Up, down, up, down. This starting a new life outside of my house, away from my books and TV, beyond my computer, and despite chronic pain has become a bit of a roller coaster ride, and I have never ridden a roller coaster I didn't hate. The only thing keeping me going is that I do like to be taller than the trees once in a while.
Now I'm not talking stuck in Stygian depths here, with Hecate as my only companion, nor bounding joyfully through the forest with Artemis, chasing deer and young men with a bevy of beautiful maidens. I'm talking just the regular ups and downs of normal life, but it's been so long since I've had a "normal life" that I can hardly remember what it was like. But I do know when I let go of worrying, life flows much smoother.
My present normal life includes volunteering at a local hospital with the Guided Imagery/Gentle Touch Program, a modified yoga class, going to my trainer for an hated hour at the gym, spending a bit of time with Meg and Myla, and trying to do a bit of housework now and then. I have also bought a (cheap) sewing machine, and am learning to sew. For an enjoyable couple of months I spent one afternoon a week "eldersitting" the mother of a friend of a friend in a the retirement center of a convalescent center. Camille was funny and interesting and unable to talk, but her Alzheimer's worsened quite suddenly and she had to be moved. I'll still drop by to see her, but less frequently, and for briefer periods, once she is settled in her new nursing home.
This morning I went to a fund raiser walk for cancer to do gentle touch on the volunteer walkers as they took breaks from soldering on in the pouring rain. It is interesting to do gentle touch without the guided imagery part (it was too noisy to be heard easily, and it's tough to be screaming something like, "Now take a slow deep breath and let go of tension on the exhale" when the noise level is beyond belief because all activities had to happen in the gym due to the rain). It was also nice to be able to offer a small gift to the walkers, many of whom are survivors themselves, of course.
Sometimes I still wish. I wish I had my old job back. I wish I still had a partner (although perhaps not Rene). I wish the pain would ease off enough so I could live without narcotics, no matter how carefully prescribed and taken. I wish I had a retirement fund. I wish I had some of my old friends back, and had the energy and extroversion to attract new ones. I wish I didn't need a cane or walker to cover ground. If wishes were horses, I would ride saddleless across green fields with my hair streaming out behind me in the wind.
I am finding building a new life strenuous stuff, but I'm not sorry that I am who I am today-which is a direct result of my Big Fall on August 7. 2003. I go back to my early writings in July and August of '04 and find I was a different person then, more innocent about a lot of things, secretly thinking I would go back to work at the prison, that somehow I would pull some rabbit out of my a** and have my old life back in some recognizable form.
Who knew that four years later I would-finally!- be working on an outside life again. Not I. There were times when I was not sure I would live long enough to have a new life, or care enough to consider it, and now I see this working on new life as a gift, a privilege, a challenge, a mountain I am somehow equipped to deal with, valuing the good days, accepting the bad, allowing for the occasional misery that seeps over me and the loneliness that shows me that I am not yet ready for intimate relationships (and I don't mean sexual here) but still knowing that I will be ready eventually. (Aside: boy, it's nice to let a run on sentence run on out sometimes!)
On to a less introspective item of intense interest to me and not too many others. Now you may not care, but today Yale beat Harvard in the JV and Varsity races at the annual Harvard/Yale Regatta (also known as the Yale/Harvard Regatta), which is the longest running intercollegiate sporting event in the country. Going on 127 years. Or something like that. I forget. But Yale won!!!!!!!!!!
Why should I, a graduate of Connecticut College who never rowed so much as a rowboat in her whole life, care about such a win? You may well ask. It's because I live across the street from the Yale Rowing "Camp" where the boys come to train for the event (Harvard's boathouse is a half a mile down river.)They started racing on the Thames over 100 years ago, both colleges renting rooms from the Yankee neighbors, always happy for a few bucks, of course. Eventually the colleges brought property on the Thames, in Yale's case a couple of old houses, which have been added onto as the years have passed.
Now this is not a regular Regatta, where several colleges compete over a 1000 or 2000 meter course. No, this is just Harvard and Yale on a ball buster of a course (please excuse my language, but it is meant fairly literally). The freshmen race two miles, the JV race three miles and the Varsity race four interminable miles, a lung crushing, leg cramping, arm burning, stomach clenching distance which is unheard of in this day and age. And it is the four mile Varsity race that really matters. In the last 30 years, Yale has won the Varsity only six or seven times. Harvard's coach Harry Parker has had a real monopoly on this race for so long that some Yale alumnae have considered putting a hit out on him-or at least considered Voodoo (a religion I know a bit about, but not enough to assay such a curse)
And finally, finally Yale came through this year and won two out of the three. The Varsity came from way behind in the last half mile to win by three-tenths of a second. We cannot actually see the race from here, but listen to it on the radio, screaming across the river like they could hear us, scaring Myla no end in the process. Then we waited for them to exchange shirts with Harvard and row that last half mile back to the Yale dock, where they threw first the coxswain into the river, followed by the whole team jumping in, then the coach, followed by the whole team jumping in, while we-neighbors and parents of rowers and alumnae-all clapped and cheered and hooted.
So a good part of today was quite up, and all I can say is I am grateful.
Blessings, Margo
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Road Trips, Past and Future
Last weekend I went on a Quilt Shop Hop with my longtime friend Peggy. A Quilt Shop Hop like this is an opportunity for quilt shops to lure obsessed, addicted quilter into their stores to spend a lot of money they don't have on (sometimes) gorgeous material they may never use.
Should you not be a quilter, it works like this: a group of shops in a general area sell "passports" which need to be stamped at each and every shop in order to qualify for prizes which range from a super duper sewing machine, to "fat quarters" of fabric. (A fat quarter is a certain amount of material, the exact size of which I have yet to learn.) Along with the stamp, each shop gives out one part of quilt pattern. If one hits all stores, one has the whole quilt pattern to do, for free.
After one gets stamped, one then wanders around ooohing and ahhhing at material and quilting books and the amazing quilts most shops hang on their walls, often with the pattern and already chosen and cut fabric to make the quilt top.At a large extra cost, because all the choosing and cutting of fabric lengths has already been done.
I don't sew, therefore I don't quilt. At all. Never. And am highly unlikely to learn at this point in my life, what with my permanently injured right hand and all.
Peggy learned to sew at her mother's knees and makes wonderful quilts. (My mother had one arm and never sewed, either) Peg has enough spare fabric to make seven to ten huge quilts, all stored in her sewing room, and she has a small stash, compared to "real" quilters, she tells me.
So why was I along on a three day weekend to seven quilt stores in New Hampshire and Northern Massachusetts, you ask. Well, because it was a road trip, of course, with three nights in hotels, and an opportunity to go to the ocean. Plus, as Peggy is quick to add, I have a good eye for color. This is a rather startling fact we discovered three years ago when she made me a quilt for which I picked all the fabric. She has dragged me along to quilt shops with her ever since.
Now Peggy and I met when I was four and she was five. This August will mark 54 years of friendship. The last road trip we had been on together, however, was over 35 years ago, with our then-husbands along in tow. It was also the last time we had a major blow out that almost came to blows. ( Long story short, we wanted to set up camp in different spots, ended up screaming at each other, and stomped off in different directions, leaving out frightened husbands behind. They tentatively set up in a third spot and were both surprised and relieved when we turned up happily together, several hours later. Our mothers could have told them this was a normal occurrence, reverting back to five year olds.)
This was our first road trip since then, and while we knew blow outs were unlikely, we did wonder how well we'd travel together now, in our late 50's.
It was great! We had a wonderful time, even though I got tired of fabric stores, and took to reading while she bought still more fabric. I even bought a passport to have stamped, though it turned out neither of us won anything, alas.
After we finished the Shop Hop, we hit Newburyport, MA, like the tourists we were, going into the wonderful selection of clothing. Furniture, art, junco, and second hand stores the city offers. Peggy is always helpful in dragging my walker up and down steps, so I could hit as many stores as I liked. Our big purchases? Peg bought a pair of denim "I dream of Jeannie" pants, and I bought a cheap ring, both in a small head shop, which was affordable. We also had dinner with two of her old friends who now live in the area.
We spent a couple of early morning hours at the beach in Newbury, MA, too. These were perhaps the best hours of the whole trip.
This trip has hardened my desire to take my own Road Trip this fall, in late September or early October. I have never take a road trip alone. I have always gone with my mother and/or daughter or one spouse or the other, and have always pretty nicely compromised over the route or the speed or the accommodations or the tourist traps, or all these together. This next trip will be mine, all mine. Never mind that I can probably only drive a few hours a day, and will need to rest a lot and walk around a lot, and deal with pain a lot. Never mind that I will be low budgeting it, and will miss my daughter and granddaughter and dog. Never mind that I won't be able to go as far as I'd like, and visit all my J-Land friends, I am going to do it, anyway!
My tentative route will be from CT to DC through WV to KY (near Cincinnati) to Pittsburgh, PA, then home to CT. Do any of my readers live roughly along that route? I would be happy to take an extra day or two to swing by to meet you, just let me know! (Mort, do you want a visit from an odd lesbian from New England?) I will be staying in motels in some places, and hope to bunk down on a sofa in others. I don't care how neat or messy anyone's house is, I just want whatever adventure the trip can offer me. And I have to be as frugal as possible.
And I want to meet and talk to people, flirt with babies, exchange hellos with strangers. This will be the most difficult part, I think. Rene is very good at striking up conversations with anyone, I am shyer. I just hope that between scheduled visits I can have hello-where-are-you-from? kind of interactions, no big thing, but still tough for me. We'll see what happens. Now I am going to get my maps out and start daydreaming.
Blessings, Margo
Should you not be a quilter, it works like this: a group of shops in a general area sell "passports" which need to be stamped at each and every shop in order to qualify for prizes which range from a super duper sewing machine, to "fat quarters" of fabric. (A fat quarter is a certain amount of material, the exact size of which I have yet to learn.) Along with the stamp, each shop gives out one part of quilt pattern. If one hits all stores, one has the whole quilt pattern to do, for free.
After one gets stamped, one then wanders around ooohing and ahhhing at material and quilting books and the amazing quilts most shops hang on their walls, often with the pattern and already chosen and cut fabric to make the quilt top.At a large extra cost, because all the choosing and cutting of fabric lengths has already been done.
I don't sew, therefore I don't quilt. At all. Never. And am highly unlikely to learn at this point in my life, what with my permanently injured right hand and all.
Peggy learned to sew at her mother's knees and makes wonderful quilts. (My mother had one arm and never sewed, either) Peg has enough spare fabric to make seven to ten huge quilts, all stored in her sewing room, and she has a small stash, compared to "real" quilters, she tells me.
So why was I along on a three day weekend to seven quilt stores in New Hampshire and Northern Massachusetts, you ask. Well, because it was a road trip, of course, with three nights in hotels, and an opportunity to go to the ocean. Plus, as Peggy is quick to add, I have a good eye for color. This is a rather startling fact we discovered three years ago when she made me a quilt for which I picked all the fabric. She has dragged me along to quilt shops with her ever since.
Now Peggy and I met when I was four and she was five. This August will mark 54 years of friendship. The last road trip we had been on together, however, was over 35 years ago, with our then-husbands along in tow. It was also the last time we had a major blow out that almost came to blows. ( Long story short, we wanted to set up camp in different spots, ended up screaming at each other, and stomped off in different directions, leaving out frightened husbands behind. They tentatively set up in a third spot and were both surprised and relieved when we turned up happily together, several hours later. Our mothers could have told them this was a normal occurrence, reverting back to five year olds.)
This was our first road trip since then, and while we knew blow outs were unlikely, we did wonder how well we'd travel together now, in our late 50's.
It was great! We had a wonderful time, even though I got tired of fabric stores, and took to reading while she bought still more fabric. I even bought a passport to have stamped, though it turned out neither of us won anything, alas.
After we finished the Shop Hop, we hit Newburyport, MA, like the tourists we were, going into the wonderful selection of clothing. Furniture, art, junco, and second hand stores the city offers. Peggy is always helpful in dragging my walker up and down steps, so I could hit as many stores as I liked. Our big purchases? Peg bought a pair of denim "I dream of Jeannie" pants, and I bought a cheap ring, both in a small head shop, which was affordable. We also had dinner with two of her old friends who now live in the area.
We spent a couple of early morning hours at the beach in Newbury, MA, too. These were perhaps the best hours of the whole trip.
This trip has hardened my desire to take my own Road Trip this fall, in late September or early October. I have never take a road trip alone. I have always gone with my mother and/or daughter or one spouse or the other, and have always pretty nicely compromised over the route or the speed or the accommodations or the tourist traps, or all these together. This next trip will be mine, all mine. Never mind that I can probably only drive a few hours a day, and will need to rest a lot and walk around a lot, and deal with pain a lot. Never mind that I will be low budgeting it, and will miss my daughter and granddaughter and dog. Never mind that I won't be able to go as far as I'd like, and visit all my J-Land friends, I am going to do it, anyway!
My tentative route will be from CT to DC through WV to KY (near Cincinnati) to Pittsburgh, PA, then home to CT. Do any of my readers live roughly along that route? I would be happy to take an extra day or two to swing by to meet you, just let me know! (Mort, do you want a visit from an odd lesbian from New England?) I will be staying in motels in some places, and hope to bunk down on a sofa in others. I don't care how neat or messy anyone's house is, I just want whatever adventure the trip can offer me. And I have to be as frugal as possible.
And I want to meet and talk to people, flirt with babies, exchange hellos with strangers. This will be the most difficult part, I think. Rene is very good at striking up conversations with anyone, I am shyer. I just hope that between scheduled visits I can have hello-where-are-you-from? kind of interactions, no big thing, but still tough for me. We'll see what happens. Now I am going to get my maps out and start daydreaming.
Blessings, Margo
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Alive and Wondering- me & Mom, too
Amazingly enough, my mother is home and doing well. She never even had to go to rehab, though her balance is still off a bit because her left eye is still blurry. She has a physical therapist coming in twice a week to help her walk more steadily, and she has now lived to see her 82nd birthday, which was Wednesday.
I am so appreciative of the prayers, energy, thoughts everybody sent her way-her recovery is a response to such kindness that poured out of all my readers, and I am so beyond grateful I have no words beyond: Thank You All. Your support truly got me through in a way I could not have otherwise.
I am still processing the aftermath of the experience, however, and have been meditating in my own way about family dynamics. What has come to mind is the myth of Demeter and Persephone. (For a brief synopsis of the myth go here: http://www.pantheon.org/articles/p/persephone.html) In one view, psychologically, Demeter and Persephone are almost too entwined, and Demeter's response to Persephone's abduction is so strong that she withdraws from the world completely. I have been wondering how Persephone would have responded if Demeter had been abducted. And how intertwined I am with my own mother. And why.
"I did think briefly about letting go, but I couldn't go yet," she told me, "you are not ready for that yet. Me, either." She told me when she was finally compos mentis (sp?) again.
My own response to the inevitability of my mother's death brings up such a rush of sorrow and desolation that it is scary. I told her later that when it is her time to let go, I will be all right-and I know I will be able to work through the pain-but it made me wonder a bit about what kind of bond we have. Two years ago, when she was so sick that Luke called me to come quick because the doctordid not believe she would live, she turned the corner as soon as she realized I was there. Everyone was amazed, but she told me the same thing, in different words, as soon as we were alone.
Careful, subtle questioning has lead me to believe she has not said anything similar to my siblings or father. I don't quite get it yet, and maybe I never will, but I have been pondering it a lot lately. Demeter was(is) immortal, so Persephone really never had to face her mother's death. But I believe she would have been able to move on if her mother had been mortal. Death of our parents is something we all have to mourn, move through and keep living with wholeness.
I think I am afraid that my mother doesn't want to let go because she fears for me, and I don't want her to do that. But I cannot change her, I can only continue to work on my own changes. And, of course, I do want her to keep living as long as she has quality of life. We still have to go to Taos next May.
Perhaps I am not making much sense, but it doesn't matter. I will continue to meditate on it, and am very grateful she is still with us.
