Storms

The storm hit just after 4 in the morning with a tremendous shotgun crack of thunder and a protracted series of lightning that lit up the sky like white neon. The little dashshund woke with a start and gave a small whimper before burrowing deeper into my side. The tiny one, fast asleep above my head, barely stirred. The rain came, hard and cold and falling fiercely, tearing the newly blooming azaleas to shreds and bending the crepe myrtles like so many paper straw wrappers. A second crash of thunder set the walls to vibrating and now thoroughly terrorized, the little dashshund yelped and frantically began to dig his way beneath me. I reassured him as best I could, speaking softly hugging him tightly and pulling the blanket over both our heads. It took several minutes but eventually he began to relax, tucking his whole head under my chin and holding on for dear life. After awhile, it got me to thinking about how little comfort we can sometimes offer those we love, especially perhaps when they need it the most.

I had visited my friend, Jean, earlier the day before and come away feeling helpless and worried and depressed. She'd had steroids with her last chemotherapy treatment and was chatty and perky and cheerful enough but she looked beaten up and unhealthily thin. She moved with a fragile unsteadiness and had trouble following the conversation. The skin on either side of her throat was red and raw from the radiation and she kept a cold compress wrapped around her neck and shoulders. It chilled her so she'd tucked her hair under a loosely fitting green knit cap and wrapped herself in a thick shawl. The overall effect was frailty and weakness - I was reminded of a child playing dress up in clothes several sizes too big. We talk and tell stories, make up silly jokes, plan the places we will go when she's well and can taste food again. I tell myself anyone would look like this after 4 weeks of daily radiation and weekly chemotherapy. The doctors tell her, so she tells me, that she's tolerating it well and there is every reason to hope. Maybe so, but there's a part of me that sees shadows in this sweet little house. Granted, they're hiding in the corners for now and there are days when they seem to be gone entirely but

I can't shut them out completely. I'm afraid for my friend and for myself and I despise my helplessness.

Meanwhile, my dear friend, Tricia, has been thoroughly leveled by a gastrointestinal bug. I find her wrapped in a blanket and huddled miserably in her recliner. She looks like – forgive me, Tricia – death on a stick, thin, colorless, fragile and cold, too sick to move. Just like Jean, there's nothing I can do to comfort her or ease her pain and this harsh helplessness gnaws and grates on me like an abscess. There is an almost chronic weariness in her dark eyes, a sense of futility in the circles beneath them. She looks haggard and beaten and racked with pain. A few days later when she rallies - just a little – I wonder at her tenacity and will. I feel grateful and guilty all at the same time, so glad we are such good friends but at odds with myself for not being able to share or at least ease her suffering. It strikes me that the unfairness of how life treats us is a cold hearted bitch indeed and I make a mental note to remind myself to be more aware and appreciative of my own circumstances.

God has a plan, Jean tells me, and it's not ours to know. The agnostic in me thinks it's all a sad, man-made fiction but the part that wants to believe hangs on for dear life.