Swim Bladder Disease I

When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving much advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.
Henri Nouwen

Though it’s 8:30 p.m., the baby blue sky is brushed with cotton candy pink. The mugginess is beginning to dissipate.

Jon called for help this morning with a work-related cut, severe enough for stitches, according to the doctor, only complicated by its location. I mothered Jon’s cut with homeopathic first-aid.

My little white goldfish, after a heartening response to homeopathy these past two weeks, went downhill after a 10 degree spike in water temperature last night.

It died around noon—peacefully, in the scheme of things. I know the time, because it was as Jon was leaving for work. Jon thought he’d seen faint breathing; when I went back in, the fish was limply still—dispirited.

This was one of the original fish from my 5-gallon tank when my office was on F Street. As the aquariums grew, I made the mistake of shifting from bottled to tap water. The fish stopped growing, and the small white fish lost its sight, but otherwise seemed happy. Back on bottled water, the little white one lived to 10 years old.

Fish in water don’t get rigor mortis. Though two hours had passed by the time I left for yoga—and my intuition said the fish was dead—I left it in a bowl of water, to rule out coma and suffocation…therefore guilt. Lying on my mat, “landing” to the words of my teacher’s silky voice, my tears began to spill over.

I’ve been present to numerous deaths in my lifetime. Grief is not only my personal susceptibility, but a collective family susceptibility. For some reason, though, today I had a revelation. The density of my sadness was not that the fish had died, but a tape I could hear in my head that said it was my fault. I let it down. I should have done more. I failed.

I had a second, I believe related insight. People are like puzzles. Our individual pieces vary by shape and size. We are (unconsciously) drawn to people who might be able to provide our missing pieces. My relationship with Eric has provided pieces I didn’t even know I was missing. There’s only one that remains unfilled. He tries to fill it, but his piece is eons too small. I work hard on filling that one myself. The converse is true for my relationship with Eric. Life is pretty good, when I focus on the many wonderful pieces I now have access to by way of our relationship—and not the continental piece that’s missing. (Homeopathy is similar, if you picture wholeness in health as a pie, with symptoms as a piece of pie that’s missing. The remedy restores the missing piece of pie, curing the person’s “susceptibility,” removing the need for symptoms.)

I adopted Jon the day we met, on a smile and a handshake. Jon always greets and says good-bye to our animals, is the only person to inquire about my fish, and was the only other one to notice that my sick fish are both white. Such conscientious awareness, sweetness, thoughtfulness is a trait rooted in a lonely childhood. So, he was here with me today when my little white fish took its last breath, only he didn’t know it. But, at yoga today, for the first time since my Grandma Phillips died 31 years ago, I realized that that particular missing puzzle piece, the big gaping hole in my soul, no longer felt so empty.

Families are made of these intergenerational puzzle pieces, like Tinkertoys that grow from two- to unique three-dimensional structures, like crystals. Shirley and Jon both knew they belonged together from the beginning. As I learned more about Jon, an unshared concern began to grow that, given their youth, they would outgrow one another (had I only known they were already married!). I see all they bring one another; Jon earned my mother’s heart early on. I never expected this additional gift.

Jon and I both had a remedy today. He received Calendula, and I received homeopathic Jon—I’m certain, unbeknownst to him. And, something for which he will modestly deny credit, because it’s just who he is.

Be that as it may—thank you, Jon (thus, Shirley Beth.)

Funeral tomorrow morning.