Would You Rather. .

Today was a game. A few games, actually. My Daddy always plays this game with Kate. He'll say, "Would you rather. ." and then give her a choice like, "be a unicorn or a fairy." They'll go back and forth for half an hour debating the benefits of four legs, invisibility, walking on rainbows, wherever their imagination takes them. There's another version, too. It's a European game show where they give them choices like, "have perpetual gas or eat dog food for a year." This morning we went to breakfast and I found myself looking around me and playing "Would You Rather" in my head. "Would you rather have a child with down's syndrome like the people at table 5 or lose your Daddy to cancer?" I'll take down's. "Would you rather be morbidly obese for the rest of your life like that woman at table 11 or lose your Daddy to cancer?" I'll take the fat. "Would you rather be in a wheel chair for the rest of your life like that guy in the next room, or lose your Daddy to cancer?" Wheel chair, please. I wouldn't call it bargaining, per se. I know God's not in the business of cutting deals. I guess it's just a way of gauging my pain, or my dedication or love or something. I suppose I'm also trying to convince myself that there are things that could be worse. Like anything involving my children.

Tonight my mom's family from Chicago and Daddy's sister from North Carolina came down. When we couldn't stand the painful hugs anymore my aunt broke out Mad Gab. I remember peeing my pants one time playing that with some girls. My mom's family doesn't get together often, but usually when we do we play games and someone will do something stupid that we'll talk about for years. Tonight it was me. I laughed. We all laughed. For quick moments it felt normal. Those thoughts- the thoughts about reality would creep in and I would shove them back. I started to feel like maybe if I could just pretend that everything was normal, that if I just acted like I didn't know what was really happening maybe I could get away from the pain. On the way home I didn't play "Would you rather" anymore. I didn't think about seeing my little brother sob, or how baggy my Daddy's pants were, or how I wanted to throw up when I looked at the pictures of my parent's 25th anniversary party with the words "Only The Beginning" around them, or how my Grandma drove down for the first time in more than 15 years because even she needed to hug someone. I just thought about the stars in the sky, my babies asleep in the back seat, the Christmas lights on the houses in the country, the new tires on the car. I made myself think about anything except my "new normal." I felt guilty for doing it, but at least I didn't cry for two hours straight.

When I got home I had some emails and cards. It was like another sort of game- a guessing game. Will this one make me feel loved, or will it just make me sad? Should I write back and tell them I'll be fine, or should I tell them the truth? I do love the emails and cards, though. To think that people would take the time to think about my pain and not be too scared to tell me they were thinking about it. That's pretty incredible, really. I think about the people I know who have lost someone and I wish I could have been there for them, or I wonder if I did enough for them when I was there. I suppose we can never do enough really. There is no "enough," but I am so grateful that some people are willing to try- even though they know it will never be enough.

Dear Daddy,
You know that thing from high school that we both still feel guilty about? You've done enough. We've talked about it enough. You've told me enough. Don't take that one with you to Heaven, just take care of it when you get there. The love you've given me has always be enough for me, and there's nothing I'd "rather" have to hold in my heart.