Bloodlines
On showing up with clarity
I was cutting the plastic wrap off a cucumber when the steak knife sliced through the meaty part of my left hand, neatly, silently.
I gasped, gawking at the wound, deep enough to cause concern but barely painful.
There’s a brief moment immediately after an injury of total presence and clarity, revealed within the milliseconds you’re still coming to terms with what the hell just happened. Oh! I’m alive, and I’m here. That’s my blood, hot crimson proof of life.
I flexed my thumb in and out, inspecting the fresh wound in the fleshy area between my left thumb and pointer finger. “I’m okay. It’s not too bad,” I thought to myself, standing over the sink. Soon, I calmly called my mom over and asked her to get the iodine. She helped me clean and wrap the wound, and I decided not to go to urgent care since I was states away from my insurance coverage zone. I went on with my day, subdued and a bit melancholy, depressed by the reality that I can only get the care I need if I’m injured within a strict geographical zone. But this injury will heal, and I am safe.
This was a medium cut and a small deal, but it still gave me a glimpse into who I am. You can’t fake your first reactions to challenging moments; your core emotions are written into your cells. In the face of discomfort and fear, I am centered, optimistic, grateful. I didn’t always know that’s who I am, but today I am certain.
When I cut myself, I wasn’t wearing my grandmother’s ring; it was tucked away in a drawer in my mother’s bedroom, near to me but perhaps not near enough to grant me the physical protection I’ve come to rely on it for.
A day earlier, I held my 91-year-old grandfather’s hand, mapping our veins, knowing that his blood runs within me. My mom and I had just finished giving him a manicure, complete with two coats of clear nail polish. We have fabulous nails and long, slender fingers in common.
Growing up he granted me the special nickname of Jilly Bean. Today he likes to call me The Daredevil — I’m one of the few in the family who left the West Coast, and he likes to ask me if I’ve jumped out of any airplanes lately, even though I only did that once, in Namibia, 15 years ago. This coming from a man who ran into the burning buildings of Los Angeles for a living. He has a million stories of daring times and haunting injuries to tell. In his first days after enlisting in the Navy, he slagged off work one day to go explore San Francisco before they shipped him off to work on airplanes in Hawaii. He delivered two babies during his time as a fireman. Once, a hot water heater drenched his entire body in scalding water. He was a caretaker for his wife of decades, who died of a heart attack, and then his girlfriend of several years, who passed away of cancer five years ago.
My grandfather is in the final chapter of his life while I am in the middle of mine — if I am lucky. When I am near to him — hearing his stories of the Korean War and raising his children with my grandma Betty and the falls and illnesses that ultimately brought him to this hospital bed in a long-term care facility — I can practically feel the shield that hovers around my shoulders, placed there by generations of those who love me more than I can fathom. Just weeks ago my grandfather and mother were in a car crash on a freeway onramp; miraculously their injuries were minor, with no broken bones but some skin tears and gnarly, arm-length bruising. Who was protecting them then?
When my mom is tenderly wiping my grandpa’s eyes, brushing his hair, and changing his T-shirts, there is usually no one there to see. But this week I am here, bearing witness to an unfaltering dedication, an unbreakable bond, an unwavering love.
A day earlier, I held my 91-year-old grandfather’s hand, mapping our veins, knowing that his blood runs within me. We have fabulous nails and long, slender fingers in common.
At night, I share a bed with my mom, and we whisper into the darkness while holding hands. I am always conscious of these precious moments, doing my best not to let them slip by. Tonight, she is next to me, warm, loving me more than anyone in this universe, and maybe the next. We are together, right now, and I never take that for granted.
For the 150th time, she is recounting my birth story from almost 36 years ago, how she waited till the contractions were one minute apart, then finally woke my dad up, then waited another half hour for him to get showered and dressed, so that by the time they arrived at the hospital it was far too late for her to get an epidural. How everyone suddenly exited the room, and when my dad reentered, he bent down to her ear to tell her that if she didn’t really push this next time, they were going to have to do a C-section. That she wasn’t going to let that happen so she pushed with all her might, and I was born, healthy and silent. That they placed me in her arms and I didn’t make a sound as I looked around the world with big brown eyes. That she cut the umbilical cord herself with shaking hands.
These are challenging times, but I know my core, and I know that I will show up. I’ll take some cuts along the way, but I am here, holding on while I still can.
