Looking out my Backdoor: Sometimes when life

Sometimes when life gives you lemons, well, you can’t make lemonade when life drops the whole tree on your head, can you?

The entire last month has been terrible for my friends, Ana and Michelle. First one of the cats got strange. Cats can be strange, so what! However, when something is wrong, something is wrong. After several visits to the nearest small animal vet in Tala (Havre to Loma), Blue was diagnosed with diabetes and Cushing’s disease. Blue is on medication, blood jab and insulin shot three times daily, for diabetes. Cushing’s has him gluttonously raiding the pantry, eating anything. Flour, seaweed, beans, baking powder. No food is safe from his claws.

Blue’s care alone is hugely stressful. Then Jane fell, broke her other hip, and landed in the hospital for surgery. Jane is 96. Stress climbed off the upper end of the chart. After two frantic weeks fraught with problems of every sort, Jane is home in her own familiar surroundings, being kept as comfortable as possible. Jane needs “round-the-clock care.” A lovely nurse comes in for the long night shift.

During this entire time, Ana and Michelle are building a guest house on their property. So everything is disarranged, dusty and dirty, with the work crew on site, needing occasional supervision, decisions made, changes OK’d, the usual.

Then one of Jane’s house cats dashed the door to freedom, slipped through the gates onto the street where a passing car promptly smacked it. Cat couldn’t move.

A local large-animal vet took pity, went to their home and put the poor cat with a crushed pelvis out of misery. That would be “the last straw,” would it not?

I’ve become The Ear. You know, the one who gets to hear the worst details, the one who listens, mumbles, nods. The one to whom it is safe to say, “I’m afraid I might explode into flames.”

Why have I become the Safe Ear? I’ve been there, haven’t I? Maybe more times than many, slow-learner, me. “Lemon tree, very pretty. And the lemon flower is sweet. But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat.”

I used to wonder what was wrong with me, living from disaster to disaster, drama and adrenaline. I would look around and see everyone, yes, everyone, seemed to be literally everyone, living shielded lives, walking on golden clouds, halos glowing, no dirt ever smudged their robes.

Little by little, my eyes opened. Maybe some hid it better, but none of us are immune from disaster. First, I had to get out of myself long enough to be able to see you, to really see, to listen, without a glib answer.

A friend I’d always envied, to whom nothing bad ever happened, had cancer but didn’t talk about it. A couple who had the perfect marriage went through the hell of divorce. We found out after it was over. A close friend birthed twins who died within days. And so it went. Death, divorce, disease, drugs and alcohol, severe disabilities, accidents, depression. Slowly, I began to see. Nobody was immune.

Life is a mixed bag, of course. We get it all. I doubt anybody really gets left out. Nobody really gets the whole lemon tree dropped on them all at once. It just seems that way in the moment. What we like to label “bad” happens. “Good” happens, too. Even good in big batches. Not only that, we are great for mis-labeling. Think about it.

I’m glad I can be an ear to my friends right now. Believe me, those two friends, among many others, have been “ears” for me too. I’ve learned to say, “I need to talk about this. I need help.” Often. Talking doesn’t erase the problem but it helps. Me. I’m not so self-important.

Sometimes when life gives you lemons, you are flat out of sugar. Sometimes when life gives you lemons, you can borrow a knife from one friend to cut the lemons, borrow a press from another friend to squeeze the juice, borrow sugar from another friend, and together, make lemonade. We don’t have to do it alone. Lemon tree, very pretty.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].