More often than not, I feel misplaced. An idealist drowning in a sea of cynicism, a sentimentalist awash in a tide of realism, a simple girl endeavoring to make her way through the maze of an over-complicated life. It's always been with me, this feeling of not belonging, this lack of connective tissue linking the inner me to the wider world, and so I cannot say with any depth of certitude that I would - or would not - have it any other way. I don't know any other way. It just is what it is, I am who I am, and so it goes, ever onward, one foot in front of the other, day into night, week into year, past into present into future, infinity into beyond.
I don't imagine that I am particularly unique in this feeling of one-ness, alone-ness, only-ness. Rather, I imagine there are multitudes just like me, each of us too invested in watching our own steps for fear of falling to realize we needn't be afraid of anything except the fear itself.
Someone said that before me, didn't they?
Everything there is to say has already been said before, though, I sometimes think.
All we have left is context.
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My husband came home yesterday with a story to tell.
A very interesting story, as it happens, interestingly timed.
It seems a co-worker of his recently found out that his very active, sports-loving brother-in-law has been diagnosed with an aortic aneurysm. This brother-in-law - who at 53, is a relatively young and healthy man - was given two options: a severe restriction of activity in an effort to reduce the risk of a complete rupture, or the same surgery my father went through a couple of years ago to reinforce the aorta along its entire length.
As it happens, this co-worker's brother-in-law opted for the restricted activity over the surgery. As it happens, this co-worker's brother-in-law was told that after such an invasive course of surgery, his whole make-up would be forever changed. The surgeons stressed to him a simple fact: you will not be the same person post-op as you were going in, psychologically, neurologically, physiologically, or any other -ogicallies you might name.
My father endured two harrowing surgeries over an 18-month period that required arduous treks to and from Houston, Texas, to be treated by the one of the world's leading experts in the field. In the process, his entire aorta, from heart to tail of spine, ascending and descending, was fundamentally altered, reinforced along its length with a fibrous material designed to fend off the tearing of its weakened walls in a process that was described to us as analogous to repairing a garden hose.
I don't recall ever being told, advised or cautioned about this alteration creating further, more holistic changes. But then, I do recall being told that my father had little choice. Opt for the surgery, or opt for a painful, sudden, unpredictably timed death.
From that perspective, I'm quite sure an understanding about the larger changes potentially incumbent with the surgery wouldn't have changed the decision making process at all.
But I'm a little annoyed, all the same, that the information wasn't shared with us - the family - by his doctors. Or, if it in fact was shared, that I didn't digest it fully.
Because that knowledge might have been helpful as I've watched Dad change so dramatically in the ensuing years since the surgery was (successfully) performed. It is information that might have altered my own passenger seat roller coaster ride through the psychological turmoil of the surgeries' aftermath. It is information that might have helped me better equip myself for the realities of his situation.
It is information that might have taken the edge off the slow burn inside that blames him for quitting.Even learning it late helps a little.
Sometimes, late being better than never is as much as we can hope for.
And sometimes?
Timing is everything.
Even timing that's weirdly weird and ironically ironic and suspiciously suspicious.
