Telling The Truth On Time

Today I took part in a telephone conference.  I was there.  Of course.  My brother, Gary, was also present.  As were his social worker, one of the unit psychologists and a regular staff member from the ward; his psychiatrist is out of town for two weeks or our ranks would have swelled by one.  It was probably the most successful meeting of this sort that we've had since he's been a ward of the California State mental health facilities.  Due in large part to the fact that this past weekend was probably the WORST weekend that he's experienced there in quite awhile.

His social worker called me last Friday to introduce himself as Gary's new one-on-one therapist and to ask if I wanted to start being in on their regular team meetings.  He's a recovering alcoholic with a rough childhood in his own background . . . I liked him immediately.  His sense of humor is also quite generously developed and made for an easy-flowing call.  Most social workers seem a bit retracted or hesitant, maybe reserved is what I'm shooting for.  I tend to feel that I'm being somewhat 'worked' or treated carefully with a tiptoeing around the truth with them.  Not one iota of that existed with Mr. Smart (we could call him Maxwell for fun thought it really isn't his first name).  I welcomed that as a rather nice change of scenery in the story of Gary's life.  "Next Tuesday, say-y around 3 or 3:30?  Will that work for you?"  Would that WORK for me?!  He could bet his sweet bippy it would.  I've been waiting to see this game move forward.  And maybe there would be some actual insight from the participants.  I scribbled the info on my Emdeon note cube.  Something to which I looked forward with curiosity and interest.  I'm generally underwhelmed with these types of get-togethers.  Gary often doesn't interact, or at least not in-depth where the sharks are swimming and feeding on his guts.  The
-ists and -ologists folks often speak as if we are all 6 year-olds.  Or they simply orate the entire time without any apparent regard for what Gary or I might add to invaluable words they are offering up like sweet incense to the head of the great psychiatric ward in the sky.  I guess it's fair to say that the few I've actually sat in on with Gary over the past two years or so bore no respectable fruit from where I sat and listened.

Now, about the weekend.  As I mentioned in the previous entry here, Gary's girlfriend had a scheduled court date this week.  They've both known for weeks that it was coming.  Back and forth, back and forth, they lobbed that ball around, but he felt like he had a grasp on her impending departure.  And then the surety that she would be gone by Monday (yesterday, though she actually left this morning) set in for Gary.  Goodbye might as well be like death for him.  He handles them poorly, so sure that it signals the end of the friendship.  In fact, WE never utter the word goodbye to one another, always finding some other phrasing with which to end our chats.  We've settled upon the lighter version of goodbye as expressed by the Italians, 'ciao.'  I actually used it today with his team when I clicked off on my iPhone because it's so ingrained.  Hah!

Anyway, that niggling tickle of anxiety began to exert pressure that became something far more overt a presence.  It was more emotion than he had the tools to handle.  So, he reverted to finding an outlet for the pressure through more familiar ways.  In this case, he stole liquid hand soap from the supply room.  Added a large quantity of salt to it, which separates the cleaning grade alcohol from the solids.  And then he downed the potent chemical which many in his situation lean on when they can't find real alcohol.  It's incredibly dangerous.  In fact, last year his girlfriend has a very serious binge on the stuff and found herself in a coma and close to death on the medical ward.  This was before they became something more than friends.  That episode happened on the heels of Gary's use of the substance which bought him an entire weekend in the hospital with an IV and meds and absolutely no memory of what he had done while under its influence.

Gary called me this morning.  As he often does, he relayed his weekend wobble after the fact, but sparing no detail under my gentle cross-examination.  He tells me the truth, he's fond of saying, he just isn't always 'telling the truth on time.' We rehashed his episode, his voice revealing the physical toll he was suffering from effects of his abuse.  I listened.  Going over my own feelings and thoughts as they marched alongside his recitation.  Examining them.  Absorbing them.  Lining them up with that I know of myself and who I know Gary to be.  I checked my initial frustration and sense that he had  done this to me -- because he didn't -- and reminded him that he would have setbacks despite his recent successes.  Often, those bad days come right on the heels of exceptional weeks.  He should expect it.  Address the elephant in the room so that it wouldn't grow larger.  And continue on his path.  Don't let the slip-up be anything other than a a momentary lapse.  Learn from it.  Realize that it's normal, in his case, in my case, in anyone's case, to stumble under the weight of incredibly stressful and emotional happenings.  My disappointment wasn't going to help a thing: he carried enough of it for all of us.  Me, him, his girl, etc.  Guilt is his strong suit.

When we reconvened by phone with his team on board, I tried to spend my first minutes just getting a feel for the room and its players.  It didn't take long to realize they this team of people actually a) care about him; b) know him to a certain extent; and c) are not putting on airs or loading up the back of the truck with a pile of steaming stinky brown stuff.  They are the real deal.  After two years, my brother's circumstances have finally placed him on a ward where there's a much higher than average chance of him receiving the help he NEEDS and WANTS to get him where he must be, internally, before he can ever hope to get where he would like to be, externally.  And for the first time, Gary uttered a beautiful string of sentences which basically expressed his desire to be better as a goal ABOVE that of getting out.  He put the cart BEHIND the horse.  That there is progress, people.  Real progress.

We hung up with a promise that they would meet with him EVERY DAY next week to see him over the hump of his withdrawal from the daily comforting contact he so came to rely upon with his girlfriend.  A scarred woman for whom he holds very strong affection and deep abiding concern.  Our goal is to help him discover a safe alternative avenue for his need to divert emotions and stress.  He can't lean on her.  Not all the time.  No person is that for another: a 100% source of distraction/cure/healing/etc.  He must possess his own inner resource for dealing daily with the ongoing challenges of being a human being with a disposition for addiction.

It's been the goal all along.  But it took a bit of doing to cut back the briars which had overtaken that particular path.  After today, I feel certain that Gary can actually see where he needs to next place his feet.  I raise my coffee mug to that progress.  Salud.

Like-Minded

On a morning when a bedtime of after 2AM has left me with less than quality sleep, I feel better, more mentally sharp, more on task, than I have since returning home from my recent trip to Colorado.  And there's a reason for that.  I finally blogged last night.  An entry on Push-Ups.  And though it wasn't the exact entry I had in mind, and I nodded off into instant deep sleep for several long minutes at a time right there at the keyboard -- it's a minor miracle I didn't inadvertently delete the entire post -- I satisfied that persistent itch which has plagued my fingertips and brain cells for almost two weeks.  That itch which settles in with aching familiarity on a highly regular basis whenever a subject leaps into my consciousness.  That itch which longs to block out the every-day rotation of chores and responsibilities which is presently my life and chain me to a desk and keyboard for infinity  That itch which maintains a running inner dialogue regardless of what my physical self may be doing.

