I Don't Even Want To Talk About It!

The past five weeks or so have been difficult. Difficult in ways I have not experienced. Difficult in ways that are redefining me. Difficult in ways that have frightened my husband and myself. Just for now, I don't want to talk about it!

I drove over the high-rise bridge, spanning a glistening waterway on my way towards the island. I did not see the ocean ahead or the waterway below. This is alarming in retrospect.

I slept about 3 hours last night. Maybe. My mind has wandered off searching through deep woods and dense foliage for the key to a mysterious kingdom. My girlfriend of many years lost her husband last month. Her mind is searching also. We discuss the process as we share our stories of recent events.

Last night and part of today I  played with a frisky dog of size. He insisted I grab the ball caught in his mouth, covered in slobber, tease him for a moment and throw it a few feet away. Within seconds he is back, tail wagging, eyes wide with anticipation, tonguing that plastic ball  daring me to try to take it from him. I manage to grab it after a few tries, toss it again and he is back and so on and so on. It is great fun.

Car Kitty...now known as Boots lives in the house where I am staying. Between the dog and the precocious, wonderful, persnickety cat I am fully happy and loved.

I stand on the watchtower. For a moment I avert my eyes, turn to look at the beauty of the lands behind me drinking in their beauty, renewing my spirit.  I turn to take my position. I watch for the coming darkness, I gird myself about with the spiritual armour I have learned defends so faithfully. I plant my feet, take up my sword and my shield and attend to my position, watching, per the orders of My King, for the coming darkness. I was born to stand watch. I was born to protect and serve.

A friend had her baby this week. What a beauty of a baby! She borders on perfection except for that little cone shaped head. It will soon shape itself to her beautiful face but it serves now as a whimsical contrast to her flawlessness. It makes her more beguiling, charming, human. She is brand new, knows nothing of symmetry, cares not a bit if her pretty little head is in a cone shape as she begins her life. Cuddled securely in a blanket, held in the arms of her mom she rules her small domain.

I am seized with a compulsion to run. Peace! Be still!

Nevermind My Mind! Scratch That Book! Reset The GPS, Y'All!

If you follow my posts then you believe my husband has Parkinson's. I told you he had Parkinson's. It was a given except that there are no givens in this life. But, if not that then what? I read the Mayo Clinic site regarding Parkinson's. I began wrapping my mind around that diagnosis. The road ahead was named if not yet mapped. An appointment with a neurologist in a nearby town was upcoming. I knew, just knew for sure (arrogance is never far from me) that I would wheel my husband in, the neurologist would do the neurological thing and the road ahead would be named and mapped. Remember? I was going to write a book titled, "Parkinson's Sucks"? I believe that premise is secure though I will not be writing the book. Kudos to any of you who believe I would have written the book, You are a testament to the power of positive thinking. But, I digress.

We drive the thirty plus miles to see the male neurologist who was, by several accounts, going to be the cat's meow of neurologist's. I, at least, was excited. My husband, in pain and deep into the pain medication plus never one for excitement, simply wanted to get it over with and crawl in a hole. 

I, according to a professional, am given to occasional histrionics which means, in plain language, no moment is a dull moment with me. Every fire is a five alarm fire and every potential for seeing "the professional" means success is just around the corner. The description I gave is an example of histrionics. I was just histrionic about histrionics. Oh my! Well, ADHD and histrionics not withstanding we arrive at the office of the neurologist, sign in and the rules of engagement change immediately. We are not going to be seen by the miracle worker, the highly recommended sure thing guy. We are seeing a woman neurologist whom no one mentioned at all. I stay quiet. My husband hasn't a clue. He is hoping that I do not jam his foot into the doorway of the room we are entering. He is hostage to me as I push him along in the office wheelchair. He is hostage to me all the time now. I guess most folks would say I am hostage to his inability to walk or think well. Every story has two sides. My husband has always been as immune to being taken hostage as anyone I have known and now he is at the mercy of my care-taking. He appreciates it but it is an unnatural alliance for us. I have managed to chase another squirrel...