Meanwhile, my "real life" is taking off at what is (for me) warp speed. (Part of me wants to laugh at this, for it is snail slow compared to my last life.) I finish my orientation at the hospital this week, so will be able to start doing real Gentle Touch/Guided Imagery the following week. I will be working on the Ortho Floor-the same one on which I had such a terrible, enraging experience four years ago. I still hold some anger, but am pleased that I can help change to culture of the floor even a little bit.
One afternoon a week I am also elder-sitting a friend of a friend's mother who is in the early stages of Alzheimer's Disease. And I am spending an hour a week with Glenn, my trainer. And going to at least one or two DR's appointments a week. And, six months after anesthesia and surgery, I can finally concentrate enough to read books again, and am having a small orgy of catching up. And I have discovered clothes shopping. Almost all my life I've shopped in Large Women's Stores, or online. Suddenly I fit into clothes from regular stores! I must be careful not to turn this new hobby into an expensive ongoing orgy, though I really need everything from undies to jeans and tops.
I am still trying to figure out how to do all this, and still get enough rest, but like everything else, I'll work it through, and get stronger in the process.
Blessings, Margo
I am so appreciative of the prayers, energy, thoughts everybody sent her way-her recovery is a response to such kindness that poured out of all my readers, and I am so beyond grateful I have no words beyond: Thank You All. Your support truly got me through in a way I could not have otherwise.
I am still processing the aftermath of the experience, however, and have been meditating in my own way about family dynamics. What has come to mind is the myth of Demeter and Persephone. (For a brief synopsis of the myth go here: http://www.pantheon.org/articles/p/persephone.html) In one view, psychologically, Demeter and Persephone are almost too entwined, and Demeter's response to Persephone's abduction is so strong that she withdraws from the world completely. I have been wondering how Persephone would have responded if Demeter had been abducted. And how intertwined I am with my own mother. And why.
"I did think briefly about letting go, but I couldn't go yet," she told me, "you are not ready for that yet. Me, either." She told me when she was finally compos mentis (sp?) again.
My own response to the inevitability of my mother's death brings up such a rush of sorrow and desolation that it is scary. I told her later that when it is her time to let go, I will be all right-and I know I will be able to work through the pain-but it made me wonder a bit about what kind of bond we have. Two years ago, when she was so sick that Luke called me to come quick because the doctordid not believe she would live, she turned the corner as soon as she realized I was there. Everyone was amazed, but she told me the same thing, in different words, as soon as we were alone.
Careful, subtle questioning has lead me to believe she has not said anything similar to my siblings or father. I don't quite get it yet, and maybe I never will, but I have been pondering it a lot lately. Demeter was(is) immortal, so Persephone really never had to face her mother's death. But I believe she would have been able to move on if her mother had been mortal. Death of our parents is something we all have to mourn, move through and keep living with wholeness.
I think I am afraid that my mother doesn't want to let go because she fears for me, and I don't want her to do that. But I cannot change her, I can only continue to work on my own changes. And, of course, I do want her to keep living as long as she has quality of life. We still have to go to Taos next May.
Perhaps I am not making much sense, but it doesn't matter. I will continue to meditate on it, and am very grateful she is still with us.
Meanwhile, my "real life" is taking off at what is (for me) warp speed. (Part of me wants to laugh at this, for it is snail slow compared to my last life.) I finish my orientation at the hospital this week, so will be able to start doing real Gentle Touch/Guided Imagery the following week. I will be working on the Ortho Floor-the same one on which I had such a terrible, enraging experience four years ago. I still hold some anger, but am pleased that I can help change to culture of the floor even a little bit.
One afternoon a week I am also elder-sitting a friend of a friend's mother who is in the early stages of Alzheimer's Disease. And I am spending an hour a week with Glenn, my trainer. And going to at least one or two DR's appointments a week. And, six months after anesthesia and surgery, I can finally concentrate enough to read books again, and am having a small orgy of catching up. And I have discovered clothes shopping. Almost all my life I've shopped in Large Women's Stores, or online. Suddenly I fit into clothes from regular stores! I must be careful not to turn this new hobby into an expensive ongoing orgy, though I really need everything from undies to jeans and tops.
I am still trying to figure out how to do all this, and still get enough rest, but like everything else, I'll work it through, and get stronger in the process.
Blessings, Margo
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Brain Surgery, Day Seven
This will be my last post from Denver on Mother's Brain Bleed. One week later she is doing amazingly well. She was happy this morning because she had finally gotten her hair washed, and could begin to see the magnitude of her scar-starting on her forehead, above her left temple, then all the way around in a loop that ends behind her left ear. She is amazed, and rather proud of the head scar. She was less happy to discover that she has stitches beside, and below her left eye, but came 'round to a more philosophical point of view shortly. "At least I can see out of it, though it's still rather blurry."
She blows me away.
She will be going from the hospital to a rehab place where my sister-in-law's sister-in-law. Glenda, is an administrator. She will look after Mom well, I know. Mom is not happy about this, but is resigned to going. She knows that the schedule in rehab is a good deal more rigorous than her schedule would have been if she came right home. On the other hand, her depth perception and balance are off, not to mention her double vision, so she's also scared to come right home from the hospital. (Thank Goodness!)
Dad seems to be into denial about how close a call this was, and resentful that I can understand what the doctors are saying better than him (he's pretty deaf, too). It makes me sad that we don't know each other well enough to discuss what's going on, but I see that he, quite literally, does not have the understanding of how to discuss painful stuff, and has no interest in trying. It's too scary for him.
I recognize control issues on both sides-his and mine-and know that I have to let go tomorrow, and pack up and leave early Saturday. I know that he-and my brother Luke who lives nearby-will do fine without me, but letting go will be painful. I'll do it, of course, cheerfully and with great love to Mom, then go out to the car to cry.
I know that in my own way I am as strong as my mother, just more in touch with my feelings. And I know that my parents lean on each other, after 58 years of marriage, and am glad they have each other, no matter what their past may have held.
I won't write again until I get home and resettled, but must add once again how much I have appreciated your prayers and support during this painful time, and how much they have meant to my mother, as well.
Blessings, Margo
She blows me away.
She will be going from the hospital to a rehab place where my sister-in-law's sister-in-law. Glenda, is an administrator. She will look after Mom well, I know. Mom is not happy about this, but is resigned to going. She knows that the schedule in rehab is a good deal more rigorous than her schedule would have been if she came right home. On the other hand, her depth perception and balance are off, not to mention her double vision, so she's also scared to come right home from the hospital. (Thank Goodness!)
Dad seems to be into denial about how close a call this was, and resentful that I can understand what the doctors are saying better than him (he's pretty deaf, too). It makes me sad that we don't know each other well enough to discuss what's going on, but I see that he, quite literally, does not have the understanding of how to discuss painful stuff, and has no interest in trying. It's too scary for him.
I recognize control issues on both sides-his and mine-and know that I have to let go tomorrow, and pack up and leave early Saturday. I know that he-and my brother Luke who lives nearby-will do fine without me, but letting go will be painful. I'll do it, of course, cheerfully and with great love to Mom, then go out to the car to cry.
I know that in my own way I am as strong as my mother, just more in touch with my feelings. And I know that my parents lean on each other, after 58 years of marriage, and am glad they have each other, no matter what their past may have held.
I won't write again until I get home and resettled, but must add once again how much I have appreciated your prayers and support during this painful time, and how much they have meant to my mother, as well.
Blessings, Margo
Monday, April 16, 2007
It's very late, and I have the "first shift" at the hospital tomorrow, so I should be long asleep, but I wanted to say that my mother is doing much, much better today. Her bad eye has opened a crack, and she can see out of it some-thanks to the best eye surgeon the hospital has, who just happened to be passing through, 20 minutes before she was rolled into surgery. He made it joint surgery immediately.
She had her glasses on and hearing aide in when I got there, mid-afternoon-Allison had the first shift today. Luke and Mary arrived shortly afterwards, so I left to give them some time alone with her. When I returned an hour later she was up and sitting in her chair, having walked around her room with one of the physical therapists. Tomorrow, if she continues to improve, the powers that be will take out at least one of her IV's, and her catheter, and maybe even move her off the floor to a regular med/surge hall.
She still gets confused a bit-a while after the nurse told her that tomorrow shed would be able to use the toilet, heavily stressing only with a nurse helping. Twenty minutes later she told me she could go to the bathroom alone tomorrow, only to have all of us, Luke, Mary, and me leap down her throat with a chorus of NO's. Oh yes, she said, now I remember.But she was joking about what hair style she'd have to have for Catherine's wedding two minutes later, as I carefully combed some of the blood out of her hair. We had her laughing uproariously with a bunch of silly suggestions.
It is almost impossible to believe this is happening so fast when four days ago we thought she would die of a brain clot or the surgery to relieve it. As for my father, I recognize how scared he is of strong women who stand up for themselves against him. It doesn't happen often to him, and he was quite shaken by my strong and immediate response. Today he has reverted to type, acting as if the whole thing never happened. I can guarantee that I will not ostrich it away in my life, but I need time and space to look at the whole experience-and the dynamics which still can engulf me all too quickly if I do not work to stay focused, clear and open to Spirit.
My mother love him, without really understanding what she has missed by staying with him, and she has grown more slowly than Catherine and I have, but she has changed and is more able to take him on when it is important to her. (Margo and I are going to Taos: you'll be on your own for four days. She allowed him no comment and gave no explanation, and he said nothing back to her, though he hates to have be alone to cook for himself.I am so tired I am rambling, but wanted to let you who have become such a support system for me with your comments and concern, know how things are progressing.
Blessings, Margo
She had her glasses on and hearing aide in when I got there, mid-afternoon-Allison had the first shift today. Luke and Mary arrived shortly afterwards, so I left to give them some time alone with her. When I returned an hour later she was up and sitting in her chair, having walked around her room with one of the physical therapists. Tomorrow, if she continues to improve, the powers that be will take out at least one of her IV's, and her catheter, and maybe even move her off the floor to a regular med/surge hall.
She still gets confused a bit-a while after the nurse told her that tomorrow shed would be able to use the toilet, heavily stressing only with a nurse helping. Twenty minutes later she told me she could go to the bathroom alone tomorrow, only to have all of us, Luke, Mary, and me leap down her throat with a chorus of NO's. Oh yes, she said, now I remember.But she was joking about what hair style she'd have to have for Catherine's wedding two minutes later, as I carefully combed some of the blood out of her hair. We had her laughing uproariously with a bunch of silly suggestions.
It is almost impossible to believe this is happening so fast when four days ago we thought she would die of a brain clot or the surgery to relieve it. As for my father, I recognize how scared he is of strong women who stand up for themselves against him. It doesn't happen often to him, and he was quite shaken by my strong and immediate response. Today he has reverted to type, acting as if the whole thing never happened. I can guarantee that I will not ostrich it away in my life, but I need time and space to look at the whole experience-and the dynamics which still can engulf me all too quickly if I do not work to stay focused, clear and open to Spirit.
My mother love him, without really understanding what she has missed by staying with him, and she has grown more slowly than Catherine and I have, but she has changed and is more able to take him on when it is important to her. (Margo and I are going to Taos: you'll be on your own for four days. She allowed him no comment and gave no explanation, and he said nothing back to her, though he hates to have be alone to cook for himself.I am so tired I am rambling, but wanted to let you who have become such a support system for me with your comments and concern, know how things are progressing.
Blessings, Margo
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Brain Surgery-Day Th\ree, but One Day Late
I want to thank everybody again for prayers, good thoughts, energy sent across the county and the Pond for my mother, who continues-much too slowly for all of us-to recover. Her personality is there-stubborn, complaining, but wanting to do stuff for herself until she tires. And her sense of humor is intact. She will catch up, I think, to her old self eventually. Thank all Holy Deities, male and female, and all else the is out there for healing.
She has always seen herself as "not much more than a housewife" and as not doing so great with her kids. Luke and I gave her problems in our teens, and she has been worried a lot about Catherine more recently. And to be blunt, it was not a happy home to grow up in, nor a happy marriage for many years (though after 59 years they have worked out a way of living together, with no intimacy of any sort, but acceptable companionship). But I see her a a woman as strong as an ox, an amazing example.
In the last 4 years she has survived cancer, radiation, chemo, obstructed bowel(twice!)-both of which nearly killed her, and now this fall and brain surgery. All this with her personality and odd sense of humor intact. So what if she's still confused about where she is at times, and looks like she went 10 rounds with Mohammed Ali in his prime. She is quite incredible, and is obviously where I got what ever it is that keeps me crawling back from depression, abandonment, and ten surgeries in fourteen years!
She even called this morning with a request for a sweater, books, a pad and pencil, and a hearing aide battery. Considering one eye is so swollen shut the doctor cannot pry it open, and the other is a barely a slit, and wearing her hearing aide on her swollen left side-just under her surgical scar-is painful, I'd say she is plugging along quite well, all things considered. She's my hero.
Of course, now that the crisis has abated a bit, family dynamics has raised its ugly head. Both Luke and my father want control of her medical situation- a repeat of two years ago which climaxed in a shouting match in her hospital room. The doctor sided with my father, after which Luke stayed away for over six months (and remember, he's the one who lives out here) I don't care who controls her medical info, I just want to make sure no errors are made in her medical care-which I have painfully come to see as wanting a kind of control myself.
Where I need to be is willing to help where ever I can, even though she tells me she does not want Mary and Luke to visit at all, and Allison (my dad) only for an hour or so a day. And when she begs me to stay with her, to tell them that, I have to tell her gently that I cannot do that-they love her, too, and are worried and want to be with her. She hurrumphs, and calls me a disobedient daughter, then smiles a bit. When they are there she keeps urging then to go, and I bite my tongue to say nothing-because they do love her and want to see her as much as I do. She has never told me to leave, and I think it's because I have a nurses aide background (two or three lifetimes ago) and am used to dealing with most anything (except my family) due to my HIV testing and counseling background, working in prison. I can anticipate her needs and advocate. gently, to her nurses.
Last night we were all there when my father and I had a big go around. Apparently he felt I was not moving away from her fast enough when she needed to sleep (my suggestion in the first place). I was murmuring to her about taking slow deep breaths and relaxing, and was completely surprised when he jumped up, marched across the room and hit me-hard-on the shoulder, ordering me away from her. I moved away all right, enraged, right over to him. I had completely lost it. "You will never hit me again, " I hissed at him. He leapt up balling his fist, obviously afraid I would hit him back. I would never do so, and the fact that he was afraid of me tells me how little he knows me. "You will never hit me again, I said loudly. He refused, just as loudly, to go into the hall so I could tell him why I had lingered for no more that 30 extra seconds at her side (She and I had worked out a way that I helped her relax into sleep, a 30 second relaxation technique, that she liked) and I was so furious I found myself wanting to hit him back out of sheer frustration. My brother helpfully chimed in that I should have moved sooner, and this was not to place to argue it out. Flames to the fire. I wanted to slug him hard enough to knock him out (something I learned, by the way, in boot camp before I worked at the prison, and wasn't half bad at).
Instead, of course, I took several deep breaths and moved my walker to the far side of the room, where I sat flashing on the three times I saw him hit her, and the time he pushed her so hard that she cracked her ribs so badly she spent a week in the hospital, something Mom told me about quite graphically later. And the number of times I'd been hit, too.
On the other side of the room he was yelling at me that it was my fault she fell (she had insisted on giving me her bedroom and was sleeping on an expensive blowup bed in the living room when she fell on her way to the bathroom) and I was to get o ut right nowand be on the next fight out of Denver because I was not welcome in his house.
I took several slow deep breaths and looked across at this frail old man with emphysema, so totally unable to do anything with his anger that he had to hit and threaten and could not even look me in the eye, or consent to go into the hall so I could explain why I had not moved away from his wife in his time frame. I struggled, somewhat successfully, to let go of the anger, to see his fear at her illness and his feeling of loss of control, and his lifelong unwillingness and inability to deal with feelings, happy or angry or sad. For whom intimidation, withdrawal into his own head, and occasionally hitting, literally and figuratively, was the only way he has to express what he feels, and I felt unbelievably sad for him.
