I'm coming clean. Usually this is nothing new. This gal isn't known for holding back. Admitting to mistakes, making myself vulnerable, sharing my feelings, and emerging a stronger, better, more rounded person on the other side of all that? Kind of my trademark. My life's work. I live by the belief that openness, a willingness to own one's errors and allow others to know of them, helps us all.
But something crept up behind me over the past few months and took a huge bite out of my rather ample, but fit, backside. What was it? This invader of my security? This attacking menace to my persona? This usurper of my inner balance?
Well, to put a not -too-fine a point to it: shame. Sharp-toothed. Wide-eyed. Bad-breathed. And I didn't recognize it. At least not in myself. Guilt I know. And as my little sister has said often enough, guilt pushes us to change things, while shame leads us to fear which then causes us to hide. Or something similar. (I'm not a verbatim kind of girl. If it ain't in quotes, then know it's the essence of an idea or conversation. M'kay?)
When my husband lost his job, the very idea of it, the mere happening of being sent home with his tail tucked between his legs for no professional reason, with no professional explanation . . . well, frankly, we were in a state of shock. Unemployed for the first time in 25 years! And with our advanced overhead. Many of you can imagine the accumulation of bills and responsibilities which can stack up with a nice home, multiple cars, health insurance, auto insurance, cell phone service, utilities, three pets with a proclivity for vet-necessary issues, a large yard, tithing, a teen son, a mother-in-law living with us, groceries, toiletries, helping others with serious needs, yada, yada, YA-DA-DA!
My gut response was to rally around my husband. To protect him from the slings and arrows that were sure to assail his identity, his ego, from within and without. Because we made the decision to be a one-income household once our son arrived on the scene, his duty was that of provider. When that was stripped from him, the nakedness of it shamed him. And that hurt me to the core of my wifely heart. My daily imperative became more about pulling him into the family and less about pushing him into the world of employment. He needed protecting. Telling him he needed a job? Not necessary. Reminding him in subtle and obvious ways that this altered state wasn't his fault? VITAL!
Within our household, other forces were at work, plotting for their own effect and not necessarily for the good of the entire. From June to the end of August, the internal affairs within the home were deteriorating, without any of us possessing full knowledge of the breakdowns. The events of that last week in August, piled atop the ongoing stress of no secure long-term employment, just about broke our will to carry on. Though they were heartbreaks - deeply disappointing failures of human nature - of such an intensely personal nature that they can not be shared in this public forum without hurting others unnecessarily, it is fair to say the selfish behaviors which were revealed abruptly, in a very raw state, left ragged and bleeding wounds which are taking time to slowly heal. Though heal they will.
Fast forward to November. Mid-summer finally cooled into fall. Fall has unwillingly relinquished its seasonal hold to winter. The teen son resides in Colorado; the mother-in-law moved into her own place. A 2-month contract position has come and gone. We continue to pay for health insurance via Cobra: and the Cobra strikes HARD! let me tell you. But not as hard as the haphazard health program which is Obamacare. (And I'm not even political, folks, but that rollout was pitiful.) And our money tree has just about dried up. We've pruned back heavily in certain areas, from phone to cable to car and health coverage. We're hoping to sell at least one of the larger vehicles very soon. Is that referred to as liquidation? Purchases I once looked at as par for the course -- replacing worn tennis shoes, new eyeglasses to correct changing vision, treating myself to a movie at the theater now and again, stocking up on sale items in multiples, a bottle of wine for dinner, that winter moisturizer I use every time the weather goes frigid, thoughtful little gifts for friends just because, shopping for new slacks after purging my closet of almost EVERY pair of old ones over the summer, picking up my mom's small grocery lists every now and again, ordering a package for my Brother Gary in ye olde psychiatric hospital, new hedge clipper blades, original Tide detergent, an impromptu dinner date with the hubby -- now raise red flags on my fiscal horizon.
And we're not even truly suffering yet. I'm well aware of how much further down the slippery slope of debt and sacrifice we can still slide. And that's where the shame found its entrance. That back door to my subconscious mind, where memory still serves to remind me clearly of what hunger, homelessness and hazard look like, feel like. Since I'm the one with that history, and I'm the one who manages the purse strings, shouldn't I also be the one ultimately responsible for ensuring we have a soft cushion against such elements? Granted, our credit rating - excellent. Our debt: only the mortgage and the Ford Focus we purchased to save on gas consumption per Jimmy's commute. No credit card bills or accounts in arrears. When repairs and maintenance came a-calling, our savings covered them. When we planned our big anniversary trip to New York City, we saved for it. When Germany beckoned with it's once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to travel overseas together and visit our kids, the money was there. I racked up miles for plane tickets and car rentals to visit Brother Gary over the years. And we managed to ensure funds were available to attend important court dates in Colorado for my sister's case. Not to mention birthday parties, two high school graduation celebrations . . . and one swiftly planned-and-executed wedding! All of which we paid in full without incurring backbreaking interest-bearing debt.
