I feel like I should have. And I didn't cry the week before that, or the first week of October, or any of the other times over the last year that we have lost multiple people to absolutely senseless violence.
I didn't cry because I am so very numb. Do you understand? There have been so many appalling crimes against humanity, the earth, and the inhabitants of it in my lifetime that I am just done. I am especially done when I think about the two biggest reasons for these crimes:
Religion and Profit.
Late last night, my children and I sat together around the island in the hub of our home--the kitchen. I'd probably had a little too much to drink; nothing like alcohol to numb the numbness, right? I apologized to their sweet and shining faces for the world they are inheriting. I charged them with saving the world, and do you know what they asked?
"How, Mama?"
I don't know. I don't know, dear ones. I do know that in the last twenty years, I have seen the rights of many taken away: rights that are inalienable, that shouldn't be taken away. I have seen blame placed. I have seen rampant fear fed and fueled by a media that hasn't been impartial for a very long time. I have seen so many people form opinions from sound bites and headlines without question or further investigation, without considering where the information is coming from.
I feel that I've failed you both; that this world, in the beginning of the sixth mass extinction (yes, really, and if you haven't read the research, I'd recommend pulling your head out of the sand), is no longer salvageable. But we can't think that way, or we might as well all just drown ourselves now. We have to try, for as long as we have this crazy beautiful world, we have to try to save it. And "thoughts and prayers" just aren't going to cut it.
So this morning, while I watched the sun come up and listened to the train and watched the crows converging to some distant, unknowable place, I thought about how. And this is what I came up with.
Find your passion. The world is too full of injustices to focus on all of it; you will find yourself overwhelmed. Find something that you are passionate about and fight. Work your ass off to be heard, to make it right. Environment, gun control, feminism, animal rights, ecology. . .whatever cause makes your heart ignite. Make your life about serving those people and causes who need a voice.
Don't waste yourself on silly pettiness. Don't stoop to talking shit about others, don't numb your brain with useless fodder. We are so over-inundated with media, unimportant creams and clothes and surgeries and diets and trolling, opinion pieces vomited from behind the anonymity of computer screens. Understand that you can choose what to let in to your brain, and you can choose what you think about it. And if you don't agree, or you don't like it, and you don't find it important enough to change it, leave it be and walk away.
Think critically. Always. Consider the source of everything. Who is profiting from the information? Where is the proof? Can the information be backed up from other, independent sources? Is the information or proof based on testimonials? Can the proof be reproduced? Are those spouting or selling the information being paid or benefiting in some way? Does the information mesh with what you already know to be true? Does it challenge your beliefs? Analyze your reaction to the information. What are questions you can ask about it?
Find common ground. It is so easy to stay safe in and among people and environments we are comfortable with, but nothing gets done when we are divisive and fighting, and as long as we are all taking sides, we will not find common ground. If we can agree on a few things- for example, that mass shootings shouldn't happen, and are definitely a problem in the U.S.- then we can start looking at what can be done about them. That is how this country is supposed to work. We learned it in preschool, watching Sesame Street- cooperation, and compromise. An awful lot of people in Washington have forgotten that.
Speak with integrity and honor. Follow your well-thought and researched words with action. Don't bother with lip service, and don't waste your time on those who do. And for fucksake, don't bother praying.
December 05, 2015
September 10, 2015
you can be the ripest, juciest peach in the world. . .
Or your job can be the best, most amazing, dream job come true in the world...
But that doesn't mean that it's the best job in the world for you. Or that you like peaches. Or something.
I started my dream job last January. 911 call taking. An incredible position with a really great group of people in a supportive environment with a director who "gets it." I was learning new things every. single. day. My 12 hour shifts allowed for several days off a week with my family. The benefits were amazing. I got to help people, be present for people, bear witness to their worst and darkest days, and say, "I am here for you until help arrives."
And then I started actual dispatch training. I hated it. I felt such a disconnect from everything I loved about call taking. I felt like many of the officers I dispatched for didn't take their safety nearly as seriously as I did. I wrestled with my heart about what I would possibly do if I lost one of those officers on my watch. My resting heart rate, usually in the low 60s, shot up to 98. Ninety-eight. That is not healthy, especially when you have a history of PSVT. I never took my blood pressure, but I'm sure it was sky high, too. I stopped eating much at all, I started drinking more coffee and eating more sugar. I stopped sleeping much. I stopped exercising, period. No yoga, no running, no weights. I had a really bad flare up of my rheumatoid arthritis in my fingers. I was a freaking mess.