For those individuals with a driving passion, a talent, a gifting of specific ability, whether that passion bears fruit for anyone outside of oneself, be it music or painting or running, WHATever it is, as human beings the driven among us are never completely fulfilled unless we find and use valid outlets for that passion.  To varying degrees, ignoring these inclinations or putting them off can just about drive one mad.  Historically speaking, I believe there are examples of some who WERE driven mad.  (Though I suppose a handful of those actually allowed their passion TOO much reign over their existence.  I've witnessed enough madness to know it makes a lousy house guest.)

Because my night-writing reflects the dregs of mental energy remaining within me by the end of generally very full days, I thought I would forgo my morning walk and channel that supply of fresh internal sunshine into my blog.  Specifically, an addendum, or perhaps more of a sister-entry, to the Push-Ups blog entry of last night.  Because that brain-bouncing ball has yet to stop rebounding within the tight confines of my cranium.

*********

There's a word I use with regularity that I find to be under-utilized in our culture of instant messaging and sound-byte conversations.  Every time I say it, I feel good.  I feel as if I have hit a big ol' nail RIGHT on its head and driven it home, thus securing some vital part of an ever-growing framework in my life.  That word: simpatico.  

Dictionary.com defines it thus:

sim·pa·ti·co

   [sim-pah-ti-koh, -pat-i-]  Show IPA

adjective

congenial or like-minded; likable: I find our new neighbor simpatico in every respect.

Origin: 
1860–65;  < Italian:  literally, sympathetic, equivalent to simpat (ia ) sympathy  + -ico -ic.  Compare Spanish simpático, Frenchsympathique, German sympatisch

That will do quite nicely for my purposes here.  I'm even tickled with the etymology given my affection for the romance languages AND my German ancestry (not to mention the country presently hosting my middle child and her spouse). 

Often, my insertion of this word into a conversation has to do with food -- i.e. "I'm totally simpatico with this coconut cream pie" -- or a casual reference to a friendly feeling or instant between me and another person -- i.e. "You and me . . . we're simpatico today."  But it is the second half of the initial definition which interests me.  Like-minded.   

My life is replete with people.  People rich in personality, abounding in love, rife with wisdom, abundant with generosity.  Family, friends, neighbors.  Stating that I am truly blessed is NOT a trite comment nor is it an understatement.  If at all possible, I prefer to be realistic in my description of a thing.  Good people don't require hyperbole.  (Hey!  I sense a Gloria-ism there!)  **Please be advised that I'm in now way eschewing hyperbole as an effective writing tool!**

A significant number of these relationships developed over time.  A slow unfolding of personal histories and beliefs, of similarities and differences.  A delayed unwrapping of an unexpected present.  Untying the ribbon and setting it neatly aside.  Peeling back the colorful paper.  Folding the layers of tissue paper.  Until the final big reveal.  And then there's the appreciation and continued use of the gift in the months and years to come.  Those are most wonderful and life-affirming.

But every now and again a truly incredible meeting happens across my path.  One which seems to mesh perfectly with the elements of my life in that very present circumstance.  To me, given my very real Christian faith (of which I do not specifically highlight in my blogs but guides me around the bases in every entry), these are anything but chance.  Behind these lightning flashes of familiarity is a divine orchestration intended to encourage and mobilize both me and the other party.  And regardless of how often we actually engage in one another's life in the future, the life-changing aspect of that meeting of simpatico forever alters my spirit for eternity.  Whatever that turns out to be.  I must be very specific here and emphasize that I do not intentionally seek nor choose these relationships.  They have been made-to-order at some point in the past, every seam expertly stitched, each hem of exacting length, cut to enhance every contour and feature, and they rest upon a padded hanger awaiting the the specified minute that they will be fitted to my life.  Until they are given to me, I didn't realize I even needed them.  But once they are in my possession, I can't imagine what my days and nights were before them.  And this in now way detracts from my developed friendships in any way.  There are many holes within to be filled and fitted with lovelies who come to me in forms and ways as varied as the stars in the black velvet of the night sky.

Recently, a moment of simpatico occurred at my husband's multi-class high school reunion of all places. My mind wasn't even focused on the event, excited and distracted as I was to surprise family and friends with my unexpected presence for a family reunion taking place over the same weekend.  An introduction to a group of siblings led me to a dazzling smile so unassuming in nature, so naturally placed and fully lacking any guise or guile, that it stayed with me without need of any photographic reminder (though I did, indeed, have ONE, just ONE) every day after that.  In the ranks of these siblings were a brother and sister duo, Carrie and Chris.  In high school, they were fellow musicians with my husband and played in a band with actual talent and not one simply fueled by dreams and ambition.  I'd heard a good many positive stories about them.  Never had I met them though I shared space in their small town of La Veta for a summer.  (That's when me and my hot pink shorts, but fully decent, unwittingly garnered my husband's initial attention all those many years ago.)  They knew nothing of my dead-snake-slinging episode, an intimidating moment for my husband-to-be in which he watched with horrified fascination as I swung an impressively large bull snake carcass around my head for some unknown but entertaining reason.  They knew nothing of my 23 years with their high school chum.  Nothing about our trials or our children or our travels from state to state in search of employment and peace.  I left La Veta.  End of story.  

But what was clear from the onset, and was only brought into sharper focus during dinner conversation, was that we knew the same God.  We had endured separation from Him and restoration to Him.  And that created a simpatico, a like-mindedness, that can't be replicated with human efforts, no matter how empathetic or brilliant one might be.  Our character was evident in the short span of time we were given together.  That we were all completely unique individuals could not be discounted, but the connection had little to do with such concrete elements as traits and habits.  It was clearly one of those defining Jesus-moments which can't be fully described, or understood, unless that particular thunderbolt has knocked you flat on your spiritual behind!  On one hand, before these two -- TWO in one fell swoop -- I can count the specific people who have entered my life in this manner.  I won't be do that here but they know who they are.

