Ask and you...

Elle sat with me on the plaid couch that graced our green-carpeted living room in college. I had learned that Cousin had been diagnosed with MS and I was shocked and very sad. I don't remember what was said before I started to cry. I do recall my friend curling around me, bracing us both against my sobs. She held my hand and made soothing noises and eventually got me tissues when the fourth roommate - a lovely girl who played softball and was boisterously delightful - joined us to hold my other hand.

I thought of that comfort and warmth when I tried to find a not-so-painful position on the chair that folded flat in Mom's hospital room. I wished that someone lived closer who cared about me. Who would hold my hand and smooth my hair and tell me that I was doing the best I could and that was OK.

There were moments of grace in that fourth floor room by the nurses' station. Times when I would feel myself panic and frantically offer prayers until my breathing evened and I could rest. There was one moment - on the first blood draw when I was in the room - that the nurse offered to pray when Mom and I were both in tears after 3 painful and unsuccessful sticks. It calmed us both, though the fourth stick also yielded no blood to fill the tiny vial. So I held Mom's gaze with mine and we recited the Lord's Prayer. By the time Thy kingdom come, the nurse had sighed and whispered that it worked. Mom and I were never alone and the knowledge of that did bring some peace. I went to church this Sunday to say thank you.

Then, on Monday, I winced upon seeing email from Elle in my inbox.

I meant to write her first - a feat I rarely accomplish. It frustrates me, frankly. Elle is wonderful - bright and loving and very funny. She's been a wonderful friend and I miss and love her a great deal. So I worry that my failure to initiate conversations indicates I don't care. And I do.

"I know you're busy." She wrote when I expressed my regret. Which was kind of her and I appreciated it, but it doesn't fix the problem.

I also have loved the supportive comments lately. But I feel they're a bit undeserved. When Aunt called last Friday, I didn't go right away. I waited until she called again a couple hours later with a diagnosis and I sighed after I hung up after promising to start driving soon. I didn't want to go. I'd just returned. I wasn't feeling well myself and had work at the office and at home. I wanted to have my weekend - mow the lawn, weed the flower bed, sleep. Write my papers, deal with my massive lists of things to do. I wasn't eager to return to the hospital and sleep on gross floors. (I was also grateful for my chair - I did sleep and didn't get sick as I did when sleeping on the floor. God bless private rooms and the chairs that fold flat in them.)

I stood in the shower trying to think of excuses. My car wouldn't start? My head hurt? I was so tired of problems that I didn't know how I could tolerate more? I shouldn't miss more work?

"I don't want to go." I told the dog as she perked up at the sight of the suitcase. But I got ready, loaded the car, captured the poor cat and we went home. I couldn't not go. My mom needed me and I had to be there.

"I miss you." She said tonight after Dad called me. "Mom said you were going to call." He said. "But you didn't. So I called you."

"Sorry." I sighed, tired but pleased to hear from him. "I was trying to get some work done and I lost track of time."

"That's OK." He said and we talked for a moment before I talked to Mom again. She sounded good this morning and the trend continued.

"I feel like I'm getting better every day." She confided happily. "I'm tired and I still hurt, but not nearly as badly. If nothing else goes wrong, I think I might actually get well again! Then I could go back to work and watch the girls more often and come see you. I miss you - I've been counting the days until you come home again."

"Just a couple more." I smiled. "And I haven't been gone long."

"It hasn't even been a week, has it?" She said, thinking back to when she was released from the hospital. "It feels like forever since I've seen you. I like having you around."

"I miss you too. And I'll be home on Saturday at the latest." I told her I'd talk to her tomorrow and realized I feel like I just got back - I've been too busy and tired to feel like I've been here long at all.

One of my collaborators asked me to look at a new project. I agreed - weeks ago - and am just starting to analyze some of the data today. If they hadn't planned a meeting this week, I would have let it sit for weeks longer.

Carrie asked me to revisit some of my results for a project she's writing up. It's clear that there's a problem, but I'm not seeing the source. And my brain gets so tired as I try to puzzle it out.

Friend's gerbil died today, the latest in a long list of awful events she's faced lately. And I hate that I can't do more for her. That I don't know what to offer and don't have the resources to figure it out.

I care. I want to help. I hate the feeling of constant pressure and failure. It is very difficult for me to know that I'm doing the best I can and that it simply isn't enough.