I was in survival mode. I felt a strangely physical sensation of a disconnect between my head and my body, like I was a life-sized bobble head. Yes, really. I don't recommend it. In hindsight, I now recognize what was happening--I had to stop doing all the things I do to keep me sane and healthy, because, in my world, this new job was incompatible with my sanity and my health, and had I continued to do all the things that keep me mentally and physically healthy, I would have recognized and stopped that much sooner.
But I didn't. I kept on because I wanted to be a perfect fit for the job. I wanted to provide for my family, make sure they were healthy and taken care of. But because Mama is the glue in our house, the rest of the family was suffering. Yes, we had great health insurance and a nice monetary cushion, but most of that money was spent eating out or on groceries that went to waste, since default food for my Others is cereal. I couldn't remember the last time our house smelled like a home-cooked meal, or freshly baked bread, and--most distressing--I couldn't remember the last time the walls of our house had rung with laughter.
That was unacceptable. So I quit.
I've had three job offers. I accepted one. I'll let you know when it comes through.
Our relationships, our interactions, our interconnectedness in this web of humanity. . .these are what are important. We get this one life. I'm not going to waste it.
But that doesn't mean that it's the best job in the world for you. Or that you like peaches. Or something.
I started my dream job last January. 911 call taking. An incredible position with a really great group of people in a supportive environment with a director who "gets it." I was learning new things every. single. day. My 12 hour shifts allowed for several days off a week with my family. The benefits were amazing. I got to help people, be present for people, bear witness to their worst and darkest days, and say, "I am here for you until help arrives."
And then I started actual dispatch training. I hated it. I felt such a disconnect from everything I loved about call taking. I felt like many of the officers I dispatched for didn't take their safety nearly as seriously as I did. I wrestled with my heart about what I would possibly do if I lost one of those officers on my watch. My resting heart rate, usually in the low 60s, shot up to 98. Ninety-eight. That is not healthy, especially when you have a history of PSVT. I never took my blood pressure, but I'm sure it was sky high, too. I stopped eating much at all, I started drinking more coffee and eating more sugar. I stopped sleeping much. I stopped exercising, period. No yoga, no running, no weights. I had a really bad flare up of my rheumatoid arthritis in my fingers. I was a freaking mess.
I was in survival mode. I felt a strangely physical sensation of a disconnect between my head and my body, like I was a life-sized bobble head. Yes, really. I don't recommend it. In hindsight, I now recognize what was happening--I had to stop doing all the things I do to keep me sane and healthy, because, in my world, this new job was incompatible with my sanity and my health, and had I continued to do all the things that keep me mentally and physically healthy, I would have recognized and stopped that much sooner.
But I didn't. I kept on because I wanted to be a perfect fit for the job. I wanted to provide for my family, make sure they were healthy and taken care of. But because Mama is the glue in our house, the rest of the family was suffering. Yes, we had great health insurance and a nice monetary cushion, but most of that money was spent eating out or on groceries that went to waste, since default food for my Others is cereal. I couldn't remember the last time our house smelled like a home-cooked meal, or freshly baked bread, and--most distressing--I couldn't remember the last time the walls of our house had rung with laughter.
That was unacceptable. So I quit.
I've had three job offers. I accepted one. I'll let you know when it comes through.
Our relationships, our interactions, our interconnectedness in this web of humanity. . .these are what are important. We get this one life. I'm not going to waste it.
June 27, 2015
who knew you could be stuck in such a deep, dark hole at this high an elevation?
so much has changed in the last year, and yet so much has remained the same.
I finally have a job that gives us some breathing room financially, and it is something that I love doing and that challenges me every day. It also, unfortunately, provides me with an even more skewed view of the world, as I come in contact with people having the worst days of their lives for 12 hours straight, 4 days in a row.
I have friends in the high desert, I suppose. People who, if I could get out from under this web of grief, would be excellent company. I feel, though, like I've been the one putting out the effort repeatedly, with no return on the investment. This saddens me, and at some point I just decided to quit expending the energy.
That left me with two things--family and home. Home is no longer a sanctuary; the neighborhood where we had but one street of houses next to us when we bought our house two years ago has become one of the busiest roads in our area of town. In just over a year, we had two major subdivisions pop up around us. I can no longer sit in my yard and think. Even inside, I have the constant sound of traffic. Family is still the same, with one child always away, one child with me, and husband working over the mountain every week.