The woman neurologist appears in the doorway of our room. She is petite, tan, dressed in black and intense. Plus, she, is quick witted, sharp tongued, given to quick, short movements of her body. Within seconds we are peppered with questions about our reason for being in her office. She darts back and forth from the paperwork she has in front of her to glaring at us while asking what makes us think my husband has Parkinson's Disease in the first place, who told us he had Parkinson's, what evidence do we have and from whom. 

We had come for answers, wisdom, direction and instead we were met with  the odd sensation that perhaps we had jumped down the same rabbit hole as Alice in Wonderland and immediately encountered a wicked queen who was shocked to see us in her realm. I answered question after question although I felt disoriented and then incredibly angry and was ready to roll my dear husband out of that wicked queen's office with my head thrown back in a haughty good-bye. But just as I was building up to our grand exit, she and I had a moment. Woman to woman kind of moment. A sharp exchange of words and an epiphany. She was not a wicked queen and we were not down the rabbit hole. She knew immediately that Parkinson's was not the correct diagnosis but she did not say it. In that moment of clarity she and I connected, the questions became cohesive and the road was renamed and began to be mapped. The woman neurologist was perfection. The day was saved. Glory!

What? Oh, the diagnosis...lumbar stenosis and frontal lobe dysfunction of some undefined type. She believes my husband's back was hurt quite some time ago and over the past few years has completely disabled him. She wonders if he has had a stroke or mini-strokes due to other symptoms she identified. She knows he is in extreme pain and encourages me to keep him medicated at a level where the pain is negligible. We are to go for a scan of his spine and his brain. She got absolutely excited because she believes there will be an evident problem with his back and, in that case, believes she can help him. 

The saga of being home with him and care-taking is a saga for another day. It is difficult for both of us. Only difference is that he is stoned on highly effective pain meds. Would I trade places with him? No! He is in a tough spot...an incredibly tough spot. And, I am his care-taker. Poor man! He can't get a break! 

Well, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. More will be revealed. I hear Sonny and Cher singing "The Beat Goes On" way back in a corner of my mind. I am so happy I am not hearing John Denver singing. What was up with that dude anyway?

A Mell Of A Hess! I Ain't Lying!

For those of you who notice what time I write these posts let me put you at ease. I worked this morning from 2:30 until 3:30 and I actually slept some before coming to work so I am doing better. Honest. I did just say in the post title that, "I ain't lying.!"

Parkinson's Disease! It sucks! Maybe I will write a book by that name one day. My husband has Parkinson's Disease. It has probably been growing inch by inch for 7 years but he would not see a doctor consistently and it takes awhile to diagnose it. Recently it took off like a coon dog chasing a rabbit. My husband called me saying he could not walk. I went home immediately. His lower back was hurting with such intensity that I could touch him with tiny pressure and he would clinch up in pain. He has a high pain threshhold level. He does not see doctors unless he has to see one and he DEF does not go to the ER. In the past two weeks we have been to the ER three times and called them to the house twice more. He is on heavy pain meds until we see a neurologist and I am doing what I can to make his world a kinder, gentler place. We are both exhausted with the effort. I thought I was having a mental and physical breakdown on Saturday. Turns out I was plain, garden variety exhausted in every way. I cried and cried. Cried with friends at church. I feel much better.

I believe in finding the jewel inside of the pile of crap. And we are experiencing a pile of crap that rose up and flung itself at us. So, dear crazy woman, nearly breaking down woman, living in the solution through the grace of God woman, what is the jewel, pray tell?

Turns out I have found several and it is early yet in this process.
  My husband and I are growing much closer and transparent with each other.
  I asked for help. From normal people...big jewel.
  I cried and my husband held me and comforted me. Humility for a moment. Beautiful moment.
  God reached me through the horrible, hideous, panick attack, body falling apart Friday that hit me like a ton of bricks when I tried to function.
   I am not alone. Robert is not alone. We are not in control.
   I don't have to know why or to understand the mysteries of God's work in my life. I can simply allow Him to have His way.

