What will today Hold?

25
Jun

http://mrg.bz/L2hAsB

Today is an important day.

Today is a significant milestone, not of accomplishment but of loss.

In the past there were times when my family (of origin) would get together and there was a sense of having an itinerary. On the whole, we were people accustomed to creating The Plan for a gathering of people — when you’ve grown up in a family of program directors, meeting runners and conversationalists, there’s a certain pressure to create a Big Moment of sharing and bonding. It was always a special occasion to get four kids, their spouses and their babies all in a room at the same time, there was a kind of pragmatic, making-the-most-of-our-time-together agenda.

That’s a tricky habit to break.

As I’ve anticipated the one year anniversary of my dad’s passing, which is today, it’s been hard to know how to prepare. It seems like I ought to have some big plan, a programmed itinerary of activities and neatly scheduled breaks to feel feelings. One thing I’ve learned this year, though, is that grief rarely behaves the way I expect it to. I’ve been blindsided by things that have brought me to tears in the middle of a store, for example, when I didn’t even know I have an association to something and it almost knocks the wind out of me.

Then again, I’ve gone into certain times braced for tears and heartache, and ended up feeling cold as stone.

There’s almost no use in anticipating or preparing for what to feel. Maybe there was never any use for that strategy.

Honestly, I feel a little queasy about today. I’m trying to listen to my body and honor what it’s telling me, but I also don’t want to be bossed around by my body, because if right now it would tell me the best idea is to crawl into bed and doze away for the day. That doesn’t seem like the way I want to spend today…or at least not all of it.

I’m trying to carve out space to feel what I feel, and mark the day as seems right to my heart. So I’m going to eat an apple fritter and drink coffee this morning, with my dad’s fancy red silk handkerchief in my pocket, the one he wore for special occasions and was probably the only one he owned (I’ll give it back, Mom, don’t worry). I’ll wear my prayer beads around my neck. I’m going to take a walk. I’ll try to have the courage to tell people the significance of this day. I won’t make light of my feelings, but I won’t pressure myself to manufacture them because of the date on the calendar.

Today, I want to be with my family and laugh even if we also cry. Music, Jesus, chocolate, stories, discussion, books, family — all these things should be a part of today.

And if I can find a way, airplanes should be in there too. Dad always loved airplanes and flying.

It can be a good day even if it’s also a hard day.

How do you mark significant days in your life? Have you created rhythms or rituals that work for you? I think it would be helpful to hear about them. not only for me but for any others who might be listening in. Will you share your experience with us?

Mile Markers Part B – Facepalm

16
Jun

Oh man. You are helping me face one of my worst fears: publishing a blog post by accident. I’ve been blogging for like five years now and I believe this is the first time I’ve messed this up this badly.

**shrieks in terror as she realizes her fear has come true**

That’s what I get for working on my phone and thinking I could easily pop over and save a draft of a post and instead I published it before it was complete.

Deep cleansing breath.

Ahhh…

There. Better.

Now that we’ve bemoaned my mistake (complete with an actual facepalm here on this side of the computer) please allow me to share the revised all-in-one version that I posted in two portions yesterday.

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Signals of prayer.

My friend Kim’s daughter is getting married this weekend. Let it be known that I am only 40 and none of my children will be getting married any time soon. My friend isn’t that much older than 40, but she got an earlier start than I did, and so her daughter (who is also getting an earlier start than I did) is getting married. Maybe I was a late bloomer. 🙂

Getting married is a mile marker, a major life event. It changes you, makes you open your life to someone else, making their growth and their desires and their health equally as important as your own. You may, heaven forbid, one day find yourself unmarried, but from the moment you take those vows, there’s a kids before and a life after.

I have another friend (yes, I have more than one friend, smarty pants, and for that I am grateful) who’s daughter and husband just bought their first house. Say what you will about the mortgage and banking industry, debt or the stereotypical American Dream, but buying your first home is an entry point into full adulthood in the eyes of many. The ability to be deemed creditworthy of making such a long term investment says something about your stability and responsibility. It’s a mile marker, and even if you sell the house and decide not to own a house again, it’s life event and it shapes your attitudes about a whole myriad of subjects.

