…something’s gaining on you.
My bubble has been burst. I’d always taken it for granted, the bubble, knowing on some level that maybe we were lucky but mostly feeling like our bubble existed because we were special. Better to be lucky or special? In retrospect, lucky is probably better.
Not everyone exists inside a bubble. Some people never had a bubble to begin with, or they had one but it was burst early on by tragedy, circumstance, bad luck. Not so in my family. We’d cried over my parents’ parents, but each of those deaths happened to “old” people. Slight solace at the time, but now… And for the most part, each death was a) somewhat anticipated and b) preceded by enough warning to say “goodbye.”
We didn’t know how serious Mason’s illness was before they gave him the knock out juice that kept him asleep for almost three weeks before he died. Would anything have changed if we’d known? Probably not. I couldn’t have expressed to him how much I cared for him and needed him in my life. And he wouldn’t have been able to hear it anyway, having to face his mortality so unexpectedly like that. I have to hope that he knew he was important to me based on the relationship we’d had for his 34 years, 11 months and 11 days of existence. There was nothing I could have said in a bedside conversation that would have been more meaningful than the mundane emails, phone calls and hanging out of our day-to-day existence.
I’m not writing about this too much because grieving is such a personal process. And those of you who have bubbles, I’m not suggesting that you start approaching your lives any differently. Mostly, this is just a gentle reminder to tell the people you love that you love them. Tell them now. And let them tell you back.