deep in the ocean, there lies a wave for you

Today I said that being at Whartscape this weekend — in the heat, engulfed by a swarm of carefree, dancing and sweaty bodies who didn’t really mind that there was no air conditioning — made me feel old. Ian called me out on my use of the word, though, and I guess what I meant to say was that it made me feel encumbered. I feel like there’s a limit to how many hours I can go without feeling overwhelmingly sad, and then I have to go home, quiet down, watch some TV, take a shower.

When we first got up to Baltimore, we delayed going to the festival because it was so hot, and our hosts had champagne and a nice spread of dips. The next day, after the storm caused the festival to shut down for a while and there was a change in venue, I just thought, you know what, I’d rather be eating heirloom tomatoes from the farmer’s market in my underwear and watching 30 Rock with my best friend. And while maybe during another time in my life you couldn’t have paid me to miss the lineup from last night, no matter how late it went with the delays, that’s not how it is right now. I just have to learn to be cool with it.

It’s been over one year and I’ve realized that I am numb, still. When I have a moment of total awareness, I break down. These moments have mostly happened alone in my car. My mother told me the other day that she would look at me while I was in the hospital with Clark, and I would be completely focused on him, and the only time I would pay attention to something other than his comfort or lack thereof was when a doctor came into the room. I put all of my energy into how Clark was feeling. I didn’t give my own needs attention. It was almost easier that way. When he was at hospice, I had people bringing me food and clean clothes. When Lili brought me toiletries, it was like, oh yeah, razors and lotion, I forgot about these things.

I remember having a realization like this when he died — hey, Rebecca, you’re taking care of yourself now. I told myself that. But guess whaaaaat — it’s different than I anticipated. Instead of embracing this attention I should be paying to myself, I am hiding from it, and the only reason I know that is because when I peek out from my shielded spot, I’m totally shocked.

I knock and let myself into Clark’s mom’s house. I sound like my own mother when I yell a Brooklyn-tinged “Ma?” that lets her know I’m inside.

“You want a beer?” she says. It’s 3:45pm. When I nod, she says, “You know where they are,” and I pluck a cold can of Coors Light from the refrigerator’s row of silver.

She sets a bowl of peanuts in front of me and we play catch-up. Every now and then, there’s a mention of how hard things are — she can relate to the fact that I went to see a friend in the hospital this weekend and cried through the entire visit.

“They’re all the same, ma,” I say, and she believes me.

But mostly we just shoot the shit, gossiping and bitching. This is how all of our visits are.

For the Fourth, we went to her friend’s house to watch the fireworks, and the three of us grilled and reclined in deck chairs. I remember when I first met Clark, he told me how much his mom loved the holiday. “She’s a total pyro!” he said. We laughed about that yesterday.

“I can’t believe you’d want to spend your Fourth of July with a couple of old ladies!” she said.

Honestly, though, there is nowhere I’d rather spend any weekend day than with Clark’s mom. There were a few times yesterday when I was so happy with where I was at the exact moment that I had to excuse myself to let out a few tears.

I just hope that Clark can see us together, goofing off and halfway drunk, because I know it’s better than he imagined it would be when he asked me from his hospital bed to take care of her. It’s better because we’re taking care of each other.