Under Pressure

Lately I've been experiencing an odd sense of being. That sounds awkward, but I'm not quite sure how to phrase this. I feel a little different than even just a month ago. I'm not sure why or when or how, but something is changed. David died two years and four months ago. That is a long time, but it doesn't really feel that long. On the other hand, he hasn't been in my midst for a long time. I'm not making any sense at all. Let me try again. Last night I had a sort of epiphany. It happened while walking along the ocean with a friend, discussing everything that women will discuss. It occurred to me that, perhaps, I'm finally moving out of what was old and into what is new. Ha. Even more cryptic, right?

When I was married to David, (well, when my husband was living, because much of the time I still "feel" married, but sometimes I don't anymore ...) I was a wife -- a cleaved one. I was also me, but I no longer lived just for myself. Gibran wrote about this in his thoughts "On Marriage."

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.
Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.
                                                  - Kahlil Gibran, from The Prophet

I don't agree with everything Gibran wrote, but most of it is beautiful. "Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. ... And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow." Sadly, I think that our lives' circumstances caused me to surely grow in David's shadow, at least from time to time ...

Then I became a mother and my life was hugely changed. Being a wife and a mother sort of requires that you reform. You're the same person, but living with new and exciting priorities and obligations.

Because I was a wife and mother I was always a caregiver, but when David was diagnosed, I became a different kind of caregiver. Throughout the last few years of his life, being a caregiver became pretty much the whole of my existence. And when he died, suddenly that mostly went away. Yeh, dealing with the business of death took the better part of a year and I still handle the business end of his music as well as brain tumor inquiries and requests, but the day to day intensity of his medical, practical and emotional care ended. Along with that, however, waned the adrenalin that had kept me going. I found myself in an unfamiliar state of peace ... and deep grief, then hibernation.

As of this past fall, I discovered that I was almost kind of finished being a caregiver. Sure, my kids still need parenting and will need parenting, but the level of care given is declining, as it should. I am not responsible for getting a kid up and to school, for making lunches, for being on-call, for being home when they're home, for making dinner, doing laundry, meeting with teachers, attending concerts ... I'm on my own with my own schedule. I haven't been in this situation for 26 years. Secretly, it's delightfully liberating. I do love having my children in my midst and am excited for them to come home next week for spring break, but it's gratifying to realize that I'm good with nature's turning of time. Rather than wallowing in a bereft'ness because they're not home, I'm accepting it and rejoicing that they are independent and happy and doing well! I'm not sure how or why I've found myself in this emotional state, but I'm not going to question it. I'm even feeling a little happy! It's sort of like a trophy -- a medal to hang around my neck for a job well-done. Their success is a reflection of all that caregiving.

And now .... I don't want to make my kids shudder, but lately I've been noticing men noticing me. I'm trying to figure out if this has been going on all these years and I was just oblivious to it. You know ... I was very married, so the rebuffing of even the thought of welcoming that visual connection (eye contact) -- that second take -- that spontaneous smile -- was subconscious. Then, when David died, I felt like everyone could envision the metaphorical black veil that covered my face and my spirit, so I wasn't getting a glimpse of anything through all that darkness. But, honestly, now I am noticing men. Do I have a newly-revealed charm -- charisma -- that is emanating from within me? Some days I feel like I do! Some days I feel like I can extract any response that I want. (Today I was given a beach souvenir gratis. I'm serious!) It's a startling revelation, yet one cast with shadows of familiarity. I was married for a long time -- half of my life. I forsook all of this, whatever you call it, a long time ago. But it's no longer necessary to eschew it and, as I feel less and less married, the mentality of singleness is creeping back into my consciousness. You'd think for a scaredy-cat like me, this would all be a little daunting. Instead, I'm finding it to be a little exhilarating. Of course I know myself and I'm not gonna' do anything reckless (darn), but it's fun to hang-out along the outskirts, dangling a toe into the other side here and there.

Something undetermined ... unspecified is bubbling up within me – like lava, dormant, yet simmering, lying just beneath the surface -- beginning to swirl and flow. My chest swells with this wondrous sensation, but I have no outlet for it! I feel like I suddenly possess an undefined passion -- an uncontained, big love -- in need of a path for expression. Sometimes I feel like I can no longer contain it – like I’m going to burst with untamed whatever! It is exciting and frustrating all at once.

pas·sion [pash-uhn] noun: 1. any powerful or compelling emotion or feeling, as love or hate.

