Of all the cities in all the countries, of all the cabs, I’ve ever taken, this guy was the worst driver ever. It was so bad, that at one point, I had to say, “Sir,” in a particular tone (which I have never done before) because a bus almost ran into us. It was not the bus driver’s fault, needless to say. And you know what? I was mad. The more I thought about it, the longer I sat in the cab with his horrible driving I sat through, the madder I got. I was mad at the cab driver and his lack of care for my safety and pedestrians. I was mad that in a few minutes I would have to pay this man and tip him because I did not have cash and the tip is automatic. I was mad at the fibromyalgia and the heightened pain I experienced today that had me taking that cab instead of walking to the el.
I wanted to rage at the driver.
I did not.
Because even though I am mad, I am not mad at him. I am mad that the world keeps on spinning while I am grieving. I am mad that clients require work done when I want to lay my head down and cry.
And then in another moment, I am not mad at all. I am exhausted. I am exhausted from feeling all the feelings I’ve felt since hospice first called me down to say goodbye to him through the funeral and then back to my life in Chicago. I want to settle into my apartment and lock the outside world out, curl up with books to read and no bra. I want to take long naps and not think. I want, I want, I want.
God is still good. I know this the same way that I know the sky is blue. I know this. I know this. I know this. I have never doubted it and I don’t doubt it now. It’s not something I have ever had to struggle with and I don’t struggle with it now. But I still do want to curl up in my white bed, in my gray pajamas. I want to tell the world to come back another day.
Visit the Peony Sponsor: