Changing My Pajamas

I fear I may have lost my favorite pajamas. Saturday morning I came downstairs without slipping on my robe. That's sort of uncommon for me because I keep the house pretty cold in the winter, but downstairs I went. At one point, it occurred to me that if the doorbell were to ring (I slept-in a good bit -- most people were probably properly dressed by that time), I'd be in real trouble. I would be unable to sneak past the window by the door. Hmmm. At least I was wearing underwear! because these PJ's are officially improper. They may not make it through another washing. They are so soft and so comfortable -- but the fabric is giving and tearing. There are holes in the shoulder and in the bottoms! They're nearly sheer when held up to the light. Who says flannel isn't sexy?!

Deep down in my true nature, I don't like change. I've experienced so much BIG change in my life, that any change rather traumatizes me from time to time. The winter that my dad suffered a stroke, David and I were involved in a very serious car accident. We both landed in the hospital (actually, different hospitals because we were on a county line). Though I remember nothing of the rescue efforts, evidently they used the jaws of life to cut us out of the car. I have a vague memory of them cutting my jeans. In actuality, they cut ALL of my clothes off of me: my very lovingly broken-in unwashed Levis 505's, a beautiful lambswool Aigner cable sweater -- and my beloved Woolrich parka. All destroyed. My sweet dad -- knowing me very well -- did his very best to replace everything for me to help ease the trauma from the whole event, which, of course, was huge. I ended up with a fractured pelvis -- an extremely painful injury, and a long recovery. I still have the replacement parka. It's now a little too small, but I continue wear it. That was nearly 26 years ago. Change and Leslie don't jive very well.

So how in the world did I fare through all the subsequent BIG change in my short life? Well, of course my final answer is the Grace of God. But that grace worked through me, too -- so though I don't LIKE change, I have experienced a good bit of it myself. Following the death of my mother, I developed hospital phobia. I was able to avoid entering a hospital for about five or six years until my Dad underwent open-heart surgery. That, of course, was exceedingly harrowing for me -- for all of us -- because that's what killed my mother. But there I was, in another hospital with another parent undergoing another heart surgery. My dad survived and so did I. I had to enter another hospital when my grandmother was dying. And then, just about 3 years later, there I was in the emergency room with my husband -- a tender toddler on my hip -- making the decision about where I would direct the life-flight helicopter for David's emergency brain surgery. I guess there's no great mystery why I avoid both hospitals AND change -- as, again, my life changed hugely in that moment.

I had a wonderful robe -- another gift from my father. It was an amazing full-length chamois cloth LL Bean robe in dusty rose (a very popular color in the late 80's and early 90's). If you've never had a chamois shirt or anything, it's important to know that chamois cloth improves with wear -- with washing. It gets thinner and thinner and softer and softer, not unlike my wonderful flannel pajamas. Several years ago, with the belt of my precious robe in ribbons and the collar barely hanging on, I very reluctantly said farewell. That robe made an appearance in decades of Christmas morning videos and was what I wore every morning for many years, up early with babies and sending David off to work at 5:00 am. I decided not to permanently part with it. I methodically cut it into about 12" squares for dusting cloths and set-aside a couple pieces for my kids' memory boxes. Replacing that robe was an ordeal. LL Bean no longer makes the ladies' robe. What?! So I got a men's small -- on sale. It's blue and it's not full-length to keep my ankles warm -- but it's chamois. The adjustment period was extensive.

So imagine ... if retiring an adored robe or a favored pair of pj's can send me into a tailspin, how in the world did I navigate brain cancer!? Again, only by the Grace of God. And some experience, I guess. Ultimately, the ONLY sense I made of my mother's untimely and tragic death was that, perhaps, it prepared me for the immense and intense upheaval and change that I would experience during the years that I was married to David. Still ... after almost 30 years ... that is the ONLY purpose that I can squeak-out of losing my mother. I know, I know ... it's not for me to know. But who doesn't want/need to understand such things!? especially when we're taught that "all things work together for good for those who love God"? I want to know. Shame on me.

All I wanted was to live a nice, long life with my husband -- side by side -- raising our children -- in good health and deep joy. Ha ha ha. I do believe in free will and I don't believe I'm a puppet in God's hands ... and do believe that there's a big plan, but I have to say out loud: I don't like this plan. When I look at other families who have apparently normal lives -- that is, two parents living in a cozy home with their happy and healthy children who gaily gather for holidays -- I am so envious! I actually feel physical pain, right in the heart area. And then I feel badly. I "should" be happy for those who are happy, right? And I do ... but, hey. Dang.

For a girl who hates change, I'm sometimes amazed that I'm still standing. My cursed (blessed) resilence has kicked-in repeatedly, I suppose. That amazing grace ... whatever. In the last several years I've lost my husband, sent my daughter to college, then sent her to the southern hemisphere and my son to college -- finding myself all alone here in a big house with a snooty dog (that is, one who rebuffs me when I have had to spend hours away from her edifying proximity). In addition to my solitary'ness, I have no grandparents and no parents! I think I'm somewhat unique in my situation. I know of only a very few others who share my forlorn existence. Good grief. This is not what I planned-on.

So what now? I mean, I can't have been David's soulmate and have it all end here, right? Right. Here's what I know: I will wear a different pair of pajamas -- one with a bit more nap remaining. I will pray for my daughter and I will pray for my son. I will look forward to our time together at Thanksgiving, which rapidly approaches. I will wear that blue chamois robe and be thankful for its warmth as I attempt to leave a smaller environmental footprint and incur a lower electric bill (though with cold ankles ...) -- and I will forgive the RBD for her snubbing me when I get home from a long day and, instead, scratch her ears and let her lick my face. I am not alone. I have a home. I have food and I have beloved family and friends. I'm okay. But I'm really hoping for my remaining flannels to hang in there for awhile. I can only handle so much change (loss) at a time. Okay?