Oops.
After five years of posting regularly — more than 1,200 pieces — I hit the wall in late August.
I stopped posting for a while and before I knew it, nearly three months had passed.
There have been at least 15 different times that I had a subject in mind, told myself I would write about it … and then didn’t.
The problem was that in several different ways, my life was falling apart.
My beloved wife of 33 years has been in memory care for nine months now and is slowly slipping away. At the end of the year — in about six weeks — I’ll be moving into assisted living myself. I’ll be in the opposite end of The Canopy from Nicole, but we will be able to spend more time together, share some meals and even spend some nights together.
I also learned that one of my sisters was diagnosed earlier this year with an aggressive form of breast cancer. She lost her husband to cancer five years ago and has two sons in their 20s. The good news is that doctors think they got all the cancer, so we can hope and pray.
Then there is the problem of the end of one of the most significant relationships in my life. I won’t mention names here, although those of you who know me well will know of whom I speak.
It was a friendship that lasted 60 years, one of two people I was blessed to call a best friend. These days kids say BFF to mean Best Friend Forever, and I thought both relationships would only end with death.
I was wrong. My 60-year friend and I drifted apart, especially now that we were living on opposite coasts. The last time we met in person was more than nine years ago at the funeral of a mutual friend in Denver. In younger days we talked on the phone once a week, and in our fifties we played golf monthly.
In the 15 years I’ve been in Georgia, our conversations have been less than once a year. Our only real contact has been through Facebook and that turned toxic for both of us. I iagine he blames me, but I think we both drifted away from each other.
One of the first metaphors I thought of for the end of the friendship was that it was like having a leg amputated. Then I thought about it some more and realized that it’s possible the amputation came because the friendship and turned toxic and the limb I lost was gangrenous.
I am three weeks from my 76th birthday. I used to say if I could make it to 80 without being a burden, that would be enough. Now the thought of four more years kind of horrifies me. I can’t remember the last time that I was awake and not in some sort of pain.
I am reminded of a 1971 song by James Taylor that I heard so many times back then that I couldn’t bear to listen to it. Strangely, “Fire and Rain” is now one I listen to often, particularly the second verse.
“Won’t you look down upon me, Jesus, and help me make a stand. Just got to see me through another day. My body’s aching and my time is at hand. I won’t make it any other way.”
All I can do is keep trying … and start writing again.