But while we have one small PERA drawing interest from my husband's time spent working for two Colorado cities, there is no big payoff upon retirement for us. No 401k or diversified portfolio or CD's. No rich relatives planning to mention us in their wills. It doesn't take a financial wizard to read the writing on the wall regarding the future of Social Security, either. Our legacy is not one of material value. THAT'S for sure!
The far-off future has always been a source of uncertainty for me personally. Easier to do the day-to-day. Catch a glimpse of next month, even next year, but not decades down the line. Even in my youth, I couldn't quite kick the feeling that there was something monumental looming off in the not-too-distant horizon, a malevolent presence - war, disease, famine - something so far-reaching and all-encompassing that it would eclipse any planning for a future. Each time I reached a milestone in my life, from graduation to marriage to parenthood and now grown children and a dream of grandchildren, there was this small voice inside which said, "I can't believe I've made it this far."
I fear I've cast too wide a net to explain my shame. Let me draw you back in. For the past few years, I've sensed that the busy, stretched and packed nature of our lifestyle was taking a toll on our spending habits. Nothing exorbitant or greedy. More like allowing one's once taut midsection to fall into flabbiness. Decisions made out of expediency and fatigue. Nickel-and-dime stuff, small dollars at a time. Eventually they add up to a larger whole. What we needed was to take time out as co-managers of our household and take a hard look at our habits. But each time we tried to approach the problem, the small fingers of blame began to point, sometimes subtle, sometimes not so much, in the opposing direction. "You always want to eat out . . . then it's not even good, it's full of fat and salt . . . we wish we hadn't . . . what a waste!" was one of my pet peeves. "We can't help or save EVERYONE . . . we can't buy gifts every time there's a birthday or baby shower or hospital visit," was a popular refrain from my husband. And then we'd just shut up and shut down. Table the issue until next time. Not very grown-up of me, I'm afraid.
I'd see the news feature stories on saving enough for a rainy day. Dave Ramsey and other money experts espoused socking away 3-6 months worth of living expenses against job loss or death or other life calamity which could hit the checkbook. And I'd think, "We need to do that. You never know. We've had enough of the unexpected to expect it can happen . . . "
If I'm being fair to myself, we would have had enough to survive two months without a job, if not for elements of our summer to which I alluded earlier on. Those things aren't generally considered in financial planning. You'll have to trust me on that. As it is, we've reached a position where our house must be sold, sooner than later it appears though we had hoped to hold out until after our eldest daughter's June 2014 wedding date. If no company sees fit to hire my good man, we will find ourselves living with friends or relatives like we did in our newlywed starting-out days. There's a humbling thought.
In order to meet mid-December bills, we really need to sell at least one of our larger gas-guzzling vehicles. (Anyone in the market for a single-owner Chevy Silverado truck with Rhino liner and new brakes? Or a spacious GMC Yukon in champagne and chrome? Both in good shape and below Blue book!) And we made the difficult decision to take the tax-penalty on that small PERA in order to prep the house and keep us afloat for a few lean months more. I misunderstood the release-of-funds procedure: it's roughly 2 months and NOT 2 weeks. Neither of us thought this forced unemployment would last this long. The seasonal work I found at our local Kohl's department store for minimum wage is more a gesture of support than anything else. But even earning enough to pay the electric and water bills will feel good after 18 years spent working on the homefront.
Yesterday presented us with another disappointment that, again, I hadn't contemplated. My husband tried for a position for which he is over-qualified and which pays 40% less his last salary. The headhunter basically told him that no business would take the risk of hiring an unemployed uber-qualified guy for a job beneath his experience and pay scale. They know the moment a suitable offer comes available, he'll jump ship to receive what he desired all along. It boggles the mind: he can't even get hired for a lower-paying job now?!
Everything I've just revealed is true and accurate. And most of us don't discuss such things with one another. It's frowned upon. Especially if the revelations reveal weakness as opposed to strength. Often, not even with close family will we fully open up. It ranks right up there with religion and politics. But probably even more so. How we earn, spend and save is so closely tied to our success and identity, that we feel almost a parental drive to protect the finer points of our financial practices from the scrutiny of those around us. We could be judged. 'They' might find us lacking. I realized this was the food source for my shame.
And then, in the midst of contemplating all of this, mulling over writing a blog entry but feeling stymied and flat, I selected one of my TED Talk podcasts to keep me company while housecleaning earlier this week. The title? Making Mistakes (I urge you to click and listen!). From the opening lines to the closing comments, I knew I was meant to hear this. Have you ever seen a woman laugh and sob while vacuuming? An unusual sight, I'd wager. But it sure felt goo-o-od. The shame lifted. I realized that there had to be other people out there like us. People caught in this strange middle ground of fiscal responsibility. And they could be struggling in the midst of the various stages through which we had already trudged . . . or they could be wading in their own murky puddle of shame.
I could do the socially appropriate thing and keep it to myself. I could allow others to believe we are faring remarkably well as witnessed by our outward happy faces and generally upbeat Facebook posts, all the while frowning with deeply furrowed brows on the inside. Or I could admit to our perceived successes AND failures and possibly deliver a measure of comfort, assurance and camaraderie to those husbands, wives and head-of-households weathering similar storms. What's a bothered girl to do? Well, the following line was lifted straight from one of the stories featured on that TED Talk podcast selection. I think it says it best . . .