I miss my mother in law almost every day. I am so grateful I was able to spend some of her last days with her. I miss my own mother daily, too, and she isn't even gone yet, but I know the day is coming. I think I would like to just curl up with my head in her lap for a very long while.
I am done with all of this. I have a desperate need to look within, to calm my heart and soul, but the chatter and noise surrounding me is so loud it prevents me from doing so.
May 20, 2014
the days passed with morphine and roses
The phone rang this morning at 0220. "It's done," my husband said, his voice low and broken. "She's gone."
On Sunday morning, as Ma declined all her regular medications and any treats but ice chips and ginger ale, after I'd picked the dead flowers out of bouquets covering every surface and brought in new blooms from her garden to freshen up her night table, I started thinking about what we as a culture do for ritual in death and dying, and what I came up with was sorely lacking. I hate funerals and always have; I swore the wake I attended at age 19 for my friend Tree was the last funeral I would be present at- I had lost 15 people dear to me in less than 7 years, and after multiple funerals accompanied by wracking sobs, perfumed black clothing, and waxy corpses, found that modern religious (and secular) death rituals kind of suck.
So. I googled it. I knew that I would not be present for Ma's death, knew that she would last maybe to Tuesday, but I wanted to do something to recognize this work of dying, something to celebrate the passing of her. Being an atheist, the rituals of most Christian groups didn't appeal to me, but I loved the simplicity of the bathing and wrapping of the body after death that turned up again and again in so many religious customs. I had been massaging Ma's swollen feet and legs with lemon and lavender essential oils every day, anyway, and so when I read that pagans give baths to their dead and dying with rosemary to cleanse and protect the body on its journey, it seemed natural to add that to the others. This time, though, I worked every bit of Ma's bare skin I could find. I gave her an angel bath of oil and fragrance and love, and she watched me, eyes locked on mine, and I couldn't help but cry.
Like most rituals of dying--in which the ceremonies are more for the living than the dying--this bathing was more for me than for her, my way of saying thank you and goodbye to this woman I've loved for a few years but have just recently grown to admire for her stubbornness and tenacity, her optimism and her great love of family, her unwillingness to complain even in the midst of great pain, and her wide open, forgiving heart.
Sunday's sun tipped toward the west and it was time for me to leave, to get back to Bend and the work of living. I leaned in close to tell her goodbye-- that I was leaving and likely wouldn't see her again. She said, "No." And held me close, and I told her that I didn't think her Jesus would come for her while there was a heathen in the house. She laughed and said she'd like to see me in heaven. I told her I didn't think that was likely.
I was so happy just knowing her here.
On Sunday morning, as Ma declined all her regular medications and any treats but ice chips and ginger ale, after I'd picked the dead flowers out of bouquets covering every surface and brought in new blooms from her garden to freshen up her night table, I started thinking about what we as a culture do for ritual in death and dying, and what I came up with was sorely lacking. I hate funerals and always have; I swore the wake I attended at age 19 for my friend Tree was the last funeral I would be present at- I had lost 15 people dear to me in less than 7 years, and after multiple funerals accompanied by wracking sobs, perfumed black clothing, and waxy corpses, found that modern religious (and secular) death rituals kind of suck.
So. I googled it. I knew that I would not be present for Ma's death, knew that she would last maybe to Tuesday, but I wanted to do something to recognize this work of dying, something to celebrate the passing of her. Being an atheist, the rituals of most Christian groups didn't appeal to me, but I loved the simplicity of the bathing and wrapping of the body after death that turned up again and again in so many religious customs. I had been massaging Ma's swollen feet and legs with lemon and lavender essential oils every day, anyway, and so when I read that pagans give baths to their dead and dying with rosemary to cleanse and protect the body on its journey, it seemed natural to add that to the others. This time, though, I worked every bit of Ma's bare skin I could find. I gave her an angel bath of oil and fragrance and love, and she watched me, eyes locked on mine, and I couldn't help but cry.
Like most rituals of dying--in which the ceremonies are more for the living than the dying--this bathing was more for me than for her, my way of saying thank you and goodbye to this woman I've loved for a few years but have just recently grown to admire for her stubbornness and tenacity, her optimism and her great love of family, her unwillingness to complain even in the midst of great pain, and her wide open, forgiving heart.
