Growing Up

Today I realized my ds (darling son) -- my youngest, my baby -- all of nearly 15 years of age -- is growing up, and doing so quickly.

He and I have a sacred spot. It may not appear a sacred place to others, and to be honest, before today, I had not thought of it as such, but so it is. Our sacred spot is ... (drumroll) ... our backyard trampoline. And today, my son, while lying out in the sun on said tramp eating half of a pint of leftover Ben and Jerry's ice cream, told me he wanted to be alone.

That hurt my mother-heart. More than his first day of kindergarten, or when he stopped asking to sleep in our bed, or his eighth grade graduation, or even how unbaby-like he looked when he got braces. Yes, all of those were milestones, to be sure, but there is nothing like when a child tells you they want to be alone in a place you have always been welcome.

In the heartbeat following his pronouncement, memories tumbled unbidden into my conscious mind.

This place -- the backyard tramp -- was where we lay in the warm afternoon sun, just talking, napping, or eating ice cream (the ice cream being a more recent addition to favorite activities there). We would sometimes talk, sometimes not.

We also enjoyed jumping on the trampoline together, especially when ds was younger, though I could never jump for as long as he could. I would say 'No more,' and he would plead with me to jump with him just a little bit more.

This place was where we had spent summer nights sleeping beneath the stars. It was always a contest to see if we both would make it through the entire night without creeping back to our beds. (I'm ashamed to say, I usually lost.) But those times we did wake to morning light streaming through the nearby over-sized pine, I relished the feel of his slender body snuggled close to mine.

All of this and more I felt in an instant. I softly said, "Okay, I guess I'll have to wait for grandchildren," then quietly walked away, leaving him alone.

I don't think his desire to be alone today was indicative of how he will feel all of the time. But it was a first time, and for that, it is a rite of passage.

Anger

I have been reading David McCullough's biography of John Adams. Today John Adams died ... and I felt sad. Actually, I have felt very sad for several days now, so I can't rightly attribute my sadness to Presidents Adams's passing.

I can, however, attribute it to anger. I do not know if my anger is justified or not, but regardless, I believe I have anger that comes from "feeling guilty. Guilt, both earned and unearned, easily converts into anger ... and sadly, [I] have no place to go with all that anger" (Beattie, p. 155).

I humbly admit that I am not very good at dealing appropriately and immediately with anger. I grew up with and so subconsciously subscribe to several myths concerning anger, such as (1) good, nice people don't feel angry, or (2) anger is a sinful emotion, and (my personal favorite): it's okay to feel angry only when we can justify our feelings. (No judgment present in that statement!)

So, I turn my guilt and anger inward and stew and before I know it, I am feeling extremely sad. What do I have to feel guilty about, you may ask? I feel guilty for feeling angry! Hmmm ... which came first, the chicken or the egg? Don't ask. You might make me angry ... or sad. Take your pick.

But I am told, that as I work through these emotional adventures -- and believe me, it can be WORK!! -- that feeling angry is normal and okay and that I may even feel angry for some time before I feel better. Oh, joy!

Ode to an (unexpected) friend

I know you are with me. You're always with me.

What amazing words -the words of a friend. And it is true. There are certain people in our lives who are always with us. We go through experiences, sometimes very moving ones, and these friends seem to understand our stories even before the words are out of our mouths. Yet still they listen as if they are hearing us for the very first time.

Nothing can take the place of such a friend - the welcoming smile when you say hello, the dancing eyes when in on a shared joke, the listening heart when oh, so needed! I can think of no greater blessing than such a friend.

When with this friend, it is as if nothing else in the world is needed. Being with them even beats shopping. Hey, there's a thought! Maybe I should take my friend shopping and get the best of both worlds (smile).

No title for this one

Today I am not feeling lavish at all. I am way beyond peevish!!!!

If I weren't so tired, I would go out dancing. But even that probably wouldn't make me feel better.

(De)Constructing Peace

Some days I feel good - perhaps not great, but generally pretty good. Other days I feel peevish. A friend asked me how I would define peevish, and I replied, "Restless. Like something isn't quite right." But as I can't see that anything major in my life is going wrong, then I assume the something 'not quite right' is something (with)in me.

