Been quite the week–okay, month–here in The Little State That Could. It’s Holy Week, and last year I was feeling all holyweekish and wrote a nice sort of meditative blog on the season and its implications. this year, not so much. This year we’ve been dealing with a juicy combo of Your 80-Year Old Mother with MS has Septic Pneumonia and Your Daughter is Due to Give Birth Any Minute all at the same time. The mother, tough old bird that she is, has survived more or less in tact and will probably come home from rehab early next week. But that is going to involve all sorts of hoopla about finding in-home help and praying that she’ll use the walker she now undeniably needs when I’m not looking. It’s hoopla we’re happy to be dealing with, except that I am tired, tired, tired and getting a little worn down by The Mama’s need to keep telling me how much she hates the nursing home.
Meanwhile, there’s the Impending Birth. My daughter’s been having semi-steady contractions for 3 days now. No surprise to anyone who knows the family that the baby would manage to express its genetically determined stubbornness, but this is ridiculous. Meanwhile, my poor daughter is so big that the sight 0f her belly rounding a corner in a restaurant today made a server gasp and drop her order book. Nobody with only one baby in there should be this big (all’s well–repeated ultrasounds and a very busy baby verify this–she’s just carrying a relatively big baby very forward. Very forward. I think her standing upright may defy the laws of physics as we know them…).
So my life has been very full of, well, life lately. And my brain has been seething with jumbly meditations on LIFE &DEATH.
Which may be Holy-Week-Appropriate after all, though I don’t know that I could make the connections at the moment.
And would feel weird, given how much of helping care for my mother in the hospital involved, in effect, diaper care. I’ll spare you most of those details except to say (GROSS-OUT ALERT) that there are few more blunt confrontations with the nature of life than having your mother poop in your hand. And frankly, few that are more comic. No, really, I laughed. Lots. What the heck else are you supposed to do? And then wash your hands about 8,000 times.
Which actually does remind me of why this all connects to Holy Week. Because if even that sign of the life of the flesh is, in some way, important, then a God who chose to take on all of it, including the really messy bits, is incomprehensibly comic ( in the things-get-to-work-out-and-order-gets-restored-then-everyone-forgives-everyone-else-and-we-all-go-share-a-meal Shakespearean sense of “comic”) and full of love.
Now, if that baby would just decide to come out…