"Vulnerability is NOT weakness. It's our most accurate measurement of courage."
For us, that means letting go and getting on with it. The history of the world is chock full of people who built and lost fortunes, great and small. Especially America! This is a time of reinvention for us. We don't want your pity. But neither do we deserve your judgement. Just take this as a cautionary tale. But also one of forgiveness of self.
Friday, November 15, 2013
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Human Limits
To say that this past year has been interesting would be an understatement. We added (well, to be fair to my husband, I added) a deaf, hyperactive, Aussie pup to the household; we moved in my mother-in-law; my own mother needs me more and I worry that there is less of me; my son started sowing his "You know I'm almost 18, don't you?" oats; my oldest daughter was in a car accident; my youngest daughter has to wonder if her husband could be called into duty in some Middle Eastern hot zone; and my husband lost his job. Really, I could just stop there and allow you all to step in and carry the narrative . . .
And somewhere in there, I began to understand something about myself. I have limits. Limits to my endurance, my compassion, my empathy, my understanding, my discernment, my energy. You name it, and it's probably on the list. It appears that I may have been running on empty, or maybe burning through that last gallon of fuel in the tank, and been the ONLY ONE who couldn't see that. I suppose that I've given myself this repetitive version of a self-pep-talk for too long, "You've been through much worse. You can handle this. People need you. After what you've endured, nothing coming down the pike should even make a dent in your armor. What good are the lessons of your experiences, all of that pain and suffering, learning and growing, if you don't spread the love? Share the knowledge? Give, give, GIVE!" That all sounds nice, but there's a fly in the ointment. Maybe a few flies.
Maybe the biggest buzzing fly is this: I needed to help myself a bit more. Spread that love around my innards, my guts, the deep recesses of my big heart, the ropey yards upon yards of my bowels. Bathe my brain, perhaps even pickle my brain, in that goopy syrupy-thick compassion that I so generously dole out to others without a second thought. How can a person be of adequate assistance to others if they literally give everything within them away? And I don't want to be simply 'adequate' in that department, anyway. But if depleted reserves are already the source of my strength, then my ability to love on others the way I'm created to love is about to hit a very wide hard wall. Not only does the giving stop: I stop. Abruptly and painfully. Running full-speed into immovable objects, like walls, tend to leave marks. Or breaks. I can even see a concussion in my future.
Within the past month, several elements of stress within our household have come to a pus-filled head. Puerile, swollen, angry-looking, ready to burst if one so much as looked at it the wrong way. It was inevitable, looking back, reading the signs along the roadway upon which we were all traveling together, yet apart. Locked into behavioral patterns. Forming opinions and judgements about one another, whether intentionally or not. Hoping for better; bitterness setting in when better never happened. Relationships are tough. And the ones which live as family beneath a shared roof are oft times the toughest.
Without putting too fine a point on it, my husband and I learned that my son has been experiencing growing pains far more serious and detrimental to his well-being and safety than those which have plagued his knees and legs for years. Hydration, a cal-mag tablet and an hour with the heating pad won't alleviate the symptoms. Much less fix the problem. After much heartache and intense feelings of helplessness, self-incrimination and disbelief, it became apparent that we -- mom and dad -- did not possess what our precious son needed to figure things out. And because of my history, and the history of my siblings, what I saw in his eyes told me if we did not find a way to be on board with what was feverishly culminating within his boy-man psyche, he would leave us in the most painful tearing-away manner possible. I know what running away looks like. And that is what I saw in his eyes, in his spirit. There is no fighting that with traditional parenting methods. But, thankfully for us, though frustrating for other family members within the larger perimeter of extended loved ones, we've never been that 'traditional' family. So, though we yearned for him to remain with us, we made the tough decision to NOT fight him in his leaving.
Almost two weeks ago, early on a Sunday morning of glorious weather after a week of less than stellar skies, we put our only boy on a plane to Colorado. My youngest sister and her husband, versed in overcoming physical, emotional and psychological challenges that most of us will never have to face, have agreed to become secondary parents to their nephew. I didn't cry until I was a mile from church. What better place to lay it all at the altar, before God and man, and surrender to a picture far bigger than the small screen on which my present life was playing. While the rest of my family returned home to sleep away the fumes of their disappointment, I wept and sang and praised and prayed with a small body of folks who have supported me and my life loves through many a dark day. And many a bright and shining day, too.
I'm working through grief and loss. And all of those messy stages of emotion that accompany them. Off all my children, my son had my heart and my ear from birth. His personality was naturally loving, easy going, good natured. He hugged. He kissed. He smiled and laughed. He was not prone to the fits of spoiled temper tantrums which marred the toddlerhood of my eldest, nor the clouds of angst which plagued my middle child through her younger years. While my daughters and I developed our close bonds on the other side of their addled teen antics, deep emotional ties which bring me great peace and satisfaction these days, my bond with my youngest, my boy, developed before the travails and troubles of adolescence and beyond hit. His falling away has wounded me far more deeply than I could have imagined. Though I know he is not dead, what we thought we had in him, what I thought was between us, THAT is dead. The structure between us all, parents and child, must be dismantled and rebuilt, however long that may take. Once I move beyond this vale of tears, I must take hold of my hammer, fill my bucket with nails, and begin REconstruction.
