Why have I been too tired to write for like a week?
I have been too tired and just not done it.
I haven’t avoided it. I just have had nothing. I feel like right now all I could dish out is a record of events.
My grandma does that when she writes letters. She did that in her email reply to me yesterday. She records events big and small with the same miniscule gravitas. Nothing has any more weight than the paper on which she types her biweekly letters.
My mom told me two days ago that my grandma was putting my grandpa in the nursing home. He has Alzheimer’s and my grandma has been his sole caregiver for the past three years–dressing, feeding, bathing him as of the last several months. Even having to help him go to the bathroom.
My grandpa has been crying himself to sleep for these past years. The emotional effects of your one true love lying next to you in endless tears as you try to get the sleep you desperately need because he’s robbed you of so much of it is something that I cannot nearly even try to fathom.
They have been married for 58 years this June. Together for over 60 years of their lives. Unless there are hidden love stories of untold trysts for either of them–they are the only life-long lovers of one another.
But those roles have not been acted out of late. How could they? One is now more of a child than he ever was even when we would poke fun at him for relying on Grandma for everything. Now those jokes have come all too true.
I want to know the weight of her heart. I want to know the unexpressed feelings she glosses over with a chuckle and an “oh well.” I want to know she feels. I want to see her finally for the first time in my life turn to someone for help. Not for help with caring for her husband like she has just done, but with help for the burden I’ve watched her carry all of my life.
I want all of these things so bad because I’m her. I wanted to be her. And then I didn’t want to be her. And then I emulated her both consciously and subconsciously. I admire all of her actions even when I do not agree with them. She is my heroine. She is the matriarch of my family and has held everything together without ever breaking a sweat. She is the only person I know to be an Amazon.
I want to be an Amazon. Like her.
But I’m weak. I am so not strong like she is. I have tried my whole life to be strong like she is. But, I cry. Infront of people. I cry to my family and to my friends.
And then I hide it and pretend it never happened because I realize I’ve failed to be the wall of stability I see in her.
But, finally, I want to cry with her.
I don’t want to cry for her.
I want to cry with her.
My mom cries with me. It is better than a hug.
But as much as I love her and care for her and look up to her, she is not the heroine in the story my story-making brain has created for my family.
I want to see my Amazon cry. And reach out to me for a hug. And cry on my shoulder.
Or, at least the shoulder of another woman ready and able to be an Amazon for her.