Human beings on the whole exhibit a lot of fear about their future. When I think about it, isn't this the main reason for building bigger houses, to encase ourselves in some kind of solid space we can call our own? Isn't this the reason we amass toys and gadgets to divert our attention from the 'what ifs'? And what about addictions to TV, drugs, gambling, sugar, coffee, or any thing to keep us focused on anything rather than the unknown?
One of the coping mechanisms I've discovered is the technique of forming stories with happy endings, just to give myself hope. I find myself skipping across the potential details of my near future to a place where my novel is successful, where I'm busy writing the next one with a covey of friends flittering about. The day dream helps me through the downright, stark and blazing fear of what the next months, or few years, may bring. I can't handle the details my minds trips over as I try to look over (overlook) the pictures of oxygen tanks, home health nurses, special diets, dashed hopes, and sleepless nights.
I can't go there, and to daydream myself past it all, well, it's really a farce too.
Cherishing the 'now' moments is again the theme. I'm planning as if there is a tomorrow, you know, the one right after today and working at being conscious of the small treasures of the current 'here'.
Blue jays fluttering through their morning bath and squabbling when one tries to move through the queue before their time. A hummingbird upside down so it can nose into the contorted last bloom of a day lily. Fresh ollalieberries for a cobbler. A bobcat sauntering across the driveway. The peace rose with more than two blooms for the first time in years. My first zucchini of the season.
Life comes down to precious moments cobbled together as a path making its way through the disaster of sorrow and fear.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
It's Different in the Night
Whoever said, “Life can change on a dime” had the right concept. Or maybe it was “Life can change in a second.” Or maybe the words were more like “Change is inevitable” or “Without change, there is no life.”
I've known, intellectually, when we get older, we can get sick. We can break bones or lose hair. Disease processes are around so we have something to die from. I just never thought about any of it in relationship to my life, my world. Now my husband and I are faced with the reality of this intellectual concept. See how calm I can be when I write this all slowly in my notebook? I can pick and choose my words in an attempt to distance myself from their reality. It's early morning, the birds are chirping; the air is fresh. I'm calm here.
Last night was a different story. In the darkness, anger bubbled. Made me sick around my heart, squeezing my vital organ with such pressure I had to get up from our shared bed and find solace screaming onto the pillows on the couch. The anger knew no bounds. It took in the Universe, AMA, my husband's stubbornness, the government, the oil spill, the cancer, anything and everything was targeted until I felt spent.
“Move your emotions through your being,” a counselor friend suggested. “Feel them all so you don't hold on to them and get sick yourself.” Eventually, after a Tylenol for the headache I'd brought on with my rant, the edge of sleep crept across my body so I could crawl back to bed, letting the new rhythm of his breathing lull me into hopeful dreamlessness.
I've known, intellectually, when we get older, we can get sick. We can break bones or lose hair. Disease processes are around so we have something to die from. I just never thought about any of it in relationship to my life, my world. Now my husband and I are faced with the reality of this intellectual concept. See how calm I can be when I write this all slowly in my notebook? I can pick and choose my words in an attempt to distance myself from their reality. It's early morning, the birds are chirping; the air is fresh. I'm calm here.
Last night was a different story. In the darkness, anger bubbled. Made me sick around my heart, squeezing my vital organ with such pressure I had to get up from our shared bed and find solace screaming onto the pillows on the couch. The anger knew no bounds. It took in the Universe, AMA, my husband's stubbornness, the government, the oil spill, the cancer, anything and everything was targeted until I felt spent.
“Move your emotions through your being,” a counselor friend suggested. “Feel them all so you don't hold on to them and get sick yourself.” Eventually, after a Tylenol for the headache I'd brought on with my rant, the edge of sleep crept across my body so I could crawl back to bed, letting the new rhythm of his breathing lull me into hopeful dreamlessness.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Helplessness
July 12th? . . . 13th? Sunday? . . . Monday? Hard to figure what day it is when the only thing I can anchor to my memory is the afternoon I drove my husband to the VA hospital. He was short of breath and feeling poorly. It was a tense, four-hour drive. He wanted to be behind the wheel, I know, to give himself some sense of control, but he admitted he didn't feel very well.
