Some moments in our lives are simply meant to be. By chance? I like to believe not. I like to believe that by some higher design we are meant to be in a certain place at a certain time.
I remember moving out of my parent’s house in the midst of my father’s battle. I was guilt ridden, wanting to begin my new life and yet wanting to be there for my mom and dad and yet…not. I flew the coop and reveled in my new apartment with the love of my life. My dad labored up the three flights of stairs to help me light the pilot light on my new stove and to give his stamp of approval. Because damn it, he was going to do it. No matter what.
A few months went by and I traipsed home often to spend time with my parents. Feeling sometimes like I was intruding on the private struggle and the moments of a couple avoiding saying goodbye. We called it the bubble. Things in the bubble were great. The bubble was upbeat. No one was sick in the bubble. The bubble encompassed the house and then the hospital, and then the house, and then the hospital, and then the nursing home, where the bubble had the hardest time of all. The worst moments of my life will always be watching the strongest man I ever knew fade into the background where he didn’t belong. We decided that the bubble must come home for its final stay.
I was running in a race by my parent’s house and decided that my lazy self did not want to get up extra early to meet my fellow runners. So I stayed at my moms. It was a fleeting decision. A decision that I didn’t give much thought. I almost stayed in my new apartment. But I didn’t. I went home. At 2:30 in the morning, the phone rang. One of those rings that you just know in your gut does not carry news your heart wants to hear. Somehow, someway, I was exactly where my mom needed me to be. Where I needed me to be.
Indeed. The bubble had burst.