Unprotected Life

I am stubborn, independent, and unapologetic. Not news. Also, not changing anytime soon. Not surprisingly, decades ago I insisted upon holding my own hand, even when my mom needed to hold my hand to keep me safe during pesky tasks such as crossing the street. I had to do my own thing and in my own way.

I still do, but I finally realize alone and independent are not synonymous, and that I can be as unapologetically stubborn as I want without turning into a jaywalking hermit. I know--an unlikely combination.

We--my theatre geek friends and I--are on day two of a three-day-run of Tuesdays With Morrie. I've been involved in the entire rehearsal process, so the moving moments of the show are not new to me. I teach the book to my freshmen every year, so I'm quite familiar with the story, the aphorisms, and the emotions.

Tonight, however, none of my familiarity did me any good; tonight I was moved to tears, partly in reaction to the show and our fearless actors, but more  in reaction to my mom and her reaction. Throughout the show I could hear her occasional laughter and could catch, from my seat several rows behind her, the body language wrought of painful memories.

Mom always comes to our shows and is one of our biggest supporters, but this time I wasn't sure she should see the show. She lost a treasured friend to ALS, the same disease that plagues and eventually kills our title character. To be haunted by that connection would be bad enough, but her father died less than two years ago and her mother is playing chicken with death. She had many reasons to opt out, and this one time, I thought I should protect her, spare her.

Instead, she came to the show, laughed at Morrie's smart-ass comments, cried when Morrie's body betrayed his mind, and held my hand as Morrie's last breath whispered through the room.

Maybe the protection I wanted to offer is an illusion. Life happens. Sometimes life really sucks, but not always. Not even most of the time. In the midst of life happening, we just keep living. There is no substantial protection from life; I don't know how to live safely and really live at the same time, and I don't think I want to know.

So instead of protecting Mom from the brutal emotion of the show, I left my seat during the last scene, sat with her, and held her hand. I share her sadness, because her people are my people, but I also share the peace of mind and spirit that come from knowing we love our people well and openly, and that that the things we hold dear--the things that really matter--aren't things at all. It's reassuring to listen to Mitch's final monologue and realize that yes, after a life well-lived,  memories and actions become legacies.

I know Mom's story, and therefore understood and even anticipated her reaction to the show. What I didn't necessarily expect was the feeling of community in our makeshift auditorium. When the lights came up, I realized that the adults in the audience were clustered in small groups, drying their eyes and sharing their own stories.

Everyone has a story.

They may not have seen someone fight ALS and lose, but in many cases the final days, hours, and moments of a life are similar, regardless of the illness or situation. On some level, the stories shared were the same, and these friends and strangers could understand and relate, show empathy rather than enmity. Nobody in that room mocked another for a genuine reaction to an emotional performance. Nobody seemed compelled to hide their tears behind a macho wall. For once, people could just be.

There aren't too many Morries out there; we are Mitches. We are stubborn, independent, and frequently unapologetic. Luckily, though, Mitches can learn.

Most days, I still insist on holding my own hand, but not always. And tonight? Well, tonight I willingly put my hand in my mother's hand and just lived.