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.