Another friend of mine is walking alongside her mother through the process of being diagnosed with cancer. Have I mentioned lately that cancer sucks?

I’ve started wondering if cancer is going to be another mile marker in our lives. Is it something everyone will face? Is it another common experience that forever changes us?This time it isn’t something we enter into with any choice, and we’d certainly reject it if given the opportunity. Even if we are bystanders we are impacted, and our sense of safety and invincibility is sent spinning.

It would be nice to think that as we continue through life we are granted immunity from loss and grief, and there are definitely monumental life events that are full of joy and deep contentment. But I’m starting to realize…or maybe I’m just wisening up to what everyone else already knew, that just as happy mile markers are a part of life that should be expected, perhaps difficult ones are too. If we begin to accept the idea that they’ll visit us eventually, maybe it can take the surprise out of their arrival.

Resilient Heart

No shortcuts, no Passes

23
Mar

It took me forty-five minutes to drive there, but I barely noticed. I didn’t have a good grasp of time; my attention was elsewhere. I think even if time marched by playing a tuba it would barely have registered (I probably wasn’t the safest driver on the road). So forty-five minute drive up felt like a blip, and the forty-five minute drive home was a good recovery time so I didn’t look like I’d been crying. Although, I probably always looked like I’d been crying…because usually I had been, or if not fully crying all the time, then on the brink of it.

Something told me to get help. Something inside me said I’d better call for reinforcements ’cause I was working above my pay grade.

Thus I found a counselor who was probably going to be a good match with my personality (I have counselor friends so that helps in weeding through the seemingly boundless choices) who happened to be forty-five minutes away. Worth it, if the counseling helped to assuage the gushing pain from losing my dad. I’d have been willing to drive for hours to make that happen.

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When my husband and I were first dating and also in the early years of our married life, if we had a disagreement I would want to address it right away. I’d want to talk it out and work through it. I felt very unsettled until we had come to some conclusion or found a middle ground of compromise — an action plan, if you will.

Need more communication? Set aside a specific time to connect each day so things are kept current.

Not sure about the finances? Decide in advance how much you’ve got to spend that week and stick to it.

How are we going to coordinate schedules to make summer plans work smoothly? Pull out the calendars and mark ’em up with who’s going where and when.

This drove my husband a little batty (I’m putting words in his mouth, but I think he’d agree). It must have felt like constantly making New Year’s resolutions every single day.

He wasn’t always ready to crush a problem the way I was. He might first need to be made aware of the issue. Then if it was deemed to really be a problem, he’d need time to analyze it and consider the different aspects of it. And one possibility was that there was no resolution to be made.

Hubba-whuh??

No resolution? No action plan? No CLOSURE???

You’ve got to be kidding me.

This approach caused problems for me in many ways. It required patience — not my strong suit. It required thorough analysis — again, not always my area of expertise. And it required an ability to acknowledge that some things could not be given a clean answer — for sure not my forte at the time.

In this period (which may have lasted longer than I care to admit) I found it challenging to discover my own propensity for being defensive and reactionary. I also have a great imagination, which can be less-than-helpful in conflict situations. The longer something dragged out, the more imaginary issues I infused it with and the more complex I made the problem. But in trying to force the discussion before he’d had time to mull it over, I was bullying my own agenda through. It would actually lead to more conflict, since then we’d have to unravel the additional subject of our different ways of processing problems.

What a headache.

I used to hear people wait to bring things up with their spouses, and I thought it was such a funny way of coming at something. If you wanted to talk about something, you talked about it, the moment it popped into your head, which was usually one nanosecond before you brought it up. What was this waiting business? Why would you need to wait to talk about something if it was important to you, and if you were talking to someone who loved you? It made no sense to me.

It does now.