Passion for what? How, now, do I love people ... and stuff like music and nature -- life ... my life? It's almost like I have permission to remake it -- to re-form it -- to the extent that I may wish, because I have the freedom to do so for the first time in as long as I can remember ... maybe ever. I've never been in a place where I could just do whatever I wanted to do! I attended my second choice college because of money (but I don't bemoan that at all -- my kids would not exist, as I would never have met and fallen in love with David), then I went straight to work in a job provided for me (for which I was thankful and always will be), then almost immediately into marriage, making decisions about my life in tandem with and in consideration of David. My next job was dictated by economics, as was where I lived. Raising children kept me (happily) grounded at home -- and supporting David in his vocation required it. He travelled so much that I had no choice but to be the "rock" that kept the home fires burning ... and I was [mostly] happy to do so. But now ... you see? If I so choose, I can do whatever I want to do. The rock is becoming molten -- fluid. It's an alien circumstance. It's kind of wonderful.

By nature, I am a careful person. I consider every facet of a situation, especially how others are affected by choices made. I am pragmatic. I am sensible. But deep down ... where that lava is heating up and casting an orange glow on everything, I feel brave. Not the kind of brave that it took to survive 14 years of brain cancer. A different, undaunted kind of brave that is not a requirement, but a freedom.

I'm taking pleasure in the contemplation of all of this newness and will continue to meditate on it -- this unleashed something ... and the myriad of new ways to love -- to express the swelling pool of undefined, unformed passion.

Lyrics from a Mumford and Sons song expresses my feelings rather plainly.

... We will run and scream
You will dance with me
They'll fulfill our dreams
And we'll be free

And we will be who we are
And they'll heal our scars
Sadness will be far away

Do not let my fickle flesh go to waste
As it keeps my heart and soul in its place
And I will love with urgency but not with haste
                                            ~ Not With Haste

 

Prayer ... Help me. Help me. Help me.

I've been asked to write 150-250 words on prayer. When 250 was suggested, I laughed ... so the request was lowered to 150. I laughed because 250 would be difficult ... as a limit!

So ... prayer. What is prayer?

prayer [prair] noun 1. a devout petition to God or an object of worship; 2. a spiritual communion with God or an object of worship, as in supplication, thanksgiving, adoration, or confession; 3. the act or practice of praying to God or an object of worship; 4. a formula or sequence of words used in or appointed for praying.

I have discovered that I am generally in a constant state of prayer. I certainly don't mean this to sound haughty or superior in any way ... it's just that I am in constant conversation with God. I need God. I do love that I have possibly, remotely "risen to the occasion" for the Apostle named Paul ... who suggested that the Thessalonians "pray without ceasing." Somehow, I think this is what he meant: To be in constant communion [communication] with your Creator. That's comforting. Constant communion with my Creator.

But, to quote a dear friend and fellow widow (how's that for a statement full of emotional conflict?), "Help me. Help me. Help me. Help me." That was her prayer throughtout the last months of her husband's illness and probably the first two or three years of her life without him following his death. I remembered! and I pray it, too! Thank you for sharing your simple, humble, powerful prayer, sweet friend.

It reminds me of a Sunday School class led by another dear friend years ago ... a class on Prayer. He was a former Jesuit-turned Presbyterian. Not really such a leap, when you think about it -- critically. Anyway, he talked to us about the rote prayers that he learned throughout his life that continued to put him in a state of prayerfulness -- of reverence. One, of course was the "Our Father." I never knew it by that name ... to me, it was always the Lord's Prayer. I learned the Lord's Prayer at a very early age ... probaby 2 or 3. I remember lying in bed with my little sister in the bed next to me, listening to the murmuring coming from our older sister's room. Our mother was saying prayers with her, but it was sure taking a lot longer for her than it ever did for us to say our little "Now I lay me down to sleep ..." prayer! We were curious and wanted to know what the heck! Our mother told us that she said a different prayer with her. Well, we wanted to learn it! I suppose we didn't want to be left behind ... or simply wanted a little more of our mother's time and attention when we didn't really want to go to sleep yet. Whatever, she relented and taught us the Lord's Prayer.