From that moment on, after breaking literal, and spiritual, bread over a crowded table in a non-air-conditioned gymnasium, with rivulets of sweat running the length of my legs and belly beneath a pretty darned knockout of a bargain dress (if I do say so myself), I found myself close to tears whenever thoughts of these two came to me.  I found myself praying for them out of the blue.  An amalgam of gratitude, humility and awe had settled over me . . . and was there to stay.  A constant rendition of a blog entry ran through my head, hour to hour, day to day.  I wanted to take note, record it, share it, explore it.  I went to great lengths to explain it to my husband.  Because he figured largely in this happenstance.  Knowing that these two were his friends at a hugely important time of personal shaping and influence in his life moved me beyond the power of my beloved words.  I felt such joy in realizing he had made a choice to gather them in his circle.  And that they had all exerted influence over one another during those critical high school years.  Meeting them closed the gap of understanding about who this precious man of mine is and how he came to be who he is.  I knew of his family.  I am a part of his family for life.  I dearly love his family, both nuclear and extended.  But aside from a few guy friends that he hung out with regularly, I hadn't met anyone who shared his passion for music from way back in the day.  And as I started out this entry with a rundown on the drive of passion, it is only fitting to close it out in like manner.

There lies a deep well of passion within me.  I've used that phrase several times in this entry, "within me."  Though I often become entangled in my residual battles with self-image via the body, it is the 'within' which most concerns me.  And it is there that my COMpassion resides, spilling over into my desire for a deeper understanding of, and relationship with, Christ and the people He sets in my path (and not all of them sharing the same faith or set of beliefs).  A compassion which completely covers and nudges my desire to relay through word and sentence and paragraph the warp and weft of the ever-growing fabric that is my life, my experiences, my lessons.  

Writers are to write what they know.  I . . . know . . . me.  In the most completely non-narcissistic way possible because my desire is to be stretched and pulled and reshaped for a glory beyond and above my simple, though often quite wonderful, human existence.  There's nothing very glamorous or flattering in that sort of personal knowledge because it is a mirror I hold up to myself and NOT rose-colored glasses.  That's probably why I hold those stylish Ross dresses in such high regard!

Are we simpatico in that?           

The Fairness of Baggage

Probably one of the most painful lessons I've learned in my own life, and in observing the lives of those closest to me, is that of dealing with serious personal issues LATER.  Which means, in general, that those serious personal issues are NOT being dealt with right NOW.  I ran away from the remains of my childhood while in Israel -- a long story -- and thought I took control of my life.  I thought that right up until problems with my marriage and my mothering of my firstborn in her elementary school years pulled me up by the short hairs.

That's because in my late teens and through most of my twenties, I reveled in my supposed freedom from the emotional baggage of my youth.  Things I heard and witnessed and endured.  The pain of feelings suppressed; the fear of no safety net; the disconnect from society; a deep spiritual abyss of confusion.  What I couldn't see clearly was that all of that baggage accompanied me through my perceived escape from an oppressive existence . . . and it rolled right alongside me as I took my marital vows, labored through childbirth, struggled to understand the nuances of 'real life', careened through parenting and exhausted both my husband and myself in those early years.

Though my gifts for compassion and discernment ran deep, they were tainted by a skewed perspective and a surprising naivete concerning the nature of people around me.  My sense of right and wrong was very acute and intensely black and white in situations where I really should have loosened up a bit.  And as I pushed headlong through my budding adulthood, a greenhorn in so many areas of the mundane day-to-day duties, my anger grew.  It erupted in the face of intense emotional situations which became so because I didn't have the internal tools to effectively and quietly deal with bumps and spills in relationships without taking it far too personally.  My sense of righteousness and my way with words made me a force with which to be reckoned.  Not to everyone.  Only to some.  And most often to myself.

I was afraid at the root of it all.  Afraid of loss.  Afraid of failure.  Afraid of being wrong.  Afraid to have the rug pulled out from beneath me yet again.  I craved regularity for so long, stability and security, and yet when they arrived their features were so unfamiliar that I turned from them.  I turned to the familiar unhealthy thought patterns.  I turned and embraced the very pain from which I had been running.  And in doing do, though I remained worthy of love and affection, though I could present as intelligent and amusing, I became ineffective in very vital ways.

For years, I ran into walls with my children, sure I was inadequate, afraid to introduce them to the God in which I was sure I still believed, and positive they would eventually be as screwed up as I felt.  Instead of finding the good in my husband, in our relationship, I allowed for the eventuality of divorce, the inevitability of a split, the finality of an end to us in the not-so-distant future.  My problems with my body image, with bulimia, with Gloria, created terrible moments of private paralysis -- a pair of snug jeans or a serving of corn chips could be, and often was, my emotional undoing.  Not the best of foundations for success in my chosen lines of work, so to speak.

Though I do believe that with the passing of each year a piece of me returned to the whole and was knitted back into place, that process didn't happen quickly enough to spare those around me from the damage I inflicted in my broken state.  Not that it was intentional.  In some cases, I didn't know any better.  My boundaries were stretched.  My mindset far from center.  If ever I could change one thing about my life after my childhood (because that would be the obvious Genie-in-a-bottle wish) it would be the rate at which I realized that eschewing my hurts only caused further hurts.  By not dealing with my wounds early on, I created a far more difficult scenario from which to extricate myself AND my loved ones later in life.  I could have been a better parent and wife and sister and daughter.  A better friend.  More effective.  My life could have been lived with far more purpose and much less getting by.  That whole survive or thrive thing.  It's not that I live in that regret.  No, not at all.  I love my life here and now.  Enough healing has occurred for me to feel reset and restored . . . and purposeful.  But I live with the awareness of that fact.  An awareness which makes me more sensitive to others caught in similar webs.

That my powers of persuasion and assistance are limited is now excruciatingly obvious to me.  Excruciating because outside of prayer and love, there is often nothing I can do to change the life circumstances of people for whom I care very deeply.  When my sister suffered her post-partum psychotic episode and took her children's lives, I couldn't spare her the resulting agony nor could I walk the dark path back to life on which she had to journey.  Nor could I absorb the pain of the other families or my own.  Such an all-encompassing helplessness, beyond anything I had felt previously . . . and that's saying something.  When I turned my baby brother into the police, and he was sentenced to over a decade in prison, a flame in some deep chamber of my heart was tamped into darkness for what seemed several decades.  Though I imagined what his life must have been, it was his life to endure and not mine.  When my other brother, husband and father to three, discovered a cancerous mass had invaded his fit body, the shock rippled like a sonic boom through me.  I couldn't love it or joke it away.  The hours of chemo and resulting illness and weakness broached no sisterly stand-in: it was all his to take in and in and in.  Poisoning himself to combat a deadlier poison.  I could not comprehend how my siblings deserved any of it after what they lived through in our shared early years.