Sunday's sun tipped toward the west and it was time for me to leave, to get back to Bend and the work of living. I leaned in close to tell her goodbye-- that I was leaving and likely wouldn't see her again. She said, "No." And held me close, and I told her that I didn't think her Jesus would come for her while there was a heathen in the house. She laughed and said she'd like to see me in heaven. I told her I didn't think that was likely.
I was so happy just knowing her here.
May 18, 2014
cancer is satan and other stories we tell ourselves to get by
It has been five days since I saw Ma last. We expect a physical decline, but really, she still looks pretty good. It is her medication changes and her vital signs that tell her story, her slide into sleep that isn't chemical sedation but rather an increase in CO2 and the metabolic changes as her body dies. Although medically competent to care for Ma, I feel judgement (where there likely is none) from family and her church members-- why should the heathen new daughter-in-law be caring for this woman? Sometimes I feel Ma's impatience, too-- that maybe the other daughter in law does a better job, or anticipates her needs more, or whatever. And then I feel really, horribly selfish, because of course Ma's frustration has very little to do with me. She is working very very hard doing exactly what she needs to be doing, and it is not easy. Death is a process, and my job is to be supportive of her and make her comfortable and give her whatever she wants and needs.
Today what Ma wants is cold. An ice cold wet washcloth for her forehead, ice chips and cold ginger ale to sip at bedside, a foot and calf massage with peppermint essential oil and a fan blowing on her feet after. Every window in this house is open. I'm shivering on the couch and she is complaining that she is hot. And then, inexplicably, she wants to sit up. I get her situated on the edge of the bed and await further instruction.
"Those plants out there need water," she says. And sure enough, they do. We are so focused on caring for her that things that aren't going to matter in a week when she is dead (like gift plants that will be thrown out) aren't high on the list of priorities. But what Ma wants, Ma gets. I remember her crowing exactly that two weeks ago, this woman who worked her whole life making sure everyone else got what they needed. She isn't saying that now; frankly, she is saying very little. The tumors are pressed up against the fundus of her stomach, which doesn't like things pressed up against it. Hence, the persistent nausea. They combine with the ascites in her belly and push up against Ma's diaphragm. She is out of breath now brushing her teeth or talking too much.
The hospice nurse says that ideally, what will happen is that Ma's oxygen will continue to fall and her CO2 will continue to rise, putting her in a semi-euphoric state from which she will enter a coma and slip peacefully away.
* * *
It has only been a day. So much of what I wanted to remember to write down about her I have already forgotten--things that, when they happened yesterday, I already knew would never be happening again. Yesterday morning on a walk around the house, I found the most amazing moth. My husband brought it inside to show her, and I laughed at first, thinking, "how funny. He still brings bugs inside to show his mama." And how quickly that laughter turned so very bittersweet as I realized that, like so many other things, it would be the last time.
Two visitors yesterday, the pastor who comes by every day and then a couple of ladies from church. I wonder where the rest of them are; I know that in the church I grew up in, the members would have organized weeks ago, and there would be food loaded on tables and counters, the house would be spotless, the yard would have been weeded. This is a church Ma has devoted her life to, and it angers me that so few of its members are showing much supposed Christ-like love. Except prayer. They sure do pray a lot. They even mention on her facebook page, the one she has been too weak to check for almost 14 days, how much they are praying for her. A couple have even mentioned that they are praying for her to be cancer free. She rolls her eyes when I tell her about it and says, "they really don't get it, do they?" The pastor sits bedside; I give them what little privacy there is by sitting in the living room. I hear him say, "so your whole family has gone to Washington for the weekend!" And after a pause, her pointed reply, "not all of them. Some are still here with me." The pastor and the church ladies thank me profusely for being here, as have other church members who have stopped by. As if this is a chore. As if I could be anywhere else.
Last night, after her youngest son had gone to bed, I asked her, as I do frequently, if there was anything she needed. As she generally does, she shook her head and said, "no." But then she got this stern look on her face, and she said, "I need to die. Can you do that?" I went to her and held her soft, smooth hands, and she said, "can't I just have a whole bunch of morphine? Wouldn't that do it? I've thought about this." And I bit my lip to keep from crying as she looked at me and realization dawned on her that her god wouldn't approve. "That would be suicide, wouldn't it. And that would be wrong. I just can't do this anymore. I am done. I am done talking, I am worn out, I am so ready. But I don't know what else I need to do for Jesus to come get me." I had no answer for that that she would want to hear. So we talked about it, and I agreed that we could give her the maximum dose of morphine possible to keep her sedated without killing her. She said no more phone calls, no more visitors except family and pastor.