I said, quietly, but so that he could hear me, that I was not going home on the next plane, that Mom had invited me to stay, and I would, and he must never hit me again. He did not respond, though I knew he heard me. At that point Mary, the eternally chipper one, chimed in that we were all invited to her brother and sister-in-law's for dinner, and she would not take no for an answer, so we kissed Mom good night, one by one and put on our happy family faces as we trooped off to Scott and Glenda's for a very nice dinner, most of which I could not eat. Dad and I had separate cars (remember, I will not drive with him) and came home and went to bed without speaking.
This morning, as he was leaving for the hospital, I said we had to talk. As he looked away, I calmly and quietly apologized for my anger and ill behavior the night before, explained what I had been doing with Mom-something we has worked out together before the surgery while he was not there (he left at 2:00PM the day of the fall, and did not return until I called at 8:00 PM to tell him about the surgery. He was already in bed at the time) and that I needed him to know he was never to hit me again. He kept looking away, silent, until I told him I needed to hear it from him, and -finally- he muttered that he would never hit me again. And I could let go of a good big knot of my anger, finally. But not all of it, of course.
Reading this makes him look like a constant abuser, and he wasn't. It usually happened when he'd had too much to drink, and (I believe) the abuse tapered off as we left home, and he began to drink much less. I do not know this for sure, and of course, we did not call it abuse 25 or 30 years ago. Mom truly believes that she provoked him, and, though we have talked about abuse as adults, she still only half believes that how ever she provoked him, hitting her was abusive. She has told me he hasn't touched her in over 20 years, and it's all in the past, when we didn't know about abuse anyway, and it is a subject I am not to bring up in front of him, ever. I will respect her request, but smolder because it is just one more secret we keep as a family full of secrets and disconnection.
I do really feel badly for both of them, caught in a dance of 59 years, unable to do much more than hold on, each wishing for a life the other cannot give. And I know I can give him nothing, and my mother only my occasional presence and laughter and maybe-someday-before she dies, onelast trip to Taos.
Now I am off to the hospital for my shift, and will stay in a waiting room during the 2 hour rest period, while Dad comes home to rest, and we'll all be there until Luke and Mary arrive, after a day of skiing. Then back here, to our bedrooms, and again tomorrow, when I have the early shift...
And I just hope to Goddess she continues to return to us, to heal from the fall, and we can all help her in some small was, despite out very different out looks.
Blessings-and I need them- Margo
She has always seen herself as "not much more than a housewife" and as not doing so great with her kids. Luke and I gave her problems in our teens, and she has been worried a lot about Catherine more recently. And to be blunt, it was not a happy home to grow up in, nor a happy marriage for many years (though after 59 years they have worked out a way of living together, with no intimacy of any sort, but acceptable companionship). But I see her a a woman as strong as an ox, an amazing example.
In the last 4 years she has survived cancer, radiation, chemo, obstructed bowel(twice!)-both of which nearly killed her, and now this fall and brain surgery. All this with her personality and odd sense of humor intact. So what if she's still confused about where she is at times, and looks like she went 10 rounds with Mohammed Ali in his prime. She is quite incredible, and is obviously where I got what ever it is that keeps me crawling back from depression, abandonment, and ten surgeries in fourteen years!
She even called this morning with a request for a sweater, books, a pad and pencil, and a hearing aide battery. Considering one eye is so swollen shut the doctor cannot pry it open, and the other is a barely a slit, and wearing her hearing aide on her swollen left side-just under her surgical scar-is painful, I'd say she is plugging along quite well, all things considered. She's my hero.
Of course, now that the crisis has abated a bit, family dynamics has raised its ugly head. Both Luke and my father want control of her medical situation- a repeat of two years ago which climaxed in a shouting match in her hospital room. The doctor sided with my father, after which Luke stayed away for over six months (and remember, he's the one who lives out here) I don't care who controls her medical info, I just want to make sure no errors are made in her medical care-which I have painfully come to see as wanting a kind of control myself.
Where I need to be is willing to help where ever I can, even though she tells me she does not want Mary and Luke to visit at all, and Allison (my dad) only for an hour or so a day. And when she begs me to stay with her, to tell them that, I have to tell her gently that I cannot do that-they love her, too, and are worried and want to be with her. She hurrumphs, and calls me a disobedient daughter, then smiles a bit. When they are there she keeps urging then to go, and I bite my tongue to say nothing-because they do love her and want to see her as much as I do. She has never told me to leave, and I think it's because I have a nurses aide background (two or three lifetimes ago) and am used to dealing with most anything (except my family) due to my HIV testing and counseling background, working in prison. I can anticipate her needs and advocate. gently, to her nurses.
Last night we were all there when my father and I had a big go around. Apparently he felt I was not moving away from her fast enough when she needed to sleep (my suggestion in the first place). I was murmuring to her about taking slow deep breaths and relaxing, and was completely surprised when he jumped up, marched across the room and hit me-hard-on the shoulder, ordering me away from her. I moved away all right, enraged, right over to him. I had completely lost it. "You will never hit me again, " I hissed at him. He leapt up balling his fist, obviously afraid I would hit him back. I would never do so, and the fact that he was afraid of me tells me how little he knows me. "You will never hit me again, I said loudly. He refused, just as loudly, to go into the hall so I could tell him why I had lingered for no more that 30 extra seconds at her side (She and I had worked out a way that I helped her relax into sleep, a 30 second relaxation technique, that she liked) and I was so furious I found myself wanting to hit him back out of sheer frustration. My brother helpfully chimed in that I should have moved sooner, and this was not to place to argue it out. Flames to the fire. I wanted to slug him hard enough to knock him out (something I learned, by the way, in boot camp before I worked at the prison, and wasn't half bad at).
Instead, of course, I took several deep breaths and moved my walker to the far side of the room, where I sat flashing on the three times I saw him hit her, and the time he pushed her so hard that she cracked her ribs so badly she spent a week in the hospital, something Mom told me about quite graphically later. And the number of times I'd been hit, too.
On the other side of the room he was yelling at me that it was my fault she fell (she had insisted on giving me her bedroom and was sleeping on an expensive blowup bed in the living room when she fell on her way to the bathroom) and I was to get o ut right nowand be on the next fight out of Denver because I was not welcome in his house.
I took several slow deep breaths and looked across at this frail old man with emphysema, so totally unable to do anything with his anger that he had to hit and threaten and could not even look me in the eye, or consent to go into the hall so I could explain why I had not moved away from his wife in his time frame. I struggled, somewhat successfully, to let go of the anger, to see his fear at her illness and his feeling of loss of control, and his lifelong unwillingness and inability to deal with feelings, happy or angry or sad. For whom intimidation, withdrawal into his own head, and occasionally hitting, literally and figuratively, was the only way he has to express what he feels, and I felt unbelievably sad for him.
I said, quietly, but so that he could hear me, that I was not going home on the next plane, that Mom had invited me to stay, and I would, and he must never hit me again. He did not respond, though I knew he heard me. At that point Mary, the eternally chipper one, chimed in that we were all invited to her brother and sister-in-law's for dinner, and she would not take no for an answer, so we kissed Mom good night, one by one and put on our happy family faces as we trooped off to Scott and Glenda's for a very nice dinner, most of which I could not eat. Dad and I had separate cars (remember, I will not drive with him) and came home and went to bed without speaking.
This morning, as he was leaving for the hospital, I said we had to talk. As he looked away, I calmly and quietly apologized for my anger and ill behavior the night before, explained what I had been doing with Mom-something we has worked out together before the surgery while he was not there (he left at 2:00PM the day of the fall, and did not return until I called at 8:00 PM to tell him about the surgery. He was already in bed at the time) and that I needed him to know he was never to hit me again. He kept looking away, silent, until I told him I needed to hear it from him, and -finally- he muttered that he would never hit me again. And I could let go of a good big knot of my anger, finally. But not all of it, of course.
Reading this makes him look like a constant abuser, and he wasn't. It usually happened when he'd had too much to drink, and (I believe) the abuse tapered off as we left home, and he began to drink much less. I do not know this for sure, and of course, we did not call it abuse 25 or 30 years ago. Mom truly believes that she provoked him, and, though we have talked about abuse as adults, she still only half believes that how ever she provoked him, hitting her was abusive. She has told me he hasn't touched her in over 20 years, and it's all in the past, when we didn't know about abuse anyway, and it is a subject I am not to bring up in front of him, ever. I will respect her request, but smolder because it is just one more secret we keep as a family full of secrets and disconnection.
I do really feel badly for both of them, caught in a dance of 59 years, unable to do much more than hold on, each wishing for a life the other cannot give. And I know I can give him nothing, and my mother only my occasional presence and laughter and maybe-someday-before she dies, onelast trip to Taos.
Now I am off to the hospital for my shift, and will stay in a waiting room during the 2 hour rest period, while Dad comes home to rest, and we'll all be there until Luke and Mary arrive, after a day of skiing. Then back here, to our bedrooms, and again tomorrow, when I have the early shift...
And I just hope to Goddess she continues to return to us, to heal from the fall, and we can all help her in some small was, despite out very different out looks.
Blessings-and I need them- Margo
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Brain Surgery, Day Two
My mother is alive and reasonably compos mentis in Littleton Hospital today. Thank Goddesses. God, The Light of the Universe, Allah, and anything else out there with positive powers. And thanks to all who prayed or send thoughts and energy or whatever spiritual practice anyone does. Today was also long and difficult, but so much better than yesterday that I am not complaining at all.
She actually looked worse when I got there around noon, eyes blacker, bruises running down her left cheek, occasional bloody "tears" running down her face from her swollen shut eye and neck and a "turban" of gauze which has all sorts of fluids leaking through. But she was propped up in bed complaining about all of this, sounding very much herself.
Dad had been there in the morning, Luke and Mary were there when I arrived, trying to "cheer her up" with lame jokes (Luke) and optimistic chatter (Mary.) I know how much Mom hates both kinds of attempted diversions, because she told me so yesterday morning after the possibility of surgery came up. She said it took too much energy to be polite to them, even though she loves them dearly. They finally left about 12:45 PM, and Mom slept.
It was clear she'd had a bad night, for she had long gauze strips tied to her hand and feet, and a wrap around her chest securing her gently to the bed. Luckily Allison (my father) didn't notice, and I learned later from her nurse she had been very agitated during the night, trying to yank out her catheter, and climb out of bed. After she kicked a nurse in the face, they had to restrain her. She would be so horrified by her actions that I'll never tell her this.
I spent the afternoon getting her off to sleep, so that as soon as she started snoring, some nurse or tech could arrive bedside to do something to wake her up again. Sometimes hospitals make no sense to me at all. Actually most of the time. She has the added burden of being profoundly deaf, and was unable to use her hearing aides. For her to understand people they had to lean close to her left cheek (the one blood was trickling down from the smashed, sutured eye) and speak slowly and clearly into her (still bloody) left ear. Nobody really did that except her nurse and I.
So I spent my afternoon hanging over her bed, translating what the doctors and nurses and dietitians were asking or telling her. At one quiet moment she asked me why she was so tired, and I leaned down to reminder her that she had just had major emergency brain surgery last night and was entitled to feel a bit spacey. It came like a revelation to both of us. She had not taken in all the explanations about surgery during the day, and I couldn't figure out why she had seemed so confused about it all afternoon.
Her co\mment? Gee, I am so glad to know it's over, I've been worrying when it was going to be done! She asked pertinent questions-who did the surgery, what was done, why didn't she remember (I told her it was because she was so heavily medicated, not that she disintegrated in front of my eyes over a terrifying 40 minutes), and no wonder her head and eye hurt so much last night. No wonder indeed!
So for most of the day her personality and sense of humor was intact, though she did have trouble understanding what other were saying to her, mostly because of her hearing, or lack there of, I think. Around 5:00 PM, however, she began to go down hill again, getting agitated and trying to climb out of bed. I began to experience the anxiety and fear of déjà vu. Luckily the neurosurgeon (who we all like a lot) arrived and said this happened to many elderly surgical patients. As the day ends they seem to recede or lose ground, just like Mom was doing, Then perk up again in the morning, with no memories of having had a bad evening or night. They sometimes refer to it as Sundowner's Syndrome.
After a shockingly brief debate with myself about staying to make sure she ate dinner, I decided to spare myself a second ordeal (though I could tell she was less confused than the night before) and bugged out. I do believe I am finally living out the recognition that taking care of me take precedence over taking care of others now and then. It's a healthy step which I took with no second guessing myself, and I am pleased.
Tomorrow still unknown. We seem to be living hour by hour at this point; at some point we'll move to day by day. She is still in critical condition, and quite unaware of the struggles which may lie ahead. But we had her for several hours today, loving us as we do her, and I am grateful.
Blessing on all of us, Margo
She actually looked worse when I got there around noon, eyes blacker, bruises running down her left cheek, occasional bloody "tears" running down her face from her swollen shut eye and neck and a "turban" of gauze which has all sorts of fluids leaking through. But she was propped up in bed complaining about all of this, sounding very much herself.
Dad had been there in the morning, Luke and Mary were there when I arrived, trying to "cheer her up" with lame jokes (Luke) and optimistic chatter (Mary.) I know how much Mom hates both kinds of attempted diversions, because she told me so yesterday morning after the possibility of surgery came up. She said it took too much energy to be polite to them, even though she loves them dearly. They finally left about 12:45 PM, and Mom slept.
It was clear she'd had a bad night, for she had long gauze strips tied to her hand and feet, and a wrap around her chest securing her gently to the bed. Luckily Allison (my father) didn't notice, and I learned later from her nurse she had been very agitated during the night, trying to yank out her catheter, and climb out of bed. After she kicked a nurse in the face, they had to restrain her. She would be so horrified by her actions that I'll never tell her this.
I spent the afternoon getting her off to sleep, so that as soon as she started snoring, some nurse or tech could arrive bedside to do something to wake her up again. Sometimes hospitals make no sense to me at all. Actually most of the time. She has the added burden of being profoundly deaf, and was unable to use her hearing aides. For her to understand people they had to lean close to her left cheek (the one blood was trickling down from the smashed, sutured eye) and speak slowly and clearly into her (still bloody) left ear. Nobody really did that except her nurse and I.
So I spent my afternoon hanging over her bed, translating what the doctors and nurses and dietitians were asking or telling her. At one quiet moment she asked me why she was so tired, and I leaned down to reminder her that she had just had major emergency brain surgery last night and was entitled to feel a bit spacey. It came like a revelation to both of us. She had not taken in all the explanations about surgery during the day, and I couldn't figure out why she had seemed so confused about it all afternoon.
Her co\mment? Gee, I am so glad to know it's over, I've been worrying when it was going to be done! She asked pertinent questions-who did the surgery, what was done, why didn't she remember (I told her it was because she was so heavily medicated, not that she disintegrated in front of my eyes over a terrifying 40 minutes), and no wonder her head and eye hurt so much last night. No wonder indeed!
So for most of the day her personality and sense of humor was intact, though she did have trouble understanding what other were saying to her, mostly because of her hearing, or lack there of, I think. Around 5:00 PM, however, she began to go down hill again, getting agitated and trying to climb out of bed. I began to experience the anxiety and fear of déjà vu. Luckily the neurosurgeon (who we all like a lot) arrived and said this happened to many elderly surgical patients. As the day ends they seem to recede or lose ground, just like Mom was doing, Then perk up again in the morning, with no memories of having had a bad evening or night. They sometimes refer to it as Sundowner's Syndrome.
After a shockingly brief debate with myself about staying to make sure she ate dinner, I decided to spare myself a second ordeal (though I could tell she was less confused than the night before) and bugged out. I do believe I am finally living out the recognition that taking care of me take precedence over taking care of others now and then. It's a healthy step which I took with no second guessing myself, and I am pleased.
Tomorrow still unknown. We seem to be living hour by hour at this point; at some point we'll move to day by day. She is still in critical condition, and quite unaware of the struggles which may lie ahead. But we had her for several hours today, loving us as we do her, and I am grateful.
