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.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
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.
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.
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