She is done. She is ready. And I cannot think of any compassionate god that would prolong the life of someone so miserable and so desperate to go back home to Him.
Today what Ma wants is cold. An ice cold wet washcloth for her forehead, ice chips and cold ginger ale to sip at bedside, a foot and calf massage with peppermint essential oil and a fan blowing on her feet after. Every window in this house is open. I'm shivering on the couch and she is complaining that she is hot. And then, inexplicably, she wants to sit up. I get her situated on the edge of the bed and await further instruction.
"Those plants out there need water," she says. And sure enough, they do. We are so focused on caring for her that things that aren't going to matter in a week when she is dead (like gift plants that will be thrown out) aren't high on the list of priorities. But what Ma wants, Ma gets. I remember her crowing exactly that two weeks ago, this woman who worked her whole life making sure everyone else got what they needed. She isn't saying that now; frankly, she is saying very little. The tumors are pressed up against the fundus of her stomach, which doesn't like things pressed up against it. Hence, the persistent nausea. They combine with the ascites in her belly and push up against Ma's diaphragm. She is out of breath now brushing her teeth or talking too much.
The hospice nurse says that ideally, what will happen is that Ma's oxygen will continue to fall and her CO2 will continue to rise, putting her in a semi-euphoric state from which she will enter a coma and slip peacefully away.
* * *
It has only been a day. So much of what I wanted to remember to write down about her I have already forgotten--things that, when they happened yesterday, I already knew would never be happening again. Yesterday morning on a walk around the house, I found the most amazing moth. My husband brought it inside to show her, and I laughed at first, thinking, "how funny. He still brings bugs inside to show his mama." And how quickly that laughter turned so very bittersweet as I realized that, like so many other things, it would be the last time.
Two visitors yesterday, the pastor who comes by every day and then a couple of ladies from church. I wonder where the rest of them are; I know that in the church I grew up in, the members would have organized weeks ago, and there would be food loaded on tables and counters, the house would be spotless, the yard would have been weeded. This is a church Ma has devoted her life to, and it angers me that so few of its members are showing much supposed Christ-like love. Except prayer. They sure do pray a lot. They even mention on her facebook page, the one she has been too weak to check for almost 14 days, how much they are praying for her. A couple have even mentioned that they are praying for her to be cancer free. She rolls her eyes when I tell her about it and says, "they really don't get it, do they?" The pastor sits bedside; I give them what little privacy there is by sitting in the living room. I hear him say, "so your whole family has gone to Washington for the weekend!" And after a pause, her pointed reply, "not all of them. Some are still here with me." The pastor and the church ladies thank me profusely for being here, as have other church members who have stopped by. As if this is a chore. As if I could be anywhere else.
Last night, after her youngest son had gone to bed, I asked her, as I do frequently, if there was anything she needed. As she generally does, she shook her head and said, "no." But then she got this stern look on her face, and she said, "I need to die. Can you do that?" I went to her and held her soft, smooth hands, and she said, "can't I just have a whole bunch of morphine? Wouldn't that do it? I've thought about this." And I bit my lip to keep from crying as she looked at me and realization dawned on her that her god wouldn't approve. "That would be suicide, wouldn't it. And that would be wrong. I just can't do this anymore. I am done. I am done talking, I am worn out, I am so ready. But I don't know what else I need to do for Jesus to come get me." I had no answer for that that she would want to hear. So we talked about it, and I agreed that we could give her the maximum dose of morphine possible to keep her sedated without killing her. She said no more phone calls, no more visitors except family and pastor.
She is done. She is ready. And I cannot think of any compassionate god that would prolong the life of someone so miserable and so desperate to go back home to Him.
May 04, 2014
so this is hospice
Ma is dying. She says she is ready, that she isn't afraid, that she is pretty sure that what will happen is that she will to go to sleep and then wake up to the voice of Jesus calling her name. This gives her comfort. Yesterday she grabbed my hands, asked me to open my heart and let Jesus in. I smiled and listened, but I won't lie to a dying woman. She tells me she loves me even though I don't believe in god.
