Riding the Sad Train

I want you to know that I always read every single word of every comment. And with each word I read, I lose one of my own, so now I am not just speechless with wonder and gratitude, I am in the hole a few thousand words.

Thank you for that. Thank you doesn’t really say what I want it to say. But I bet you knew that already.

You should know that I am definitely not stiff-upper-lipping my way through this painful time. I do what’s necessary, I get by, but I am being gentle with myself—at least as gentle as I know how to be with myself. I’m learning.

I am not so stubborn anymore—not with these little girls in my life, my little half-my-size girls and their open palms and wide-open eyes. In the past, I was more stubborn, sure. I could afford to be stubborn then.

What I’m saying is that I’m doing all the right things, all the recommended things (everything so far except giving up electricity for a week and removing all sources of artificial light to reset my body clock, but even that was a good recommendation because it made me laugh really, really hard for three days—I love you, Ali).

I don’t want you to think that this blog is my sole source of help, the first stop on the Sad Train. I think I might have given you the wrong impression.

I’ve been on it for a while, the Sad Train. I know every inch of it. The conductor likes me and listens to me and leaves me a bud vase with a fresh daisy in it every so often. I know where the dining car is and what Rx they have on hand. I know where my favorite sleeping car is and when I need to shut myself inside it and draw the curtains and close my eyes, even if the scenery is beautiful just out my window.

For me the greatest challenge is to keep my soul in sight. I don’t want it to get lost, buried under mounds of prescriptions and conflicting physicians’ reports and well-meant advice. I’ve got to keep my eye on the soul, because that’s the one thing that nobody else can do for me. I need to believe that the soul is all, and everything flows from it. You can burn incense if you need to. That did sound New Age-y. I am not New Age-y, generally, but these are trying times.

All I can say is that there are complications that make the quick fix impossible. Believe me, if there were a quick fix, I would have gobbled it up two years ago. So for now I must keep riding the Sad Train. If only Cat Stevens had written that song. I’d be snapping that up on iTunes so fast. The Sad Train has wireless. It’s not the most comfortable mode of travel, but you meet some interesting characters along the way.

But thank you for reading my postcards (I slip them to the conductor and he mails them for me from stops along the way). I don’t know when I’ll be over for dinner, for coffee, at book group, anywhere that you might be. I’m a working woman, and with the family too…well, hell. My resources are pretty much spent. I may surprise you by showing up one day, then disappoint by not showing up the next. Please know I am doing my best.

If I do show up someplace you are, it’s okay to tell me you know, that you know even if you don’t know know. It’s okay to ask about the train, about the scenery, about my seatmates along the way. I don’t mind talking about it. It’s just hard for me to start the conversation.

But look at that. I think I may have started the conversation already.

Thank you. So very much.

Here’s a poem Sophie helped me write two nights ago. I explained my feelings and asked her to help me put it into poetry. She said we had to call it “The Real Poem.” I asked why, and she said, “Because it really happened.”

The Real Poem
by Sophie and Mommy

Tears are my feelings today
I wish they would go away
I don’t know if I’m learning something or not
If it’s a good lesson
or a bad

from chatty people
people that like to talk
till morning
people who are too bright
sunshine all the time