Waiting to talk to my husband about something is a consideration to his process. It’s appreciative of the way he ticks. It’s not a matter of manipulation, nor is it a form of being subservient. It’s a matter of courtesy. It’s also ends up being better for me, since if I address every little blip that pops into my head, I’ll be addressing things that end up being much smaller in significance, and I’ll waste a lot of mental and emotional energy inconsequential stuff.

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When I started going to the counselor, I thought she’d have some solutions for me. I expected her to recommend a few books, maybe a YouTube video I should watch, even some natural supplements I should try. I figured we’d confront the issue of kids, deal with it and be done.

She gave me nothing.

There was nothing she could give me that would deliver what I wanted from her.

I wanted to find a loophole.

I wanted a shortcut.

I wanted to bypass feeling so horrible all the time, feeling like I couldn’t gather a thought, like I was walking around with my head in a sound-proof helmet with a tinted visor.

There was no way she’d be able to offer me anything to help with any of that.

What I needed was to settle down into the grief and quit trying to leapfrog over it. I wouldn’t be able to speed it up, and more time would have to go by before I could have any hope of feeling those things less frequently.

Did I mention that I started seeing the counselor in September? My dad passed away at the end of June.

I guess you could say I was trying to get a jump on that grieving thing, really trying grab hold of it and get it all out, rip off that Band-Aid.

It’s a wonder the counselor didn’t toss me out of her office.

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There’s no short cut in grief. You can’t expect to face the thing head-on and somehow beat it into submission. You can be present in it, mindful of your needs and respectful of your own process. There’s no closure that I can see, no end point. My dad keeps on being gone and missing out on stuff he ought to be here for. That’s not going to change. He will forever miss out from this point forward, and we will forever miss out. There’s no amount of processing or action-planning that can alleviate that.

Yes, maybe counseling will end up helping. Maybe if I can be clear about what I hope to gain from it (besides catapulting me over the sorrow) I’ll benefit from it. I’d better if it takes me forty-five minutes just to get there.

What’s your view of the benefits of counseling? Have you had times when you felt it would be helpful? How do you “get the most” out of counseling — or is that the wrong mindset?

Remember, this Medical Mondays series is open to anyone who might want to share. Just contact me if you’re interested in guest posting, and we’ll talk details. Tell your friends!

What school doesn’t teach You

2
Mar

Today’s post is from an up-and-coming writer in the medical field. She happens to be my sister, so you know she’s a good egg. (I’ve always wanted to call her an egg.) She shares about the most difficult season our family has gone through (and is still going through…very…very…slowly…) and writes about it from her medical perspective. I know you’ll find it interesting. Show her some comment-love today, will you?

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http://mrg.bz/PdGn03

Going to PA school is a full-time job. There are hours and hours of lectures that cover every body system and every possible thing that could go wrong. At times you start to believe that you have that rare genetic disorder that consists of frequent leg twitching and abnormal knuckle hair. Or maybe the lecturer covered abnormal moles and suddenly all of your “beauty marks” look like melanoma. At some point during the didactic year, you have to just ignore all the bad things that you might develop in your life or else you might become paralyzed. Just continue to drink from the fire hose and make it out alive to start practicing medicine. One thing that PA school did not prepare me for was family illness. There was not a single lecture entitled “How to Stand By a Loved One Who Gets Sick”, or “How to Walk Gracefully Along Side a Parent Who is Diagnosed With Cancer”.

My sister called me one evening last September and asked me to go look at my Dad’s leg. I made the short drive and noted that his right leg was twice the size of his left.

“How long has it been like that, Dad?”

“Just three days.”

“Who told you to wait three days?”

“Dr. Downing!”

My Dad was not, in fact, a medical doctor. Among other degrees, he got a PhD in Theology and was a pastor of a church before retiring a few years ago. I directed my Dad to go immediately to the ER because I was worried he had a DVT, or blood clot, in his leg. A DVT was diagnosed and he actually had a large clot that extended from his ankle to his thigh. I wanted to be wrong.