I also realized that for the sake of my relationship with my husband, who was already at his emotional cap with the stress of losing his job and still searching for financial security for his family, and my relationship with my mother-in-law (the upheaval in our midst due to my son's problems had leveled her heart, too) it was time to move her from the small room upstairs into a place of her own. While I had hoped to wait for the dust to settle as we all adjusted to the changes which seemed to have suddenly erupted in our midst with no warning -- though hindsight allows me the bitter luxury of seeing all the warning signs -- circumstances beyond my control didn't allow for such a settling. Outside influences, meddling where it was thoroughly unwarranted and clearly deliberate in its unkindness, forced my hand. The heated conversation on our back patio, a triangle of son, mother and daughter-in-law, was intensified by the heat of the late afternoon. Though it was uncomfortable and barbed, the stale air of months of undercurrents was cleared, as if an enormous window had opened and and an epic wind passed through.
We are simply different people. Different in ways we can't overcome, despite our huge efforts to try. Almost diametrically opposed, I'd venture to say. I love her as a person and as the mother who raised a very lovely man who has stood by my side for almost 25 years through every kind of marital tossing one could imagine. I want to see her happy, healthy and hanging on to life with both hands full of purpose. These are my wishes for her. Right now, she is enjoying a change of scenery at my brother-in-law's house, where the environment is a bit more peaceful and there's a delicate, fluffy, white dog who sees my husband's mother as the center of her canine universe. That kind of unadulterated pet affection is the ultimate healer. A concerted effort to find just the right living situation for her needs is underway. That does my heart good. I brought her here, across country in that big yellow moving truck, both of us reveling in our open road independence and actually enjoying the journey, so that she could experience love on a daily basis. I know I did that for her. I know that she realizes this, too. That is our common ground. That . . . and a steaming hot bowl of green chili with homemade tortillas. We both can agree on the subject of food!
As for the job? We are in the middle of a two-month contract gig for a tech company in Franklin, Tennessee. Through the maze of headhunters and online employment sites, my husband's resume has been spread far and wide. He's casting a wide net. Will we remain here? Move to another state? Sell the house? Send me off to work? We just don't know. It has been day-to-day here. Sometimes, emotionally, hour to hour. Good days where hope springs eternal; rough days where hope has to force tiny dry tendrils up through jagged rocks. Through it all, my man keeps on going. Hanging in there for all of us. I love him for that even as I hurt for the loss of his identity in the midst of the chaos. I sincerely believe that whatever he rediscovers about himself will make it clear to him that he is a far better man than he currently realizes. And I'll be waiting to absorb that realization with him, with a big ol' "I told you so" kiss!
Physical therapy has helped my eldest regain mobility in her neck. Insurance settlements are ongoing. She now has a spanking brand new Honda Civic 4-door, along with a car payment. It figures that she'd pay off her first car and then it would be totaled in a fender-bender of someone else's contrivance. In this instance, two teen girls texting as they pulled into a major roadway from a parking lot. We were out of town when it happened. In fact, one of my brothers, the ag engineer with the curly blond locks and sweet wife, had flown both me and my husband to California so I could visit Brother Gary at the psychiatric hospital and BOTH of us could take a break from the stress at the beach. And it was actually at the compassionate behest of his wife that the trip became a reality. Now THERE'S a peach to spite the pit! And the uncle who helped in my raising, along with HIS dear of a wife, provided us with the funds to enjoy ourselves on the trip. Two examples of the people who love on me with no strings attached.
My European kids, the redheaded Army man and his full-time working, college-attending wife, find themselves in the same boat as every other military family in active duty for our nation at this time. Enough said there. If I say anything more, they'd have to kill me! (Joke, Uncle Sam. JOKE!)
For my own equilibrium, I try to visit my mom's comfy couch as often as possible. (At least I do that right.) The best naps occur on those soft cushions. They pull me in, smooth my brow, and lull me into hours of hardcore slumber. My concerned mother is pleased to offer this creature comfort to her daughter. Earlier this week, I had an overnight at her place, chauffeured her to the neurologist for that uncomfortable injection at the base of her skull, wended my way through Smithville's little Wally World store with her, and later cleaned the floor mats in her car before heading back home. It felt good to do those things for my Earth Mama. To chat a bit with the other older folks who live in her building. To know that she has a safe haven for her days and nights.
The deaf pup is still deaf. No surprise there, eh? The kitchen walls have come under attack, as well as the table and chairs and corners of certain cabinetry. Good Will supplied me with cheap teddy bears which I promptly threw out to our little lioness with the freaky blue eyes so that she can disembowel them at her leisure. She's a strange little thing, our Gracie Helen. Her behaviors definitely rank high on the oddity list. But that's an entry for another day. We love every frighteningly weird square-inch of her petite Aussie frame. And she likes to lick every square-inch of us. Eww.