This is awkward. Dying is awkward, and messy, and beautiful. And it doesn't matter how good your intentions are, toes are going to get stepped on (literally and figuratively), feelings are going to get hurt, tempers are going to snap, and commodes are going to tip. Ma urps every now and again, even with her nausea meds. I think she is surprised at how much the nausea is getting to her.
All the people who love her gather in clumps around her. They trip over each other in bedroom and kitchen. I stand helplessly with two of Ma's friends in the kitchen, waiting to throw away the lid of a pudding cup. If this were my family, I'd give a playful nudge on their tushes and say, "'scuse your butt!" But they aren't family. They are strangers to me and the only thing we have in common is Ma.
They are in there now, saying goodbye. The grief is frightening, is explosive. It is as messy as the dying is, as messy as love. Ma is comforting them, absolving them for leaving in the middle of this. And they are desperate to stay. I have no part of this. I am the daughter in law, and I have only been in the picture 7 years, not the 30 years of these friends, definitely not the decades of the other daughter in law.
I am here because I love this woman and I love her son. I am here to offer emotional support and my medical training. And in the middle of the night, as Ma is waiting to go to the bathroom and I am struggling with the legs of the commode, trying to get the stupid notch locked evenly on each one, I wonder what the hell I am doing and how I am failing so spectacularly. But we do the best we can.
My husband's father showed up today with the woman he left Ma for all those years ago. Left her with three boys to raise all by herself. I think they were seeking forgiveness, even though they wouldn't admit it. Bless Ma. I think she had forgiven them long ago, and told them so. They left, finally, had someplace they suddenly had to be. And she has been sleeping ever since.
All these people calling, crying, praying at her. And she receives them, listens to them, loves them. Prays with them. And then sleeps, because they exhaust her.
Ma is dying. As we all are.
This is awkward. Dying is awkward, and messy, and beautiful. And it doesn't matter how good your intentions are, toes are going to get stepped on (literally and figuratively), feelings are going to get hurt, tempers are going to snap, and commodes are going to tip. Ma urps every now and again, even with her nausea meds. I think she is surprised at how much the nausea is getting to her.
All the people who love her gather in clumps around her. They trip over each other in bedroom and kitchen. I stand helplessly with two of Ma's friends in the kitchen, waiting to throw away the lid of a pudding cup. If this were my family, I'd give a playful nudge on their tushes and say, "'scuse your butt!" But they aren't family. They are strangers to me and the only thing we have in common is Ma.
They are in there now, saying goodbye. The grief is frightening, is explosive. It is as messy as the dying is, as messy as love. Ma is comforting them, absolving them for leaving in the middle of this. And they are desperate to stay. I have no part of this. I am the daughter in law, and I have only been in the picture 7 years, not the 30 years of these friends, definitely not the decades of the other daughter in law.
I am here because I love this woman and I love her son. I am here to offer emotional support and my medical training. And in the middle of the night, as Ma is waiting to go to the bathroom and I am struggling with the legs of the commode, trying to get the stupid notch locked evenly on each one, I wonder what the hell I am doing and how I am failing so spectacularly. But we do the best we can.
My husband's father showed up today with the woman he left Ma for all those years ago. Left her with three boys to raise all by herself. I think they were seeking forgiveness, even though they wouldn't admit it. Bless Ma. I think she had forgiven them long ago, and told them so. They left, finally, had someplace they suddenly had to be. And she has been sleeping ever since.
All these people calling, crying, praying at her. And she receives them, listens to them, loves them. Prays with them. And then sleeps, because they exhaust her.
Ma is dying. As we all are.
January 14, 2014
sometimes it feels as if all the grief in the world has settled in my heart
You know how sometimes, if you can ignore something or pretend it away, you can stave off the inevitable?
Yeah, me neither. That doesn't, however, prevent me from trying.
Jem died at the beginning of November, peacefully, at home, in my arms. Just the daughter and I were here; the males in the family were over in the valley-- Rock Star at work, the son with his dad. It was almost anticlimactic, really. I don't understand sometimes why death, which is the second most momentous occasion in life aside from birth, seems to be a slipping away and then a sudden closed door, regardless of the violence or the length of the process leading up to it. I do know that Jem's dying and death that morning was beautiful and gentle and near perfect, and I think even at the time I recognized and was grateful for that.
Ma's cancer is this ridiculous uncontrollable thing that I am still trying to make sense of. I write that and it is a complete sentence, paragraph, story unto itself. Cancer never makes sense, does it? I am worried that she will be in this frame of hope and optimism for so long that she will put off doing what she wants to do because she keeps hoping that there will be another spring, another summer, another autumn. I want to shake her and tell her, "Live this. Right now. Recognize the preciousness of what you are experiencing every single day."
