Seven weeks ago Rob moved out.
Eighteen days ago I sat in a conference room and stared at images of my mother's lungs and brain spotted with cancer.
When Rob first moved out, one of the hardest things were the "kick in the stomach" moments. Those were the moments that left me mentally or emotionally doubled over in pain, trying to catch my breath, feeling like another blow would collapse my already shaky knees. Such moments included finding a loose engagement picture when I moved stuff in a closet, putting away a book Rob had been reading to us as a family, and grocery buying for three instead of four. The hits came from unexpected places at what felt like the most vulnerable times.
Many phone calls and emails at those moments helped me find my footing, catch my breath, and recapture my hope. I learned to roll with those moments, to feel them, to accept them, to grieve them, and to let them go while looking forward and believing good would come. It took weeks, but I became good at taking what came at me while solidly standing on my feet...until yesterday.
Yesterday was spent seeking a solution to a seemingly hopeless situation.
The tumor in Mom's frontal lobe has left her paranoid, given to rage, and sometimes violent. Sunday there was an episode with my stepdad that required intervention by our hospice support and removal of my mom from her home. The only solution in the moment was to transport her to my home. However, there are concerns.
The simple fact is there are a lot of factors that are creating an unstable situation. Mom's meds, inability to regulate or filter her moods due to the tumor, her frustration, the deep grief she feels, and a lack of sleep work together to create a person who is wonderful when she's normal but possibly highly volatile when she is pushed even the slightest bit too far. Obviously, this is not going to work with my children in the home. Plus, she hates being here. She wants her own home, and she wants to be left alone. Due to her inability to think well all the time, this is not a viable option. Due to monetary issues, an assisted care facility or a full-time caregiver is not an option.
There are no good options.
Despite rolling things around and around in my mind and playing out different scenarios, I have no answer.
But that is not what slammed into me yesterday. All of that makes my brain tired, but it is only a puzzle with a solution I don't know yet. However, I will. My faith is strong. God has a solution. I haven't heard Him tell me what it is yet, but there is one.
All of that, while tiring, is okay. It'll work out.
That is not the kick in the stomach.
Last evening Rob brought the children over to spend time with Mom and be encouragers. I was looking forward to it since I have hardly seen them since Friday, and I miss them greatly. All was going well...so I thought, and we were getting ready for bed when Robert came to me.
"Mom, can we spend the night at Dad's?"
What?
"We want to stay at Dad's."
Why?
"We just like being there more."
"Well, you can call him and ask."
Robert did. Rob said yes, and they were on their way out the door...again.
And I was left feeling like I had just gotten kicked in the stomach, feeling like I just watched my fragmented family shatter.
The door closed, and I breathed. Sometimes that is enough.
Anna and I had talked before they left. She wasn't picking parents. She was picking peace.
Being with my mom, watching her sadness, was too much for two hearts already figuring out ways to heal. I understood.
"I don't want to be here." My mom's slurred words hit me in the back of the head like a slap.
I listened as Rob's car pulled out of the driveway and drove away.
I don't want to be here either.
I would rather be listening to my children laugh as I tucked them in bed and gave them tickles and kisses than to hear them call, "I love you, Mom," over their shoulder as they got into their dad's care to leave again. I'd rather read the book I bought than try to finagle finances so Mom can have good care that keeps her safe while still respecting her desire to care for herself as long as possible. I'd rather...
I'd rather be courageous than cowardly. I'd rather do the right thing...even if I don't like the high cost that goes with it...than to do the easy thing.
The fact is my children are fine. They love being with their dad, and they love playing with friends. I am the one feeling detached. I am the one feeling alone. I am the one feeling the weight of the situations, of being the fulcrum from which the balancing act seems to extend. Being the fulcrum hurts, and the balancing act rubs in ways I don't like.
No, I don't like being here either, but neither does anyone else trying to find their balance in the midst of the situations that keep us feeling off balance. Someone has to be here, though, in the middle, seeking solutions, feeling the weight, finding the balance. That someone might as well be me, and, maybe my being here will make it better for the wonderful people I love. If it will, this is where I want to be.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Yet Another Change in Plans
I did not watch the sun come up this morning as I had expected. Instead, I slept till 8:00 and was awoke by a text message from a friend when the phone buzzed on my bedside table...and not the one in my camper.
I expected to greet the day with a strange mixture of peace, melancholy, and joy. Instead, I met the day with a deep sigh and the question, "How did life get like this?"
Last night's happenings don't cross my mind. Next week's do. Unless there is another major change in plans, my mom will come to live with the children and me next weekend.
A list of "to do's" longer than I care to consider resurfaces from last night. Instantly, more is added to it. Plans for next week are quickly factored into the situation. Social activities. Non-negotiable appointments. A writing deadline. Some things will simply have to go. I can't do everything. What is necessary? What is first?
Within seconds a plan is formed. The list is rearranged into an order based on priority and prerequisites. Time estimates are made. A list of resources, including people who can and will help, immediately comes to mind, and I start placing them where I need them and when. A different list of emails and appointment rescheduling is created in my mind, and I ponder the logic of resheduling right now at all. Some planned events are not easily categorized, and I weigh the cost/benefit ratio. They are slipped into "We'll see." A sublist of things that simply need to be nixed is made as well. I simply don't have time for them.
