I don't understand how life can change from one minute to the next - minutes we don't notice and minutes we're forced to wake up to. It feels like I'm coasting and then I'm ejected from my safe space. Such rude awakenings that prompt me to want to say those words I force myself not to say, let alone write down. But for the sake of this reflection, they are, "This is so unfair." Or, "Why me?" Which feels a lot worse to utter because...well...why not me?
I don't want to hear the platitudes. I don't even speak them to myself anymore. I never say, "Everything happens for a reason." Or, "God doesn't give us what we can't handle." While our intentions may be genuine, they lack a certain kind of grace. And grace, is what I need and what I'm looking for and what I want to demonstrate in my daily life. It's soooooo hard
I think I'm exhausted. Mentally consumed. Emotionally rear-ended. Nietzsche was most definitely right about one thing, "What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger." Another platitude? To a point.
You don't realize how alone you really are until you're a caregiver. When you're navigating through the health care system after hearing the words, "This isn't reversible. He's going to lose his mobility." Slowly, but surely.
Every childhood wound is reawakened. You can see that these wounds are somewhat raw after all this time. You see what you've handled well and what still needs handling, with care. It can't be any other way but handled with care. Otherwise, you're left with anger and resentment, which deep down inside, is a deep-rooted sadness that ought to be resurrected and set free.
Dark nights of the soul are here and ahead. There's help for sure. Assistance you can access - from neurologists, nurses, speech pathologists and occupational therapists. Yes, the help is there. But, there's a kind of help you can't *really* ask of others. It's your burden to carry. Your responsibility. Your duty to see it through. No one will carry your crosses for you.
For fu*k's sake, would it kill someone to ask how the caregiver is doing? You know who they are. You know someone right now who's taken on one of the biggest, swimming upstream, tasks of their life. Just ask them, "How are you doing?" Don't ask whether they need anything from you, whether there's something you can do for them. That's not the point of the question. The point of those four little words is to show you notice! It's to provide a space for sharing should the caregiver wish to take you up on it.
I know it's a rare thing to be asked because when I was first asked, I felt a hiccup in the matrix (lol). I looked at this beautiful being in front of me and said, "Oh, sorry, that took me by surprise." I must have looked completely perplexed. Now when they ask, I'm less surprised and I comfortably ease into it and give them thanks for asking.
I know my mother's hurting. I hug her a lot. I take her hands into mine. They seem smaller to me, which tears me up. We laughed and yelled while we gathered muddied leaves from the end of the driveway. We bitched and we laughed some more while I bent over and my behind was sticking up in the air.
After that, we went into the shed to look for a piece of plywood with my dad's specifications - 17" by 30". We laughed and cursed some more as we pulled items out and away from the pieces that, of course, were buried down below. But then, just a slight look to the right, I said, "Ma, I think this is the one." And we slammed the door behind us and went on our way inside...again, laughing over something she said.
I have to admit, I'm really scared now. All that meditation about living in the moment goes out the window because all I can think about is what's to come. I'm the queen of anticipation. I constantly have to redirect, pivot, keep it here, right here, in this now...or it's down the rabbit hole I go.
I'm just writing things down, you know. It's kind of like a journal. It's not meant to be read by anyone. Yet, I like that it's out there should someone want to read it.
I've been blogging since 2009. I pat myself on the back when I look at how much I've written. Some of it is fiction. Some of it, is not. Either way, the act of writing has been a life-line for me. I manage to work things out in my own way...quietly, undisturbed, unrattled. I've also found my way back to my art practice. I think it's interesting the way life guides us when we've been sitting somewhat comfortably in our current space. Shocks and surprises wake us up from our slumber. They demand not to go unexpressed.
I thank everyone who gives me the opportunity to work on myself. I don't always mean that. Do you know how hard it is to be thankful when someone's mean and irritating, when you have to gather all you've got to rise above the noise? And since I'm here to build a soul, okay, so be it. I acquiesce.
So yeah, what doesn't kill us, makes us stronger. Because we have to be strong for others, too.
