Outside Looking In

A couple of nights ago, I went running in the evening. I usually go in the morning, so this was different. It was completely dark by the time I got home, which made me feel even more isolated. I like the isolation: it means I can be alone with Weston and my tears, and no one will bother me.

For some reason, it felt quieter. I'm certain that it was not actually quieter out, because it was rush hour. I played my Weston playlist, of course. About halfway through my run, I heard a song with lyrics about wanting to see a departed loved one smile.

I never got to see Weston smile. He did not live long enough. How completely, utterly unfair. Seeing your child smile for the first time is one of life's most precious memories for a parent, and I was cheated out of it.

The fact that I never saw Weston smile did not occur to me until I heard those song lyrics during my run. Maybe it's because, until now, Weston would probably not have smiled yet. He would have been five months old this week. Adjusted to his due date, he would have been about five weeks old. Caroline first smiled at five weeks. So I would have been looking forward to that milestone any day now.

Of course, after that thought came to me, I completely lost it in the middle of my run. The tricky thing is that it was not dark yet. I was not wearing sunglasses, so anyone passing by would have seen my meltdown. Another thing about running while crying is that...it's hard to see in front of you. I have taken a few tumbles during runs over the years. The worst was when I fell and twisted my ankle badly while running in the dark about twelve years ago. I was on crutches for a while after that. Now I run with a headlamp if I run in the dark. Trust me, I have gotten a lot of crap for that. But, safety first.

But what do you do when the reason for your blindness is not darkness, but tears? If you're me, you just keep running. And you actually wish for a face plant, so you can be distracted from your grief by physical pain. And, hopefully, you would have an ugly physical mark on your face from the face plant so that you don't look so put together. You would be relieved that your outside matches your inside.

I kept running. But there was no face plant.

Our neighborhood is quite festive, which I hate now. Coming home, I wound through the streets lined with houses decorated to the hilt for Christmas. When I got to our house, Shannon had turned on our outside Christmas lights. Our Christmas tree lights in the front room were on, and the shutters were still open. If you had been standing on the curb in front of our house, you would have seen all of this, including that iconic American snapshot: the outline of a Christmas tree through the window. You would have seen two chairs and a small table on our front porch and a big front lawn with plenty of room for multiple kids to run around and play. If you had looked harder (please don't; that would be a little creepy), you would have seen toys strewn across our living room floor. Picture-perfect.

In other words, you would have thought to yourself, What a nice, comfortable house for a family. Look at the memories that can be made: rolling around on the lawn, sitting on the porch, playing by that tree, etc.

That is how I used to feel. Standing outside of my house looking in, I was overwhelmed with the blessings bestowed on me. Now, I look at my house and think, What a facade. Our winter grass has grown in nicely, and the flowers are blooming (I live in Phoenix, people; I do not have a magic green thumb). Our Christmas decorations look festive. But the outside of our house is nothing but a shell that masks heartbreak and emptiness inside.

That night, the darkness was a blessing. No one could see the breakdown that I had right in front of my own house. None of the neighbors wondered if I had misplaced my keys when I didn't immediately go inside. (Who am I kidding? They know what happened; they would KNOW I'm not looking for my keys when I wander around outside by myself in the dark.)

What I wanted to do in those moments, staring at my house before anyone knew I was home, was channel Joni Mitchell:

It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
Putting up reindeer, singing songs of joy and peace
Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on.
...
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly.

I have always loved Sarah McLachlan's version of that song. Now I know why.

Alas, there was and is no river to skate away on. By the time Shannon walked outside looking for me, my tears had dried, and the darkness hid the emotion that was still on my face. So I gathered myself together and walked inside.

I'm so hard to handle
I'm selfish and I'm sad
Now I've gone and lost the best baby
That I ever had
I wish I had a river I could skate away on.
~Joni Mitchell, River