The second prayer that my friend shared with our adult Presbyterian class was a version of the Kyrie. As you might imagine, if you are hip to the nuances of the Presbyterian mindset versus the Catholic mindset (not the "universal" thing, the denomination thing), some in our class were a little hestitant to open their hearts to this Kyrie, but I loved it immediately. "Lord, Jesus Christ, have mercy on my soul." Wow. What other prayer could possibly be more pragmatic, powerful, meaningful in any time of need? I have used this prayer IN MY DREAMS when I felt threatened by some form of evil. It comforted me on two levels: First, that I was invoking the name of Jesus. Second, that the first thing I did was to fully rely on my Savior. All the doubt we struggle with -- that I struggle with -- in my academic, intellectual ponderings fell away. The first thing I did was call on Jesus. Yipee!

This is already 650 words :-)

But my assignment was given in terms of certain parameters ... what devotionals did I use to direct my prayer life? Ummm.

Yes, I have devotionals all over the place. David brought many of them home -- from Lucado to Nouwen. Streams in the Desert, by Charles Cowman, a gift way back when my mother died ... Jesus Calling, by Sarah Young, given to me by a dear friend after David died. But my spiritual disciplines have waned a bit in the last few years and I'm not keeping my devotions. I really try to keep asking God for help -- not just for me, but for my kids, my extended family, my friends, my church family ... those who have asked for or who are simply in need of ... prayer. And I'm really working at remembering to follow-up with thanksgiving for answered prayer. Today, my prayer was, "Thank you, God, for helping me get this stinking bathroom cleaned! and with a glad heart!" See? without ceasing.

I'm really awed by those who keep regular times of prayer and devotion -- who daily read their Bibles and pray over the words, asking for understanding and application. These days, I am thankful for Scripture that returns to my consciousness -- mostly Psalms noting that God is my refuge and strength ... a very help in times of trouble ... Be still and know that I am God. The promise that all things work together for good for those who love God ... or the wonderful words of John reminding me that God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. I don't have a lot of Scripture memorized, but some of these biggies stay with me. God's word is in my heart, mind and soul -- always. Like a prayer. Lord, Jesus Christ, have mercy on my soul.

Hospitals: Good or Bad ... Blessing or Bane, Part 1

I haven't stepped foot in a hospital since August of 2010 ... or was it September? I think it might take some real urging to get me into one. I know I can do it ... when the time comes.

My earliest recollection of any hospital was when I was about 3 or 4 years old. My father was hospitalized for diabetes. The only thing I really remember are his awful pajamas. I don't have earlier memories of what he slept in, but I don't think they were pajamas. These were NEW ... for his hospital stay ... and they were UGLY -- some sort of orange paisley on white. I think he kept them for years after that, to be a good steward of the pajamas. Maybe that's how I recall them. Nonetheless, that is my first memory of a hospital. Not long after that I recall waving to my Grandpa from the hospital parking lot and talking to him over an old, blue walkie-talkie. I think that was when I first got a semblance of the gravity of a hospitalization. He wasn't well enough for us to visit with him face to face ... he was up there -- isolated -- and sick. Thankfully, Grandpa lived for many, many years following that heart attack. Somehow we knew that he was on blood thinners and couldn't go home until he "made water." These memories are somewhat amusing now, as an adult ... but we understood the hospital as a daunting place, even as children. At least I did. I was really little.

The next time I found myself in a hospital was after my grandmother had had both aortic and femoral artery transplants. She had come home, but returned to the local hospital with complications of some sort. I don't know how old I was -- maybe junior high or a freshman in high school ... but I knew that it was serious when they rolled her onto her side and her whole back was black from internal bleeding. My beloved grandmother ... so frighteningly ill. She did recover from that ordeal ... to face breast cancer and even then, many more years of loving living. Thus far, my hospital experiences had resolved with recovery -- healing -- living. Many years later, she died in a different hospital -- just a few hours after a sister had finally arrived on emergency leave from Saudi and we had all gone home for the evening. I was carrying my son -- newly pregnant. She died not knowing that I would bear my father's first grandson, something she very much anticipated (she called my daughter "Buster" up until the day she was born -- the seventh girl in a row).

I spent a night in the hospital in college -- winter break, probably. I had my wisdom teeth removed. I had an unfavorable first IV experience and remember flashing my brother-in-law my behind, showing him where I got the shot that made me stoned enough to show him my behind.

