It’s intimidating to be in the presence of heroes

I drove 12 hours from Hilton Head to Cincinnati to my cousin Laura’s house to visit my Aunt Esther last weekend. Go read that post first if you haven’t yet, so this post makes more sense.

Laura has three daughters: An eight-year-old, a five-year-old, and a six-month-old old (This essay may flow a little weird, since I don't use the girls' names - sorry about that.). And now Laura's mother is dying of a brain tumor in her spare bedroom, on hospice. She gets agitated and scared and in pain, and Laura goes in and gives her Mother liquid morphine until her eyes flutter shut. But first, she must promise her Mother that this medicine will not prolong her life, just ease her suffering. Only then will Esther accept it, so Laura can give her the dose, then go cry in the bathroom so her daughters won’t see her.

I witnessed an extraordinary 15 minutes last Saturday. So extraordinary that I’ve thought of little else since then. It started when the 5-year-old came crying to Laura that her older sister wouldn’t let her play basketball. So Laura and I went out in the driveway to investigate. The 8-year-old was shooting basketball, and wouldn’t play with her sister because this was “basketball practice for big kids” – she had just recently started playing on a team and viewed basketball as serious business now. The way little kids do.

I noticed Laura’s head shift – she had heard her mom inside the house. I hadn’t heard anything. Laura has that magical “Mom sense.”

She quickly looked at me and said, “I’ll take 5-year-old inside to do some art. You stay here and shoot with 8-year-old Her dad will be home from work soon. I’ll check on Mom while I’m inside.”

I said, “Sure,” while I wondered how she kept so many plates spinning all at the same time without dropping any of them. I went to chase basketballs.

Laura went in, tried to calm her mom down, promised not to try to save her life, gave her enough Morphine to knock her out. Laura was praying that she would get to see her again in a few hours, despite her mom’s wishes to the contrary. Over her own crying, she heard her 6-month-old crying upstairs, the way little kids do.

A few minutes later, I looked in the window from the driveway basketball court and saw Laura breastfeeding her infant in a chair outside her mom’s room, so she could hear if her mom needed something. Presumably she was still breathing. The 5-year-old was at her feet, drawing pictures, showing them to her mom every 30 seconds, the way little kids do.

I stuck my head in the door from the driveway and asked Laura if there was anything I could do. She smiled ruefully through bloodshot eyes and said, “Figure out what I can make for dinner.”

I said, “Let me worry about that.”

So I closed the door, went back to catching basketballs before they bounced into the street, and got out my cell phone to order pizza. That’s my idea of cooking. Laura’s a brilliant cook. But I’m doing the best I can here.

I find it inspiring to be around heroes, even though it’s intimidating. I feel so inadequate. My hero provides loving care for two elementary school girls while breastfeeding an infant and helping her own Mother die peacefully, and then worries about what to make for supper.

Until I ride in on my white horse and order pizza.

What else can I do?

I look back in the window. Laura’s not there. She was just there a second ago. She’s not there now. I wonder where she went? I wonder what she’s doing?

Whatever needs to be done, I suppose. For whoever needs it, at this moment. And whoever needs help is not Laura. Regardless. Everyone else’s needs matter. Not hers. Right now, that's impossible. Her husband will be home from work soon. Pretty soon.

I’m staring in the window at Laura’s empty rocking chair, and a basketball nearly hits me in the head. I go pick it up, toss it to a smiling, beautiful 8-year-old girl, and I reach for my cell phone again, to order flowers.

Not that it will help. Heroes have bigger concerns than such banal gestures.

But what else can I do? When I end my visit, Laura's world will still be an absolutely agonizing & exhausting hell. But at least she'll have leftover pizza and some flowers. Thank goodness for me, huh?

* sigh *

It’s intimidating to be in the presence of heroes.

Inspiring. But intimidating.

********************

All this took place in the space of maybe 15 minutes. My head has been spinning ever since. I keep thinking that there must be some moral in there somewhere. Surely something that hit me this hard would teach me some sort of lesson, right?

But I don't think so. The only lesson I see is that sometimes life sucks, and you've just got to do the best you can.

Maybe that's why I'm so intimidated by heroes. Because I know they're not genetically superior, like Superman or something. They're just normal people, doing the best they can, in impossible circumstances. And that's it.

It would be less intimidating if they were made better than everyone else. That would take the pressure off.

But they're just like me. They're just handling very difficult circumstances much, MUCH better than I'm handling regular day-to-day life.

Talk about intimidating. Yikes.

*****************

It's good to be home.

I keep meaning to go check on my neighbor - he's been sick - I really should swing by. See if he needs anything.

Eh, I'm tired. Maybe I'll do it tomorrow.

I wonder how Laura's doing, up in Cincinnati? Still leaping over tall buildings in a single bound, I presume.

Or maybe she's just handling her impossible circumstances better than I'm handling a regular day.

Talk about intimidating.

Man, I could really use some bourbon. Just one glass won't hurt me. In fact, hopefully I'll hurt less.

Ah, that's so much better. Whew...

* sigh *