Blessing on all of us, Margo
Friday, April 13, 2007
Brain Surgery, Unnexpectedly
Brain Surgery, Unexpectedly
It's 1:00 AM Denver time, and I am just back from the hospital, where my mother had emergency brain surgery to remove a blood clot six inches wide and a third of an inch thick. She also had major eye reconstruction surgery. She fell at 5:30 AM, on her way to the bathroom, hitting her left eye on something hard-we can't figure out what. It was clear it was bad immediately, but we were more worried about her losing the eye than anything else.
We were wrong. I followed the ambulance to the hospital, and after some tests, she was bitching about her pain, and saying only the money must keep the Denver Nuggets endure such misery, and indeed, she did look rather like a stitched up goalie. Magnificent black eyes and ragged line of stitches and all.
Then the CAT scan results came back-subdural hemaetoma, and a big one at that. Scary stuff a brain bleed.
The neurosurgeon said that since she was lucid and joking though excruciating pain, he wanted to take a wait and see approach. A second scan was essentially the same and she was lucid (though drugged and by then very unhappy. But still dictating lists of things for Dad and me to accomplish. All seemed okay. I came home for a couple of hours while Dad spelled me then went back about the time the second scan came back. The neurosurgeon said if it was his mother, he'd wait until after a morning CAT scan, and we'd see how she was doing then. Dad went home.
Mom was restless and uncomfortable in the bed but still talking to the nurse and me for another hour or so, then things began to slide downhill. Within an hour she was talking gibberish, trying to climb out of bed or yank the foley catheter out, reaching out for something or someone across the room, deteriorating so quickly in front of my eyes that, as I talked to her calmly and gently held her(only) hand down, in a small spare corner of my mind I was panicking more than ever before. I am good in a medical crisis, so I sounded calm and reasonable, reminding her over and over again where she was, what had happened, and why she could not get out of bed.
The nurse was very helpful as we tried to restrain Mom, but clearly it was time to call the doctor who arrived quickly and took one look and listen to the woman who had been joking with him about ice hockey at 4:00 PM, who was incoherent at 7:00 PM, and said he needed to operate. I called Dad, my brother Luke who lives in the Denver area, then Meg and my (emotionally fragile, bipolar) sister in Michigan, and a friend or two. The eye surgeon arrived and after looking at her eyes, announced he would be piggybacking on the brain surgery because there was a lot wrong with the eye. I am unclear about her eye problems, because I was too busy alerting the troops and praying to the Goddess that Dad and Luke would arrive before they wheeled her away.
Luckily they both did, along with Mary, Luke's wife. The surgeon pulled no punches-there were (and still are) no guarantees about her even living through the surgery, let alone what might happen if she did. We watched her get wheeled away, then retired to the waiting room Then I cried, despite the family taboo on emoting over anything. Dad got annoyed, Luke walked off, and Mary began to talk about how similar Dad and Luke's responses were-I cried until I was ready to stop, and we waited in a suspended animation of misery, for three and a half hours, until the surgeon reappeared.
Yes, she was alive, and breathing on her own, and still restless (now a good thing, because she was moving all extremities, and even almost semi-coherent in flashes. But, he added there are still no guarantees and he expects her to be very confused and more restless for several more days, then she'd need to go to a rehab place for a bit. If "nothing else happens"-a stroke, heart attack, thrombosis, and the list goes on.
But she's alive and fighting to get out of bed and we got to see her briefly after nearly two more hours in Recovery. She looked terrible, but she was telling the nurse where her chapstick was here at the house, and to go get it while she got up out of bed. We all had to give each other exhausted smiles, because, despite her confusion of place, she knew what she wanted and where it was-and she wanted it now, please.
Dad takes the first watch in the morning, and I'll go back about noon-it's almost 2:00 AM now, and I must go to bed. I just needed to write it down, share the fear and pain and struggle and hope and love today brought.
Blessings, Margo
It's 1:00 AM Denver time, and I am just back from the hospital, where my mother had emergency brain surgery to remove a blood clot six inches wide and a third of an inch thick. She also had major eye reconstruction surgery. She fell at 5:30 AM, on her way to the bathroom, hitting her left eye on something hard-we can't figure out what. It was clear it was bad immediately, but we were more worried about her losing the eye than anything else.
We were wrong. I followed the ambulance to the hospital, and after some tests, she was bitching about her pain, and saying only the money must keep the Denver Nuggets endure such misery, and indeed, she did look rather like a stitched up goalie. Magnificent black eyes and ragged line of stitches and all.
Then the CAT scan results came back-subdural hemaetoma, and a big one at that. Scary stuff a brain bleed.
The neurosurgeon said that since she was lucid and joking though excruciating pain, he wanted to take a wait and see approach. A second scan was essentially the same and she was lucid (though drugged and by then very unhappy. But still dictating lists of things for Dad and me to accomplish. All seemed okay. I came home for a couple of hours while Dad spelled me then went back about the time the second scan came back. The neurosurgeon said if it was his mother, he'd wait until after a morning CAT scan, and we'd see how she was doing then. Dad went home.
Mom was restless and uncomfortable in the bed but still talking to the nurse and me for another hour or so, then things began to slide downhill. Within an hour she was talking gibberish, trying to climb out of bed or yank the foley catheter out, reaching out for something or someone across the room, deteriorating so quickly in front of my eyes that, as I talked to her calmly and gently held her(only) hand down, in a small spare corner of my mind I was panicking more than ever before. I am good in a medical crisis, so I sounded calm and reasonable, reminding her over and over again where she was, what had happened, and why she could not get out of bed.
The nurse was very helpful as we tried to restrain Mom, but clearly it was time to call the doctor who arrived quickly and took one look and listen to the woman who had been joking with him about ice hockey at 4:00 PM, who was incoherent at 7:00 PM, and said he needed to operate. I called Dad, my brother Luke who lives in the Denver area, then Meg and my (emotionally fragile, bipolar) sister in Michigan, and a friend or two. The eye surgeon arrived and after looking at her eyes, announced he would be piggybacking on the brain surgery because there was a lot wrong with the eye. I am unclear about her eye problems, because I was too busy alerting the troops and praying to the Goddess that Dad and Luke would arrive before they wheeled her away.
Luckily they both did, along with Mary, Luke's wife. The surgeon pulled no punches-there were (and still are) no guarantees about her even living through the surgery, let alone what might happen if she did. We watched her get wheeled away, then retired to the waiting room Then I cried, despite the family taboo on emoting over anything. Dad got annoyed, Luke walked off, and Mary began to talk about how similar Dad and Luke's responses were-I cried until I was ready to stop, and we waited in a suspended animation of misery, for three and a half hours, until the surgeon reappeared.
Yes, she was alive, and breathing on her own, and still restless (now a good thing, because she was moving all extremities, and even almost semi-coherent in flashes. But, he added there are still no guarantees and he expects her to be very confused and more restless for several more days, then she'd need to go to a rehab place for a bit. If "nothing else happens"-a stroke, heart attack, thrombosis, and the list goes on.
But she's alive and fighting to get out of bed and we got to see her briefly after nearly two more hours in Recovery. She looked terrible, but she was telling the nurse where her chapstick was here at the house, and to go get it while she got up out of bed. We all had to give each other exhausted smiles, because, despite her confusion of place, she knew what she wanted and where it was-and she wanted it now, please.
Dad takes the first watch in the morning, and I'll go back about noon-it's almost 2:00 AM now, and I must go to bed. I just needed to write it down, share the fear and pain and struggle and hope and love today brought.
Blessings, Margo
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Made It to Colorado!
Well, I arrived at my parents' house outside Denver at 1:30 AM, which is 3:30 CT time, then sat up for another hour talking with my mother who (naturally) was up and waiting for me. Just like old times! I finally fell into bed at 2:30(3:30AM CT time), and read for about 30 seconds before I passed out.
This morning I was willing to take under consideration that I might not have been up to the journey I took yesterday. I could barely get out of bed! Everything hurts, legs, arms, back shoulders, and head. But I feel triumphant! I made it! I ordered wheelchairs to go from one place or another, I sat in first class for the longer of the two flights (one of the people helping me board stuck me there, and there I stayed, even though I confessed to the first class flight attendant that I was a second class ticket holder). The food was good-I've never flown in first class before. It is nice, I will say!
My mother is full of errands and activities for me, with my father offering to drive. No thanks. Not one of his children or grandchildren, or great-grandchild(Myla) will ride in a car with him, which is the major reason they are moving to a retirement community-so he can give up the car. I want to add that every year he passes his drivers test, because he is concentrating. It is when he is out on the roads of this very busy, confusing area that he has a tendency not to concentrate. Come fall, his license will be suspended by the eldest of his three children-me, alas. My siblings assigned me the job, but promise support. We'll see.
The most exciting thing is that Mom and I will be going to Taos, NM, Goddess willing and her health hold up! It is one of the most beautiful places, and she loves it because she spent summers there in the '30's and 40's. It is also the place that she fell off a horse, had her arm set wrong, got gangrene, and eventually had it amputated. I'll tell the story in it's full, family folkloric version some other time.In Taos, we drool over everything from paintings to jewelry to pottery to Taos Mountain itself, sacred to the Tiwa Tribe, many of whom are still pueblo dwellers. I can't wait!
I'm going down for a nap now, but will try to keep updating as I can.
Blessings, Margo
This morning I was willing to take under consideration that I might not have been up to the journey I took yesterday. I could barely get out of bed! Everything hurts, legs, arms, back shoulders, and head. But I feel triumphant! I made it! I ordered wheelchairs to go from one place or another, I sat in first class for the longer of the two flights (one of the people helping me board stuck me there, and there I stayed, even though I confessed to the first class flight attendant that I was a second class ticket holder). The food was good-I've never flown in first class before. It is nice, I will say!
My mother is full of errands and activities for me, with my father offering to drive. No thanks. Not one of his children or grandchildren, or great-grandchild(Myla) will ride in a car with him, which is the major reason they are moving to a retirement community-so he can give up the car. I want to add that every year he passes his drivers test, because he is concentrating. It is when he is out on the roads of this very busy, confusing area that he has a tendency not to concentrate. Come fall, his license will be suspended by the eldest of his three children-me, alas. My siblings assigned me the job, but promise support. We'll see.
The most exciting thing is that Mom and I will be going to Taos, NM, Goddess willing and her health hold up! It is one of the most beautiful places, and she loves it because she spent summers there in the '30's and 40's. It is also the place that she fell off a horse, had her arm set wrong, got gangrene, and eventually had it amputated. I'll tell the story in it's full, family folkloric version some other time.In Taos, we drool over everything from paintings to jewelry to pottery to Taos Mountain itself, sacred to the Tiwa Tribe, many of whom are still pueblo dwellers. I can't wait!
I'm going down for a nap now, but will try to keep updating as I can.
Blessings, Margo
Friday, April 06, 2007
Still Living and Moving
I have neither disappeared into the real world, nor sunk to the depths of depression. I have alternated between being busy and tired. My friend Mark, of http://journals.aol.com/makemarc/SoberGayEx-Con/,put put it best in his comment on my last entry. After I enumerated the ways I am moving outward, he wrote, sardonically,
" What? You're not training for a triathlon? Gee Margo, some people are so lazy!"
As always he has a good point, and I must be very careful about not rushing to add more "interesting" activities to my life, at least when I have so many "have to" ones-physical therapy. doctor's appointments, regular therapy appointments, some of which are an hour's drive away. Of course the problem is that the interesting things-like yoga, and "elder-sitting" a woman at a local nursing home are the ones I want to do! And I can't wait to start doing Gentle Touch/Guided Imagery at the hospital! And I am so grateful to have come this far.
Since I mentioned Marc, I may as well plug his Blog. He is a real writer, thoughtful, articulate, humorous, a passionate street warrior with a trash pick, doing daily battle with the trash on the streets of Hollywood, among a number of other things. He has been a clear minded support for me during difficult times because he can cut through my fog, straight to the heart of the matter. I appreciate him a lot, and hope others will add him to their daily reads, too.
As for me, I am 268 journal entries behind, and beginning to recognize I'll never catch up if I comment, though commenting is part of the journal experience for me. And I miss what is going on in people's lives! Perhaps I will catch up some in the next couple of weeks at my parent's house.
My mother called a while ago to ask me to come "help sort" through stuff for the move into elderly housing they will make this fall. I agreed immediately, of course. The only problem however, as she well knows, is that I can't lift or carry much because of my shoulder, she can't lift or carry anything because her only hand is gnarled and frozen from arthritis and being overworked for over 55 years, and m father can't lift or carry much because his emphysema has worsened a lot this last year. We'll be quite a trio!
Actually, I suspect my mother just wants to look at her stuff with me nearby to listen to stories and decide what will go to who when they move into a smaller place. That I can certainly do, bad shoulder, walker and all. I serve as a kind of permission giver for her, though I'm sad she needs one. I tell her gently that it's okay to send Great Aunt Leila's hand embroidered napkins to Goodwill, and sell some of the silver we kids don't want to polish for the rest of our lives, as she has dutifully (and resentfully) polished for over 60 years now.
My life seems so much less encumbered than hers, less to polish, to clean, to insure, to worry about. I also understand she has a lifetime of possessions that she has polished, cleaned, insured and worried about, and letting go will be wrenching. And I must admit I have one or two items myself-mostly artwork-that I plan to posses as long as possible, which somehow also makes them possess me. But nothing I have to polish!
I am taking my computer west with me. I have learned that, while they have steadfastly refused to touch a computer for years, claiming they have no need of one, somehow they always have computer tasks for me when I get there. I see them for two or three weeks a year, but they cheerfully save up their tasks for me to do on dial up!
All this means is I will be online some while I'm there, so I'll look for you, gentle readers, and once again return to J-Land a bit more.
Blessings Margo
" What? You're not training for a triathlon? Gee Margo, some people are so lazy!"
As always he has a good point, and I must be very careful about not rushing to add more "interesting" activities to my life, at least when I have so many "have to" ones-physical therapy. doctor's appointments, regular therapy appointments, some of which are an hour's drive away. Of course the problem is that the interesting things-like yoga, and "elder-sitting" a woman at a local nursing home are the ones I want to do! And I can't wait to start doing Gentle Touch/Guided Imagery at the hospital! And I am so grateful to have come this far.
Since I mentioned Marc, I may as well plug his Blog. He is a real writer, thoughtful, articulate, humorous, a passionate street warrior with a trash pick, doing daily battle with the trash on the streets of Hollywood, among a number of other things. He has been a clear minded support for me during difficult times because he can cut through my fog, straight to the heart of the matter. I appreciate him a lot, and hope others will add him to their daily reads, too.
As for me, I am 268 journal entries behind, and beginning to recognize I'll never catch up if I comment, though commenting is part of the journal experience for me. And I miss what is going on in people's lives! Perhaps I will catch up some in the next couple of weeks at my parent's house.
My mother called a while ago to ask me to come "help sort" through stuff for the move into elderly housing they will make this fall. I agreed immediately, of course. The only problem however, as she well knows, is that I can't lift or carry much because of my shoulder, she can't lift or carry anything because her only hand is gnarled and frozen from arthritis and being overworked for over 55 years, and m father can't lift or carry much because his emphysema has worsened a lot this last year. We'll be quite a trio!
Actually, I suspect my mother just wants to look at her stuff with me nearby to listen to stories and decide what will go to who when they move into a smaller place. That I can certainly do, bad shoulder, walker and all. I serve as a kind of permission giver for her, though I'm sad she needs one. I tell her gently that it's okay to send Great Aunt Leila's hand embroidered napkins to Goodwill, and sell some of the silver we kids don't want to polish for the rest of our lives, as she has dutifully (and resentfully) polished for over 60 years now.
My life seems so much less encumbered than hers, less to polish, to clean, to insure, to worry about. I also understand she has a lifetime of possessions that she has polished, cleaned, insured and worried about, and letting go will be wrenching. And I must admit I have one or two items myself-mostly artwork-that I plan to posses as long as possible, which somehow also makes them possess me. But nothing I have to polish!