Today was a good day. Today was a peaceful day. I got up, showered, and dressed, as usual. I am not one to lie about in my pajamas, though in the past I have done some pretty impressive sleeping in. I ironed clothes while listening to religious programming on the TV. Powerful yet loving messages were given, and the music only added to the general sweet tone that washed over me, almost imperceptibly. (I should interject here that ironing usually puts me in a peaceful mood. I find there is something restful yet also hopeful about freshly laundered clothes waiting to be prepared for wearing. The actual work is repetitive enough that my mind is left free to wander or not ...)

Later, while out walking our neighborhood, the pleasant mood continued. My husband and I talked freely of upcoming possibilities in our lives. I have decided, after examining the tone of our conversation, that it is a good thing to practice being hopeful -- ah, there is a worthy goal! I found today that expressing needs and wants in a hopeful manner allowed me to see avenues of action that I had not considered before. Hmmm ... from this moment on, I give myself permission to be hopeful, even when my inclination is to do otherwise. We shall see what comes of this ...

Our earlier walk was so pleasant, and the day progressing so lovingly, that I stole away alone for another walk later in the afternoon. Now the reader must understand, I NEVER have or take the time to do this -- take two walks in one day, I mean - but today ... I DID. It was like being on vacation. What a treat. I must find a way to feel like I am on vacation more often.

On writing

Sometimes it is very hard to turn off my brain! Hmmm ... no, I don't mean exactly that. Sometimes it is very hard to get my brain to s-l-o-w d-o-w-n, so my thoughts can be translated into words and phrases focused with meaning.

I know what I mean in my head. I wish it were obvious to everyone! Sometimes I wish writing were more like conversation, and breaking off into tangents was not only allowed, but encouraged. Yip, that's the beauty of conversation. It just goes and goes with a will and at some point in time, one knows it will come back around. Maybe it happens long after the conversation is stored in the memory bank, but it usually does happen!

However there is a certain beauty in trying to make sense of it all, in composing a snapshot of experience for the reader through words.

The Hardest Week of My Life

I've lived through a few difficult times. I grew up in a home where dysfunction and abuse ran rampant. I've already alluded to being an adult child of an alcoholic, and I will probably describe my accompanying struggles in greater detail as I continue with this blog.

I have lost 3 immediate family members in the past 4 years. The pain associated with losing them comes and goes, rising to the surface, then disappearing again. The pain associated with loss, for me, is bittersweet - I feel sadness that I no longer enjoy the physical company of people I have loved, but I also experience joy when I realize the sweet reunion that will one day be ours.

I also appreciate the life lessons that being separated from loved ones continually brings.

There are other trials in life I have not had. I certainly wouldn't want to experience some of the challenges that my neighbors and loved ones have lived through - and that some still deal with on a daily basis. Not that this life is a contest for pain and suffering ...

But nothing prepared me for the hardest week of my life - watching a child of mine suffer and feeling absolutely helpless to ease his pain.

My oldest son recently spent a week in intensive care. His hospital stay was planned. We knew about it weeks beforehand. I had even prepared myself -- or so I thought -- by reading up on his upcoming procedure online. I read experiences posted by others who had gone through similar surgeries. I guess it is the nature of hindsight to downplay the not so pleasant.

Well, my dear boy did not have an easy time of it. He reacted badly to the general anesthesia and ended up being nauseated and in pain for three days. He also had to temporarily endure a certain other condition -- again, planned - that left him, and myself, in tears. He then underwent a second operation a week after the first, again experiencing similar symptoms of nausea and pain.

My son and I both knew some of these things had to be, but knowing is not the same as living, and I wish we had been better prepared as to the details of the experience.

I watched my boy as he went through this experience and thought, "He is my hero. He is one of the bravest people I know. I could never be as brave as he is being right now." And as I watched him suffer, there was absolutely nothing I could do. I couldn't relieve his nausea, I couldn't relieve his pain, I couldn't relieve any of the difficult stuff he was going through ... I could only be there.

