On my way home from Springfield yesterday, I drove into, through, and out of heavy rain. Eventually, I was driving directly into the bright sunshine, even though rain was still falling. The sunshine was both beautiful and harsh; a welcome warm glow that hurt my eyes. And yes, behind me was a vibrant double rainbow.
Here’s the thing.
I needed to keep driving. There wasn’t a good place to pull over and really look at the rainbow and my mirrors weren’t any help. I just couldn’t get a good look. A glimpse as I rounded a curve, a sliver of the fainter second rainbow, a slice of color through my sunroof, but not the whole picture. Not without stopping, reversing course, ceasing progress.
The light was ahead. The gentler weather was ahead. Home was ahead. So, I kept driving. I fidgeted and possibly rubbernecked, but I drove.
And I thought.
The night before, I’d had a rare dream about Cooper. I was in a kitchen with other people and he just walked in. His hair was short, but he looked good. Healthy. Alive. Like himself. He leaned against the counter and I wrapped my arms around him and sobbed. Sobbed like I’ve only done once in two years. I clung to him, wanting to live forever in that moment of touching him, holding him, feeling his heartbeat, but somehow dream-knowing I couldn’t stay. He couldn’t stay. Thankfully, the dream ended before he left. A bit of dream mercy, I suppose.
Freud can take a pass on this dream; no interpretation required.
We are three days away from the two-year anniversary of Cooper’s suicide. Three days away from the very worst day, the day of delineation for our lives. The day that rewired a family and broke our hearts. The. Day. The day I drove into a storm I can’t leave.
The sun in my eyes was disorienting; after all, I was still in a storm. I’m still in a storm. How could the sky ahead be so bright, clouds burning off as I drove? How can there be blue sky across the river when my wipers are fighting a downpour? I’m still in a storm.
But the rainbows . . . such temptation. Sunshine ahead of me, storm above me, and the beautiful result behind me. Maybe I should stop. Just pull over and look.
Eventually, I turned a corner and was able to sneak a glance over my shoulder where the rainbows had been. The were gone, as fleeting as the Cooper dream the night before. Ahead of me, steam rose from the road and the bean fields, a spooky theater effect highlighted by the glaring sun. I was out of that storm.
I drove out of the rain, out of the river bottom, away from the dissolved rainbows, and on toward home, exhausted.
There is light ahead. I know there is.
Behind me, my memories—some vibrant, others muted—the life I thought I’d have.
But above me? Around me? In me? The storm.
It’s a stormy week for my heart and mind. It’s a week I’ve felt approaching since June. Each day closer to August 24, I feel more weight pressing down on my soul. It’s hard to explain, really, except to say I’m perpetually *this*close* to Ativan-level anxiety. My mind races through muck, my heart seems to be vying for a pacemaker, and my stomach is a rolling tangle of knots. I spent part of the summer building myself up for this week, convincing myself I could work that day. As the 24th crept closer, so did my urge to vomit when I thought about being around lots of people that day. If thinking about doing something, moving forward, taking another step makes me want to vomit, it’s still too soon. I gave in and scheduled a personal day. Maybe I’d’ve been okay, but I don’t think so. As I told a Mom Who Knows, I’ll try again next year.
I didn’t have one obviously good choice while driving into, through, and out of yesterday’s rain; there was good and bad in each option. Driving in the rain wasn’t great, but it was manageable. I could see the sun, and I knew the rainbow was behind me, there for the viewing if I’d only pull over for a while. A comfort. Hurrying through the rain and into the sun seemed perfect, but the sun brought its own challenges. The glare. The steam. The blinding brightness.
I just kept going—not stopping but not rushing, either—until I drove into gentler light and the memory of rainbows.
Woods Writes 