I am taking my computer west with me. I have learned that, while they have steadfastly refused to touch a computer for years, claiming they have no need of one, somehow they always have computer tasks for me when I get there. I see them for two or three weeks a year, but they cheerfully save up their tasks for me to do on dial up!
All this means is I will be online some while I'm there, so I'll look for you, gentle readers, and once again return to J-Land a bit more.
Blessings Margo
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Inner Strength, Moving Outwards
Inanna comes to teach about inner strength and inner wisdom. She had descended to the depths and returned, aware of what she had lost-all her outer trappings of Queenship-and aware of what she had gained-inner strength, and the ability to rule her people well. My descent began August 11, 2003, when I fell at work.
I didn't know then that I was going to lose many precious things. So much went: my career and marriage, which were such a strong part of my identity, and my connection with my partner's family who had become my own, and all but one of those I thought were friends, and financial security, and a reasonably pain free life, and 220 pounds, and all the food I loved, which had protected me from the world, and the list trails on, pathetically.
Inanna returned from the underworld to take up her duties again, to be a wise and fair and beloved Queen of her realm od Sumaria. I am called to begin a new life, too, one in which I am useful, but balanced, using what inner strength and wisdom I have garnered over the last few years, and indeed my whole life.
And I have actually begun to emerge, feeling naked, blinking my way into spring, like Persephone emerging from Hades, into the delighted arms of her mother, Demeter. Though I seem to have disappeared from J-Land, the truth is more that I have begun to have an outside life, and am finding it rather more exhausting than I'd anticipated. So I am resting or reading or sitting spaced out in front of the boob tube, instead of interacting with my friends on line. Eventually I will grow stronger and have more room for both lives-real and cyber-spaced.(My "computer friends" are very important to me, but Inanna came to push me out of my complacency, making me face outward for a bit.)
I finished the training for The Gentle Touch and Guided Imagery Program for the local hospital. My friend Robin (who runs the program) was right. I'm a natural, for two reasons. I've spent a lot of time alone in hospitals where no one but nurses and aids touched me, and then very briefly with blood pressure cuffs, or holding my arm to draw blood. We all know how short handed the whole system is. I blame the administrations of hospitals for the shortage, not the nurses, who are almost always overworked, tired and cranky. (I apologize to all good nurses out there who really do connect with their patients, especially those patients who are totally alone. I wish I could run across you whenever I am hospitalized.)
I see the opportunity to go into a hospital and rub someone's feet or hands or head very gently for 15 minutes, pampering them in a way that is almost unthought of as a patient, to be quite amazing. And leading guided imagery, before or during the gentle touch, is a gift for both me and the patient. When done well, it gives us both sustainance. I've been doing guided imagery for myself and others for nearly 30 years. For those who wonder, guided imagery is a way to help someone slow their breathing, relax deeply, and get away from their pain and sometimes even body, while one guides them to go to some place of their choosing to "escape" the hospital for even a bit.
This is a poor description of guided imagery, but I've used it in my spiritual meditations, with Meg when she was hurting in someway, in my various women's groups over the years, and most recently, with the HIV+ inmates in prison. After settling down 18 frustrated, often angry or resentful inmates, felons and murderers and prostitutes. all at various stages of HIV/AIDS, I am not worried about doing it with one patient at a time while I massage his or her feet very, very gently! I won't be able to start, however, until I get back from visiting my parents from April 7 to the 21st.
I have also started a Yoga class. It's a small group-two of us-taught by my friend Jayne, who just got her teaching certificate. The second woman has arthritis. Jayne is adapting it to chair yoga, simple moves to start with. I am in serious pain by 20 minutes into the hour, but the movements are good for me, despite the pain. (One thing I learned during my first shoulder rehab is that it doesn't get better if it doesn't hurt. This may not be true for all injuries, but I'm remembering the pain all too well this second time around!) After an hour and a quarter, I am so tired I can barely drive home.
And now I have taken on another volunteer job. I am elder-sitting an Alzheimer's patient in a local convalescent home for 3 or 4 hours once a week. She fairly with it, can't talk much, but seems very happy. Unfortunately she wanders a bit, which is where I come in- I'm to help her to wander safely. Eventually, we'll be able to go out in my car for ice cream and visits to not-to-big stores. Apparently she panics in malls and Wal-Marts. (I understand this-neither place appeals much to me either.)
And I still have physical therapy twice a week and various doctor's appointments. Phew! Now that I've listed all this, no wonder I am tired all the rest of the time. No wonder I'm exhausted! I know that these activities are for now, for this first stage of moving outward after too many years of withdrawal due to one medical problem after another.
Inanna came to me to teach of Inner Strength and Inner Wisdom, to remind me how much I've gained and learned over the years, so that I can make my first moves into new life. I have emerged thin and wobbly but still ready to begin the journey into new life and the realm of the Wise Woman, the Crone.
Blessings, Margo
Tags: Inanna, inner strength, growth from pain, moving outwards, volunteer work.
I didn't know then that I was going to lose many precious things. So much went: my career and marriage, which were such a strong part of my identity, and my connection with my partner's family who had become my own, and all but one of those I thought were friends, and financial security, and a reasonably pain free life, and 220 pounds, and all the food I loved, which had protected me from the world, and the list trails on, pathetically.
Inanna returned from the underworld to take up her duties again, to be a wise and fair and beloved Queen of her realm od Sumaria. I am called to begin a new life, too, one in which I am useful, but balanced, using what inner strength and wisdom I have garnered over the last few years, and indeed my whole life.
And I have actually begun to emerge, feeling naked, blinking my way into spring, like Persephone emerging from Hades, into the delighted arms of her mother, Demeter. Though I seem to have disappeared from J-Land, the truth is more that I have begun to have an outside life, and am finding it rather more exhausting than I'd anticipated. So I am resting or reading or sitting spaced out in front of the boob tube, instead of interacting with my friends on line. Eventually I will grow stronger and have more room for both lives-real and cyber-spaced.(My "computer friends" are very important to me, but Inanna came to push me out of my complacency, making me face outward for a bit.)
I finished the training for The Gentle Touch and Guided Imagery Program for the local hospital. My friend Robin (who runs the program) was right. I'm a natural, for two reasons. I've spent a lot of time alone in hospitals where no one but nurses and aids touched me, and then very briefly with blood pressure cuffs, or holding my arm to draw blood. We all know how short handed the whole system is. I blame the administrations of hospitals for the shortage, not the nurses, who are almost always overworked, tired and cranky. (I apologize to all good nurses out there who really do connect with their patients, especially those patients who are totally alone. I wish I could run across you whenever I am hospitalized.)
I see the opportunity to go into a hospital and rub someone's feet or hands or head very gently for 15 minutes, pampering them in a way that is almost unthought of as a patient, to be quite amazing. And leading guided imagery, before or during the gentle touch, is a gift for both me and the patient. When done well, it gives us both sustainance. I've been doing guided imagery for myself and others for nearly 30 years. For those who wonder, guided imagery is a way to help someone slow their breathing, relax deeply, and get away from their pain and sometimes even body, while one guides them to go to some place of their choosing to "escape" the hospital for even a bit.
This is a poor description of guided imagery, but I've used it in my spiritual meditations, with Meg when she was hurting in someway, in my various women's groups over the years, and most recently, with the HIV+ inmates in prison. After settling down 18 frustrated, often angry or resentful inmates, felons and murderers and prostitutes. all at various stages of HIV/AIDS, I am not worried about doing it with one patient at a time while I massage his or her feet very, very gently! I won't be able to start, however, until I get back from visiting my parents from April 7 to the 21st.
I have also started a Yoga class. It's a small group-two of us-taught by my friend Jayne, who just got her teaching certificate. The second woman has arthritis. Jayne is adapting it to chair yoga, simple moves to start with. I am in serious pain by 20 minutes into the hour, but the movements are good for me, despite the pain. (One thing I learned during my first shoulder rehab is that it doesn't get better if it doesn't hurt. This may not be true for all injuries, but I'm remembering the pain all too well this second time around!) After an hour and a quarter, I am so tired I can barely drive home.
And now I have taken on another volunteer job. I am elder-sitting an Alzheimer's patient in a local convalescent home for 3 or 4 hours once a week. She fairly with it, can't talk much, but seems very happy. Unfortunately she wanders a bit, which is where I come in- I'm to help her to wander safely. Eventually, we'll be able to go out in my car for ice cream and visits to not-to-big stores. Apparently she panics in malls and Wal-Marts. (I understand this-neither place appeals much to me either.)
And I still have physical therapy twice a week and various doctor's appointments. Phew! Now that I've listed all this, no wonder I am tired all the rest of the time. No wonder I'm exhausted! I know that these activities are for now, for this first stage of moving outward after too many years of withdrawal due to one medical problem after another.
Inanna came to me to teach of Inner Strength and Inner Wisdom, to remind me how much I've gained and learned over the years, so that I can make my first moves into new life. I have emerged thin and wobbly but still ready to begin the journey into new life and the realm of the Wise Woman, the Crone.
Blessings, Margo
Tags: Inanna, inner strength, growth from pain, moving outwards, volunteer work.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Inner Journeys
As usual when I have disappeared for a couple of weeks, I have been struggling with a number of issues, and feeling down, being much too hard on myself. I only have to go back a year or two in this journal to remind myself that I do work on my issues in my own inimical way. I actually am doing quite well these days. Then I have to ask myself why I need such reassurance when I sometimes I really do know my worth. I still seem to need a lot of outside reassurance that I have worked hard-perhaps because so little has changed on the outside in the last four years. But I have indeed changed.
I am still at home, mostly, still in pain, still recovering from surgery, more alone really than ever before-all on the outside. On the inside, I keep on keeping on, working the issues brought up by the myths of goddesses whose names seem to rise up into my consciousness from somewhere deep inside (or maybe down from heaven), because I need the lesson.
A couple of weeks ago, I was happily driving along a nice back road, singing along to Mad Agnes (www.madagnes.com), when the name Inanna floated into my consciousness. My immediate response was, "Oh, no, not Inanna," and turn the volume up in the car. I sang louder, too. At home, I cleaned and fixed myself good protein and turned on the TV and the computer, and shut the name Inanna out. Firmly.
Unfortunately, I knew I was only putting off the inevitable, for my past experience with Inanna had been depression. Now, in case you are not caught up on you ancient Sumarian Goddess myth, Inanna was Ruler/Queen/Goddess of all of Sumaria, who decided she needed to visit her sister Erishkegal, Queen of the Underworld. She wanted to gain her sister's knowledge. Putting on seven layers of protective garments, she descended to the Underworld. At each gate, she had to take off one layer, until she faced her sister naked. Erishkegal immediately reduced her to a piece of rotting meat, hung on a pole.
Inanna first came to me many years ago now, before I was divorced from Meg's Dad, in the form of chronic, long-term Stygian depression. I truly was the meat on that pole, the emotional pain was so bad. Inanna was rescued, finally, to return to rule earth in a much wiser and insightful way, claiming and holding to the wisdom she had gained in the underworld to herself, while ruling her country better than before her descent. I found a better antidepressant and went into therapy.
When Inannna's name drifted into my mind, all I could think of was that depression would once again move in and shut me down. Surprisingly, the depression which lurks just below my surface didn't deepen. A wise woman I know pointed out that I had already live the first half of the myth, and needed to look at the second half, after Inanna returned to earth.
It was hard at first to imagine me, the me formed by such childhood pain that I surrounded myself by layers and layer of fat, as wise and insightful, holding my hard earned wisdom close to myself. Me, not squandering wisdom on the overly needy, Me, having the discernment to know when to share what I know about life, and when to keep it to myself, as Inanna does.
Then I passed a mirror. I am not the Margo I was, guarded by fat, wanting to please, to help everyone, anyone, so I could know I'm good, capable, worthy, valuable, and begging (passively aggressively) for outside assurances. I am at goal weight, I have traveled far without moving, and it will manifest in my life as time goes on. Not that I won't need outside assurance anymore, just less of it, and from the people in my life who I have come to value.
If none of this makes sense, it doesn't matter because I get it.
And I have begun to move out, open to attracting joy into my life. To manifest this, I asked Judi HeartSong to paint me a Goddess/Woman named Joy. She is the #7 of the latest Light Series (http://judithheartsong.blogspot.com/) At the bottom of the webpage look for "previous posts," and hit Light Series '07 to see the paintings. I asked her to do a Light Painting named Joy in November or December, saying there was no hurry, and She has been worth the wait! Once She is framed, She will join Hope, a Light painting Judi did for me nearly two years ago, when I needed hope was all I had to hold onto as I struggled through one medical problem after another. And I survived, on hope that rose from deep inside surgery after surgery after surgery, most of them alone
And so I am moving outwards, slowly,believing this year will be better than last. I am taking a 2 day training so I can volunteer with the Gentle Touch/Guided Imagery program at a local hospital. And I have joined a very small Yoga class run by a newly trained Yoga teacher who is a good friend. She wants to eventually work with yoga and the elderly or disabled, so I'll be her guinea pig, quite happily. And waiting for what comes next.
Enough for today, I bid you well.
Blessings, Margo
I am still at home, mostly, still in pain, still recovering from surgery, more alone really than ever before-all on the outside. On the inside, I keep on keeping on, working the issues brought up by the myths of goddesses whose names seem to rise up into my consciousness from somewhere deep inside (or maybe down from heaven), because I need the lesson.
A couple of weeks ago, I was happily driving along a nice back road, singing along to Mad Agnes (www.madagnes.com), when the name Inanna floated into my consciousness. My immediate response was, "Oh, no, not Inanna," and turn the volume up in the car. I sang louder, too. At home, I cleaned and fixed myself good protein and turned on the TV and the computer, and shut the name Inanna out. Firmly.
Unfortunately, I knew I was only putting off the inevitable, for my past experience with Inanna had been depression. Now, in case you are not caught up on you ancient Sumarian Goddess myth, Inanna was Ruler/Queen/Goddess of all of Sumaria, who decided she needed to visit her sister Erishkegal, Queen of the Underworld. She wanted to gain her sister's knowledge. Putting on seven layers of protective garments, she descended to the Underworld. At each gate, she had to take off one layer, until she faced her sister naked. Erishkegal immediately reduced her to a piece of rotting meat, hung on a pole.
Inanna first came to me many years ago now, before I was divorced from Meg's Dad, in the form of chronic, long-term Stygian depression. I truly was the meat on that pole, the emotional pain was so bad. Inanna was rescued, finally, to return to rule earth in a much wiser and insightful way, claiming and holding to the wisdom she had gained in the underworld to herself, while ruling her country better than before her descent. I found a better antidepressant and went into therapy.
When Inannna's name drifted into my mind, all I could think of was that depression would once again move in and shut me down. Surprisingly, the depression which lurks just below my surface didn't deepen. A wise woman I know pointed out that I had already live the first half of the myth, and needed to look at the second half, after Inanna returned to earth.
It was hard at first to imagine me, the me formed by such childhood pain that I surrounded myself by layers and layer of fat, as wise and insightful, holding my hard earned wisdom close to myself. Me, not squandering wisdom on the overly needy, Me, having the discernment to know when to share what I know about life, and when to keep it to myself, as Inanna does.
Then I passed a mirror. I am not the Margo I was, guarded by fat, wanting to please, to help everyone, anyone, so I could know I'm good, capable, worthy, valuable, and begging (passively aggressively) for outside assurances. I am at goal weight, I have traveled far without moving, and it will manifest in my life as time goes on. Not that I won't need outside assurance anymore, just less of it, and from the people in my life who I have come to value.
If none of this makes sense, it doesn't matter because I get it.
And I have begun to move out, open to attracting joy into my life. To manifest this, I asked Judi HeartSong to paint me a Goddess/Woman named Joy. She is the #7 of the latest Light Series (http://judithheartsong.blogspot.com/) At the bottom of the webpage look for "previous posts," and hit Light Series '07 to see the paintings. I asked her to do a Light Painting named Joy in November or December, saying there was no hurry, and She has been worth the wait! Once She is framed, She will join Hope, a Light painting Judi did for me nearly two years ago, when I needed hope was all I had to hold onto as I struggled through one medical problem after another. And I survived, on hope that rose from deep inside surgery after surgery after surgery, most of them alone
And so I am moving outwards, slowly,believing this year will be better than last. I am taking a 2 day training so I can volunteer with the Gentle Touch/Guided Imagery program at a local hospital. And I have joined a very small Yoga class run by a newly trained Yoga teacher who is a good friend. She wants to eventually work with yoga and the elderly or disabled, so I'll be her guinea pig, quite happily. And waiting for what comes next.
