Irony

I was driving home tonight with a touch of a headache in my left temple.  Headlights had their usual halos plus a radiance that made the road look fog-covered or my windshield encased in steam.  After thirty minutes, it was all I could bear stoically and I began crying.  Like that helps.  A voice in my head:  "You're so whiny."  Imagined, incessant chatter ensued.  The tears flowed harder.  The fog turned to rain; now all the lights were bright but streaked and shiny, so all reflective yellows danced furtively across the pavement before disappearing in the stagelights.  In my head, I envisioned myself pulling over to the side of the road, unable to drive safely or without excruciating pain.  In my head, the chatter turned to scorn.  "Jesus Christ, Whitney, they're just headlights.  I have to pee.  It's just another ten minutes.  Come on."  "You drive, then, because I can't," I cried silently.  "You know I can't drive stick," the voice reminded me derisively.  "Then we're sitting here for a few minutes until I can calm down this damned headache."  But the headlights continued to pass me, the road continued to disappear, the rain continued to spread the light into long shiny lines that were thankfully recognisable even if unclear.  The chatter didn't stop.  I didn't even know what she was saying anymore.  "Mom, I need quiet," I said, squinting through another spectrum of lights.  "Mom, please, just… OMG.  MOM.  SHUT THE FUCK UP!"  I was screaming now, the effort somehow helping the headache in the imaginatory-time, but in the real one, the lights were still criss-crossing across my line of sight, spreading into the car, spearing splintered lights into the darkness that I knew was an empty seat.

This must be what it's like to go crazy, I thought then, and turned onto my last major route home.  It was blessedly dark, my headlights now on high beams, lighting up the pavement and its lines effortlessly.  The shards of shiny glass dissipated.  The shooting pain in my temple quieted enough for me to see the darkness again and I made it home, safe, but exhausted.  I shut off the car and sat there for several minutes with my eyes closed, allowing my temple to quiet itself just a bit more before facing what might lie ahead.  I was terrified that Dale would be excited to receive me and would flash the light outside in welcome or worse, so much worse, turn on my den light for me as I entered.  When I finally exited the car, the single, tiny light on the porch illuminated the door knob just enough for my key, but he had unlocked the door to check mail so I knew better than to bother and left my hand unfettered by such detail.  I entered, prepared to cover my eyes with my hands, but nothing happened.

By some miracle, Dale was preoccupied with something.  When he finally came over, I had the chance to gruffly warn him not to turn on any lights in my presence.  The unspoken warning:  Or I'll kill you.  I meant this in the most loving way possible, of course, and he didn't deserve the gruffness.  But Dale, with his usual awesome self, simply got quiet, opened the door to retrieve the package I informed him of, and then went about shutting off the light in the kitchen for good measure before returning to his task, whatever that may have been before my headache unapologetically crashed through the door with me.

Once the Aleve attached cement shoes to the headache and drowned it in some river somewhere (I don't care where), Dale and I had some nice conversations over the stench of his bratwurst and the unsettled rumble of my still-somewhat-queasy stomach.  Listening to his day reminded me of my drive home and I related the event to him, laughing as I said, "And there was no one there."  I told him how I still find myself daydreaming about showing my mom the beauty of our house in person.  I added thoughtfully to myself:  And talking about our shared love for music, and listening to it together, and watching her prune the plants and turn the house into an even better greenhouse than it already is.  I dream of the banter and her voice as she talks for the animals and the silly old songs she sometimes sings to herself without fully realising it.  And then the last thought catches in my head behind a rusted, but very strong, double set of bars:  Maybe it's not such a bad idea if she did come to live with us.  The wistfulness then fades and the heavy memories of depression, put-downs, sarcasm, control, anger, pessimism, distrust, accusations, and scorn set in.  "Then I remember the other side of her," I say quietly, "and remember why those things are only pipedreams."  Because, I realized, even though I can accept her for who she is, I've never stopped wishing she was someone else.  "Now, your mom, we may be hesitant only because we like our space, the way things are… but the hesitation isn't about her.  We welcome her here.  We know we could live with her, and adapt to someone else being here."  In other words, no matter how much I love my mom, I know… she is the most difficult person I could ever ask to live with, and I know it.  Dale knows it.  Which is why the rusty bars exist, to block it from happening.  Seeing through the bars is one thing.  Passing through them ain't happening.

"I'm glad my mom is in your life," Dale offered, reading my thoughts.  "At least you get to experience normalcy."

"I am, too," I agreed.  "Many women, though, don't like their mother in laws… so not sure it's normal."  Dale nodded quickly in agreement, having realised this himself as soon as he'd said it was normal.  I added, however:  "But, I am very lucky to love mine and yeah, I get to watch what she's like with you and your brother, and am so blessed that she offers a great likeness of that to me as if I were her own.  It gives me the other side of things, levels things out."

Dale eventually chuckled and asked, "You know what's ironic?"  "What's that?"  "I just charged the batteries for that light today because it had stopped coming on."  I looked at where he was pointing - at the paper-covered motion detection light that aims into my den, and smiled.  "Oh.  Yeah, that is ironic that you'd do that the day I come home with a light-sensitive headache.  I put paper over the sensor on the stairway lighting too," I told him.  He looked down to see, and smiled.  "All fucking week their charge has been low and they were dim.  Today of all days, the sun comes out and they're brighter than ever."  Irony, indeed.