Can I just say I’m f**king tired?

I realize I should be thrilled that my new anti-convulsant meds have started to show real results, that even my minor seizures have been under control for three weeks running, and that the whole epilepsy experience is starting to normalize into a sense of, well, boring and intermittently woozy fatigue.  Yay.

As someone aptly posted recently, it’s not cool to complain about your health on Facebook, especially if you can’t at least rouse yourself to an exclamation mark when things improve.  For me, a few moments lately have been truly celebratory.  Last week we toured around the Pacific Northwest to look at colleges with Marcus, and I re-tasted the sweet exhilaration of driving.    I’m not really supposed to take the wheel yet; but Beret’s spinal recovery is still too fresh to withstand long hauls, Marcus is too young for a rental, and I truly am feeling better – honest, doc.  So I took my newly-cleared head for a spin down the Columbia River Gorge in Budget’s finest Nissan Versa, nicknamed “Bitsy” (last spring when we toured New England colleges, we somehow ended up with a black Suburban we christened “Beula”).  It was an uncharacteristically clear day, and Mt. Hood kept looming in and out of view as golden hills gave way to mossy cliffs and falling leaves bigger than my hand.   It’s not PC to admit it, but damn, those hydrocarbons went down good!  We had some swell hotels too: the Clackamas Inn next to the quaint old porn emporium; the Tacoma Dome Holiday Inn with only hot water in the bathroom; and the unforgettable Walla Walla Travelodge where turning on the heater set off the smoke alarm and the glass shower door fell off its hinges.  Who did the booking, you ask?  Nolo contendere.

But now there’s a chunk of road ahead that’s not so scenic.   Transitioning out of a law partnership — even on good terms prompted by less-than-good circumstances — is still a breakup, and there’s no such thing without a few bloodstains on the floor.

More deeply, talking with our youngest about his next steps — over long conversations where Beret and I try to help Marcus fish his crystallizing dreams out of the kelp of our own past longings and fond memories — leaves me exhausted from anticipated loss.  My growing confidence and pride in his ability to make sound decisions somehow drains something vital out of myself.  Maybe it’s my illusion of irreplaceability.  For 21 years I’ve borne the sweet belief that my kids existentially needed me.  Soon, they will not – or at least, not in the same way.  I loved my own dad fiercely, and I grieved hard at his passing.  But I was an adult, as Paige is now and as Marcus will soon be, and so I was already accustomed to my father holding my heart from afar instead of guiding my hand from close by.   Of course he holds it still — just from a bit farther — as I will always do from my perch as my kids colorfully fledge and fly.

David Whyte wrote a great book called “The Three Marriages,” describing one’s commitments to a work, a spouse, and a self.  I’ve been beyond lucky to have had five – Whyte’s three, plus my commitments to a family, and to a place.  All of them must periodically transform, and the work of transformation often requires a different energy from what was needed before.   Right now I’m not sure what energy that will be, except I know I don’t have it yet.