I'll See You Again Part 46

"Aren't you supposed to wait?" she asked.

"The doctor's going to give me a clean bill of health in two days," I said cavalierly. "Let's go today."

For the first time in months, I put on my black running pants, black-and-purple jacket, and a purple knit cap. Bernadette came by in an almost matching outfit, but sporting a white knit cap against the late November chill. We grinned and took off down the street. I felt a little shakier than usual and after about a mile, Berne called out, "Jackie, are you okay? Should we stop?"

I shook my head and kept going. With every step, I was starting to feel better. We went for about three miles, and I got home feeling like the world was good again. If I could run, I could take care of Kasey. I could clear my head and move forward.

Now that I was running and feeling healthier, my spirits started recovering, too. One Sunday night, I turned on the TV to Oprah's Lifecla.s.s. I've always been a sucker for inspirational uplift, and as Oprah talked about overcoming adversity, I sat bolt upright. Over the last couple of years, I had come to understand that tragedy-of all kinds-struck more people than I could have imagined. The absolute aloneness I felt after that July day, the sense that I was the only one whose life had slid off a cozy path, had disappeared.

While I was pregnant with Kasey, I got the courage to write a magazine article about the girls and the accident. As soon as it appeared, I started getting letters and emails from people all over the country who wanted to share their own anguish with me-sickness, death, loss. The old adage that "misery loves company" sounds cynical, but maybe it's about the natural instinct to share experiences and find comfort in those who have survived worse than you.

There is so much pain in the world; maybe one thing I could do was to help people know they weren't alone. When I heard about a terrible car accident on the nearby Meadowbrook Parkway that killed three college-age kids, I understood the devastation the parents must be feeling. I wanted to tell them the pain would get better, even if they couldn't possibly believe it. I brought flowers to the parents who lost a son and went to the wake of the two girls also taken in that accident. All three were killed driving together to their summer jobs as counselors at a camp for the disabled.

Great kids, just like mine.

Meaningless loss, just like mine.

As I listened to Oprah, I understood that everyone grapples with their own demons. Misfortune, devastation, and sadness are, unfortunately, more the norm than the exception. Whatever the degree of loss, you have to fight back, find your own happiness despite it all.

At least I was taking baby steps in the right direction. No longer did I wake up every morning angry to be alive. For the last two years, I had told myself every day that my only purpose was to be with my daughters, and if they were gone, I should die, too. Now, with Kasey, I made a new choice. To live.

Kasey deserved the same happy childhood that I had tried to give her sisters. When they were little, I consciously put aside my own problems-anxiety, bulimia, uncertainty-to be the joyous, confident, giving mother they deserved. Now my problems felt a lot more dramatic. But the conclusion was the same.

If I was going to live, I might as well make the most of it. For all of us.

Before the accident, living a comfy life in a nice town surrounded by happy friends and family, I thought that "disaster" meant Emma's not getting the part she wanted in a play. Looking back, I don't understand why I ever wasted one single moment being unhappy or depressed.

The unyielding despair I had experienced since the accident was understandable, of course-but what purpose did it serve anyone? Though I had managed to crawl out of the caverns of complete misery, I could still feel gloom emanating from my soul.

I listened to Oprah for a while more, then called Jeannine, knowing she wouldn't hem and haw if I posed a direct question.

"Is it hard being my friend?" I asked her. "Do I project negative energy?"

"You're dark a lot," she admitted.

Dark. Well, I couldn't disagree with that. But I didn't want to be dark anymore. I wanted to be a force of light instead. I wanted Kasey to feel only positive energy from her mother.

"Am I one of those people who sucks all the energy out of a room?" I asked, using Oprah's lingo.

"No," Jeanne said without hesitating. "You've had a very bad time. But we still feel the positive person there underneath."

"Oprah says we should get rid of the people in our lives who suck out the positive energy," I reported.

"I'm not getting rid of you," Jeannine said with a little laugh.

"Well, I'm going to try to get rid of the negativity in myself," I promised her.

A few mornings later, I put my new att.i.tude to the test. Warren came into the kitchen while I was feeding the baby, and I could tell immediately that something was wrong. Maybe he hadn't slept well or he'd had one of those middle-of-the-night attacks of grief that struck like lightning and burned just as deep.

As often happened, his despair came out as belligerence.

"You're starting to look anorectic," he said, standing over me with arms crossed in front of his chest.

"I'm fine," I said, trying not to be put off by his stern demeanor. "I'm feeling good."

"You promised that once you started running again you'd eat more."

"I have plenty of power bars and yogurt to sustain me," I said.

"That's not enough," he said fervently.

"Oh no? How did you become the expert?" I asked, starting to get irritated. "Maybe you should be eating better and exercising more yourself."

"You need strength to take care of the baby," he said, trying to provoke me. And it worked. Despite my plan to be a source of positivity and light, it was hard to break old habits.

"I am taking care of her. In fact, I'm the only one of us taking care of her," I said. Our back-and-forth continued, and in a pattern we had repeated too many times now, the silly tiff blew up into a full-fledged fight.

At some point, I walked out to put Kasey down in her baby seat. I didn't want her-even at two months old-to hear us fighting.

"Let's end this argument," Warren said when I came back into the room.

"Fine," I said, giving positivity my first conscious try.

"Fine?" He looked at me incredulously. He often asked to "end it" when our fights got out of control, and I never agreed. I usually had at least one more thing I had to say. But not this time.

"Yes. Let's end it," I said.

"That's it?" he asked, sounding surprised-or disappointed.

"Yup. You want to end it, let's end it."

Warren went off to work, and instead of calling him as I often did after we fought to cry, complain, or attack, I just put the disagreement aside and went about my day. I had a babysitter coming for part of the morning, which meant I had two hours free, just for me. I wanted to use the time to feel good, not waste it in anger and arguments.

Warren must have been stunned not to hear from me because as I roamed through Target, contentedly shopping, my cell phone rang.

"I want to talk about this morning," Warren said.

"What about it?" I asked, pus.h.i.+ng my cart through the housewares aisle and wondering what we might need.

"Why did you end the fight?" he asked.

"You said you wanted to end it, so we did."

"But you never agree. So what happened this time?"

I sighed, slightly exasperated. "Warren, you must be joking. I'm in Target. Are you really calling me here to ask why we're not fighting?"