Enough for today, I bid you well.
Blessings, Margo
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Interesting Experiences
Well, the last couple of weeks have had a few interesting experiences, though I have not been blogging regularly. Now, those of you who have never owned a house (and been hard pressed to make the mortgage at times) probably won't understand my excitement, but I got two new toilets (upstairs and down) and a pedestal sink. I simply got tired of toilets that ran, on and off, after flushing. Not every time, you understand, just whenever I forgot to check. Every time I did forget, each toilet would think, "Quick, she didn't check, run all night!" And they did.
Finally, fed up by the wasted water, I called my plumber to ask for a bid. He came and after I had accepted his bid and he was halfway out the door, I heard a voice tell him, "You know, I think I'll get a pedestal sink for the upstairs bathroom as well." I looked behind me for the voice, and realized the voice had come out of my own mouth. Now I had disliked the cabinet under that blue sink since the day I moved in 30 years ago. (I also hated the blue toilet, now replaced, and blue bathtub, still there, and the green shag rug, gone two days after we moved in.) I had not, however, planned to pay for a sink, but sure enough, by four o'clock the next afternoon, I had two great white toilets and a wonderful white pedestal sink. And two boxes of stuff that came out of the cabinet, of course.
The second surprising event was that I went on a date! Sort of. Now, don't get too excited. I didn't. I found her on Match.com, and she lives nearby. After a couple of e-mails and the exchange of phone numbers, we agreed to meet at a local grocery store-to go shopping for ingredients for a Death By Chocolate Cake (her idea, not mine, I am supposed to live on a strict food plan). And off we went, from one town to another, from store to store, each more full of goodies and sweets than the last. And she talked and talked and talked, trying to tell me everything about her extremely busy life, as we climbed in and out of her mega-van over and over (remember, I walk with a cane and have a bum right shoulder).
Now, don't get me wrong, I talked, too. Just not as much. Plus, I have not had an extremely busy last couple of years. I knowthe point of a "first date" is to get to know about someone, but I came away feeling that she has not had much experience at relationship in her life, especially when she told me she had not really dated in 20 years. I am looking for someone who is capable of healthy relationship, and I don't think she is. I'll see her again, I'm sure, because she does live an interesting, busy life. But only as a friend.
When I called up Meg to tell her I was going out (and to tell her my date's name, phone number and the area in which she lived), she told me, "Remember, Mom, you've gotta kiss a lotta frogs..." I answered like a 13 year old, " Meg, I'm not planning to kiss her!" As I hung up, I could hear her roaring with laughter.
The third thing that has happened recently that I actually chose to skip the Super Bowl last night (not much of a surprise to anyone who knows me) to go to a UU Church to hear my favorite unknown trio, Mad Agnes. It's a "girl group" with a male singer, and no one is named Agnes. But, oh boy, can they do harmony. It's absolutely incredible. Plus some of their songs are so clever, and at the same time so poignant, that I am amazed. And the songs of one of them, Adrienne Jones, writes wonderfully clever lyrics. I have and listen often to all their CD's (all three of them) plus a couple done before they joined forces. Go and listen to them: http://www.madagnes.com. Buy a CD, send them off to England on the No Visible Means of Support Tour.
My life is still made up of mostly physical therapy and doctor's appointments, and days are still mostly long and lonely, but I am attempting to begin to find a life. And eventually I will have one that does not include toilets as a major excitement!
Blessings, Margo
Finally, fed up by the wasted water, I called my plumber to ask for a bid. He came and after I had accepted his bid and he was halfway out the door, I heard a voice tell him, "You know, I think I'll get a pedestal sink for the upstairs bathroom as well." I looked behind me for the voice, and realized the voice had come out of my own mouth. Now I had disliked the cabinet under that blue sink since the day I moved in 30 years ago. (I also hated the blue toilet, now replaced, and blue bathtub, still there, and the green shag rug, gone two days after we moved in.) I had not, however, planned to pay for a sink, but sure enough, by four o'clock the next afternoon, I had two great white toilets and a wonderful white pedestal sink. And two boxes of stuff that came out of the cabinet, of course.
The second surprising event was that I went on a date! Sort of. Now, don't get too excited. I didn't. I found her on Match.com, and she lives nearby. After a couple of e-mails and the exchange of phone numbers, we agreed to meet at a local grocery store-to go shopping for ingredients for a Death By Chocolate Cake (her idea, not mine, I am supposed to live on a strict food plan). And off we went, from one town to another, from store to store, each more full of goodies and sweets than the last. And she talked and talked and talked, trying to tell me everything about her extremely busy life, as we climbed in and out of her mega-van over and over (remember, I walk with a cane and have a bum right shoulder).
Now, don't get me wrong, I talked, too. Just not as much. Plus, I have not had an extremely busy last couple of years. I knowthe point of a "first date" is to get to know about someone, but I came away feeling that she has not had much experience at relationship in her life, especially when she told me she had not really dated in 20 years. I am looking for someone who is capable of healthy relationship, and I don't think she is. I'll see her again, I'm sure, because she does live an interesting, busy life. But only as a friend.
When I called up Meg to tell her I was going out (and to tell her my date's name, phone number and the area in which she lived), she told me, "Remember, Mom, you've gotta kiss a lotta frogs..." I answered like a 13 year old, " Meg, I'm not planning to kiss her!" As I hung up, I could hear her roaring with laughter.
The third thing that has happened recently that I actually chose to skip the Super Bowl last night (not much of a surprise to anyone who knows me) to go to a UU Church to hear my favorite unknown trio, Mad Agnes. It's a "girl group" with a male singer, and no one is named Agnes. But, oh boy, can they do harmony. It's absolutely incredible. Plus some of their songs are so clever, and at the same time so poignant, that I am amazed. And the songs of one of them, Adrienne Jones, writes wonderfully clever lyrics. I have and listen often to all their CD's (all three of them) plus a couple done before they joined forces. Go and listen to them: http://www.madagnes.com. Buy a CD, send them off to England on the No Visible Means of Support Tour.
My life is still made up of mostly physical therapy and doctor's appointments, and days are still mostly long and lonely, but I am attempting to begin to find a life. And eventually I will have one that does not include toilets as a major excitement!
Blessings, Margo
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Following Up
I want to take time to follow up on my last entry. I activated my "I've fallen and I can't get up" button system last week, and am wearing it around the house full time now. I find I am having mixed feelings about it. I keep saying to myself, "I'm only 57 years old! I'm too young to have to wear one of these!" Now, I know that age has nothing to do with disability, and disability only slows me down, it has not stopped me. I know I can feel any age I choose, with a bit of imagination, and can choose to feel-and act-young or old, one after the another, if I wish. But the refrain still echoes in my mind, "I'm only 57 years old..."
And I am quite aware that the button does nothing to help me not fall. It only helps if I fall so badly that I can't get up. So far I have always managed to get up (except for that one time, right after surgery, when I had to call the fire department for lift assistance, but even then I managed to scoot myself to the phone), so unless I break a hip or something, I am paying big bucks (for me) for something I hope I'll never use.
So I have been asked, how did I get here? Poorly controlled diabetes, over the course of more than thirty years. I was not bad the whole time. In good times, I controlled my blood sugars very well, balancing food, exercise and insulin well. In bad times I gave up, still giving myself insulin, but eating badly and not exercising. And I have been depressed on and off my whole life.
This lead to one of those invisible, under-discussed, exquisitely painful diseases: peripheral neuropathy. It happens when nerves die. I have a weird, almost unexplainably painful feeling/non-feeling situation in my feet. Huh? you say. I have numbness and buzzing and pin-and-needles and pain in my feet, and right arm and hand. The former is from diabetes, the latter from the injury to my arm. It is a kind of pain that only those who have it (and there are other causes beside diabetes) can understand. There is no way to explain that I actually have pain somewhere that is numb. And asleep. And buzzing. All at the same time.
The upshot of all this is that have very little feeling in my feet, no real sense of where they are in space, therefore where I am in space. Not only do I trip over my own feet, I trip over the floor as well, and, set free on a road, I walk like a drunk, wandering wobbly legged from one side of the road toward the other, three steps forward, one step back. Hence the walker. With it, I don't have the back and forth across the road problem. and am much less likely to trip over my own feet.
Diabetic neuropathy can also mess with inner organs-the heart (I had open heart surgery at age 43), the kidneys (OK so far) and body regulating systems (like blood pressure). Hence the orthoscopic hypotension, where my BP falls so drastically when I stand up. Ironically, I didn't fall at 380+ pounds, somehow my weight kept me grounded. (Yes, I did fall at work and smashed my right arm, but that was because I had the phone cord wrapped around my feet.) Now, at 162 pounds, I'm on the ground all the time.
I am considering a housemate, though I've grown to love living alone. And a roommate will not keep me from falling. As I have said before, I try hard to stand still before I start, but don't always remember-like when I get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. I land in the hall a lot.
Now, don't get me wrong. I sound as if I fall daily. This is not true at all. I go down a couple times a month, and rarely as spectacularly as two weekends ago. It is just often enough to make my daughter crazy, my friends worry, and me frustrated. I want to thank all those who commented with worry, concern and care on my last entry, and reassure all that I am trying very hard not to fall.
I think the best suggestion was to only fall on pillows. I am considering a couple of options. 1) to pillow the floor throughout the entire house or 2) to have a "pillow suit" made, one which will cover me from head to toe, leaving out only my eyes and nose. What do you think?
Blessings, Margo
And I am quite aware that the button does nothing to help me not fall. It only helps if I fall so badly that I can't get up. So far I have always managed to get up (except for that one time, right after surgery, when I had to call the fire department for lift assistance, but even then I managed to scoot myself to the phone), so unless I break a hip or something, I am paying big bucks (for me) for something I hope I'll never use.
So I have been asked, how did I get here? Poorly controlled diabetes, over the course of more than thirty years. I was not bad the whole time. In good times, I controlled my blood sugars very well, balancing food, exercise and insulin well. In bad times I gave up, still giving myself insulin, but eating badly and not exercising. And I have been depressed on and off my whole life.
This lead to one of those invisible, under-discussed, exquisitely painful diseases: peripheral neuropathy. It happens when nerves die. I have a weird, almost unexplainably painful feeling/non-feeling situation in my feet. Huh? you say. I have numbness and buzzing and pin-and-needles and pain in my feet, and right arm and hand. The former is from diabetes, the latter from the injury to my arm. It is a kind of pain that only those who have it (and there are other causes beside diabetes) can understand. There is no way to explain that I actually have pain somewhere that is numb. And asleep. And buzzing. All at the same time.
The upshot of all this is that have very little feeling in my feet, no real sense of where they are in space, therefore where I am in space. Not only do I trip over my own feet, I trip over the floor as well, and, set free on a road, I walk like a drunk, wandering wobbly legged from one side of the road toward the other, three steps forward, one step back. Hence the walker. With it, I don't have the back and forth across the road problem. and am much less likely to trip over my own feet.
Diabetic neuropathy can also mess with inner organs-the heart (I had open heart surgery at age 43), the kidneys (OK so far) and body regulating systems (like blood pressure). Hence the orthoscopic hypotension, where my BP falls so drastically when I stand up. Ironically, I didn't fall at 380+ pounds, somehow my weight kept me grounded. (Yes, I did fall at work and smashed my right arm, but that was because I had the phone cord wrapped around my feet.) Now, at 162 pounds, I'm on the ground all the time.
I am considering a housemate, though I've grown to love living alone. And a roommate will not keep me from falling. As I have said before, I try hard to stand still before I start, but don't always remember-like when I get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. I land in the hall a lot.
Now, don't get me wrong. I sound as if I fall daily. This is not true at all. I go down a couple times a month, and rarely as spectacularly as two weekends ago. It is just often enough to make my daughter crazy, my friends worry, and me frustrated. I want to thank all those who commented with worry, concern and care on my last entry, and reassure all that I am trying very hard not to fall.
I think the best suggestion was to only fall on pillows. I am considering a couple of options. 1) to pillow the floor throughout the entire house or 2) to have a "pillow suit" made, one which will cover me from head to toe, leaving out only my eyes and nose. What do you think?
Blessings, Margo
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Be Careful...
Be careful what you ask for, you might get it.
After nearly three months "home bound" and rarely leaving the house, Workers' Comp decided I no longer needed an aide, therefore I am no longer stuck in the house-I have been freed! I can drive short distances, like to physical therapy.
I felt like a bird whose cage has suddenly been opened.
I decided I had to do something exciting now that I was out. I chose the Annual Neighborhood Progressive Christmas Dinner for my exciting event. It is a party that follows Christmas. We start at one house for appetizers, a second for salad, a third for entrees, and a final house for dessert. The celebrants include everyone who live in the fifteen houses in our little Historical District, kids, boyfriends, girlfriends, parents, grandparents, partners, anyone who happens to be around. It is a chance to catch up in winter, when most of us hibernate.
For me, the exciting part was to be getting all dolled up to go-my first shower alone, nice clothes, make up, real shoes-as opposed the my 5x sweats and Birkenstocks I've been hanging out in. I planned go out and knock my neighbors dead with my whole get up. A few had all seen me grubby, cranky, and in pain, most had not seen me at all for the few months. Now I would have the opportunity to show off a bit, my whole weight loss, my one set of nice clothes that fit. And I knew it would get me out among people, a real struggle in my present life.
I was looking forward to it all week. Saturday dawned gray and gloomy, but I was happy. I went to physical therapy, discovered that driving on bumpy roads (the only kind we have in CT) is quite painful. I didn't care. Came home, took a nap, then a shower. In my 5x bathrobe, I wandered into the kitchen to start making the appetizer I was taking. My time line was set: make food, get dressed, find and apply makeup, find shoes, take cane and food and set off up the street.
Thinking of all this, I opened a my pantry door, reached in, then felt myself take a small step backwards, then another larger step. First I was surprised. Then the news flash sliced through my brain: "Oh sh*t, I am out of control." And in that split second, I was. I reached for the doorknob, and missed. Blasting through my head was a mantra like cry: "Don't fall on your right shoulder!" I turned left, aiming for the table. My feet seemed to have a life if their own, pirouetting in a complex series of shambling moves over which I had no control. I missed the table because I was now moving faster and faster, reminiscent of an out of control whirling dervish.
By now I knew that I was going to go down. Unfortunately I was headed towards the edge of the kitchen counter. After that things got too complicated to document clearly. I know I hit the edge of the counter, turned enough to eventually land on my (left) buttock. Somehow or other, I scraped my inner arm (left), banged my left chin and shoulder, then landed on the floor, hitting my head on the pantry trim on the way down.
When everything came to a stop, I lay on the floor, holding the top of my head, trying to assess where I hurt. At first I thought I had just banged my shoulder and head. But when I sat up there was blood on the floor. I took my hands away, and the were bloody too.
My first thought was: "There goes the party." I have promised Meg that anytime I fall, bang my head and bleed, I would call 911. So I did, grabbing a handful of napkins to staunch the flow of blood. The 911 operator told me to stay where I was. I told him I'd had to stand up to reach the phone, so I might as well go sit in the living room where I'd be comfortable.
Luckily I could grab some laundry in the dining room, because I did not want to greet the EMT's in my huge bathrobe. I found I had grabbed 5x sweats, but put them on anyway, trying to keep pressure on my wound, and talk to the 911 operator all at once. Then I sat there holding the phone and shaking.
But by now I was seeing the funny side of all this. The ambulance would arrive just as the entire neighborhood was heading toward cocktails. Sure enough, the ambulance rounded the corner and half a dozen neighbors came to huddle around the ambulance and worry. Claudia, God bless her, barged right past the EMT's to see if she could help.