But it's not a world where fairness is dished out with any sort of regularity and justice, is it?  Otherwise, in some burst of  wise epiphany, those of us on the outside looking in on people with problems like the ones I just outlined would swoop in and offer assistance in just the right way: disaster would be averted.  Broken hearts, destroyed lives, unfairness in truckloads . . . would cease to exist.  Someone would have caught my brother's need for counseling to combat mental illness before drugs became a complication and led to a life of petty crime and terrible decision-making.  Someone would have recognized the signs of post-partum depression and dragged my sister to a doctor, whether she wanted it or not, and Grace and Gabriel would be playing with my son in Colorado right now.  Someone would have caught my brother's back pain early on and diagnosed him before the lymphoma jumped up in stages; better yet, he would never have developed a liking for Diet Pepsi and thus exposed himself daily to the artificial sweetener directly linked to his cancer.

My experiences have increased my sensitivity to possible unfolding tragedy.  I don't seek such things out.  But my radar is a bit more attuned.  So, I don't hold back if I see a situation where a word or action might defuse a moment or create a buffer or educate, educate, educate.  But even then, some will be helped and some won't.  There are those individuals who are able to see their shortcomings and weaknesses and wish to be restored.  But it seems that there are far more who are shortsighted and too weak to accept a leg up onto the dry shore from the shipwreck banging about in the dirty waters around them.  They're the ones who still have the power to scare me to my very human core.  They're the ones who keep me tethered to prayers of gratitude and beseeching.

Often, they're the ones you love for who they are, even the ugly.  They are the closest to your bared and beating heart.  And thus they have the power to cause great damage in their wounded state.  Exploding shrapnel.  Far-reaching.  Long-range.  Enduring.  Scarring.

At times like that, all you or I can do is don our battle gear, secure our helmets and assume a protective position.  And I also cry.

From Mother-Sister to Sister-Sister

It's about time for an update on Brother Gary.  Because I haven't written very often about him, it's hard to know where to start.

**************

The above line was written almost two weeks ago.  That's as far as I got.  And as of today, I realize that it hasn't been about the start . . . meaning Gary's absence from my blog topics.  It has been about the long, possibly unending finish.  And my role in all of that.  And the constantly changing lines in the sand as we rework our relationship boundaries.  I think I knew it was all there, gently bubbling just beneath the surface of my conscious awareness.  But with the excitement and emotion of a young daughter's marriage and move to another country for 3 years, there was no surplus of feelings and intellect with which to effectively explore all of that.  Much less process it.  It's not a simple relationship.  What in the heck is a simple relationship these days, anyway?! 

My husband is the one who actually brought on about what I consider an epiphany this morning.  As we often do to one another, he asked how I was.  Specifically, he asked if anything was bothering me. "I don't THINK so.  I mean, I've not slept enough.  I watched a movie last night about a son who kills his father, his sister and several of his schoolmates with a bow and arrow ("We Need To Talk About Kevin" with Tilda Swinton and up-and-coming actor, Ezra Miller -- keep an eye on this kid).  I just talked with _________ and she had a rough week; I feel for her.  And our daughter just shipped off to Germany a few days ago and I ship off to Colorado for a family wedding next week.  I suppose THOSE things could have me distracted.  Make it seem like something is wrong?" I answered.  After sipping on his coffee and watching me for a moment, he tried again, "It really seems like something is bothering you . . . " He paused for a second or two, "How's Gary?"

I started to give him my pat answer of the past few months or so.  "Well, he calls less and less.  It's been more than a week this time.  And when he did call, I had to hang up because something was going on.  He didn't call back.  And he even wanted me to order an electric shaver for him.  I'm trying not to think it means anything bad if I haven't heard from it but there's always a little bit of that in the corner of my mind . . . "  I trailed off as I thought a little more about what I was saying because it didn't feel quite right.  Like I had pinned the tail on the donkey and upon removing my blindfold, discovered Eeyore with a tail on his nose.  And then it HIT me, "You know what?  Jimmy.  I miss him.  I miss just talking with him.  Whether it's bad or good or has me guessing.  I know he's getting better and has a life in there.  A girlfriend.  A new team of doctors and social workers who are getting through to him.  He's attending groups four times a week.  I know it's good that he doesn't need to call me several times a day.  Or even every day.  But he's not just my brother and I'm not just here to help him solve problems or bail him out or worry or all that other stuff we've cycled through," I feel a little surprise as I talk and THAT is a surprise because I'm naturally introspective and analytical and self-aware, "I miss him because he's my friend.  I like talking and hearing his voice and being in his life loop.  I'm not sure he fully gets that." 

I'm not sure that I fully got that until this morning.  

So, for the second day in a row, I tried calling him instead of awaiting his call.  When he came to the phone, we chatted a bit and then I asked if I had caused him to avoid me, even subconsciously.  Because regardless of what he might say -- "not feeling well," "the phones are always busy," "I forgot" -- when he wants to talk with me, he dials and talks.  Period.  End of story.  Nothing gets in the way.  Though he couldn't nail down anything concrete, he agreed that it seemed like he was avoiding me, even if in a passive, unaware manner.  And then we dug into the multiple ways in which our connection was evolving and morphing.  How I was trying to back out of mothering or enabling so that he could spread his own developing wobbly adult wings as he sheds his arrested development cocoon.  How he was figuring out the complexity of living out consequences while simultaneously engaging in life.  "In prison, you get in trouble, you go to the hole for awhile.  It's regimented.  You're alone.  You serve that time.  And you return to the population."  We agreed that in regular life, even with all the needs met that weren't always met in our childhood, it's messy.  And when trouble comes, you still have to keep all of the other balls in the air.  People and work and emotions and all of the rest don't go into a state of suspension while one deals with the trouble and its fall-out.  It's all a barely contained amalgam of dealing and feeling and thinking and being accountable. 

I also realized we'd each been taking the other one for granted as the luxury of regular communication became a common occurrence.  Gary said knowing I had the iPhone and he could call any old time made him more casual about calling.  It was easier to put it off for later.  For my part part, I would multi-task with such time-management efficiency -- walk the dog, do laundry, check e-mail, brush my teeth -- that I often missed the details he was relaying to me.  When first we began to converse with freedom, I'd take notes, on paper, on the laptop, on my phone, and know every detail of what was transpiring in his life.  But later on, not so very much.  I backed way off.  Too much.  I guess we both did that.  A part of redefining who we are to one another in the midst of our separate lives outside of the pain and fear and all of that not-knowing that was who we were when he was incarcerated for so many years.  Phew!  Just writing that and rereading it, that last sentence, reminds me of the terrible burden I willingly lugged around.  Of the empty place I carried in my sisterly heart for Gary.  A place of sorrows and heavy love.  A place which was connected directly with him behind those concrete walls instead of within the wood and brick and mortar of my homes.  