And what about me? Well, I've consumed ice cream every day for three weeks. Ben & Jerry's. Haagen Dazs. Bryers. Kroger Private Selection. McDonald's soft serve. Hence, I've put on a few pounds which I'm starting to battle thanks to the buddy pass to Gold's Gym Earth Diva Melissa surprised me with. I've never considered myself a gym rat, but I definitely see the benefits of working out away from the pull of my home and the countless distractions which chip away at my exercise time. Amazingly, the two times I've gone, that little hamster wheel in my brain quit squeaking! Quite freeing, that. And on the writing front, a friend of mine is creating a regional magazine. I accepted his offer to get on board with the enterprise and have several sections to which I must contribute. To boot, he surprised me by asking that I write the first two months-worth of cover stories on local women of interest. I have one interview and 2/3 of that article under my belt; Earth Diva Gayla is in charge of the cover and layout photos. The research is stimulating; the challenge of writing and learning new skills, rather satisfying.
My heart still hurts. A little less each day. The acids in my belly have been roiling more than is usual or welcome. But my faith is strong. There is an inner peace I have, and rely upon, based on the promises and grace of Jesus Christ which sustain me, though my externals continue to knock me about.
That . . . and an occasional glass of Sauvignon Blanc before bed. I'm only human. And, YES, I did just say that. Hold your applause. Send money, instead.
And somewhere in there, I began to understand something about myself. I have limits. Limits to my endurance, my compassion, my empathy, my understanding, my discernment, my energy. You name it, and it's probably on the list. It appears that I may have been running on empty, or maybe burning through that last gallon of fuel in the tank, and been the ONLY ONE who couldn't see that. I suppose that I've given myself this repetitive version of a self-pep-talk for too long, "You've been through much worse. You can handle this. People need you. After what you've endured, nothing coming down the pike should even make a dent in your armor. What good are the lessons of your experiences, all of that pain and suffering, learning and growing, if you don't spread the love? Share the knowledge? Give, give, GIVE!" That all sounds nice, but there's a fly in the ointment. Maybe a few flies.
Maybe the biggest buzzing fly is this: I needed to help myself a bit more. Spread that love around my innards, my guts, the deep recesses of my big heart, the ropey yards upon yards of my bowels. Bathe my brain, perhaps even pickle my brain, in that goopy syrupy-thick compassion that I so generously dole out to others without a second thought. How can a person be of adequate assistance to others if they literally give everything within them away? And I don't want to be simply 'adequate' in that department, anyway. But if depleted reserves are already the source of my strength, then my ability to love on others the way I'm created to love is about to hit a very wide hard wall. Not only does the giving stop: I stop. Abruptly and painfully. Running full-speed into immovable objects, like walls, tend to leave marks. Or breaks. I can even see a concussion in my future.
Within the past month, several elements of stress within our household have come to a pus-filled head. Puerile, swollen, angry-looking, ready to burst if one so much as looked at it the wrong way. It was inevitable, looking back, reading the signs along the roadway upon which we were all traveling together, yet apart. Locked into behavioral patterns. Forming opinions and judgements about one another, whether intentionally or not. Hoping for better; bitterness setting in when better never happened. Relationships are tough. And the ones which live as family beneath a shared roof are oft times the toughest.
Without putting too fine a point on it, my husband and I learned that my son has been experiencing growing pains far more serious and detrimental to his well-being and safety than those which have plagued his knees and legs for years. Hydration, a cal-mag tablet and an hour with the heating pad won't alleviate the symptoms. Much less fix the problem. After much heartache and intense feelings of helplessness, self-incrimination and disbelief, it became apparent that we -- mom and dad -- did not possess what our precious son needed to figure things out. And because of my history, and the history of my siblings, what I saw in his eyes told me if we did not find a way to be on board with what was feverishly culminating within his boy-man psyche, he would leave us in the most painful tearing-away manner possible. I know what running away looks like. And that is what I saw in his eyes, in his spirit. There is no fighting that with traditional parenting methods. But, thankfully for us, though frustrating for other family members within the larger perimeter of extended loved ones, we've never been that 'traditional' family. So, though we yearned for him to remain with us, we made the tough decision to NOT fight him in his leaving.
Almost two weeks ago, early on a Sunday morning of glorious weather after a week of less than stellar skies, we put our only boy on a plane to Colorado. My youngest sister and her husband, versed in overcoming physical, emotional and psychological challenges that most of us will never have to face, have agreed to become secondary parents to their nephew. I didn't cry until I was a mile from church. What better place to lay it all at the altar, before God and man, and surrender to a picture far bigger than the small screen on which my present life was playing. While the rest of my family returned home to sleep away the fumes of their disappointment, I wept and sang and praised and prayed with a small body of folks who have supported me and my life loves through many a dark day. And many a bright and shining day, too.