So off to the hospital I went, giving the royal wave to neighbors as we bumped out of the village. [As an aside, if you have never ridden in an ambulance, and I hope you never do, the ride is very, very bumpy.] Sometime in the middle of all the chaos I had managed to call Meg, too, because she called Peggy, who
eventually arrived join me at the hospital.
We arrived at the ER to discover the waiting room overflowing, every cubicle filled, people lying on gurneys in the hall, nurses looking stressed, and the triage nurse frantic. She looked at me for 30 seconds and gave me my first big break of the day. She told the EMT's to take me right into Fast Track. As I got on the gurney, I began feeling silly... I shouldn't have called 911, I shouldn't make a big deal about hitting my head, there wasn't that much blood...
Peggy arrived and told me to shut up (that's what friends are for), and soon after, the doctor came in and said the same thing, only more nicely. He asked a lot of questions, peered at my head, and announced I had a mild to moderate concussion and needed stitches(!) After rummaging around looking for the surgical stapler, he gave up, and actually put in three stitches. Soon after, I was out and on the way home.(This is Fast Track at its best, but, alas, one needs to arrive by ambulance to get into Fast Track quickly!)
I did actually make the third venue of the party, clean, but scraggly haired, in smaller sweatpants, but size 5x on top, so I didn't have to bother my head, no make up, wearing white socks and Birks, with a headache to end all headaches, and Peggy along to prop me up. I made a quick round to tell everybody that I was okay, while Peg ate some dinner, then retired home quickly to my recliner, where I am still sleeping these days.
Such was my exciting event. Rather different from the one I had in mind.
I am still grappling with this, my third trip to the ER due to bloody falls in the last year. I have ordered an emergency button to wear around my neck, which will be good if I ever fall and am not able to get up, but does nothing to stop me from falling. I am unwilling to say so to Meg, who worries way too much about me, but I'm falling way too often, and (so far) none of the dozen or so doctors I've talked to have as much as a suggestion to help-except to be careful.
And I am!
Unfortunately, it's just not possible to be aware every minute. Most of us spend a lot of time spacing out as we move from one room to another, or reach into the cupboard. And as soon as I drift a bit, my feet start drifting, too, off to one side, or backwards, because I have no sense of my feet, and where they are. This leads to not having a real sense of where I am in space, a dangerous thing, in my experience.
And this does not take into account of my BP which drops twenty points when I stand up. This is easier to deal with- I just stand still for ten seconds until the dizziness passes. Except when I'm in a hurry and forget. But really, I'm much better at this than thinking about every step. My cardiologist actually put me on meds to raise my blood pressure, but it hasn't helped.
And such is life. I keep reminding myself that although I didn't have the
experience I wanted, I'm still free from my stay-at-home constraints. I am not exactly jumping with joy in my life, but tomorrow I will drive myself to p.t. again. Maybe by next month I'll be strong enough to put my walker into the car, so I can go walking at the Casino or mall. By spring, I'll be into onto other things. And if I fall? I'll haul myself up, once again, and keep going. As usual.
Blessings, Margo
After nearly three months "home bound" and rarely leaving the house, Workers' Comp decided I no longer needed an aide, therefore I am no longer stuck in the house-I have been freed! I can drive short distances, like to physical therapy.
I felt like a bird whose cage has suddenly been opened.
I decided I had to do something exciting now that I was out. I chose the Annual Neighborhood Progressive Christmas Dinner for my exciting event. It is a party that follows Christmas. We start at one house for appetizers, a second for salad, a third for entrees, and a final house for dessert. The celebrants include everyone who live in the fifteen houses in our little Historical District, kids, boyfriends, girlfriends, parents, grandparents, partners, anyone who happens to be around. It is a chance to catch up in winter, when most of us hibernate.
For me, the exciting part was to be getting all dolled up to go-my first shower alone, nice clothes, make up, real shoes-as opposed the my 5x sweats and Birkenstocks I've been hanging out in. I planned go out and knock my neighbors dead with my whole get up. A few had all seen me grubby, cranky, and in pain, most had not seen me at all for the few months. Now I would have the opportunity to show off a bit, my whole weight loss, my one set of nice clothes that fit. And I knew it would get me out among people, a real struggle in my present life.
I was looking forward to it all week. Saturday dawned gray and gloomy, but I was happy. I went to physical therapy, discovered that driving on bumpy roads (the only kind we have in CT) is quite painful. I didn't care. Came home, took a nap, then a shower. In my 5x bathrobe, I wandered into the kitchen to start making the appetizer I was taking. My time line was set: make food, get dressed, find and apply makeup, find shoes, take cane and food and set off up the street.
Thinking of all this, I opened a my pantry door, reached in, then felt myself take a small step backwards, then another larger step. First I was surprised. Then the news flash sliced through my brain: "Oh sh*t, I am out of control." And in that split second, I was. I reached for the doorknob, and missed. Blasting through my head was a mantra like cry: "Don't fall on your right shoulder!" I turned left, aiming for the table. My feet seemed to have a life if their own, pirouetting in a complex series of shambling moves over which I had no control. I missed the table because I was now moving faster and faster, reminiscent of an out of control whirling dervish.
By now I knew that I was going to go down. Unfortunately I was headed towards the edge of the kitchen counter. After that things got too complicated to document clearly. I know I hit the edge of the counter, turned enough to eventually land on my (left) buttock. Somehow or other, I scraped my inner arm (left), banged my left chin and shoulder, then landed on the floor, hitting my head on the pantry trim on the way down.
When everything came to a stop, I lay on the floor, holding the top of my head, trying to assess where I hurt. At first I thought I had just banged my shoulder and head. But when I sat up there was blood on the floor. I took my hands away, and the were bloody too.
My first thought was: "There goes the party." I have promised Meg that anytime I fall, bang my head and bleed, I would call 911. So I did, grabbing a handful of napkins to staunch the flow of blood. The 911 operator told me to stay where I was. I told him I'd had to stand up to reach the phone, so I might as well go sit in the living room where I'd be comfortable.
Luckily I could grab some laundry in the dining room, because I did not want to greet the EMT's in my huge bathrobe. I found I had grabbed 5x sweats, but put them on anyway, trying to keep pressure on my wound, and talk to the 911 operator all at once. Then I sat there holding the phone and shaking.
But by now I was seeing the funny side of all this. The ambulance would arrive just as the entire neighborhood was heading toward cocktails. Sure enough, the ambulance rounded the corner and half a dozen neighbors came to huddle around the ambulance and worry. Claudia, God bless her, barged right past the EMT's to see if she could help.
So off to the hospital I went, giving the royal wave to neighbors as we bumped out of the village. [As an aside, if you have never ridden in an ambulance, and I hope you never do, the ride is very, very bumpy.] Sometime in the middle of all the chaos I had managed to call Meg, too, because she called Peggy, who
eventually arrived join me at the hospital.
We arrived at the ER to discover the waiting room overflowing, every cubicle filled, people lying on gurneys in the hall, nurses looking stressed, and the triage nurse frantic. She looked at me for 30 seconds and gave me my first big break of the day. She told the EMT's to take me right into Fast Track. As I got on the gurney, I began feeling silly... I shouldn't have called 911, I shouldn't make a big deal about hitting my head, there wasn't that much blood...
Peggy arrived and told me to shut up (that's what friends are for), and soon after, the doctor came in and said the same thing, only more nicely. He asked a lot of questions, peered at my head, and announced I had a mild to moderate concussion and needed stitches(!) After rummaging around looking for the surgical stapler, he gave up, and actually put in three stitches. Soon after, I was out and on the way home.(This is Fast Track at its best, but, alas, one needs to arrive by ambulance to get into Fast Track quickly!)
I did actually make the third venue of the party, clean, but scraggly haired, in smaller sweatpants, but size 5x on top, so I didn't have to bother my head, no make up, wearing white socks and Birks, with a headache to end all headaches, and Peggy along to prop me up. I made a quick round to tell everybody that I was okay, while Peg ate some dinner, then retired home quickly to my recliner, where I am still sleeping these days.
Such was my exciting event. Rather different from the one I had in mind.
I am still grappling with this, my third trip to the ER due to bloody falls in the last year. I have ordered an emergency button to wear around my neck, which will be good if I ever fall and am not able to get up, but does nothing to stop me from falling. I am unwilling to say so to Meg, who worries way too much about me, but I'm falling way too often, and (so far) none of the dozen or so doctors I've talked to have as much as a suggestion to help-except to be careful.
And I am!
Unfortunately, it's just not possible to be aware every minute. Most of us spend a lot of time spacing out as we move from one room to another, or reach into the cupboard. And as soon as I drift a bit, my feet start drifting, too, off to one side, or backwards, because I have no sense of my feet, and where they are. This leads to not having a real sense of where I am in space, a dangerous thing, in my experience.
And this does not take into account of my BP which drops twenty points when I stand up. This is easier to deal with- I just stand still for ten seconds until the dizziness passes. Except when I'm in a hurry and forget. But really, I'm much better at this than thinking about every step. My cardiologist actually put me on meds to raise my blood pressure, but it hasn't helped.
And such is life. I keep reminding myself that although I didn't have the
experience I wanted, I'm still free from my stay-at-home constraints. I am not exactly jumping with joy in my life, but tomorrow I will drive myself to p.t. again. Maybe by next month I'll be strong enough to put my walker into the car, so I can go walking at the Casino or mall. By spring, I'll be into onto other things. And if I fall? I'll haul myself up, once again, and keep going. As usual.
Blessings, Margo
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Happy New Year?
Happy New Year to all. I have been browsing around the Internet and lots of people are making resolutions, optimistically looking forward to all the possibilities the years will offer. Needless to say, I am not one of them.
I know that Warrior Woman, that part of me that keeps me moving forward no matter what, is alive and doing her job. I am doing my physical therapy exercises at home as well as at the p.t. office. I've tried driving a couple of times, but still don't feel safe, so I have accepted another week or two of being home. I am thinking of places I can walk once I'm free to drive again. I have even answered an Internet match e-mail.(Thank you, Becky, you didn't think I'd take up your suggestion from several months ago seriously, did you?) But of course, I can't drive yet, so I can't get out there to meet anyone yet.
But I am not filled with enthusiasm about anything-a sure sign of depression. I am once again in the dark pit, and have been for quite a while. I am quite able to put on the happy face for a few hours, a day here or there, an entry or two here, but afterwards the smile goes and I am left alone in my house, with nobody to talk to and nothing to do.
Meg calls with questions about what to do in her life, and when I have asked her to take me to a doctor's appointment, she has complied. But if I ask too much, she makes me aware of it. Peggy calls most days, and drops by for brief visits on the weekend. I go for physical therapy twice a week. Other than that, I am alone at home and talk to no one. The days are long and the nights are filled with HGTV and the Discovery channels.
I rarely fall into blaming myself for being alone anymore. I do not believe it is something I do or did, or that I am unfriendly, or not worth being friends with. I know my strengths-compassion, a nonjudgmental attitude, self-awareness, inner strength and a stick-to-it-ness that kicks in whether I want it to or not. I know at least some of my faults-I am neurotically early, I am afraid of peoples' rage, I am such an introvert that I have to retreat to know what I am feeling. And perhaps worst of all, I was born with my cup half empty. Telling me to be optimistic is like telling a chronic depressive to just cheer up.
But none of this explains why I am so alone. People who have partners or families or friend they go out with or coworkers they like have no idea what it is like to speak to no one for literally days on end. No, this is not a pity party. It is a form of musing, to put life into perspective.
I think I am alone because life, the universe, fate, the gods, the Goddess, whatever, dealt me a series of long term blows and I had to let go of everything to concentrate on survival and then healing. There is no great plan to teach me some big lesson, although I have learned some things about myself, loyalty, and courage. There is no big reason, no Goddesses or fates or fairies who stepped in to smite me down like God did Job. It all just is, and I cannot fix it right now. I can only keep going as I am.
I cannot screw up much enthusiasm this New Year. Each of the last three years has been miserable in its own different way. And I have kept on keeping on. I will do the same this year, blindly believing that things can only get better...or worse. Either way I will keep on keeping on.
Blessings, Margo
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Joyeux Noel, in retrospect
I have not been quiet this week because I had a depressing Christmas. I actually had a good Christmas Day. Meg called around 8:30 AM-they had been up for at least an hour with the baby by then-and came to get me at 9:30. Myla had just fallen asleep as I got there, so Meg put her down and we (mostly they) opened presents, including the baby's, until she woke up an hour or so later. We had saved a gift for her to watch unwrapped, but as soon as I began tearing the paper off, she burst into a loud wail, with big fat tears puddling up in her eyes and overflowing down her cheeks.
I am only slightly ashamed to admit that her loving mother and adoring grandmother bust into laughter at her reaction! Then, of course, we had to try it again to see if her response was the same. It was and I am much more ashamed to admit that we roared again. We did eventually get her quieted down, and put away anything else that was wrapped for a later time.
I was home by noon, and napping by one! Peggy (my best friend from childhood) picked me up at 5:30, and drove me to her house for Christmas Dinner. Her son, my god/dess son, Ian was home from Pitt, so the three of us exchanged gifts, and sat down to a wonderfully eclectic meal of stuffed salmon, green beans, pearl onions, homemade mashed potatoes, and cranberry-orange compote. Peg is a very good cook, and we sat around a bit drinking wine for a while.
Then Ian drove me home, came in, drank brandy and stayed to listen to me talk about the state of the world and my world in particular-an rare opportunity for me to vent a bit. And surprise Ian, too, because he has no real concept of my (or his mother's) life. As a trade off, he came up later in the week and unloaded his considerable misery on me, along with a lot of theories of comparative literature which are way above my head!
Ian left around 10PM Christmas night and I, who had joined him in a small amount of brandy, fell into my recliner/bed and slept the sleep on the righteous. All in all a good day.
Blessings, Margo
PS Don't drink and drive, but do enjoy your New Year's Eve!
I am only slightly ashamed to admit that her loving mother and adoring grandmother bust into laughter at her reaction! Then, of course, we had to try it again to see if her response was the same. It was and I am much more ashamed to admit that we roared again. We did eventually get her quieted down, and put away anything else that was wrapped for a later time.
I was home by noon, and napping by one! Peggy (my best friend from childhood) picked me up at 5:30, and drove me to her house for Christmas Dinner. Her son, my god/dess son, Ian was home from Pitt, so the three of us exchanged gifts, and sat down to a wonderfully eclectic meal of stuffed salmon, green beans, pearl onions, homemade mashed potatoes, and cranberry-orange compote. Peg is a very good cook, and we sat around a bit drinking wine for a while.
Then Ian drove me home, came in, drank brandy and stayed to listen to me talk about the state of the world and my world in particular-an rare opportunity for me to vent a bit. And surprise Ian, too, because he has no real concept of my (or his mother's) life. As a trade off, he came up later in the week and unloaded his considerable misery on me, along with a lot of theories of comparative literature which are way above my head!
Ian left around 10PM Christmas night and I, who had joined him in a small amount of brandy, fell into my recliner/bed and slept the sleep on the righteous. All in all a good day.
Blessings, Margo
PS Don't drink and drive, but do enjoy your New Year's Eve!
Monday, December 25, 2006
Have a Joyful and Blessed Christmas
To All my Friends in Blog-land,
Thank you all for your concern, prayers, help, laughter and comments!
On this Holy Day, I count myself Blessed.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night.
With gratitude. Love, and Blessings,
Margo
Thank you all for your concern, prayers, help, laughter and comments!
On this Holy Day, I count myself Blessed.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night.
With gratitude. Love, and Blessings,
Margo
Saturday, December 23, 2006
I Wish I Had a River
I wish I had a river
That I could skate away on...
Joni Mitchell
I have all my good enough Christmas plans in place. I am saving wrapping presents for tomorrow, so it will seem Christmas Eve-y. My new couch arrived, and it is absolutely wonderful. Meg has bought the cinnamon buns we always have Christmas morning. I am working very hard to be upbeat when I talk to anyone, and I definitely don't want to be a downer here.