Now, there is a lightness of being that I could not ever have predicted.  And it continues to blossom within me.

I love our frankness.  We don't hold back.  But as Gary says, he knows I'm not ever out to hurt him.  He trusts me implicitly.  It's why even when he's lied in the past because of addiction or shame or fear of disappointing me, he always comes round to spilling the beans to clear the slate.   He says it hurts to keep things from me because I'm so transparent with him.  Because I sacrifice without expectation.  Because I so clearly and truly love him.  And THAT, folks, is what we built between us while he was IN PRISON.  Imagine what our new relationship as brother and sister, as adult sibling friends, could be once he repairs his damaged walls and shores up his foundation?  Once freedom, inside and out, is truly his.  Even as broken as my baby brother is, he's a better man than many I've seen who are supposedly whole and intact.

Now, as far as an update on Gary himself.  The big news is that for the past 10 weeks, he's been on an interferon treatment regimen for his hepatitis C.  Because of his genotype and numbers, the program staff felt he would show favorable results during the course of his treatment.  But his body's response, even within the first 4 weeks, has been a pleasant development for everyone involved.  Without trying to explain the chemistry of hep, it's simple enough to state that Gary's numbers are low enough that he tests negative for Hep C.  To be sure, the side effects of this treatment -- it's akin to a type of chemotherapy -- are numerous.  And they all seem to be manifesting with Gary.  He says some days he wants to quit but he knows that if he powers on for the entire recommended 6-month duration, his quality of life and health will be much improved.  

So, he's shooting for nonchalance where the drop in weight from 188 to 170 is concerned;  about the sores in his mouth, on his tongue, down his throat and in patches along the inside of his mouth; per the strange red rash on his hands and forearms;  with the constant lack of energy, a deeply draining fatigue; in dealing with the lack of sleep and depression brought on by the twice-daily ribavirin pills and once weekly interferon injections; and handling the topsy-turvy body temperature regulation, whereby he feels feverish and flushed much of the time, soaking his bedsheets with sweat.  I'm proud of him.  This is a drug regimen with tough physicality, much like other drugs he's allowed in his system, but this drug habit will benefit him instead of robbing him.  What an irony: an illness contracted through a street drug habit being 'cured' via another drug.  Both harsh.  But with opposing purposes. 

I like to think of something working for the good of my brother outside of those familiar with him.  It's been a long time coming.    

Coach Bobby

Yesterday, in a burst of physical energy which pushed me through all of my morning and most of my afternoon, I conquered the garage.  Specifically, a wide spot of dried weather-cooked egg  spread beneath the refrigerator and embedded in the fibers of a space rug.  A tumble of fresh eggs late last week caused the odoriferous accident but because it was outside, it evaded my easily distracted radar.  Hank the Wonder Pup's radar, however, was fully engaged; he attempted to help reduce the crusty yellow spill during the course of the weekend.  I began to think this might not be very good on his stomach.  I also scrubbed the dusty cobwebby grime all along the inside of the garage door.  It was the sweaty satisfying kind of housework which is its own simple reward.

To keep my mind occupied and quiet my busy thoughts, or maybe to center them at times, I keep a variety of NPR podcasts loaded on the ol' iPhone.  (I don't have a name for this one.  Yet.  The smartphone, that is.)  This time around, "This American Life" was on tap.  One of my absolute favorite newsy-type research programs with just enough quirkiness to balance the intelligence of the material.  The topics they cover run the gamut, from outlandish levity to weighty seriousness.  Often combining the two in a pleasing mental swirl which always manages to keep the listener from fading away or switching it off.  I believe I've referred to it in a previous entry or two.

The stories pouring into my head in the midst of my scrubbing and spraying of egg, dog hair and dirt centered around a common theme of Crime Scenes.  The whole thing was excellent but one segment held my attention above the rest.  An ex-con, literally a convict AND a con-man, returns to his old neighborhood, the place where he cheated and swindled family and neighbors for years, to try and retract some of the damage he inflicted by doing a good deed.  Specifically, to coach a little league baseball team of local kids.  Kids with street knowledge, smart mouths . . . and not a lick of experience with a ball or bat or glove.  The field in which they met and practiced was overgrown and rundown.  It took quite awhile for the boys to begin to trust him; when they first called this man, Bobby, coach, he felt he was finally worthwhile as a human being.  But he struggled with his anger and the desire within him to be a better man.  He was also a recovering drug addict.  His voiceovers, telling of his adventures in little league and revealing his fears and neglectful youth, were compelling.  The reporter covering the story had been his neighbor and acquaintance growing up, and she was well aware of his reputation and history.  Initially dubious about his intentions, it took only one time seeing him with the kids, hearing his concerns, conversing with him afterward, to recognize his complete sincerity.

I had no problem recognizing his sincerity, sensing his ongoing inner battle, understanding his guilt and regret, his fear and angst.  Bobby the Ex-Con/Little League Coach was as familiar to me as . . . well . . . as my own brother.  As I absorbed his story, fully rapt, I only wanted to stand toe-to-toe with him, hug him, tell him he was worthy beyond the sum of his past.  Applaud him for allowing those boys to teach him as well as learn from him.  He was never late or absent from one practice or game, even when the other teams didn't show.  He faced those he had wronged, allowing them their opinion, their vent, their judgement.  He followed through.  I also wanted to write his friend, the woman who covered the story for the broadcast, Katie Davis, to encourage her to keep on doing what she was doing.  To make sure she realized her job mattered because her material is reaching people.  And about that time, Ira Glass enters the end of this segment (it originally aired in 2000) to update listeners: though Bobby did go on to coach basketball, too, and his team won first place at a local Boys & Girls Club tournament, he relapsed, heroine, and eventually died in a halfway house.  A CD copy of this NPR story was one of the few possessions he had.

And there, crouched in front of the hose caddy, shaded by the oakleaf hydrangea bush, with water gushing from the nozzle and spraying dried egg down the driveway and into our fading lawn, I cried.  For Bobby.  For my brother, Gary.  For those boys.  For me.  For every addict who has tried and succeeded.  For each addict who has tried and succumbed to old demons.  For the very imbalance of who lives and dies in this world . . . because it is all so riddled and wracked by unfairness from my limited human perspective.  I gave full rein to the emotion, allowing it to wash through me, to join the wet yellow bits as they rode the bubbles and out of my sight.  Then, I dipped the scrub brush into the brackish bucket of water and returned to the job at hand.  I turned off the hose; I turned off my tears.  It was all I could allow in that moment.  But the imprint in my mind?  It never fades.  The shadowed room in my heart?  That door never closes.

