I read recently about a new cure for anxiety. It’s a heavy blanket. Weighted or Burrito Blanket Therapies are touted as treatment for a variety of conditions, from autism to PTSD to Alzheimers. I’ve known this–not intellectually, but emotionally– since I was a young child. In the recesses of my mind I remember getting tucked into bed at my Grandparents’ camp in the New Hampshire woods. No matter the temperature, the only antidote to my fear of bears was an additional scratchy wool blanket, which Grandma would brusquely pat down around me. You see, in that magical, pine-and-woodsmoke-infused, rustic camp, I was convinced that hungry bears were prowling past my window, scratching at the glass, hoping to devour ME, the youngest sister. Like the bears in Goldilocks gone bad.
Living for decades in steamy, subtropical climes–sleeping in hammocks, or in air-conditioned rooms–I’ve forgotten that feeling of security, the weight grounding me, blanketing my thoughts, keeping me safe from harm. But after the unexpected and tragic death of my youngest son, there is no blanket. There is no moth-eaten cover, no embrace or burrito wrap that will take away the Deep Pain of loss. Even 20 months later, thoughts continue to race through my head. The barrage of ‘What if…?; ‘Why?…’; ‘If only…’ is an ongong record. What will bring comfort? Shall I cover myself, burrow eternally? I tell myself to take a deep breath. Even normal activities like breathing elude me. This feeling of almost living, of being barely here in the world, in the present, is my new reality. What blankets exist for vilomahs?
Tonight I unlock the ancient wooden trunks, and lovingly remove the sage green blanket, bound by thick satin; the off-white woolen army blanket used by my grandfather during service, hand-stitched with an uneven border. Will these humble family heirlooms finally bind me to life? Will generations of memories, of embraces, dreams, protection from evil and the elements– and from fierce, imagined Goldilocks bears pacing by cabin windows–bring me solace?
While the fan hums quietly overhead, the AC shudders to life and my dog wonders why the soft comforter she loves to share with me has been replaced by a scratchy, full-of-life-and-smells cover. I will wrap myself in a blanket, I will wrap up in 100, 1000 blankets. But the weightlessness will remain. The Unbearable Lightness of having a chunk of myself torn away. I am less than before. Yet… I still throw myself fully and completely into the lives of my beloved son and grandson, rejoice in their triumphs, and embrace them in their struggles.
Maybe, and not just in fairy tales, a person can be a blanket. Be someone’s blanket!
Everlastingly,
Be