But through my dark glasses, it feels as if even those I know who also suffer Christmas depression, who rush around too much and superhuman their ways through the Holiday madness into exhaustion, are doing better than I am. Mostly, I am lonely, a complaint I have whined over all year long. I have even had well meaning people offer advice ranging from relax and enjoy your solitude to well, get your butt out there and meet new people, join a group, volunteer, DO something. None of these people have been living with chronic pain, facing, then recovering, from major surgery. I have no doubt that I will do something as soon as I am able, but still I'm sad and alone, during all these long, boring days leading up to Christmas.
I have only to think of anyone who is incarcerated, or mourning the death of a loved one, or sick, or homeless, or hungry, or caught in a war over which they have no control, and I feel ashamed. I know as well as most, and better than some, that this is the season for giving, not throwing a pity party. A time to celebrate the renewing of light, both at Solstice and Hanukkah, and soon a celebration of family and heritage at Kwanzaa. A time to meditate on the birth of a child to a virgin, an event which many think is part of a cycle reaching back to ancient times. A time to be thankful for the family and friends I do have.
And I am thankful, truly, and do meditate on the meaning of the season, and, in my own small way celebrate, by having a tree and giving gifts. I have simply been stuck at home for too many days, with no way to get out and get moving. When I can drive, I will take my shiny bluewalker with the seat (for when I am dizzy or tired) and go people watch while I walk from one end to the other of the Mohegan Sun Casino- I live between the Sun and Foxwoods, which is the biggest casino in the western hemisphere. What a weird thing to have in the middle of the woods only 5 miles away!
I need to walk, and casinos are better than malls, because I spend less. (My gambling limit is $20 three times a year, and I stick to it.) Meanwhile, between bouts of misery and sorrow, I am working to be busy here inside, despite the gray days New England has been blessed with lately. I read journals, play online games and solitaires and roam the Internet. I sit on my new couch for a different view of the living room (in which I have been living, day and night, since October 20th). I am even sending out a few Christmas cards, though it is lucky that Christmas really ends on Twelthnight, or Three Kings' Day. This gives me plenty of time!
I really do wish those who love the holidays, or value the religious aspects of their holidays, or are lucky enough to be busy with family and friends and are loving it, the very best joy of the season. And for those who are struggling, I hope you can make it through the season with some sense of hope for the future. I know from personal experience that human nature is strong and resilient, and enables us to endure and even grow and change.
Blessings, Margo
That I could skate away on...
Joni Mitchell
I have all my good enough Christmas plans in place. I am saving wrapping presents for tomorrow, so it will seem Christmas Eve-y. My new couch arrived, and it is absolutely wonderful. Meg has bought the cinnamon buns we always have Christmas morning. I am working very hard to be upbeat when I talk to anyone, and I definitely don't want to be a downer here.
But through my dark glasses, it feels as if even those I know who also suffer Christmas depression, who rush around too much and superhuman their ways through the Holiday madness into exhaustion, are doing better than I am. Mostly, I am lonely, a complaint I have whined over all year long. I have even had well meaning people offer advice ranging from relax and enjoy your solitude to well, get your butt out there and meet new people, join a group, volunteer, DO something. None of these people have been living with chronic pain, facing, then recovering, from major surgery. I have no doubt that I will do something as soon as I am able, but still I'm sad and alone, during all these long, boring days leading up to Christmas.
I have only to think of anyone who is incarcerated, or mourning the death of a loved one, or sick, or homeless, or hungry, or caught in a war over which they have no control, and I feel ashamed. I know as well as most, and better than some, that this is the season for giving, not throwing a pity party. A time to celebrate the renewing of light, both at Solstice and Hanukkah, and soon a celebration of family and heritage at Kwanzaa. A time to meditate on the birth of a child to a virgin, an event which many think is part of a cycle reaching back to ancient times. A time to be thankful for the family and friends I do have.
And I am thankful, truly, and do meditate on the meaning of the season, and, in my own small way celebrate, by having a tree and giving gifts. I have simply been stuck at home for too many days, with no way to get out and get moving. When I can drive, I will take my shiny bluewalker with the seat (for when I am dizzy or tired) and go people watch while I walk from one end to the other of the Mohegan Sun Casino- I live between the Sun and Foxwoods, which is the biggest casino in the western hemisphere. What a weird thing to have in the middle of the woods only 5 miles away!
I need to walk, and casinos are better than malls, because I spend less. (My gambling limit is $20 three times a year, and I stick to it.) Meanwhile, between bouts of misery and sorrow, I am working to be busy here inside, despite the gray days New England has been blessed with lately. I read journals, play online games and solitaires and roam the Internet. I sit on my new couch for a different view of the living room (in which I have been living, day and night, since October 20th). I am even sending out a few Christmas cards, though it is lucky that Christmas really ends on Twelthnight, or Three Kings' Day. This gives me plenty of time!
I really do wish those who love the holidays, or value the religious aspects of their holidays, or are lucky enough to be busy with family and friends and are loving it, the very best joy of the season. And for those who are struggling, I hope you can make it through the season with some sense of hope for the future. I know from personal experience that human nature is strong and resilient, and enables us to endure and even grow and change.
Blessings, Margo
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Christmas is Coming
Christmas is coming,
The goose is getting fat,
Please put a penny in
The old man's hat.
If you haven't got a penny.
a ha'penny will do,
If you haven't got a ha'penny,
God bless you.
-Old English Carol
It's coming on Christmas
they're cutting down trees
putting up reindeer
and singing songs
of joy and peace
I wish i had a river
I could skate away on...
-Joni Mitchell
Christmas is coming, all too quickly for nearly everybody I know. I have been meditating a bit on how I feel this Christmas, and these two songs seem to sum it up. The former is one we sang at Shipley, the all girls school I attended from four to fourteen. I can still see us, in our short, forest green, pleated gym-type uniforms, over long sleeved white cotton blouses, all wearing wite socks, brown tie shoes and our forest green bloomers over clean while undies. There we stood, lined up by height (me at the left end of the back row) singing Ye Olde Englishe Christmas Caroles to our assembled parents, the fathers having been coerced into coming home early (by commuter train) at a time when they would have much rather worked late, then hit the club car before confronting family Christmas duties.
Never mind, I did learn all the words of lots of old British Carols, and they come floating back to me at odd moments of the holiday season. I learned a lot more Advent and Christmas Carols when I sang in my church choir for a decade or so, long ago. I especially love Advent carols. Surprised that this pagan was so active in a church choir? Shouldn't be-I have always been interested in religion, ever since I left my Episcopalian universe for a Quaker boarding school- a study in opposites that sent me on to (eventually) major in Comparative Religion, a truly useful major for a woman planning to be divorced and needing a job badly.
Anyway, as an adult I put in a decade of hard labor in a local church. I don't think anyone else in that church went to more retreats and study groups and Bible courses during that time period. In the end I realized that I kept banging my head on misogyny and homophobia, with which the same denomination is still struggling to this day. Good thing I didn't hang out, waiting for change. In reality, by the time I left the church, the Goddess, the feminine side of the Divine, had claimed me, and I could no more refuse Her than Paul on the road to Damascus could deny his own, more dramatic calling.
As I hum the first song, I think about the historical Jesus and his birth story. More than two millennium later, we know something of the outcome of this birth to a young single mother, already in labor, riding a donkey into a strange town teeming with others vying for room and board, all because of some governmental regulation about taxes. Mary (a Goddess figure if there ever was one) didn't know about Christmas or Christianity, she just gave birth in the straw, accepted first, shepherds, then (no doubt) curious townies, followed by three Kings bringing offerings of unthinkable wealth, along with a warning to get out of town quick. And off they set for Egypt on that donkey with a new born. No wonder she pondered all this in her heart. Any mother would.
Christmas has come a long way. Mostly downhill. I am not out in the Christmas Crush (being home bound, still, six weeks after surgery), but most of the people I talk to are either strung out with stress, or tired of the whole idea. And, since I am watching more television than usual, even I have not escaped the rampant consumerism. The ads are all about buy, buy, buy, buy, spend, spend, spend. That child born in the stable or cave or wherever, grew up to be a man who would be appalled by it all. I am absolutely sure of this.
If the historical Jesus was anything like the stories his life generated, he would be far more likely to be putting his last penny into an old man's hat (on his way to heal some lepers, no doubt, then on to teach those without any pennies about the power of Peace on Earth) than out buying one of his disciples' kids a Tickle Me Elmo. Which I will no doubt be buying for my granddaughter Myla next year. I am quite able to admit I don't always practice what I preach (and I bet Jesus himself didn't either. He was human, after all.)
The second song is also one I hum every Christmas. Depression always creeps up on me as Christmas nears. It has been a year since Rene moved out, and the second song is about lost love, so you might think I'm in an anniversary funk. Except that I have hummed it every Christmas for years, long before she came into my life. I suspect it is a generational thing. My grandmother had perfect-Christmas-itis. She passed it down to my mother, who passed it down to me.
In my childhood home there was always too much alcohol, a Christmas Tree fight, and some sort of mild catastrophe that sent my mother into a tailspin. Which I recreated for Meg, who miraculously seems to have escaped such a need for perfection. I have rid myself of the need for a perfect tree and family dinner, but somehow I cannot pull myself out of the depression which settles painfully around my shoulders like the dimming of the light that comes along with the Solstice, the shortest day of the year. (Solstice is a pagan celebration, and the reason that Christmas was moved to this time of year. Many Biblical scholars believe Jesus was born in the spring or early summer.)
Over the years I have gained several techniques to cope with this kind of depression. I have come back to the most helpful of these: choose five things that will "define" Christmas for me. If these five things happen, the I will count it as a "happy-enough" Christmas, and let go of other hopes, expectations, and fantasies. This year's five are:1) get a tree up 2) give gifts to those I love 3) buy myself a couple of small presents to open Christmas Day 4) spend time with Peggy, and her son Ian, who is my god(dess)son and 5) spend time with Meg, Myla and Adam. There is a sixth which I always do anyway; make a donation to charity.
Then I go about making sure these five things happen. Luckily, I have also learned to choose thing that are quite possible. The (small artificial) tree is up, and only needs a few decorations. I've ordered nearly all gifts on line-for those I love and myself. Peggy has invited me for dinner-some oddball, non traditional meal, I'm sure. And Meg has invited me for Christmas breakfast and gift opening- a meal I have organized for the last two decades. She is even more excited than I am!
There. Christmas is taken care of. It will not stop the dimness of depression completely- it never does-but it will somehow bring joy into a life which is still on hold as I wait for healing and change. I hope the man who was the historical Jesus, the latest in a long history of dying and rising gods born to a virgin mother, would understand.
Blessings, Joy and Peace,
Margo
The goose is getting fat,
Please put a penny in
The old man's hat.
If you haven't got a penny.
a ha'penny will do,
If you haven't got a ha'penny,
God bless you.
-Old English Carol
It's coming on Christmas
they're cutting down trees
putting up reindeer
and singing songs
of joy and peace
I wish i had a river
I could skate away on...
-Joni Mitchell
Christmas is coming, all too quickly for nearly everybody I know. I have been meditating a bit on how I feel this Christmas, and these two songs seem to sum it up. The former is one we sang at Shipley, the all girls school I attended from four to fourteen. I can still see us, in our short, forest green, pleated gym-type uniforms, over long sleeved white cotton blouses, all wearing wite socks, brown tie shoes and our forest green bloomers over clean while undies. There we stood, lined up by height (me at the left end of the back row) singing Ye Olde Englishe Christmas Caroles to our assembled parents, the fathers having been coerced into coming home early (by commuter train) at a time when they would have much rather worked late, then hit the club car before confronting family Christmas duties.
Never mind, I did learn all the words of lots of old British Carols, and they come floating back to me at odd moments of the holiday season. I learned a lot more Advent and Christmas Carols when I sang in my church choir for a decade or so, long ago. I especially love Advent carols. Surprised that this pagan was so active in a church choir? Shouldn't be-I have always been interested in religion, ever since I left my Episcopalian universe for a Quaker boarding school- a study in opposites that sent me on to (eventually) major in Comparative Religion, a truly useful major for a woman planning to be divorced and needing a job badly.
Anyway, as an adult I put in a decade of hard labor in a local church. I don't think anyone else in that church went to more retreats and study groups and Bible courses during that time period. In the end I realized that I kept banging my head on misogyny and homophobia, with which the same denomination is still struggling to this day. Good thing I didn't hang out, waiting for change. In reality, by the time I left the church, the Goddess, the feminine side of the Divine, had claimed me, and I could no more refuse Her than Paul on the road to Damascus could deny his own, more dramatic calling.
As I hum the first song, I think about the historical Jesus and his birth story. More than two millennium later, we know something of the outcome of this birth to a young single mother, already in labor, riding a donkey into a strange town teeming with others vying for room and board, all because of some governmental regulation about taxes. Mary (a Goddess figure if there ever was one) didn't know about Christmas or Christianity, she just gave birth in the straw, accepted first, shepherds, then (no doubt) curious townies, followed by three Kings bringing offerings of unthinkable wealth, along with a warning to get out of town quick. And off they set for Egypt on that donkey with a new born. No wonder she pondered all this in her heart. Any mother would.
Christmas has come a long way. Mostly downhill. I am not out in the Christmas Crush (being home bound, still, six weeks after surgery), but most of the people I talk to are either strung out with stress, or tired of the whole idea. And, since I am watching more television than usual, even I have not escaped the rampant consumerism. The ads are all about buy, buy, buy, buy, spend, spend, spend. That child born in the stable or cave or wherever, grew up to be a man who would be appalled by it all. I am absolutely sure of this.
If the historical Jesus was anything like the stories his life generated, he would be far more likely to be putting his last penny into an old man's hat (on his way to heal some lepers, no doubt, then on to teach those without any pennies about the power of Peace on Earth) than out buying one of his disciples' kids a Tickle Me Elmo. Which I will no doubt be buying for my granddaughter Myla next year. I am quite able to admit I don't always practice what I preach (and I bet Jesus himself didn't either. He was human, after all.)
The second song is also one I hum every Christmas. Depression always creeps up on me as Christmas nears. It has been a year since Rene moved out, and the second song is about lost love, so you might think I'm in an anniversary funk. Except that I have hummed it every Christmas for years, long before she came into my life. I suspect it is a generational thing. My grandmother had perfect-Christmas-itis. She passed it down to my mother, who passed it down to me.
In my childhood home there was always too much alcohol, a Christmas Tree fight, and some sort of mild catastrophe that sent my mother into a tailspin. Which I recreated for Meg, who miraculously seems to have escaped such a need for perfection. I have rid myself of the need for a perfect tree and family dinner, but somehow I cannot pull myself out of the depression which settles painfully around my shoulders like the dimming of the light that comes along with the Solstice, the shortest day of the year. (Solstice is a pagan celebration, and the reason that Christmas was moved to this time of year. Many Biblical scholars believe Jesus was born in the spring or early summer.)
Over the years I have gained several techniques to cope with this kind of depression. I have come back to the most helpful of these: choose five things that will "define" Christmas for me. If these five things happen, the I will count it as a "happy-enough" Christmas, and let go of other hopes, expectations, and fantasies. This year's five are:1) get a tree up 2) give gifts to those I love 3) buy myself a couple of small presents to open Christmas Day 4) spend time with Peggy, and her son Ian, who is my god(dess)son and 5) spend time with Meg, Myla and Adam. There is a sixth which I always do anyway; make a donation to charity.
Then I go about making sure these five things happen. Luckily, I have also learned to choose thing that are quite possible. The (small artificial) tree is up, and only needs a few decorations. I've ordered nearly all gifts on line-for those I love and myself. Peggy has invited me for dinner-some oddball, non traditional meal, I'm sure. And Meg has invited me for Christmas breakfast and gift opening- a meal I have organized for the last two decades. She is even more excited than I am!
There. Christmas is taken care of. It will not stop the dimness of depression completely- it never does-but it will somehow bring joy into a life which is still on hold as I wait for healing and change. I hope the man who was the historical Jesus, the latest in a long history of dying and rising gods born to a virgin mother, would understand.
Blessings, Joy and Peace,
Margo
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