I love you beyond my human capacity to do so.

I said that to Michael not long before he died and I meant it in all its seriousness and weight.

This was not a gushy, mushy profession of adoration. No infatuation was involved. There wasn't anything romantic about it. It was just a fact of my existence...the culmination of the work we had done together over the years preceding his departure. It is what he, his quadriplegia, and his mortality, taught me how to do.

I know the scientists and critical thinkers among you might try and dispute my claim, citing my inherent human status and that, as such, anything I do or say or think or feel must necessarily be within my human capacity. I'm just saying, I've known myself for 48 years. I know not only my actions but I know what I really think behind them. I know when I'm in alignment and when I'm not. I know when I'm passive aggressive. I know when I'm manipulating. I know when I'm on top of the world and how genuinely good I can be. I know when I'm at the bottom of my barrel and how cutting I can be. What I saw myself doing in my relationship with Michael overrode so many of my instincts and derailed so many of my games it was mindblowing. I was better with him, particularly as we got close to the end that I ever thought I could be capable of.

And I haven't been that good since.

I have, of course, had fantasies about extending that to everyone in the world, melting myself into one big ball of unconditional love for everyone like the next Mother Theresa but I'm not very good at it in practice. I can go from high thoughts of Universal Love to flipping off the guy who almost t-boned me racing out of a parking lot in no seconds flat. There are people in my life that I have to be careful of spending too much time with because they get me so crazy I end up playing the "Judge Your Neighbor" game for a full day or two after our visit is over before  I can work my way free of it.

The commencement address the New York Times printed by Jonathan Franzen entitled "Liking Is for Cowards. Go for What Hurts." came at an interesting time for me and shed some light on my dilemma.

Turns out, Franzen doesn't think loving every single person or creature is really possible, maybe not even desirable. It's loving one person, or specific creatures, human or otherwise, that really takes us out of ourselves into something higher (deeper, outer, whatever-er).

Trying to love all of humanity may be a worthy endeavor, but, in a funny way, it keeps the focus on the self, on the self’s own moral or spiritual well-being. Whereas, to love a specific person, and to identify with his or her struggles and joys as if they were your own, you have to surrender some of your self.

And this is where it got tricky for me in my own life:

The big risk here, of course, is rejection. We can all handle being disliked now and then, because there’s such an infinitely big pool of potential likers. But to expose your whole self, not just the likable surface, and to have it rejected, can be catastrophically painful. The prospect of pain generally, the pain of loss, of breakup, of death, is what makes it so tempting to avoid love and stay safely in the world of liking.

I know a thing or two about this and what a whack job it can make you. Darn you, Rishi, for being so dang adorable. I couldn't have avoided loving that man if I tried. And I have talked to many women (and some men, too) since his passing that felt the same way. I don't know if it was timing or tenacity, likely a combination of both, that had me there for the last leg of his journey but if there was ever a time to try not to love someone, that would be it.

Michael's suffering was so immense (and so well hidden from the public eye) that there were times I couldn't bear to see him try to get past one more hurdle. With every autumn, I would find myself getting tense, wondering if he would be able to get through another winter without landing in the hospital. Snow, ice, freezing cold on hands so contracted he could never wear gloves, legs always exposed to the whipping wind because longer coats would get caught in the wheels of his chair...ramps that became greased chutes when even the thinnest layer of sleet coated them. He took his life in his hands every day, braving further injury, infection, illness and countless mishaps. I'm not overstating this. It was brutal on him.

Now, he was one tough hockey player. Stoic. Determined. Fierce in his focus.

That was part of what attracted people to him. He was a rock. It took a long time for me to see past that aspect of him but over time, and with a few smack downs from him to aid me, I got the bigger picture. Eventually, my compassion for him outpaced my desire to keep him here. It was then that I gave him permission to leave. I told him when it was "time" he should go and not worry. He should know that he was loved and supported all the way to the end. 

But he didn't go at that time, or for quite a while after. I was glad about that, you know. I was kind of proud of myself that I had "given him permission", because how high and unselfish is that, afterall, and I still had the benefit of his company.

I gave him permission but I didn't REALLY want him to take it. I just wanted us both to stop suffering. I wanted both of us to be out of his suffering.

In the two or three years that followed, our work together intensified. By that, I mean our friendship really blossomed. Those stories are not for the blog but essentially the woman who gave him permission to go because she was at her wits end with his suffering gave way to a better woman.

He changed, too.

And when I saw this change, even in the face of increased suffering something else took over in me. It wasn't compassion, or pity, or desperation, or anything merciful in me.

It was love.

Love like I have never felt before, so beyond my human capacity for it that it took my breath away. Still does.

I called him up after the last time I saw him, having seen that glow in person and basking in it on a truly beautiful evening. I was compelled to call him. There was something I felt driven to say to him and I couldn't wait until I saw him again to say it.

My message?

 

 

 

"I don't give you my permission anymore.

I give you my blessing."

 

 

 

Don't tell me that was within my human capacity.

I know better.

Comments

[Nick Winter]

Very powerful, Laura. Thank you.

[Laura]

Thank you, Nick.

[Jacqui]

x

[Laura]

Right back to you, dear.

[Kate]

Yes; ...xo

[Laura]

And to you...
xo
And Nick, xo to you also. : )