Sunday, August 10, 2014

The Things We Carry

Monday the fourth marked the tenth anniversary of this blog and yet Monday it was the furthest thing from my mind.

While this blog has been neglected for a year, a space for the random video postings, really, I had considered writing something to mark the occasion on Monday. However, life got in the way.

My grandmother is dying.

Her eightieth birthday is on the twenty-eighth of this month, the anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech as part of the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, and the likelihood of her making it that long diminishes with every passing day. That she survived the week is a testament to her strength, perseverance and outright stubbornness. When my mother let me know that things were going downhill quickly, I found myself grateful for the visit I had with my grandmother just over two weeks ago. But, as we all tend to do, I found myself buried in thoughts of 'what if?' What if I had visited her more when I was in college? What if traveling wasn't so difficult and I could be with her right now? What if I had told her this or that?

In all of my questions, I haven't found many answers. The only thing I know for certain this week is that Parkinson's disease is a nasty, unforgiving disease.

As I have written here before ("What My Grandmother Taught Me," on Father's Day, Father's Day again, when my grandfather passed, my rant about Pat Robertson, and "The People Who Shape Our Lives"), my grandparents have had an important role in my life.

On top of the constant worry this week, the waiting for what I thought might be bad news, I found myself dealing with the question of whether or not to continue a traditional physical therapy program or to go forward from here with the option to see a physical therapist only in situations where I either hurt myself doing something specific or find my body out of alignment simply because. This seems a simple question from the outside, but I have spent three and half of the past six years in physical therapy. I thought the last year and a half of physical therapy would result in something quantifiable. It hasn't. Where I go from here is a question mark.

We all carry burdens, worries, the things that take our time and usually we don't even know this about one another. We say hello on the street or on Twitter, we wonder yet never ask how someone is truly doing. I've learned this week that we all struggle in our own way and sometimes those struggles result in a missed anniversary, but all that really means is our struggle is our true priority.

I don't know what the future of this blog is. I had hoped I would know this by the anniversary post I was contemplating in my mind. But life isn't planned, is it? We take it a day at a time and hope that we make the right choices, choose the right paths. We try to tell the people we love how much they mean to us. We try to live without regrets.

While my mind and heart are elsewhere, decisions like what to do with the blog will simply have to wait.