And so I was. During the hours I spent with him in his hospital room, one thought coursed through my mind: "How can I show this child love?" I so wanted to give him some little bit of comfort, some measure of my esteem and care for him. Sitting in a chair beside his hospital bed in that rather confined room, monitors continually beeping in the background, answers came.

Sometimes showing love meant sitting quietly beside him, so I would be there when he woke up. Other times I scratched his back or massaged his feet and legs to help him relax and distract him from the pain. His last full day in intensive care, after his second surgery and just before his last bout of nausea finally ended, he told me it hurt to lay down, yet it tired him to sit up. I stood beside his bed and held out my hands, palms up. He placed his face in my hands and I supported him as best I could. It was all I could do, and together we waited out his recovery. I felt honored he would let me try to help him. I hope my being there helped. I think it did.

Some people have expressed to me that when we are in situations such as this, situations where our lives seem to hang in the balance and time is suspended -- well, some say that such conditions are a sort of superimposed existence and not indicative of who we are in real life. Our thoughts, feelings, and emotions, at this heightened level, can not be depended upon to guide us once we return to our normal daily life. I would disagree. I think that at these times the veil is very thin. We are closer to who we truly are and what we truly feel as children of God, then living in a mortal world may allow to always be clear to us.

At one time during his hospital stay, my son reached out to hold my hand. He has not done that since he was a young boy, when our relationship was sweet and uncluttered by teenage angst and a mother's inability to show love consistently. As difficult as it was to watch my child suffer -- and I hope never to experience that feeling of helplessness again -- the opportunity to show love was a priceless gift that I hope I can continue in the years to come. Showing love is sometimes all we can do ... it is, I believe, all we need to do.

Epiphany

Sometimes I feel really strange, writing my own thoughts to share ... it seems almost narcissistic. Yet others do it -- it's really not that different than writing an email, an editorial, or a book even.

I've wondered about this process of going inside myself, exploring some of the tensions there. On the one hand, it has been really beneficial to sort of therapize myself. On the other hand, I don't wish to over-analyze, yet thoughts will spin round and round in my head begging for release.

Yesterday I was thinking of how difficult it can be to distinguish between negative self-talk and productive self-analysis. (That last sentence just goes to illustrate how ACOA's often think - that they are not worthy of kind, healing attention - even and especially from themselves. Having grown up as victims, it is all they know, and they will even abuse themselves through negative self-talk to keep the cycle going.) Anyway, back to the 'distinguishing thoughts' thing ... I was driving along reflecting on these things, and then a scripture popped into my head, "Love thy neighbor as thyself." I didn't think too much of it -- I have often thought of that scripture beforetimes, especially in relation to learning not to be too hard on myself. But then, something else came to my mind in conjunction with loving ourselves -- the thought that Christ knows our mental anguish because of His mortal experience, and He uses that knowledge to comfort others. He not only knows our mental anguish, He knows it intimately. So if Christ is our Exemplar in all things, then it is alright for me to seek to understand my own mental anguish -- to feel it, experience it, and move beyond it.

I believe the key is to work through such anguish and not stay there ... to grow from such understanding -- as Christ did -- to turn to the Lord in all things for that understanding -- as Christ did -- to be a better person because of those trials, and then use the knowledge and empathy one gains to have more faith in God and to succor others. That is what I am to do with my anguish.

It seems to me that understanding oneself to work out the tensions and challenges is part of The Plan. Indeed, it is even a process that Christ went through to some degree, even though He didn't need to. He did that part voluntarily, so that He could help us.

It's been a year

It's hard to believe it has been a year now. Life goes on, and I don't know that I've even cried thinking that today is an anniversary of loss. Not really my style to do that. When I grieve, it hits me at the oddest times -- like practicing in church choir last Sunday. And of course, the tears come when I never have a Kleenex!

What do I miss most? Well, his wicked, wicked laugh. Wonderful grin. The roundest,firmest tummy I've ever seen on a man. And his fried green tomatoes -- I ate so many one time I literally made myself ill. But most of all, I miss seeing his name on my computer screen and reading his outrageous comments while we instant messaged each other.

All in all, today was a good day. I remember where he is, and I know he is in a good place ... laughing wickedly.