After the Rain
When did I age out of having dreams?
I’m not sure the exact time or place, but I know what it looked like.
After the melanoma diagnosis, my calendar had become a medical itinerary: pre-op visit Tuesday, surgery Wednesday, follow-up in one week. I couldn’t even plan dinner. No caffeine, no sugar, no alcohol.
My healthcare needs had impounded my life.
Now a retired physician and business executive, I felt I had achieved the goals established earlier in my career.
What else was left? Hoping for an exciting future seemed pointless. I was feeling burned out, weary and aged. Dreamless.
Take out the violin, right?
The timing seemed perfect for an unexpected lifeline. It arrived in the form of a party invitation.
The last thing I thought I wanted to do was attend a Brooklyn party for twenty-somethings. However, when our daughter’s best guy friend asked us to stop by his 29th birthday celebration, we decided we needed socialization, and candidly, we loved this young man. It would also be a chance to visit with our daughter. Despite our anxiety about being Boomers at a young, hip bash, we called a taxi.
Thunder shook the yellow cab as we arrived at the trendy refurbished 50s gas station turned bar. Heavy rain pelted our skin, dampening our clothes as we dodged oily, rainbow-tinted puddles.
The place was hopping! The aroma of sizzling hamburgers hung in the air. Spirited groups crowded the retrofit bar. Couples cozied into the well-worn upcycled sofas. Strings of twinkling bulbs danced from the ceiling creating starry temporary tattoos on uplifted faces.
Our young friend was clearly part of the “in crowd.” We were at the exact type of party we attended decades ago — and still can’t tell our kids about.
The energy was more than a vibe. It felt like a life force pressing against my tired body. The floor seemed to shake my feet as it vibrated from the sound of excited voices and pulsing music. After hugging our daughter hello, I started to mingle, mocktail in hand, talking with the twenty- and thirty-somethings holding frosty IPA’s.
Every conversation seemed charged with visions and hope. New York was the foothold for their futures.
“I’m starting a new business with a friend.”
“I’m finishing up my PhD and then getting married.”
“We just moved from Boston. I love my new job in IT.”
Despite the animated chats, my feet started aching. Shifting from one swollen, throbbing foot to the other, I began to look like an ostrich doing a Texas two-step. I found one of the overstuffed sofas and sank into its deep cushions. The rain beat against the windows. I sighed. My battery needed recharging.
As I shuffled the pillows and put up my feet, the birthday boy came over and served me a piece of cake.
Hmm. The judgy part of my brain began scolding me on the sugar and dietary infraction. The rebellious part interrupted. “It’s a party. Live a little! Remember what that looked like?” Tricky little imp.
Giving in, I began slowly savoring every delicate morsel of forbidden sweetness. I had the perfect view of the entire scene. Rain turned to drizzle. Partygoers laughed and told jokes. Smoke curled from birthday candles carrying wishes towards the ceiling.
To my surprise, my daughter and several friends plopped down on both sides of me, nearly bouncing me off the cushions. I tightened my grip on the paper plate to not lose my last cake crumb — allowing my rebel brain to assume full charge of my sugar non-compliance.
“You doin’ okay?” they asked, surrounding me like frisky puppies.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m good. I was just sitting here thinking how inspiring you all are!”
They laughed. “Us? We’re walking disasters!”
“No way,” I replied. “You guys. Each of you. You’re dreamers.”
“Awww,” they said, almost in unison. “We’re just trying to figure it all out!”
Almost as quickly as they descended, they skittered off, giving me quick hugs. The sun had finally pushed aside the storm clouds. Something in me stirred. These spirited souls, with their whole lives ahead of them, had no trouble imagining their future. They were full of dreams.
That used to be me.
Maybe it was the sugar rush or maybe it was seeing life through their eyes. It dawned on me. I had convinced myself that I aged out of having dreams.
I realized that life’s interruptions don’t need to be a life sentence. Even in jail, you can plan your escape.
I remembered. I can create. I can plan. I can write. In the middle of surgical tape and eye drops and mocktails.
Put the violin away and grab a lifeline, Wendy. It’s time for a jailbreak.
But first, one more sliver of cake.
Did you have a moment when you stopped dreaming? What was your lifeline? Share your story below — I’d love to hear it.
Need a little more grit to get through the rough patches? Read Pits and Grit.
Need a reminder that courage can come slow and steady? Try Courage at 0.5 MPH.
