Waiting and Wishing

I'm still processing all that has happened in the last week. Back in Massachusetts, my apartment is frozen in time, displaying my life as it was barely over a week ago: wedding invitations lying in stacks on the living room table, envelopes and address books next to those, and a pile of stamps for the RSVP cards that I had purchased just the night before my mother's aneurysm occurred. My blog shows how suddenly my life turned upside-down, too: posts about the wedding and about teaching my music students, and suddenly... my Mom in a life-or-death situation.

My Dad and my siblings and I can't imagine Mom not bouncing back to her old self quickly. Call it faith, or call it denial; I'm still not sure which one it is. But of all the people I've known, my Mom always seemed the most invincible.

Right now, there's a lot of waiting. I'm waiting to see how Mom is doing each day, each hour. I'm waiting to know a more definite prognosis on her projected recovery. I'm waiting for her to be able to communicate with us more effectively about what she wants us all to do to help her. I'm waiting to see if I'll be able to see FavoriteBoy over Thanksgiving. I'm waiting to know if we'll still get married in January.

I don't like all this waiting.

I wonder if God thought I needed one last crash course in Selflessness before I get married. If so, I wish it could have been accomplished without my Mom being in critical condition. I wish it could have been accomplished without me being on the opposite coast of the country from FavoriteBoy.

I wish I could say that the difficulty of our family situation drew my siblings and me closer together instead of putting us all on edge with one another for a few days.

I wish I still had friends here in my hometown.

I wish people would stop acting awkward around me, as though because my Mom's in a hospital I've become a different person.

I wish people would stop telling me that I must be growing through this, or that God is working in my life. I hate cliches.

I wish people would stop getting emotional and telling me that this must be the hardest, most horrible thing imaginable.

I wish I could rewind life to eight days ago and have my Mom be okay again.

On a more shallow note, I wish I had known when I packed my tiny suitcase that I should plan on staying longer. I wish I had warm pajamas with me. I wish I had brought my cozy bathrobe. I wish I had brought another pair of pants, and another sweater or sweatshirt. I wish the security guards hadn't taken away my toothpaste, shampoo, and lotion.