This Will Heal

I host a bunch of holidays at my house, and by now, I’ve fallen into menu rhythms for each of them.  But a long time ago, I tried new themes for each holiday, and for one Pesach, we had Argentinian food. I made this steak dish in a pan that I finished in the oven. I wasn’t paying attention when I went to serve it, and I grabbed the metal handle, just as I would if the pan was on the stove top. I burned two fingertips and the soft skin at the base of my thumb.

I was okay if I held my hand under cold water, but the moment I dried my hand, all I could focus on was the intense pain. I ended up filling a surgical glove with burn ointment and slipping my hand inside (a hack that I thought was brilliant at the time). It allowed me to use my hand, but most of my concentration was focused on the pain for the rest of the meal. I couldn’t think about anything else. Pain demands that you think about it.

First-degree burns are funny things in that way. You know, rationally, that once the skin begins to heal, the pain will diminish and––over time––all will go back to normal. It isn’t permanent. It isn’t chronic. You just have to let the ointment do its work, and you’ll be able to use the hand again. Maybe there will be a small scar. Usually there won’t. And, one day, you’ll forget about the incident entirely except for times when you have a metal pan in the oven or you’re making Argentinian food. Those times, you remind yourself to be careful.

I was thinking about this because someone I love is moving. Unlike the hot pan, it has been a burn that has built slowly with the knowledge unfolding over time––from possibility to definite. And now that we’re in the definite stage with a moving month on the horizon, it feels like that time when I was sitting at the dinner table, unable to concentrate in the moment on anything else. It hurts to think about her five hours away when she has been anywhere from two floors (in an apartment building) to 45 minutes away for the last 20+ years.

(I am trying to keep my shit together for her. I am not doing a great job with that, but she has been forgiving about it.)

I know that in time, we will find our new normal. We’ll make plans to meet in the middle somewhere 2 or 3 hours from each of our homes. We’ll visit her in her new town. She’ll return to see us in ours. We will have FaceTime lunch dates to replace our face-to-face lunch dates. Our daughters will have their own texting chains. It will all be okay. She will always be my heart, no matter where she is living.

But right now, that sadness is a first-degree burn, demanding that I think about it. There are no clever hacks; I’ll just need to wait to find our new rhythm. And in the meantime, help her pack and clean and do all the tasks that come with moving. Tell my brain that it will be okay later even if it doesn’t feel okay now. This will heal.