I love my life.  All of it.  I love the gummy egg which took up an hour of my Monday morning.  I love the white and brown spider sacs which clog the joints of my garage door.  I love that I can simultaneously clean and cry in equal measure.  I love the freedom I enjoy unfettered from any sort of life-altering addiction.  I love the people who share space with me through family, friendship, church, even at the auto mechanic's shop.  I love Gary, just as he is.  I love men and women like Bobby.  I love this hard because I can.  Because it's apparently how I'm made.  Because it is within me and has yet to come to an end.  And I love because there are those who have been thus consumed, digested, defecated, and find themselves unable to fully experience such love, regardless of their desire to do so.  I refuse to allow their portion to lay in waste at the side of the road, buried beneath the detritus of despair and collapsed effort.  I'll carry their burden of unused love . . .

. . . and spread it as far as I can.  Disseminate it through words and wind and wonder.  So that the forgotten are not truly forgotten.  So that even the smallest amount of balance can be restored to the big equation of this existence. 

Coach Bobby's Story: CLICK HERE to listen to "This American Life"

       

The Big 'To Do' Letters

I finally watched Meryl Streep work her big screen magic in "The Iron Lady."  It was late at night.  In bed.  Jimmy surrendered to sleep pretty early on.  It's not a fast-paced thriller.  Nor an action-adventure dude flick.  At least not in the traditional sense.  As Britain's first woman prime minister, there was nothing slow or inactive about Margaret Thatcher.  Because all I have is two thumbs, that's all I can physically give the movie.  But three thumbs up would be more appropriate.  Bringing together two of the world's most powerful women under one celluloid roof to tell the simple human story of a complex and groundbreaking point in the history of politics made for a surprisingly touching film.  Not to mention enlightening.  And vulnerable.  The point of the whole thing hits home for me.  The reminder that regardless of how we feel about the politics and opinions of people in power, it behooves us to remember that they are, at the end of every day, still people.  Like me.  Like you.  We will all age.  Live with regrets.  Miss our loved ones when they die.  And be left with our fading memories for company.

My favorite line of the movie came about after a scene in which a female admirer approaches an aged Thatcher at the end of a dinner held in her home.  The woman wishes to impress upon Margaret the importance of her accomplishment, her empowerment.  Though senile dementia has begun to have its way with her, the one-time leader of Great Britain says with startling presence of mind, "Well, it USED to be about trying to DO something.  NOW it's about trying to BE someone."  I had to repeat that scene a few times and take down those words.  So apropos of everything these days.  Image over substance.  It's hard to argue such a fine straight-arrow point.  So I won't.

With that in mind, the following letters are for a few folks who have impressed me with their doing . . . though most of the world undoubtedly knows them not.  They blow even the best, most popular, singers on "American Idol" out of the water with their steadfast efforts.  I believe Meryl and Margaret would agree. 

*********************************************************************************

Dear Family-of-Three leaving the oncology building this past Monday:

Thank you for allowing me a rare glimpse into your joy after what has surely been a harrowing journey of diagnosis, chemo, hair loss, nausea, fear, disappointment and struggle.  I'm not sure if you were sister, brother and mom, or another combination of close kin, but the sameness of your features and your builds, beautiful Asian lines of an origin I could not quite identify, told me you shared strong blood ties.  I see you, the patient, the young woman sporting the new 1/4-inch growth of hair (I remember this length on my own head after my infamous head shave in my 3oth year.  Do you think it feels at all like rabbit fur?).  Your scalp bearing the deep etch of a long surgical scar.  But it was your indescribable smile which struck at my core.  And the grins of your companions, so light, so dependent upon your cheerful presence, as they touched your arm and walked as if on air along the sidewalk with you. 

I am reminded of my brother's battle with cancer.  The hoops through which his insurance had him jump.  How frail it made him for a time.  The uncertainty of it all.  His determination to choose his own treatment through research and careful consideration of a possible future return.  And the victory of which we all partook when the invader within was whipped into submission.  It was as indescribable as your scene. 

Congratulations on your good news.  And I hope and most sincerely pray that your hair will grow straight and lush all the way down to your waist . . . and that your perpetual smile will cause wonderfully permanent lines in the planes of your lovely face.

--Your Silent and Celebratory Onlooker


Dear E.W. Hodges:

Thank you for the first, and probably only, cross pendant that I will ever wear around my neck in this lifetime.  Though I never met you, I feel as if I at least lived in the same small town and watched you live your simple life of faith with your husband and 9 children.  It was your granddaughter who told me about you.  And your granddaughter who had your engagement ring reworked into a beautiful cross by an artist friend of hers.  And your granddaughter who reconnected with me across the vastness of time and miles through a social website called Facebook -- something you most likely had no knowledge of in your 92 years. 

She felt led to send me your ring because she knew me for a period of time when she was but a girl and I yet a toddler.  We shared a unique childhood of which we can both fully understand and empathize.  Now, here we are in the 'over 40' crowd but still a bit far off from the decades you spanned.  I know you loved Christ, read your bible, enjoyed poetry, gardened . . . and you married a farmer.  Before you passed on, you shared insightful and impactful years with your granddaughter.  On your death bed, you let her know how very proud she made you feel.  She has not forgotten that.  She has not forgotten you.  Nor did she ever forget me. 

When I touch the pendant hanging from the fine silver chain, resting against the warm skin of my living body, I think of you, bending down over a row of vegetables ready for harvest, or leaning in to allow a rose to graze your cheek.  Maybe quoting a piece of scripture just memorized, or a favorite verse.  Cooking, cleaning, laundering, praying and LIVING for 9 little ones put in your care.  I know how careworn you must have become.  The numerous trials heaped upon your maternal heart by your brood as they left behind their wobbly legs and innocence for the long sturdy strides of a hard race.  I look at this old Polaroid picture of you and your betrothed in front of a waxy-green wall of magnolia leaves, and know your smile so late in your hard life is genuine.  One day, I hope to have such a picture with such a smile for my future generations to enjoy.  I hope that my hardship transforms my soul in the same wondrous way that yours did.  I feel bound to you.  And I am all the better for it.

