Comfort

On the way out of the house today, having fought my way out of bed at a shameful one in the afternoon, I paused to say good-bye to the boys.  Jake declined my invitation to come with, as he always does.  He is a homebody, reluctant to stray too far from his kitten, his main source of comfort.  When Tim asked me if I was feeling better, obviously wanting me to say yes, I could feel the pressure Cory must've felt when asked the same.  I just looked at him dully, wondering if my greasy hair and the fact that I've been wearing the same purple bra for days on end didn't tell my tale as loudly as one might think it would.

"Not really."  I responded, and held out my arms for a Tim hug- short, perfunctory, finished off with a couple of heartfelt pats on the back as if we were athletes who had just lost a big game.

When he pulled away, I said, "I almost crawled right into my mom's lap yesterday."

Honestly puzzled, he asked, "Why?"

Now I'm not saying that most middle aged women while their hours away in their mother's lap.  What I am saying is that when you're more miserable than you've ever been in your whole life, and you have a good mother, you want your mom.  And in most cases, you want to be held by someone who loves you.

I responded, "Because I don't feel good."

"Call the doctor.  Call the doctor.  Call the doctor.  That's my advice."  he called to my back, turning back to the tv,  as I walked away.  I realized Tim wasn't being insensitive or flippant, he just didn't seek touch as a source of comfort.  In fact, when he is really down, he goes out of his way to avoid it.

This is so crazy to me, since we all know touch is the only sense we cannot live without.  Those Harlow monkeys were solid proof- touch matters...a lot.

Feeling I'd fallen down that well once again and couldn't see even a slice of daylight above my head,  I drove to my mom's yesterday.  Dad let me in, taking me in his arms before he'd even shut the door.  His shushing sounds were the same ones I remembered from thirty-something years ago.  He ushered me into the living room by the arm, squeezing me as we walked along,  and delivered me to my mother, who beckoned me to come sit close to her on the couch.  I collapsed and leaned up against her, putting my head on her little shoulder, and allowing her to pat me as one would pat a colicky baby.  The only thing that stopped me from climbing into her lap completely was the fear that I might suffocate her- she is such a small soul.

At last, I had found a place to rest my misery.