I'm working through grief and loss. And all of those messy stages of emotion that accompany them. Off all my children, my son had my heart and my ear from birth. His personality was naturally loving, easy going, good natured. He hugged. He kissed. He smiled and laughed. He was not prone to the fits of spoiled temper tantrums which marred the toddlerhood of my eldest, nor the clouds of angst which plagued my middle child through her younger years. While my daughters and I developed our close bonds on the other side of their addled teen antics, deep emotional ties which bring me great peace and satisfaction these days, my bond with my youngest, my boy, developed before the travails and troubles of adolescence and beyond hit. His falling away has wounded me far more deeply than I could have imagined. Though I know he is not dead, what we thought we had in him, what I thought was between us, THAT is dead. The structure between us all, parents and child, must be dismantled and rebuilt, however long that may take. Once I move beyond this vale of tears, I must take hold of my hammer, fill my bucket with nails, and begin REconstruction.
I also realized that for the sake of my relationship with my husband, who was already at his emotional cap with the stress of losing his job and still searching for financial security for his family, and my relationship with my mother-in-law (the upheaval in our midst due to my son's problems had leveled her heart, too) it was time to move her from the small room upstairs into a place of her own. While I had hoped to wait for the dust to settle as we all adjusted to the changes which seemed to have suddenly erupted in our midst with no warning -- though hindsight allows me the bitter luxury of seeing all the warning signs -- circumstances beyond my control didn't allow for such a settling. Outside influences, meddling where it was thoroughly unwarranted and clearly deliberate in its unkindness, forced my hand. The heated conversation on our back patio, a triangle of son, mother and daughter-in-law, was intensified by the heat of the late afternoon. Though it was uncomfortable and barbed, the stale air of months of undercurrents was cleared, as if an enormous window had opened and and an epic wind passed through.
We are simply different people. Different in ways we can't overcome, despite our huge efforts to try. Almost diametrically opposed, I'd venture to say. I love her as a person and as the mother who raised a very lovely man who has stood by my side for almost 25 years through every kind of marital tossing one could imagine. I want to see her happy, healthy and hanging on to life with both hands full of purpose. These are my wishes for her. Right now, she is enjoying a change of scenery at my brother-in-law's house, where the environment is a bit more peaceful and there's a delicate, fluffy, white dog who sees my husband's mother as the center of her canine universe. That kind of unadulterated pet affection is the ultimate healer. A concerted effort to find just the right living situation for her needs is underway. That does my heart good. I brought her here, across country in that big yellow moving truck, both of us reveling in our open road independence and actually enjoying the journey, so that she could experience love on a daily basis. I know I did that for her. I know that she realizes this, too. That is our common ground. That . . . and a steaming hot bowl of green chili with homemade tortillas. We both can agree on the subject of food!
As for the job? We are in the middle of a two-month contract gig for a tech company in Franklin, Tennessee. Through the maze of headhunters and online employment sites, my husband's resume has been spread far and wide. He's casting a wide net. Will we remain here? Move to another state? Sell the house? Send me off to work? We just don't know. It has been day-to-day here. Sometimes, emotionally, hour to hour. Good days where hope springs eternal; rough days where hope has to force tiny dry tendrils up through jagged rocks. Through it all, my man keeps on going. Hanging in there for all of us. I love him for that even as I hurt for the loss of his identity in the midst of the chaos. I sincerely believe that whatever he rediscovers about himself will make it clear to him that he is a far better man than he currently realizes. And I'll be waiting to absorb that realization with him, with a big ol' "I told you so" kiss!
Physical therapy has helped my eldest regain mobility in her neck. Insurance settlements are ongoing. She now has a spanking brand new Honda Civic 4-door, along with a car payment. It figures that she'd pay off her first car and then it would be totaled in a fender-bender of someone else's contrivance. In this instance, two teen girls texting as they pulled into a major roadway from a parking lot. We were out of town when it happened. In fact, one of my brothers, the ag engineer with the curly blond locks and sweet wife, had flown both me and my husband to California so I could visit Brother Gary at the psychiatric hospital and BOTH of us could take a break from the stress at the beach. And it was actually at the compassionate behest of his wife that the trip became a reality. Now THERE'S a peach to spite the pit! And the uncle who helped in my raising, along with HIS dear of a wife, provided us with the funds to enjoy ourselves on the trip. Two examples of the people who love on me with no strings attached.
My European kids, the redheaded Army man and his full-time working, college-attending wife, find themselves in the same boat as every other military family in active duty for our nation at this time. Enough said there. If I say anything more, they'd have to kill me! (Joke, Uncle Sam. JOKE!)
For my own equilibrium, I try to visit my mom's comfy couch as often as possible. (At least I do that right.) The best naps occur on those soft cushions. They pull me in, smooth my brow, and lull me into hours of hardcore slumber. My concerned mother is pleased to offer this creature comfort to her daughter. Earlier this week, I had an overnight at her place, chauffeured her to the neurologist for that uncomfortable injection at the base of her skull, wended my way through Smithville's little Wally World store with her, and later cleaned the floor mats in her car before heading back home. It felt good to do those things for my Earth Mama. To chat a bit with the other older folks who live in her building. To know that she has a safe haven for her days and nights.