Pretty good for a beginning, huh? Pretty good to be given the privilege of helping my husband. Amazing to hear a sermon from a pastor (my pastor - I claim ownership in this instance) teaching from the Bible and that teaching comforting me, challenging me, lifting me up and reminding me that I, of my ownself, can do nothing.

The beauty of friends...oh joy...the beauty of friends!

More to come from the mell of a hess filled with blessings. Maybe if you look closely at your mell of a hess and dig through the crap you too will find jewels of your own.

By the way...this post did not go as planned. Sounds funny coming from the person who is writing it but I am an intuitive writer following where I am led. I planned to be pitiful and dramatic. O.K. That was for this Friday past...not for this Monday now but I'll be danged if I will title this post "Bejeweled"! 

Sanctity of Life On Everyday Terms

My 9 year old grandson will tell you that I am a freak and he may have a point. We hang out together quite often. As a result he has fallen privvy to some of my deeper belief systems and, as I had hoped, has adopted them as his own despite his frustrations.

I do not arbitrarily kill anything. If I am not in danger and if my home is not invaded I do not intentionally kill anything. My grandson has learned this through repetitive admonishments from me sounding much like this: "Boy, do not tear that spider-web down! Is it hurting you? Do you have a way around it?" "Yes, I know it is a spider. The spider is important to our eco-system and, more importantly is alive. The fact that the web so creatively woven is in our way does not give us the right to destroy this small creature's home and, in the process, kill it."

We have had this conversation numerous times over the past two years. Grandson happens upon a live something or other and prepares to smash it, drop kick it or create a new way to destroy it. Grandma steps in exclaiming the sancity of that life and asking what on earth has that creature done to you. Doesn't he understand that life in any form is important? Poor kid must be confused because I do eat meat. I am considering stopping that but not for any militant back to the earth reasons. I just prefer not to send my grandson mixed messages.

Anyway, I never know how much I am impacting that child until something happens to demonstrate it. Several nights ago he and I were walking up to my mother's home. There is a ramp and there are stairs. Spiders frequently weave intricate webs in the area of the steps. Leaving their home undisturbed means walking back out into the driveway and around to the ramp. For a nine year old 100% boy making that change to leave the steps and walk around to the ramp illicits heavy sighs and mumblings with general references about me, about God and how stupid (indiscernible mutterings).  On this particular night he jumped out of my car and headed for the steps. He stopped in mid-stride, took one look, spun on his heels and headed for the ramp loudly exclaiming,  "Darn spiders!" My heart jumped in a little joy leap. I did not mention the incident to him. A grandma needs to know when to speak and when to be quiet. Inside I was having a small parade of gratitude.

The sanctity of life extends into acts of kindness, respect for older people and people who are disabled. And, well, people.

So hours have passed since I began this post. My husband is in the emergency room. He has a lot of blood in his urine and was in incredible pain when I called 911. The emergency room at our hospital is absolutely packed full of people waiting to be seen. My husband is in the hall on a bed and, last time I went by, was sleeping soundly thanks to modern painkillers. I am babysitting three parrots for my girlfriend. They have set schedules, set procedures, hierarchy...fascinating. 

Life is strange. I find myself walking around saying, "Pretty bird!" and "Hey, baby" as if birds were all around. I am eternally grateful that God does not give us the agenda for each day. I would run like blue blazes in the other direction. What the heck are "blue blazes" anyway? I gotta go. A parrot is nibbling on my ear and ready to go to bed. I am talking a distorted form of my version of bird language and it is time to gather myself together for the rest of what will be a long evening. A hearty "Night-Night" to all.