--Your Admiring Extended Family Member in Him


Dear Pastor Rodney:

Thank you for the little-church-that-could.  Also known as The Church at Cross Point.  I realize that you are not solely responsible for the formation of this specific body of believers.  Nor would you ever wish to claim any glory for its continued success as a place of fellowship and worship for a unique band of brothers and sisters.  But it is a success.  Small in numbers though it may be. 

If even the single sparrow is counted, then each and every man, woman and child who passes through our double-glass doors and crosses over our polished concrete floors is numbered and tracked.  Be they believer or non-believer, they enter a holy place utilized with compassionate grace-filled intention.  They enter a place of family, of friendships, of musicians, of those without an innate sense of timing, of college students, of artists, of eccentrics, of intellectuals, of professionals, of unemployed, of varied ethnic backgrounds, all bound by a common draw to an uncommon destination.  It is a thing of beauty that never tires me in the looking each Sunday morning.  Each once-a-month Friday with the women and children of our community who are without the basics of shelter and security.  Each gathering of ladies.  The wedding of my second child.  The fertile soil from which my treasured trio of Earth Divas sprung. 

And I think of a man who holds babies in his arms and is quick with his wit and welcoming to challenges even when internally he might wish to drag his heels just a bit.  A man who refuses to fill his belly until after every person has filled their own plate at least once; he'll make a run for fried chicken and pizza if he determines the loaves and fishes are not multiplying in plentiful fashion.  A man who travels across oceans to assist Liberians who wish to regain their moral compass in all aspects of social life after being torn asunder by civil war for so long. (I applaud the small justice of a guilty verdict just last week against the ex-president of Liberia, Charles Taylor, for crimes against humanity.)  A man who bares his weaknesses before a congregation each week with humility, humor and heart.  A man who realizes there is a far bigger picture than his one corner of the painting.  And he is okay with that.  And just does as he can, purple ties, Harley leathers and all.  And desires to do more if it is within his field of purpose.  And once intimidated me into silence before I was capable of seeing him as he was, as he is.  I'm fairly certain that there are moments he wishes he could again cause a silence to fall upon me.

Sorry, pastor.  That time has come and gone.  Grin and bear it.  You are stuck with this attendee of seven years.  You'll just have to stick that in your pipe . . . and pray on it.

--Your Punctual Parishioner and (dys)Functional Friend

   


 

The Other Me

On the hamster wheel that is my brain are a good many pressing thoughts and concerns.  Subjects which could weigh a gal down if she didn't work to balance them with joyous expression, humor and gratitude.  That there is why I spend time with my other blog, Push-Ups, sometimes seemingly at the expense of this blog.  My mind would wish to spend countless hours a day filling entries here, but my life requires me to maintain equilibrium for the sake of my family and the responsibilities I have chosen to accept as my part and parcel.  Posting pictures and waxing only mildly philosophical about the happenings on the home front requires less emotional energy and intellectual challenge.  Both of which I seem rather short on these days. 

But internally, I am here, feeling the reluctance of my station in certain areas, witnessing the continual unfairness which sucks like eternal quicksand at the heels of many around me, contemplating the realities which exist outside the boundaries of my third acre lot here in Jamison Place of Murfreesboro, Tennessee.

While a certain fair-furred mutt leans into my legs while I embrace his lean and narrow chest, crooning those silly sweet-nothings that over-the-top dog owners say to their pets, I wonder what it would be to hug my youngest brother on a regular basis.  Instead of returning his collect calls, asking for the infamous Scratch from whatever client picks up the phone, and fighting the helplessness that threatens to overtake me while I listen to him fret, and rightfully so, about doctors who change diagnoses without warning and the doubling anti-psychotic meds without informing.  With a reduced budget which results in reduced staff and settles for less well educated professionals, the hospital reminds me more of a souped-up daycare. Instead of battling the ball in my stomach which contracts and expands when I must dial alternate numbers for hospital staff in positions of power of him, praying for my words to be right and the results to be correct, even as the realization sits heavily that I'll most likely be promised a great risen dough ball of assistance and delivered a flat pale disc of nothing in return.  Though I aspire to hope, I often surrender to frustration with the system and the system's often apathetic and jaded employees.  With their pat replies and pseudo-concern.  Because the good ones often leave.  The good ones can't handle the inaction which results from mounds of paperwork in triplicate which keeps the patients' needs at bay.  Though I keep right on trying, I fear I may have a dropped an important ball and missed it bouncing away, its rolling off the edge of the cliff that marks my brother's last shot at an ordinary life.

Did you know that for almost two months, I neglected to return the call of a social worker assigned to Gary simply because I didn't want to hear the same old runaround and play the same old "what can I say versus what can't I say/what will they tell me and what will they actually mean" game?  That's the new version of the tired me.  I don't care much for her but she's there.  She says that 'they' assure me family is integral to the therapy of the client . . . but they never call and include me in the staffing meetings, though the staffing meetings are really nothing more than a quick consult in a closed room whereby a nurse, social worker and psychiatrist tell Gary what he's done, what they are going to do, and then tell him they will address his worries later when they have more time.  They never have more time.  She wonders about the multitude of clients without family or friends checking in on them and offering a lifeline to an existence outside the fences and walls of the state-run institution.  She figures that as long as Gary continues to plod through his days, avoiding staff out of mistrust of their intention or distrust of his reactions, then she will await his signal to get involved outside of personal conversations and ordering socks (he marvels at the sport socks with the tight massaging middle that offers better arch support -- akin to the invention of sliced bread and canned soda pop for him). 

And then weekend arrives whereby a combination of suppressed frustration over meds, the dimming effects of the meds themselves, and confusion in a chance meeting with his medical doctor about liver medication had him thinking this was his opportunity to rail about the anti-psychotics he didn't want or need, resulted in his throwing the wondrous soda pop in the face and chest of the aforementioned medical doctor.  Bad move.  A move seen only in movies . . . in in psychiatric facilities.  This move gets Gary moved.  To another ward.  Rumors begin to circulate as to what may be in his future.  Talk of administrative meetings between people who have never spoken to me, who don't know Gary, who will decide if his next bed should be inside the walls of the maximum-security hospital in Atascadero.  AKA "ASH."   Only it makes no sense.  He's not a murderer or rapist or child sex offender.  He's not taken his fists into the problem-solving arena there at Patton State Hospital.  (AKA "PSH.")  Save for the one time that a child sex-offender tried to attack him and staff agreed that he was not at fault.  Setting aside my sisterly love, I can look at this objectively and ascertain that it is NOT a fair move based on circumstances.  It's the possible throwing away of a human being who exists as a polarizing force on their grounds who requires a good more work than they have time and resources to give.  And, to be sure, more than he has been willing to invest in himself, either.

