A Rising Wind

So, I've kind of stalled.

Stalled writing the many things I've thought would be interesting, important, or at the very least, humorous. But if the air around me could speak, it'd say I've stalled in a whole different way -- midair -- or so it feels... And here I am stalling as I peck out these words.

No longer gripped by apathy, I've taken a sharp turn and gone headlong into serious empathy. Strangely, not for any one, but for the many.

Overdosing isn't a habit of mine. But now I can't seem to stop gathering the details of challenges faced by people unknown to me, chased by a curiosity bordering on preoccupation with those I do know. All of which make for quite a concoction when life feels filled to the brim as it is.

If time is any compass to how I got to the land of heightened empathy, it'd point to a phone call I received on July 4th.

The tenor in the house, even one rather heady as my parents', was quite playful as we poked around to the sound of Garrison Keillor and like every other Saturday, I made Quinn dance with me to the Buttermilk Biscuit song. When a call came on my parents' phone for me, my Mom chuckled that someone had tracked me down.

Eyebrows cocked, I was sure it was a solicitor... Until I saw the name on the caller ID. A call from Clarksville, Tennessee could only mean a call from the Army. Now, I knew it wasn't the worst possible news because those words don't come by phone, but rather dressed up in Class A uniforms. Sometimes though, that kind of hell has a prelude by way of phone.

I gulped.

The voice on the line was of a woman I got to know to some degree before Jack deployed. Consistent with my previous interactions with her, she was as collected as ever. Steadily she told me that among Jack's unit, a helicopter had crashed under enemy fire earlier in the day. The same kind of helicopter Jack flies. Her voice was calm but a unsteady nerve underlined her words, and I wondered what she might say, or what she might not - yet knew.

Only by the grace of God was the news that the two pilots (no passengers) were alive and unharmed. She shared their names. Neither of which were my husband... but one was hers.

After a brief conversation laden with the best virtual hug as I could offer, she conceded that she need not be the person to make the rest of the calls to alert others before they caught something of the crash on the newswire. So I began down the list.

Just as my Mom had answered the call for me, so many others took the calls I made. Each time, a gasp could be heard when the other person realized I was calling on behalf of families for the unit, and a deafening silence reverberated over the line as the phone was passed to its rightful recipient.

It was in those tender conversations that I felt a connection I have been longing for since the day Jack left.

Perhaps it is an ache to align my heart and nerves with others that has launched me into this curious trend to be fully saturated with compassion for the plight of others. Not that it brings me enjoyment of course. Rather, it allows me to mourn things I have not lost.

Maybe my fears find solace in the stories of others, and give me a place to grieve all that I have not and hope never to lose...

Although not as morbid as it sounds, and I'm quite truly happy, it can't be a good habit I'm honing by reading online utterances of grief by other premie parents ( tragically not as fortunate as I), or collecting a stack of dark articles and Dear Abbys with the most heart-wrenching of stories.

So, I'm sobering up and admitting my dependence... and hoping that will release me from this long stall.

With warmth,
Mama Murph and her beloved Little Little