A couple months later he was visiting a freshly hatched grandchild and became short of breath. My parents drove to the hospital and the doctors there found a showering of emboli or blood clots in the lungs. They also found a mass.

“We’re not sure what it is yet. I think I just swallowed a ping-pong ball!”

“Dad, this doesn’t sound good.”

“We are preparing for the worst, but hoping for the best.”

I tried to do just that. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. But in my mind I just kept thinking about stages. Cancer stages.

My dad was quickly diagnosed with lung cancer. I wanted to be wrong. They saw a “hot spot” when they did the initial scans and wanted to do a bone biopsy. On the way down to get the biopsy my dad started have trouble finding words. My mom made a detour and took dad to the ER and they diagnosed him with a stroke. Because they made it to the ER quickly, they were able to receive TPA, also known as clot-busting medication. He was admitted to the hospital and my brothers, sister, and I drove to see him. My dad continued to be in good spirits, and felt lucky that they had made it in time to get TPA.

“I had meat soap, meat soap….Kath, what did I have for dinner?”

“Meat Loaf, Gary!” my mom said.

We all circled my dad, laid across his chest, and prayed. Please, God, make this go away.

A couple of days later I received a call that Dad was doing worse. I immediately thought that the stroke converted to a hemorrhagic, or bleeding, type of stroke. I wanted to be wrong. I walked into the hospital room and my mom gripped my neck. My dad had a hard time speaking, and he couldn’t open his eyes because the hemorrhagic stroke affected his equilibrium. I slept over that night next to him and I heard him whispering the names of his grandchildren. I knew that this scenario was not good.

My dad was fighting stage 4 lung cancer, and the stroke had weakened him significantly. The great 6′ 2″ giant, was a little hunched and his long gait was reduced to shuffling. But he and my mom still managed to travel to Costa Rica that winter. My dad would get his chemo, wait a day, fly down to Costa Rica for 3 weeks, and return in time for another run. He regained his strength and he boasted that he was able to do his daily walk and push ups. He told me that when he was in the hospital after the stroke he felt helpless, but never hopeless. He continued to fight the cancer with chemo, sunshine, changed his diet and began eating as a vegetarian.

My dad fooled us all. He convinced us that he was feeling really well. So well, that he wanted to go to Costa Rica alone, without my mom. But we found out that the chemo wasn’t touching the cancer and that they would see if he would be a candidate for a clinical trial. I wasn’t comforted by the news. On the way home from Costa Rica, my dad got really, really sick. He fell down the escalator in the airport. He was confused and lost his passport. How he got home, we will never know. God didn’t take away his cancer, but one of his angels brought my dad home safely. Even in his confusion, he was thoughtful enough to buy one of his grandkids a breakfast sandwich. He had it in his pocket for two days.

When we heard of these events, I already knew the cancer had taken his brain. I tried to hope for the best, I did. But my training wouldn’t allow me to ignore the facts. They found mets to the brain and he was no longer eligible for the clinical trial. They would start radiation, and this was only to help with symptoms. This was not a cure.

How do you stand by a loved one when they are sick? You go with them to doctors appointments. I went with my parents to chemo and radiation appointments. I argued with the doctors. I brought with me articles about possible alternative treatments for my dad’s cancer.

Sometimes the only way we feel like we have some sort of control over the situation is to study it. I spent down time at work looking up articles about lung cancer treatments and ways to combat side effects of chemo. And when you finally realize that knowledge is not going to save your dad, you cry with him. And when your mother no longer can handle injecting him with blood thinners, you go there every night and do it for her. And when he is ready to let go, you be there to hold his hand.

How do you walk gracefully alongside your parent who is diagnosed with cancer? You do exactly as my dad said. You hope for the best, prepare for the worst. The graceful part is tricky. No one does it perfectly. Just hold each other up and do cancer together. It’s the only way to survive the diagnosis. This is something school just can’t teach you, and there is no way to prepare for tragedy. And sometimes no matter how much you know, it won’t change the outcome. Sometimes its better to be a friend, a partner, a daughter than it is to be a PA.