This isn't very cohesive.  It's not even what I had hoped to write.  But I've visions of 'schizo-affective' versus 'bi-polar' diagnoses dancing in my head like bright red and green Christmas ornaments on some enormous evergreen sprouting from within the center of my brain.  And they are bumping up against an already crowded surface area of competing colors, lights, textures, dangling this-that-and-the-other things!  So, here it finally is, the OTHERS in my seemingly happy heart.  Those images and sights and sounds that don't jive with the cheery pictures and snapshots on my other blog site.  In essence, the other me.

In no particular order, the OTHERS.

My husband spent two hours undergoing a radioactive scan of his gall bladder and associated digestive system parts (small intestines and liver) to rule out other scenarios which might compete with the possible diagnosis of a non-alcoholic fatty liver per an appointment and an ultrasound last week to ferret out the cause of ongoing stomach-region pain in the form of dull intense aching.  My husband spends very little time in doctors' offices unless it is to swab his sore throat during cold and flu season.  Outside of a bum knee back when he played semi-pro football for the Pueblo Crusaders before we were married in '89, he's had no need for scans and such.  I've encouraged him into taking advantage of annual physicals on our insurance, but sometimes he has neglected such opportunities.  Now, though he tries to quell his apprehension, he goes straight to the Cancer worry card at the bottom of the deck of illnesses that could be causing his discomfort.  I pull every other card of possibility and then show him my hand.  Because he's heard of people receiving a synopsis of their scan results from the technician on-site and this technician said she had to cull the images and information into a cohesive report and had no information for him directly, he sees that as a bad sign.  A billboard in red planted right in front of his life.  I say wait for the call from our doctor tomorrow once the report is in her hands.  But I'd rather not see my husband go through the anxiety he presently suffers.

Per my own health, I wonder how I would fare if I had to return to the work force outside of the home?  Mainly due to the monthly encroachment of my uterus upon my ability to think and walk.  I couldn't very well take three sick days every 21 to 24 days.  My name would soon be stricken from the payroll, methinks.  Hormone treatment, i.e. birth control and the like, have not been successful for a variety of reasons.  In previous entries, I've outlined this topic to the most finite of points.  One of my close friends continually insists that I should take the bull by the horns and do whatever it takes to be rid of this female problem once and for all.  She says that one day, I may have to miss something of great importance in my life because I'm debilitated by my period.  Like maybe a wedding.  Or a graduation.  Or a round-the-world trip.  And it is true that I look ahead, ticking off the small squares of my calendar, whenever we are planning a trip or party or even when I agree to volunteer at church or school.  But I fear the cure will involve separating my uterus, and most of my accompanying female parts, from my body.  Forever.  That particular scenario scares me.  Turns me cold.  Causes me to fidget in my chair.  How do you spell 'heebeegeebees?'  It's a part of me.  It's not cancerous or rotten or malfunctioning.  It's conducting a vital function of the female of my species.  It's just rather intense.  I understand that proclivity.

Truth be told -- you will find this odd as I somewhat do, too -- I would miss my period.  As mean as it sometimes is.  As bossy as it becomes with my schedule.  We've been together for longer than I've been married.  Over three decades.  What happens in the wake of such a break-up?  Would I stand perpetually on that familiar monthly shore, awaiting the ferry that would never again land at the dock to disgorge its antsy passenger, my company for a time?  The same aforementioned close friend has a theory which suggests that I can only fully relax and disengage from my busy-busy when I have the acute pain and befuddlement of my period as a viable excuse; she would like to see me give myself permission to simply take the same amount of days off from everything without pain and without the guilt I would experience in the absence of my valid excuse.  Oh, I don't know.  I just don't know.  I'm not there yet.  Perhaps I'll take a poll.  Research.  Start asking pertinent questions at next week's annual physical.  Call my insurance about coverage and the like.  Or . . . forget about it all until the next cycle come around and derails something minor or major.

My final OTHER of this entry hits closer to home in terms of parallels between tragedy, mental illness, death and societal feelings.  A friend of mine experienced a personal heartbreak which played out in California news last week.  Her son shot and killed a sheriff's deputy and a locksmith who had come to his apartment to carry out an eviction.  The notice had been posted on his door 5 days prior.  He remained in a standoff with police for roughly 11 hours before a fire of unknown origin (not sure if he started it or the police did, unintentionally, with non-lethal grenades thrown in his windows).  When his body was recovered, it was determined that he had shot himself to death.  It appears he intended to have it out with authorities as copious amounts of ammunition with varied accompanying firearms were found with him.  And he was dressed for battle.  Unfortunately, he was a very mentally sick man who did not see himself as thus, and therefore never received any help for his problems.  The fact that eviction was imminent reveals that things were not right in his life for whatever reason.  The police also took note of outside mounted surveillance cameras positioned by this middle-aged man.

There is enough pain to go around in all of this.  Grief for the two victims and their families.  Though the public servant intentionally took on a job where danger could occur at any time, that poor man there to change the locks had no clue his life could possibly end on that day.  Death surprises most of the time, and tragic death, unexpected death, cuts deeply.  And bleeds most profusely.  Confounds the mind.  Befuddles the soul.  Challenges the faithful.  And then there is the category of suffering for one who knows their loved one caused such loss and hurt.  And an even more specialized category for mothers who suffer the death of their children before their own passing away.  The combination of mourning heaped upon mourning, grief upon grief, pain upon pain . . . it would be far less agonizing to stand directly in the face of the sun's heat.

So in the midst of my beach wanderings and postings of shell finds and heron sightings, I commiserated with my friend and her daughters.  With those two other families.  Remembered my family's headlong crash into holocaust.  And discovered a way to remain whole in myself without divesting so much of my empathy that it left me bereft.  I must allow room for the idea that the burdens others must bear can be handled without me accepting more than my fair share of that load.  A most compassionate and empathetic man I know worried that I internalized the suffering of those close to me more than was good for me or necessary for them.  He requested that in this instance I suffer for a time but compartmentalize so as not to deprive myself of the healing I had experienced.  That to enjoy my rare time at the beach away from my worries was an okay activity even in light of this terrible news.  And he was, and is, right.  I know this because I would never want my loved ones to internalize my pain and suffer as I have in those searing moments of unfair worldly absolutes.  I would desire their support, their ear, their words, their hugs, their ongoing friendship, their reminder that life will endure and one day I will return to myself. 

I pray that for my friend and her daughters.  And for all of you, whatever your OTHER may be.