Powerless

I remember the days, and not so long ago, when I believed that I could exert enough energy through my anger and sense of injustice to remedy any situation that posed a threat to my loved ones. Foolishness. Folly. Of my ownself I have no power at all. I am impotent. Though I may yearn to be the harbinger of justice I am, in truth, able to identify injustice, hate injustice, experience the angst of watching life bring its' tough lessons to those I love and that is all I can hope to accomplish. I can pray. Of course that is not a trivial response although in the middle of my own suffering praying sounds a silly choice meant for those who cannot make the grade. Shocking to admit my response to prayer when I find myself in the thick of formulating multiple solutions to multiple problems. Yes! Yes! I will pray at some point but I do not have time at the moment. I must worry. I must despair. I must conjure up the old and unfaithful sense of righteousness I have created time after time. Lonely, defeated, broken against the futility of imitating the Giver of Life, I surrender. Not well. Not wholeheartedly. Grudgingly is a better word for my first steps towards my redemption. Even that frame of mind, that arrogant sense of defeated self, as it comes in an act of surrender, experiences release, relief and freedom. Exhausted by my attempts to lift the weight of heavy burdens; I surrender. I am powerless. I am in need of rescue. I am not the rescuer. A child-like sense of  love enfolding me with tenderness replaces my false bravado. I am home again. My Father is in charge.

A Brief Interlude

Lost For Words With So Much To Say

I have a desire each time I begin a post to find a song or a picture or a quote that adequately represents what I want to write. At times I search for a couple of hours and, finding nothing that fits, I shut down the computer. My thoughts have fallen flat as I sought representation.
I have a heavy heart tonight. I feel as if I have swallowed a stone that will not move. Yesterday I replied to a facebook post. My reply is below:

I have, at one point in my life, internalized non-verbal shaming and, through a process I don't fully understand turned that shaming into feeling ashamed of myself. I began to feel less than, apart somehow, and, in time, I did not need to experience shaming to stay in that frame of reference. I was at once my shamer and the shamed. I grew up in a culture where morals and value systems were based on religion, culture, fear...pretty much as they are now. All of it came under the headings of who was right and good and who was wrong and bad. It could hinge on the color of your skin or your faith or even on the sins of your family. I don't know about other areas of America but in the south it is entirely possible to be shamed for belonging in a family with a "history". So, I became angry, fiercely opposed to authority and full of low-self-esteem and shame. To make a 63 year old story much shorter...it was the very attitudes Lynne pointed out that began to bring me out of that darkness. There were, along the way, people who loved me without judgement, in fact they delighted in me. I remember them vividly. Their love and acceptance actually hurt. Yet, the acceptance planted seeds of self-acceptance and I began to evolve. Having people love us exactly as we are without effort or attempts to change us is powerful beyond anything I can think or describe. Judging others is incredibly dangerous. Wisdom is awesome. Compassion minus condesencion (sp?) is delicious. Grace sets us free. The difficult part of this approach to life is that I must act in this way with each person I meet, including those who do not give grace or acceptance, and that is when I know I truly grasp what I have been given.

Lynne is my daughter. She had written about judgementalism and a form of love that prides itself on loving what one considers the unloveable resulting in a particularly brutal form of shaming. Silent shaming. A loud, insidious silence wearing a smile while giving a hug. The unspoken smugness of  the "I love you anyway." The echoing of shame as it is absorbed into the shamed one's psyche. The indelicate shiver of pleasure the shamer secretly experiences as shaming is hidden both in the giving and in the receiving. Even now as I write these words I have a visceral response in my own body. What has me momentarily paralyzed is that someone I love as much as I love my own life is in a position to experience this loathsome gift of shame and from those he loves so well. And I cannot step in and take the bullet for him or scream out to him to run. For this I am full of angst at the moment. I would cover my darling one with my own body and take the pain for him if it were possible. It is not possible. I want to hate anyone who brings harm to this precious one. This is my challenge. If I am to ask for mercy, I must give mercy. The unloveable in me must bow to the love that set me free and choose to forgive as I have been forgiven, to fill the emptiness in me with the love I have been so freely given and pour it back out on those I love the least. Oh love that will not let me go, grant me strength, my Lord! Create in me a new heart. Allow my love for You to love the unloveable and, in so doing, point the way to You, the Alpha and the Omega, who died for me so that I might live and live to follow You. Amen!