The Gypsy Mama wants me to write about the word “Roar” today. Roar? Really?
This week I have had moments where I wanted to stand out on my porch and yell, “I AM NAVY WIFE HERE ME ROAR!!!” I have had moments when I have (sadly) roared at one of my kids… And I have had moments when my roariness sounded a lot more like the teeny tiny Simba squeak at the beginning of The Lion King (not that we’ve watched that movie 67 times lately or anything).
Today I’m feeling more Simba-squeaky than roary. I have an MRI for a new issue or at least a new symptom. I’m told, “It’s probably nothing, Mrs. R. It’s probably completely benign.” And I keep repeating those words in my head.
It’s just that you know that first funeral you go to after you’ve lost someone near and dear to you and it’s still kind of all up at the surface and even though this loss hits you differently some of the hurt just comes rushing on in again. This feels kind of like that. They tell me it’s ‘probably nothing’ and it probably is, but I have all this Tomas stuff bubbling up to the surface.
And husband isn’t here. Which adds to it all to be honest. I roar with more confidence in these situations when he’s by my side and we can go out to dinner afterwards and I can debrief about it all with him. He’s got the patience of a saint and listens to each blow by blow description of the IV, and the cool injection of the contrast and the knocking and beeping of the machine and the right on top of your nose closeness of the mask on my face.
I feel squeaky today and a little bit daunted. But sometimes walking through the squeaky parts are what help you get to the other side. Looking back on the squeaks can fuel the strength that you need to roar the next time. And I’m sure even in this relatively minor little squeak, that will be the case today.