The deaf pup is still deaf. No surprise there, eh? The kitchen walls have come under attack, as well as the table and chairs and corners of certain cabinetry. Good Will supplied me with cheap teddy bears which I promptly threw out to our little lioness with the freaky blue eyes so that she can disembowel them at her leisure. She's a strange little thing, our Gracie Helen. Her behaviors definitely rank high on the oddity list. But that's an entry for another day. We love every frighteningly weird square-inch of her petite Aussie frame. And she likes to lick every square-inch of us. Eww.
And what about me? Well, I've consumed ice cream every day for three weeks. Ben & Jerry's. Haagen Dazs. Bryers. Kroger Private Selection. McDonald's soft serve. Hence, I've put on a few pounds which I'm starting to battle thanks to the buddy pass to Gold's Gym Earth Diva Melissa surprised me with. I've never considered myself a gym rat, but I definitely see the benefits of working out away from the pull of my home and the countless distractions which chip away at my exercise time. Amazingly, the two times I've gone, that little hamster wheel in my brain quit squeaking! Quite freeing, that. And on the writing front, a friend of mine is creating a regional magazine. I accepted his offer to get on board with the enterprise and have several sections to which I must contribute. To boot, he surprised me by asking that I write the first two months-worth of cover stories on local women of interest. I have one interview and 2/3 of that article under my belt; Earth Diva Gayla is in charge of the cover and layout photos. The research is stimulating; the challenge of writing and learning new skills, rather satisfying.
My heart still hurts. A little less each day. The acids in my belly have been roiling more than is usual or welcome. But my faith is strong. There is an inner peace I have, and rely upon, based on the promises and grace of Jesus Christ which sustain me, though my externals continue to knock me about.
That . . . and an occasional glass of Sauvignon Blanc before bed. I'm only human. And, YES, I did just say that. Hold your applause. Send money, instead.
Friday, July 19, 2013
Blindsided
Most of us with more than a few years of life beneath our expanding waistlines have endured those surprises of the ill-received kind. Not the smiling-crowd-bursting-from-behind-doors-couches-and-stairwells-to-congratulate-the aging-process-or-marital-endurance kind. Nor the heart-shaped-balloons-with-streamers-and-colorful- cards-and-delectable-3-layer-cake-slices-beneath-a-chilly-scoop-of-vanilla-bean-ice-cream kind. More like the sudden-burning-of-bile-which-decides-to-crawl-up-the-throat-and-sear-the-tongue- thus-letting-one-know-that-jalapenos-and-onions-will-no-longer-be-on-the-menu kind. Or the bowel-busting-onset-of-dysentery-which-says, "Hi, there. I hopped a ride from the Wal-Mart restroom door handle yesterday. Decided to make myself comfortable for a few days while making YOU uncomfortable!" kind.
It's those blindsided moments I want to talk about.
If I can bring forth a bit of mental cohesion. Don't know if I can. Feeling rather blindsided at the moment.
For the first time in 24+ years, my husband is gainfully UNemployed. Our insurance coverage is set to expire on the 26th. That is also the date of our final paycheck. Job prospects in our area and beyond within his field of expertise continue to be few and far between. Notice the use of the word OUR? That's because WE are two made one under the marital covenant. The passing of decades together has melded us into a single entity in myriad ways. What hurts him hurts me and vice-versa. It's beyond the financials of the situation -- stressful enough though they are. The human spirit is at stake here. You ever seen a giant uprooted tree after a landslide or tornado? When you picture us, picture that tree.
Being uprooted happens to us all. Intellectually I know that and accept it. And my faith binds me to hope and acceptance and renewed mind each and every day. But the emotional component which comprises a significant aspect of my character? That part of Gloria needs a boost because it really does not know which way to turn as another week ends: another setting sun within a string of days our family has had free from the financial security of a sound job with decent medical coverage. Set free by the utterance of a few simple words from one man in charge of a specific department within a certain Nashville company. Simple words directed at my man in charge on a warm summer morning complete with bright sunshine and happy dogs. Simple words next conveyed to me in a brief cell phone conversation while that aforementioned summer sun slanted its way through my bedroom curtains and cast lacy leafy patterns on my bedspread and carpet. Simple words I then repeated at least a dozen times to a dozen different people while the ample sunshine of the encroaching day warmed the air and grew the trees and provided health-affirming Vitamin D to whomever it could. Simple words which now have me searching for safe neighborhoods with reasonable housing within the parameter of Savannah, Georgia of all places. Simple words sharpening my senses as I try to foresee any number of possible outcomes in our near future and plan for them all. Simple words that didn't allow for the high school graduation of my son or the early summer wedding of my first child next year. Simple words paying no nevermind to the needs of our mothers -- one a half hour away and the other recently moved in with us.
