Melancholy Baby

I did it, friends. I ran 20 miles on Saturday. It wasn't fast. It wasn't pretty. It didn't smell good. But I finished. My beloved husband supported me with water and sustenance the entire way. Beautiful Stacy met me on the road at mile 14 and did an encouragement dance in the middle of the street. My boys rode their bikes to meet me at the edge of the neighborhood and escort me on my last mile home. A true team effort. It was a stunningly gorgeous day -- the kind that causes you to drop to your knees in gratitude. I could have asked for nothing more.

Recovery took some time. I spent an hour or so in my bed Saturday afternoon with a vat of water and a soft pillow. I drank slowly at a neighborhood party Saturday night, feeling the dehydrating effects of my beloved red wine with every sip. My recovery on Sunday was more mental than I would have hoped. I was, admittedly, beyond melancholy. Weepy at best, pathetic at worst, I battled my way through church, through a trip to Greenfield, through a lonely evening at home while Chris was at the Colts game. I soothed my sadness with some fresh-from-the-oven brownies and a side of Jonathan Franzen. I hope that my state of mind was a result of my body adjusting to 20 miles, not as a sign of who I truly am. Because throughout the day, I found myself questioning everything, crying at nothing, overly-sentimental and less than emotionally stable.

And wondering, always wondering... Am I enough? Do my kids have what they need? I can't -- and won't -- give them everything they want. But am I meeting all of their needs? Do they feel safe, loved, secure, fulfilled, powerful? Do I lift them up? God forbid I hold them down.

Is Chris fulfilled? Does he look at my every day and think, "Yes. Yes. This is the one thing that I know is right." I think he does. I hope he does. My life would mean nothing if he didn't.

And my friends? What about them? Surrounded by so many, blessed with overwhelming abundance, am I able to give them each what they desire? I know I want more from some -- do some want more from me? I felt myself on the periphery of so many friendships -- knocking tentatively on the door, wanting to be let in, but too timid to truly ask. Because what if they say no? What if I've said no to those who have knocked on my door?

A much-appreciated visit -- albeit brief -- with my best high school friend and college roommate left me weepy and doubtful. So many things I could have done differently in the past, so many mistakes I would have undone. Will I look back on this life twenty years from now and think the same thing?

Seeing my Mom yesterday was the most devastating blow of all. Hearing her friends ask about her -- "How is your Mom doing? I used to see her all the time and now I don't... I heard your Mom spent some time in the hospital this summer. Is she doing okay?... Give your Mom all my love, please. Tell her I'm thinking about her..." They, too, are thinking about what used to be, reconciling the past with the now, facing their own mortality through my Mom's long and debilitating illnesses.

She is, simply, not going to get better. Every time I see her, her stoop is a little more pronounced, her color a little more gray, her pain a little more evident. She wants to be with her grandkids, but tires in so little time. My Mom is old. She is sick. And I am 40. And still, she defines me. Still, I measure myself in terms of her. Who will I be without her someday? Where do I fit? What am I creating? What will remain when she is no longer with us? What kind of life is she living when she has already decided to no longer live? What can I do to make her life worthwhile?

Am I enough? For my Mom? My family? My friends?

And the question that truly looms? The one that is most haunting? Most poignant? The one that I am most afraid to ask?

Am I enough for me?