a letter to the universe.

I got another phone call today. Some days I can roll with the punches, while other days the reality hits me deep into my soul and it feels like my insides are getting ripped out and I am punched in the gut and the universe throws her hands up into the air as if saying you are mine to play with, to toss around like a tiny ship in the deep sea. to throw like a frisbee so far up into the sky that those around you look tiny like little marching ants, unable to relate or hear you. A tiny dice, 'pass go; do not collect two hundred dollars'.

But then I am reminded, I am the universe. You are the universe. Mitchell is the universe. She is the universe. My parents are the universe. And that man who cut me off in traffic... he is the universe. And I sit for a moment, tossing a handful of acorns around between my finger tips. Reminding me that this is life and I am alive and this is so very, very real. The wind is blowing and the sun is blinding me and I desperately try to stay centered by focusing on those acorns and remembering that life is real, and it's all we've got.

I listen to my godmother say the words that she has said so many times before and will likely say again and again until she is blue in the face. Mitchell is back in the hospital. And as she is speaking, I'm not really listening to her words but rather focusing on those tiny acorns and repeating Stop it. Don't think about it. Every time my face gets hot and my breath shortens and I use all of the strength in my body to hold back the flood wall keeping back tears that once they are released, never seem to stop coming. I tuck those acorns into my pocket and swear to myself that this moment will be burned into my memory. If I ever feel like things aren't real enough - those acorns will bring me back to this moment. This moment when things just got a little too real.

I didn't give her a lot of emotion. And I feel guilty and pleased all at once because her baby is in the hospital and she doesn't need to comfort me when she's the one who needs to be comforted. The idea that we can be there for each other hasn't even crossed my mind because I don't know how and I muster up another 'keep me updated' before coldly tuning out and hanging up. I start feeling the tears come, hot and salty, and this time louder I shout to myself Stop it. Stop thinking about it. This person, who I physically share more with than even my husband - why did I not sense that he was sick again. My organ now lives inside of his body and I curse it under my breath, because it didn't do what I thought it would... it didn't make him better. I didn't get to choose how this one would turn out. We don't get to have control.

I tried to distract my attention by rubbing my fingers against the acorns which were hidden in my pocket. I got on the elevator, greeted my co workers, and put on a fancy smile. I repeated it's okay over and over until I believed it and I ate my sandwich and drank my water and pretended everything really was alright. These phone calls are an emotional roller coaster. Disbelief. Worry. Sadness. Anger, such as why can't those goddamn doctors find out what's wrong with him. Ultimatley they end in guilt, because I get to go home to my family and Mitchell doesn't. Not today and not tomorrow and probably not the day after that.

[The funny thing, is how I was literally just thinking about how much hospitals give me the creeps. Hospitals suck and anyone whose ever had to spend the night there knows that the only thing you're thinking about is when do I get to go home.]

But I think that because we make up the universe and because Mitchell is the universe and I am the universe and you are the universe and he is the universe and those doctors are the universe, I think that there is a lot to be said about our thoughts and the energy that we give the situation at hand. The universe does not throw up her hands and leave us all alone, because she is all of us together. And I have to learn how to lean on others and for them to lean on me and to find that balance. I have to find that balance and accept when things go differently than what I had planned or Mitchell had planned or anyone else for that matter. I have to trust that my kidney is doing all that it can for Mitchell's body and if it doesn't last even a year, at least it bought him some time and at least maybe it bought the doctor's some time and they will someday know what is going on.

I have to give out positive energy and not feed into the negative, which is so much easier said than done. I have to remember that we are all in this together, and that I do not have all the answers, and that the universe will embrace all of our souls and wrap us all up together and open us back up again like a shiny box tied up with a big, red bow.