That's what I need to be telling myself, of course. I seem to have got myself caught in my own little perfect storm. Clarity will come, I'm sure. Something will make sense eventually. And I'm sure that my mind and my heart and my soul will eventually line up and start communicating, because there are some serious mixed wires in there right now. I look at all I have and know I should be grateful. I look at the raw beauty of this place and the way it chisels the people who live here, and I know in my head that it is amazing. But my soul doesn't recognize it. My soul looks into the chasm on the drive over the pass and thinks, "I could drive my car right off of that." And the depth of despair that is driving this subconcious feeling is so hidden and deep I don't know quite what to do with it, or how to fix it. I am sure I could go all metaphorical and realize that this desire to drive off the road is my soul's way of telling me it is time to jump into the chasm of the unknown. Mostly it just feels like depression, when it feels like anything at all.
What do you do when home isn't a place, but a person? My home-- my heart-- drives over the mountains every week to work. This suddenly feels like a long-distance relationship, and I have never been very good at those. Rock Star tells me nothing about us has changed, and this is necessary since my first job here didn't turn out to be all that the person who hired me said that it would. Not to mention that my body feels as though it is betraying me-- pain in my hands and forearms (nerve compression and apparently no-longer-dormant arthritis) that make it difficult to massage, the onset of perimenopause. And while Rock Star greets this with great humor and gentleness, I feel so very alone sometimes. Alone and at fault because this was his dream, and yet he is here only half the time.
I wish I were as gentle with myself as he is with me. I am grateful for his patience, for his support. But oh, how I miss him when he is gone, my chosen one. My heart and soul.
Yeah, me neither. That doesn't, however, prevent me from trying.
Jem died at the beginning of November, peacefully, at home, in my arms. Just the daughter and I were here; the males in the family were over in the valley-- Rock Star at work, the son with his dad. It was almost anticlimactic, really. I don't understand sometimes why death, which is the second most momentous occasion in life aside from birth, seems to be a slipping away and then a sudden closed door, regardless of the violence or the length of the process leading up to it. I do know that Jem's dying and death that morning was beautiful and gentle and near perfect, and I think even at the time I recognized and was grateful for that.
Ma's cancer is this ridiculous uncontrollable thing that I am still trying to make sense of. I write that and it is a complete sentence, paragraph, story unto itself. Cancer never makes sense, does it? I am worried that she will be in this frame of hope and optimism for so long that she will put off doing what she wants to do because she keeps hoping that there will be another spring, another summer, another autumn. I want to shake her and tell her, "Live this. Right now. Recognize the preciousness of what you are experiencing every single day."
That's what I need to be telling myself, of course. I seem to have got myself caught in my own little perfect storm. Clarity will come, I'm sure. Something will make sense eventually. And I'm sure that my mind and my heart and my soul will eventually line up and start communicating, because there are some serious mixed wires in there right now. I look at all I have and know I should be grateful. I look at the raw beauty of this place and the way it chisels the people who live here, and I know in my head that it is amazing. But my soul doesn't recognize it. My soul looks into the chasm on the drive over the pass and thinks, "I could drive my car right off of that." And the depth of despair that is driving this subconcious feeling is so hidden and deep I don't know quite what to do with it, or how to fix it. I am sure I could go all metaphorical and realize that this desire to drive off the road is my soul's way of telling me it is time to jump into the chasm of the unknown. Mostly it just feels like depression, when it feels like anything at all.
What do you do when home isn't a place, but a person? My home-- my heart-- drives over the mountains every week to work. This suddenly feels like a long-distance relationship, and I have never been very good at those. Rock Star tells me nothing about us has changed, and this is necessary since my first job here didn't turn out to be all that the person who hired me said that it would. Not to mention that my body feels as though it is betraying me-- pain in my hands and forearms (nerve compression and apparently no-longer-dormant arthritis) that make it difficult to massage, the onset of perimenopause. And while Rock Star greets this with great humor and gentleness, I feel so very alone sometimes. Alone and at fault because this was his dream, and yet he is here only half the time.
I wish I were as gentle with myself as he is with me. I am grateful for his patience, for his support. But oh, how I miss him when he is gone, my chosen one. My heart and soul.
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