You open a carton of eggs, and not quite with negligence but in the rush of routine, you lift out one egg that cracks open. Your fingers sink into the collapsing shell, sending cold and wet through your sense as you calculate the tiny disaster before you simply wanting to scramble eggs for breakfast.
You know, of course, that eggs are frail things, and you handle them with care — but this egg had been somehow slightly stuck to the carton and your reflex was to squeeze and pull a bit harder.
Half a shell and the exposed yolk still in the carton remind you, however, of the inherent frailty of eggs.
Over about three months now, I regularly spend time with my 76-year-old mother in the wake of her stroke and my 3-year-old granddaughter now freshly embarking on formal schooling by starting 3K.
Conversations with my mom and granddaughter are disorienting and similar — a garbled string of occasional words and phrases mixed with complete nonsense, not even words but mumbling.
And my mother and granddaughter both pause, eyes intent, awaiting some signal I have understood — and often I have no clue.
My mother suffers the consequences of a tiny blood clot in her brain while my granddaughter is victim to the simplicity of emerging from being a baby into early childhood.
Like an egg, they are both incredibly frail, but mostly in slightly exaggerated ways that are an essential characteristic of being human.
Humans all are frail, although we seem determined to ignore or refute that fact.
My mom has slipped into frailty, her body has failed itself after almost eight decades. While my granddaughter has begun navigating the very dangerous world in her new and tiny state.
The world is many parts angry and insensitive, like a hand hurriedly pulling an egg from a carton.
What would this world be, what could this world be if we walked through it with care, gingerly and slowly stepping along as if each step were vital?
The same week that we have been told by doctors, nurses, and social workers we can leave my mother alone during the day is when my granddaughter began 3K — equal terrors for me too much aware of the callousness of this world about human frailty.
To be aware of that frailty, I suppose, is overwhelming, and for me, possibly a great contribution to my relentless anxiety.
Callousness and carelessness, I believe, cannot be the alternative to the weight of being aware that humans are frail — that every human deserves compassion.
I have adopted a soothing tone, gentle smile, and reassuring words when my mom becomes frantic and sad, when my granddaughter fears she has done something wrong or tells us just a few days into her school life that she doesn’t want to go.
“I’m sorry,” “It’s ok,” “We’ll take care of it” — assurances offered, even though I really can’t promise they are true, because everyone must know that they are not alone, that the world doesn’t have to be so awful.
More and more often, the calm after these disturbances for my mom and my granddaughter is what I reach for to make each day worth all the other struggles and possibilities — the heaping mess of just plain nasty people who seem to outnumber the rest of us.
The calm, however, remains in the shadow of the facts of aging for my mother, life is shorter now than what she has lived, and for my granddaughter who will someday way too soon stop raising her arms for me to lift and hold her, stop crawling into my lap and guiding my hand to her feet while she eats a popsicle and watches TV.
It is a lovely and selfish thing to comfort another person, and each moment doing so should be handled with care, like taking an egg in your hand.