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I am a PA with a family. Currently, I work in a busy ER and juggle my career, my husband, and my three children. My blog is to help prepare students, discuss medical topics and the PA profession as a whole. I write a column for PAs Connect entitled The PA Mama . I coach pre-PAs and help them get into school. You can find me on Facebook at PA Trek. Please feel free to contact me at pachustle@gmail.com or Follow me on Twitter.

A surprise Visit

27
Feb

My mailbox has had a rough run. It’s been bashed into twice. One time a driver knocked it all the way down, leaving it sprawled in a most undignified fashion, junk mail scattered in the driveway. It has a thankless job, usually delivering mail that’s immediately tossed in the recycling bin, or mail that elicits a sigh from the recipient — another boring bill that needs attention.

I’m sure it was thrilled to get a different response this week, anything to break up the monotony of disdain and neglect.

My friend on the other side of town mailed me a book. It just so happens that this book is one I’ve been planning to dig for, since I didn’t find it on the shelf or in the easiest box to locate. She had it, and she took the time to mail it back to me.

But that’s not all.

In addition to the book, she included a short note that told me I wasn’t forgotten, that she remembers that I’m still grieving the loss of my dad, and in that remembering she told me that he mattered, and that I matter. She even sent a gift card to a coffee shop, which just speaks of the additional thought she put into returning the book, which became so much more than returning a book. It became a care package.

But that’s not all.

Surprises all around.

When I was thinking about finding the book, I was thinking about the author and what he wrote about different kinds of prayer and spiritual disciplines.

I was not thinking about who had read the book.

I read the book, and underlined it and jotted little notes about interesting parts.

My former youth pastor had read the book, and it was originally a gift from him. He wrote a page-long letter inside, affirming me and blessing me.

And my dad read the book.

My dad read the book and jotted things alongside my own. He underlined passages that stood out to him, along with notes that revealed his thoughts to what the author wrote.

It surprised me completely, the receiving of the book, and then discovering kind letter from an important part of my high school years, and then the handwritten words from my dad inside. It was such a gift to me.

Seeing my dad’s notes was like finding a letter my dad had written to me, and getting a little surprise visit from him when I’m so sad he’s gone and I can’t talk to him about everything that’s going on. I’ve been savoring the book, trying not to look through it too much until I have time to dwell in it, soak up the visit in the pages.

This post is for you, R. You had no idea how your act of kindness would encourage me. Maybe you didn’t even know my dad had written in the book — it’s probably been on a shelf for a while. As is common when things are prompted by the Holy Spirit, your timing was spot on. I can’t thank you enough for taking the time to act on what started as an idea, to go through all the steps necessary to get that book (and your note and the gift card) to me. God used you to take care of me. I’m so grateful for your friendship, not just today but always.

This post was in the works already, but when I saw this week’s prompt over at Kate Motaung’s blog and Five Minute Friday linkup I knew it dovetailed perfectly. I may have gone over the five minutes a bit, but this is pretty unedited so that’s in keeping with the spirit of Five Minute Friday.

Thanks again for reading and being a part of the virtual family here. Have a wonderful weekend, and if there’s a note you’ve been thinking of sending to someone, I encourage you to do it. You never know how a little note can be used to show God’s love to someone.

An open letter to Grief

22
Dec

Instagram: tclmn

Dear Grief,

I’ve heard of roommates who leave Post-it notes rather than talking to one another. This is a letter because you don’t really listen when I try to talk to you. Maybe if I write it down, give you a snapshot of how things are going, you’ll be able to understand where I’m coming from. This isn’t taking into account everything that’s happened. I just need to let you know where we’re at right now — today — so you’ll be able to understand things from my point of view.

This is going to sound pretty harsh, but I’m really not trying to blame you for everything. You are just such an imposing visitor that you influence more than you realize. That’s not supposed to be a compliment, but knowing you, you’ll probably take it as one.

