting closer, and casually in tone (yet somehow intensely in feeling) announced it.
Gave me time to grab our folding computer table, grab my laptop and retreat to the den, close the door, and watch a Cassavetes film. Not entirely uplifting material, but certainly let me know I wasn’t alone in my own feelings. Good company.
I heard Liz go into our bedroom after a while, and when I went in for a moment to grab something out of our bathroom, I saw her huddled up under the sheets with even the bedspread wrapped around her head.
Considering the icy silence I had felt from all the way down the hall before she retreated to safety of our bed, I was even apprehensive about walking in to get my Johnson’s Lavender Baby Shampoo out of the shower.
I walked on those eggshells. Tip-toed. Held my breath.
Just as I put my hand on the doorknob to leave the room as safely as I had thankfully been able to enter, I barely but powerfully heard the child’s voice from under the three layers of covers:
“Would you hold me?”
We laid there for an hour without speaking.
We got out of bed, went back into the living room and watched “Happy Feet” again, one hand wrapped around each other’s hand, and with our other hand cramming popcorn down our smiling faces between the giggles.
Liz’s back prevents her from dancing along.
I can’t dance. I’m just that white.
But I sang along to Stevie Wonder.