And he had reason for it. I don't want to go into details, that's not my intent here. What I want to do is process this feeling of shitty helplessness. There was and is nothing I can do except wring my hands and pace. I try to read but can't concentrate. I think I want to talk to others but can't find any words worth saying. I have a sinking feeling in the middle of my stomach, and my head swims. I am told I need to find and have one solid thing to hang onto.
I tried making the floor of the hospital ER my piece of solidarity, but it meant I had to maintain contact with it. I didn't want to leave it, which was not healthy, and clinging to it put me in the way of nurses and doctors. So I ended up visualizing any horizontal surface beneath my feet as my grounding surface and made my legs into grounding cords. When I felt rocky and out of sorts, I diverted my attention to my memory of being on deck of the Crustacea, a friend's 40-foot sail boat on which we toured Alaska's inland passage a few years ago. It helped.
Another friend who lost her husband last year suggested I eat grounding foods: protein, chocolate, or whatever felt like it helped to maintain that connectedness. “Take showers,” she said. “No problem,” I said. The tears flow better when I'm underwater.
Holding a stone from the parking lot and keeping it in my pocket acted as an emergency treatment for weightlessness. So did laughter with family and strangers.
Some kind of control over anything helped: like deciding to leaves voice messages rather than be asked questions I couldn't answer. Emailing and texting are handy. Methods of forgetting what's happening are Soduko and crossword games and action-packed novels. TV doesn't seem to involve my attention as well.
I continue to dig deep for any bit of sanity I can find, appreciating prayers and the small ceremonies of gratitude I usually practice. I am my own antenna between Earth and Sky and attempt to circulate the energy available from both through my body. Using my Reiki hands keeps me in place too. There are parts of the day when my husband is dependent on me to be the rock he can lean on, a person who is real with a sense of humor. Other times, he serves the same purpose for me. I'm grateful we are alternating our positions for each other on an as needed basis.
We can't take away the fear of the future for us. I can only make this moment right now, memorable, and then this one, and now this one . . .
And he had reason for it. I don't want to go into details, that's not my intent here. What I want to do is process this feeling of shitty helplessness. There was and is nothing I can do except wring my hands and pace. I try to read but can't concentrate. I think I want to talk to others but can't find any words worth saying. I have a sinking feeling in the middle of my stomach, and my head swims. I am told I need to find and have one solid thing to hang onto.
I tried making the floor of the hospital ER my piece of solidarity, but it meant I had to maintain contact with it. I didn't want to leave it, which was not healthy, and clinging to it put me in the way of nurses and doctors. So I ended up visualizing any horizontal surface beneath my feet as my grounding surface and made my legs into grounding cords. When I felt rocky and out of sorts, I diverted my attention to my memory of being on deck of the Crustacea, a friend's 40-foot sail boat on which we toured Alaska's inland passage a few years ago. It helped.
Another friend who lost her husband last year suggested I eat grounding foods: protein, chocolate, or whatever felt like it helped to maintain that connectedness. “Take showers,” she said. “No problem,” I said. The tears flow better when I'm underwater.
Holding a stone from the parking lot and keeping it in my pocket acted as an emergency treatment for weightlessness. So did laughter with family and strangers.
Some kind of control over anything helped: like deciding to leaves voice messages rather than be asked questions I couldn't answer. Emailing and texting are handy. Methods of forgetting what's happening are Soduko and crossword games and action-packed novels. TV doesn't seem to involve my attention as well.
I continue to dig deep for any bit of sanity I can find, appreciating prayers and the small ceremonies of gratitude I usually practice. I am my own antenna between Earth and Sky and attempt to circulate the energy available from both through my body. Using my Reiki hands keeps me in place too. There are parts of the day when my husband is dependent on me to be the rock he can lean on, a person who is real with a sense of humor. Other times, he serves the same purpose for me. I'm grateful we are alternating our positions for each other on an as needed basis.
We can't take away the fear of the future for us. I can only make this moment right now, memorable, and then this one, and now this one . . .
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)