You’ve clouded my eyes and interrupted my sleep. My skin’s a mess and you’ve sapped any drive I had to exercise (which was never much in the first place) even though I know that might help me feel better. You’ve dulled my taste buds and sometimes I think you’re even plugging my ears. You’re muddling my brain, making decisions is twice as difficult with you hanging around.

You’ve messed with the fabric of time, making whole months pass by without barely a flutter, and certain nights feel as if they will never end. You’ve amplified my weaknesses and my fears. You’ve shown me things about myself I never knew, so in some sense I should be thankful, but that’s not something I admit easily because the price for it has been so great.

I’ve surrendered joys to your relentless crush, given you space to stretch out and run your course, half hoping you’ll wear yourself out; I’ve been unpleasantly surprised by your strength and endurance. I can’t believe how you muscle in to situations that aren’t your business, horn in on conversations where you’re not invited. You’re quite rude that way, and you show no decorum. I’d have a talk with you about it but you’re just so bossy, and any time I try to address you, you either ignore me or laugh in my face.

On the one hand, I’m mad at you, tired of you hanging around and messing things up. At the same time, I don’t know what to do with the idea that you’ll one day be gone. What will that be like? What will be in your place? My dad can’t come back, and right now you’re standing in his place, a really rotten understudy who’s merely there to take up the empty space where my dad ought to be. I’m trying to engage you because of that, because you’re here because he’s gone. You can understand why I’d have strong feelings about you.

There will come a time when I’ll be ready to put you down. When that time comes, it will not be disloyal to do so. It will not indicate a diminished amount of love. It will merely be the uncontrollable, ceaseless passing of time that has put distance between and which lessens your impact. To allow positivity and perspective to outweigh sorrow and mourning is to choose how I want to live in the world. And I am still living, so I must choose how I want to engage the world around me.

I’m not ready to let you go yet.

I don’t know when I’ll be ready. But I know it’s out there.

I know too that I will always love my dad. Being able to talk (without crying) about the many things that made him wonderful will be a welcome change. To be able to recount his many triumphs, his idiosyncracies, his passions, his joys, this will be a gift he gives by the life he led. And when you go, even if it’s only in small increments, it will be a relief but another underlining of another form of loss.

Signed,

Your reluctant, temporary partner, TC

In today’s unusual post, I’m linking up with Kate Motaung. She’s inviting people to write letters to grief as she shares her own letters in an e-book she’s offering, Letters to Grief. You can read other letters and read part of her e-book here.

Hope alongside loss this Advent

16
Dec

It’s Christmastime, and I’m supposed to be focused on the coming of Baby Jesus. I’m supposed to be engaged in anticipation, preparing my heart for His arrival in a stable long ago.

It’s Christmastime, and I’m supposed to be festive and bright, reliving the wonder of childhood, all twinkle lights and icicles and hot chocolate with marshmallows and wrapping-papered mysteries under the tree.

It’s Christmastime, and the focus is supposed to be joy, love, peace on earth, goodwill to all. I still hold onto these, but they are several layers underneath right now, harder to retrieve. These are the liturgy I rely on, out of habit, out of the hope that if I continue moving forward I will one day walk to where I genuinely feel these things again.

Left to my own resources, without others depending on me or without commitments to maintain, I’d admit my landscape is more reflected in a windswept tundra than in the cozy abundant glow of a hearth hung with patchwork stockings that bulge with promises.

While the tundra may be the condition of my heart right now, I hope the edges can melt by small degrees. One morning I’ll step out and the air will smell different, a warmer breeze will blow. This must be true. How could someone drag themselves along if this weren’t true? Things must alleviate with time, morph into a different form that is better addressable in an organizable time frame, rather than intruding into everything. Time will make it less all-encompassing, less raw. That part’s already becoming true for me. I can gingerly touch on the subject of my dad without losing my composure now, whereas I couldn’t a short time ago.