Simple words. Oh, the power of simple words. How they can deliver the promise of a thousand kisses or stings with their formation. How they hold the power to make or break within seconds. How they alternately soothe or savage the humanity within. Maybe that's why I prefer more interesting words of complex syllabic structure. Or "big words" as some of my friends refer to my vocabulary predilections.
The simple act of blindsiding. Sigh-h. It doesn't seem to matter if we've been thus attacked before. Our reason for relocating from Colorado to Tennessee came about in desperate response to a major blindside of tragic proportions. One that left my younger sister in a psychiatric hospital and her two children buried in a small town cemetery. And we survived it. And even thrived in the ten years spent rebuilding our emotional lives and attaching ourselves to a church, neighborhood and community at large. So, in theory, anything else making its way down the pike shouldn't have the power to painfully smack us upside our heads. Right? Wrong! We're tougher. More resilient. We understand the unexpected. We can endure excruciating loss. We know how to bend in strong wind. But bending in strong wind does NOT preclude snapping under the force of a tornado. Because we don't quit feeling. In fact, for me personally, I feel more deeply and strongly in all of my connections to friends and family. Even animals. In a way, it is this depth of feeling which has possibly lent power to this recent uprooting of self. Though I welcome change and know my husband and I can tackle whatever comes our way, it overwhelms me to again accept the loss of comfort and familiarity which must accompany said change.
But that's life, folks. It always has been from the dawning of time. Everything recorded and passed down, spoken and passed down, reflects the constancy of blindsiding and the resultant recovery. As I've heard many a time, it IS what it IS. And it could be much worse than it is.
I understand that, too.
It's those blindsided moments I want to talk about.
If I can bring forth a bit of mental cohesion. Don't know if I can. Feeling rather blindsided at the moment.
For the first time in 24+ years, my husband is gainfully UNemployed. Our insurance coverage is set to expire on the 26th. That is also the date of our final paycheck. Job prospects in our area and beyond within his field of expertise continue to be few and far between. Notice the use of the word OUR? That's because WE are two made one under the marital covenant. The passing of decades together has melded us into a single entity in myriad ways. What hurts him hurts me and vice-versa. It's beyond the financials of the situation -- stressful enough though they are. The human spirit is at stake here. You ever seen a giant uprooted tree after a landslide or tornado? When you picture us, picture that tree.
Being uprooted happens to us all. Intellectually I know that and accept it. And my faith binds me to hope and acceptance and renewed mind each and every day. But the emotional component which comprises a significant aspect of my character? That part of Gloria needs a boost because it really does not know which way to turn as another week ends: another setting sun within a string of days our family has had free from the financial security of a sound job with decent medical coverage. Set free by the utterance of a few simple words from one man in charge of a specific department within a certain Nashville company. Simple words directed at my man in charge on a warm summer morning complete with bright sunshine and happy dogs. Simple words next conveyed to me in a brief cell phone conversation while that aforementioned summer sun slanted its way through my bedroom curtains and cast lacy leafy patterns on my bedspread and carpet. Simple words I then repeated at least a dozen times to a dozen different people while the ample sunshine of the encroaching day warmed the air and grew the trees and provided health-affirming Vitamin D to whomever it could. Simple words which now have me searching for safe neighborhoods with reasonable housing within the parameter of Savannah, Georgia of all places. Simple words sharpening my senses as I try to foresee any number of possible outcomes in our near future and plan for them all. Simple words that didn't allow for the high school graduation of my son or the early summer wedding of my first child next year. Simple words paying no nevermind to the needs of our mothers -- one a half hour away and the other recently moved in with us.
Simple words. Oh, the power of simple words. How they can deliver the promise of a thousand kisses or stings with their formation. How they hold the power to make or break within seconds. How they alternately soothe or savage the humanity within. Maybe that's why I prefer more interesting words of complex syllabic structure. Or "big words" as some of my friends refer to my vocabulary predilections.
The simple act of blindsiding. Sigh-h. It doesn't seem to matter if we've been thus attacked before. Our reason for relocating from Colorado to Tennessee came about in desperate response to a major blindside of tragic proportions. One that left my younger sister in a psychiatric hospital and her two children buried in a small town cemetery. And we survived it. And even thrived in the ten years spent rebuilding our emotional lives and attaching ourselves to a church, neighborhood and community at large. So, in theory, anything else making its way down the pike shouldn't have the power to painfully smack us upside our heads. Right? Wrong! We're tougher. More resilient. We understand the unexpected. We can endure excruciating loss. We know how to bend in strong wind. But bending in strong wind does NOT preclude snapping under the force of a tornado. Because we don't quit feeling. In fact, for me personally, I feel more deeply and strongly in all of my connections to friends and family. Even animals. In a way, it is this depth of feeling which has possibly lent power to this recent uprooting of self. Though I welcome change and know my husband and I can tackle whatever comes our way, it overwhelms me to again accept the loss of comfort and familiarity which must accompany said change.
But that's life, folks. It always has been from the dawning of time. Everything recorded and passed down, spoken and passed down, reflects the constancy of blindsiding and the resultant recovery. As I've heard many a time, it IS what it IS. And it could be much worse than it is.
I understand that, too.
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