Then came the big, white hospital on the hill across the river -- Allegheny General Hospital in Pittsburgh. I still can't look at it if I'm in the city. My mother died there. I was 19 years old -- just finishing my sophomore year of college -- and my mother was undergoing heart surgery to repair a congenital defect and a valve because her heart was enlarging. In truth, she was never expected to live much beyond ten years -- but lived to have a family, be a skier and a hiker -- to have a full life. Her kind surgeon said that her heart was beginning to fail and that this surgery would prolong her amazing life -- a mother of four daughters, 12-24 -- a church music director -- a substitute teacher -- wife, mother and friend to so many. Her fatality risk was just 2%. But I had a funny feeling. For weeks before her surgery, I had daydreams of her death -- and then beat myself up for my faithlessness. The day of her actual surgery I had real dreams -- bad dreams. Dreams where she didn't wake up. And she didn't.

My last memories of my mother were of her birthday -- where we all gathered around her and celebrated her beautiful life -- and then not quite two weeks later of her awkward embarrassment telling us of how they had to shave her entire body to prepare her for surgery -- and how she was yellow from a coating of betadine. She was a little high from her pre-op drugs, so we were all sort of "light," but then the dreams came upon me in the surgical waiting room. It was May, so I had brought notes and books to study for finals, but just slept instead -- until my dreams woke me with dread. And my worst fears were met: her heart would not beat. The last time I saw my mother, she was on a heart-lung machine. Of course we truly believed that she had heard our assurances of love by squeezing our hands, but now, as an adult -- I know that was only in our hopeful minds. She had pretty much already died. The unheard of, tragic death of my mother changed me forever. I was 19 -- on the cusp of young adulthood and being teenaged. "Motherless Daughters," a book by Hope Edelman, explains so succinctly how I suffered from being both. Gone was the carefree girl who made music, created recipes, designed clothes ... replaced by a more serious young woman who worked hard to continue in her own vein. It reminds me of "This little light of mine" ... hidden under a bushel. Somehow I finished college and graduated with honors. My senior year, I fell in love with David. He saved me from grief. He loved me like I had never been loved. Joy returned to my being.

My dad had a stroke my first year out of college. I remember everything about that night -- including distracting him from my sister, whom I was desperately coaxing to call an ambulance, probably scared myself to do it because he was adamantly forbidding it. I remember driving to the hospital that night -- probably in a panic -- but I don't remember anything else about that event. Weird. Just a few weeks later, David and I had a serious car accident in freezing rain. I remember only hearing the activity in the ER as they discussed my condition and cut off my clothes -- and later waking in the ICU to the concerned faces of a sister and my father. I stayed there for a week, suffering from a concussion and fractured pelvis. We were really having some fun!

My next significant hospital experience was the birth of my daughter. It was not an easy delivery -- I endured 26 hours of labor, which failed to progress ... but I was finally rewarded with the most beautiful creature I have ever been blessed to behold -- still, to this day. My own hospital experience was less than stellar. It was a holiday weekend and they pretty much starved me, ignored and betrayed my birth plan, barely gave me any care at all, added insult to injury by surprising me with a measles shot (again, in the behind) and then sent me home, barely able to walk, and with a very fussy baby. Nonethless, I had the prize in my arms (all day and night, it seemed). My son was born 20 months later -- after only 23 hours of labor! and a little bit better experience all-around. I was no longer a new mother, but one who was willing to thumb my nose at the nurses and do what I wanted with my own baby, who was most content just to cozily laze in my arms. That hospital did not allow "rooming in," so I had to figure a way around that ... and I did. Ha. That was my first taste of a rebellious nature, and it was really quite satisfying.

A year and a half later, my father died in yet another Pennsylvania hospital. We had just spent Thanksgiving with him and I knew he was not well. I feared that he was dying. He firmly sent me home. To this day, I believe that he did not want me to be there for what was coming. I believe that he lovingly spared me from another hospital death. Not quite a year later, I was in the ER again -- with my baby boy on my hip listening to a doctor tell me about my husband's brain tumor. I remember feeling a paralysis spread down my lower back and I was unable to move as he described microscopic "tentacles" reaching out from the tumor into the brain tissue. I looked at the CT scan then back at him and said, "You can't remove that." Moments later, I was chasing David's gurney upon which he was strapped, paralyzed and intubated for a helicopter flight to a Northern Virginia hospital for emergency brain surgery. I had predicted this one, too and, again, I couldn't even say good bye.