So maybe those flashes of warmth I feel, those moments when I am caught up in something or forgetful of the loss for a moment, maybe those are flashes of hope for another year that’s yet to come. Look too closely at it and it will dart away. But keep your eyes straight ahead, and you might begin to sense its presence alongside the sadness. Catch a glimpse of it in your peripheral vision, this hope that can coexist with loss and mourning.

This is a new thing I’m learning: hope existing alongside loss.

But I’d rather have the hope without the loss.

We probably all know someone for whom holidays are challenging because of a loss or a broken relationship. How can we make space for these friends and family members in the midst of our holiday patterns and traditions? How have you faced your own loss during significant holiday seasons?

I do not think “Brave” means what you think it Means

17
Nov

A week ago I was trying to describe to someone how I was trying to be brave about facing into grief and loss. When she started her reply, it was clear she hadn’t understood what I meant.

She went on about the negatives of ignoring the pain of mourning and then we got onto another topic, something about how I didn’t want to inconvenience others by sharing my sadness with them, and how that seems at odds with the less than rigid personality I usually seem to have. You know, minor stuff.

Afterwards, I circled around our miscommunication concerning the word brave. I couldn’t understand how she could have missed what I meant.

See, the word “brave” used to mean being stoic, stuffing feelings down and putting on a “brave face” for the world to see.

It doesn’t mean that anymore, at least not to me. I’m not sure it ever held those connotations as deeply for people my age as it might have for Baby Boomers and those who came prior to that era. For them, I think there was an emphasis on keeping up appearances, not airing dirty laundry, etc. For goodness sakes, women vacuumed the house in high-heeled pumps. There was a different requirement for deep privacy, privacy even between spouses, friends, siblings, etc.

To a small degree, I understand that. For whatever reason, there are times when I don’t feel comfortable with people knowing my “bidness” (said the blogger with a public blog that contains words and thoughts that are read by the public). There’s a hesitancy in me in sharing too deeply with those I might not know as well or not sharing on my own terms.

However, there is a strength that comes with being open. The things we guard are shown to be less powerful when we share them with others. The secrets we keep shrivel when exposed to the light.

Leaning tower of Pisa black white architecture classic light arch

http://mrg.bz/ouV3Sp

Brave means to be willing to be open about heartbreak, hurt or sadness. Brave used to be about concealment, but now it is about a willingness to shine light on those areas we try most to protect. So when I said I’d been trying to be brave, I meant the opposite of what was understood (hello Communication 101: intended message vs. received message). I meant that it was hard work being brave, hard work to press in to the pain, to acknowledge the loss and the absence and how that impacts the interactions and rhythms of a whole family group.

It’s tiring to be truthful about such heaviness. Someone told me that a person can only handle a certain amount of “high emotion” (my term) and that a feeling of being numb can be a healthy part of the grieving process. It’s the person’s way of giving themselves a break, whether they plan it or not. Numbness allows a respite, but only for so long. Even in the numb, there is still a way to be brave about the reason for the numb.

It’s a matter of trying to lean into rather than away from the things that scare us or that which we’d rather avoid.

[In case you, like the person in the conversation that spurred this post, have a more traditional definition of the word brave, please let me direct you to the work of Brene Brown . Her books about vulnerability, authenticity, shame and courage have changed the way many people view those topics and the way they interact with the world around them. Seriously. Go read them.]

[I promise that we WILL talk about something else someday. Truly. And it will be grand. This is a hard season we’re entering, and I know I’m not alone in viewing “the holidays” as a little bit dangerous rather than a season of light and wonder. There will be light. There will be wonder. And there will be pieces of the patchwork quilt that are missing, making it all feel threadbare and incomplete. We’ll eventually get used to it — what else can we do? This year, however, a trip to Florida seems like a good plan. Christmas in Florida, with palm trees and sand, just doesn’t sound like you could really feel like you were celebrating the real thing. (No offense, Floridians. It’s all a matter of what you’re used to.) And something that lets us ignore the absence of one of our own? That may be worth the cost of airfare.]

Leave Me Alone

30
Oct

http://mrg.bz/60M4Kt

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“Leave me alone!”

I’m overwhelmed and don’t know how to handle this.

“Leave me alone!”

The things I’m feeling are so negative and seem out of control. I might say or do something that hurts you.

“Leave me alone.”

The things I have to say are not “nice” and I’m questioning everything. I won’t be satisified with any answer that comes too quickly or dismisses the grueling wrestling match I’m in right now.

“Leave me alone.”

Everything takes huge effort right now and I don’t have it in me to return your phone call or go out and about with you.

I feel so isolated in my own thoughts and so mired in this place I can’t talk or think about anything else. I’m terrible company. I want to see you but I can’t pretend I’m my normal self.

“Leave me alone.”

Please tell me there’s a point at which this will lessen without me betraying the love for someone that makes this so difficult. Please tell me I’ll eventually be able to hold the memory of this person in my mind without feeling such pain. Please tell me that feeling less pain doesn’t indicate a loss of love.

“Leave me alone.”

Can I be this undone in front of you? If I do, will you leave me to figure it out all alone? If there’s a formula, I want to know it. If there’s a shortcut, I’m buying the map. It seems like I’m supposed to be doing something differently, or I wouldn’t feel so bad. I’m knocked over by how hard this is, and I’m freaked out I about what the future will be like. Will I ever regain my footing?

“Please don’t leave me alone.”

Please don’t leave me alone.

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This is a link-up with Kate Motaung and Five Minute Friday. Today’s prompt is “Leave” and the understanding is that people set a timer, write for five minutes and then share their post. It’s writing for the fun of it, with minimal editing or stressing out about getting everything just perfect. You can read other Five Minute Friday posts here.

Question time: when you’re in a hard spot, do you prefer to be left alone or do you invite people in? Which do you think is more beneficial to your emotional state? If you’re the one trying to support another person, how do you know when to leave them alone and when you need to barge in? I’ll be curious to hear your responses.

Maybe not a Celebration by Definition

30
Oct

This is written in response to something I read on She Loves Magazine, an online magazine. While it wasn’t a formal prompt, it did inspire this post. If you haven’t read She Loves, they’ve got a lot of good articles, especially about faith and womanhood. Click here to visit their site.

They showed up.

In spite of busy schedules, birthdays, work commitments, sports, distance, sickness, gas money, church, homework, and

they. showed. up.

They came with soft hearts, quiet voices. They came with hugs, meals, gift cards, treats, and kind words.

I would have rather see them because of a party. I’d have preferred a happy occasion, a baby shower or girl’s night out. This was a different kind of life event, something that comes to us all eventually, but something that had come rapidly to my family and left us reeling and disoriented. And still they showed up.

They each made sacrifices. One took time away from her son’s birthday. Three drove more than an hour to be there. They bought gifts and supplies. They made phone calls and sent messages, each one opening herself up to the possibility of being ignored, saying the wrong thing, confronting her own loss, her own fears. Three showed up even though we probably hadn’t seen each other in 10 years. They brought tokens of hope, greeting cards expressing sympathy, flowers to brighten the dark place we found ourselves, hugs and shared tears to shore me up when my heart and body felt numb from trying to stand.

They made meals and delivered them to my house, things for immediately and freezable things I could save for later. When you’re the one responsible to make food for the family each night, but you can hardly muster the energy to pull on your pants, meals are a profoundly touching gift.

Some of them had been direct links of support during my dad’s sickness, some had not. Either way, whether they had known my dad personally or not, they showed up in those weeks, on that day, as an act of love, as an act that acknowledged the friendship we shared and it’s value. So while it’s not a party, per se, it has been a celebration of friendship. And to all my dear friends, near and far, who have been such a buoy to me in this hard time, thank you. In my stupor I probably haven’t said it enough. Thank you.

Thank you.