A deep breath. I know what has to be done and how to do it.
Less than two minutes have passed.
I blink at the ceiling and feel the cushion of the mattress under me. This time next week this won't be my room. My bed will be in storage, and my "new normal" will be eradicated yet again. I chuckle as I wonder how many new "new normals" we will go through before this rollercoaster slows to a halt...but then, I'll have bigger emotional concerns than moving back into my then empty bedroom.
Tears don't come this time. I hear a mental door slam. I don't have time to be emotional right now.
I have a job to do.
Six days to get it done.
And time is ticking.
I'll have to enjoy the luxury of my bed...and my emotions...later. Right now, a to do list awaits.
I expected to greet the day with a strange mixture of peace, melancholy, and joy. Instead, I met the day with a deep sigh and the question, "How did life get like this?"
Last night's happenings don't cross my mind. Next week's do. Unless there is another major change in plans, my mom will come to live with the children and me next weekend.
A list of "to do's" longer than I care to consider resurfaces from last night. Instantly, more is added to it. Plans for next week are quickly factored into the situation. Social activities. Non-negotiable appointments. A writing deadline. Some things will simply have to go. I can't do everything. What is necessary? What is first?
Within seconds a plan is formed. The list is rearranged into an order based on priority and prerequisites. Time estimates are made. A list of resources, including people who can and will help, immediately comes to mind, and I start placing them where I need them and when. A different list of emails and appointment rescheduling is created in my mind, and I ponder the logic of resheduling right now at all. Some planned events are not easily categorized, and I weigh the cost/benefit ratio. They are slipped into "We'll see." A sublist of things that simply need to be nixed is made as well. I simply don't have time for them.
A deep breath. I know what has to be done and how to do it.
Less than two minutes have passed.
I blink at the ceiling and feel the cushion of the mattress under me. This time next week this won't be my room. My bed will be in storage, and my "new normal" will be eradicated yet again. I chuckle as I wonder how many new "new normals" we will go through before this rollercoaster slows to a halt...but then, I'll have bigger emotional concerns than moving back into my then empty bedroom.
Tears don't come this time. I hear a mental door slam. I don't have time to be emotional right now.
I have a job to do.
Six days to get it done.
And time is ticking.
I'll have to enjoy the luxury of my bed...and my emotions...later. Right now, a to do list awaits.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Amazing Moment
One of those moments that feels good even when it doesn't...and makes me smile even while I cry...
When I talked to my mom this morning, I told her she is amazing. She said she doesn't feel amazing. I told her that is okay, I think she's amazing anyway. She started to cry...and so did I.
When I talked to my mom this morning, I told her she is amazing. She said she doesn't feel amazing. I told her that is okay, I think she's amazing anyway. She started to cry...and so did I.
In the Early Morning Hours
Some mornings start absurdly early, like this one. At 4:23 my wide-open eyes stared at the clock beside me. It's been a few weeks since I was up this early and couldn't go back to sleep. Before, it wasn't a big deal. I would prop myself up in bed, read through emails, journal some, and pray. When I got tired later in the afternoon, I would take a nap. Today, however, that is not an option. Today we are going camping with my mom and dad, most likely for the last time.
Even as I write that, I cannot really process it.
Last week I walked by our pop-up camper and suddenly found myself leaning against it with hot tears running down my face.
We bought the camper for our family to take trips together. Now our family...isn't. A few years ago my parents bought their camper so they could join us on our trips. We've loved it. Now my mom's health is fading quickly, and my stepdad isn't able to do the preparations and make the trips alone.
And my tears fall.
Yesterday when my mom called to ask us to camp this weekend, I bravely agreed, made the plans, packed the necessary things...and all the while wiped fat tears from my face. The "last times" are so hard...and so precious.
Camping in mid-August in Texas has got to be one of the craziest things anyone would do. The temps are in the triple-digits. Our pop up isn't made to stay cool in this weather, and there isn't much to do besides melt. My practical side is about to have a hissy fit.
But I am more than practical.
I am a mom whose daughter needs as many precious moments of Grandma as she can hold.
I am a story teller who needs the pictures, the whole story, and the opportunity to tell it...the adventure of living it.
I am a daughter who hates seeing her mom this way...but hates the future of not being able to see her mom...so I capture the moments...the laughs on the phone, the conversations in the hospital room, the insanely timed camping trips whose time is coming to a close. And I hold those treasures in my camera...in my mind...in my heart...and I know no amount of tears, no matter how big or how hot will wash them away.
And even though my vision is blurred, my purpose is not.
So I pack swimsuits, shorts, an extra fan, boxes of kleenex. I take a deep breath and do not think of what we will be leaving behind when we pack up our family trip...for the last time. Instead, I focus on what we will take home.
And I pray.
I pray for us to say what needs to be said, to hug as long as we need to hug, to laugh even when we cry. I pray we do not put on plastic faces that pretend all is well when it isn't, but I pray we do not miss the joy and laughter just because life isn't what we want it to be.
Oh, God, gives us the wisdom and strength to be okay with the glory of life when it is so easy to lose its joy in the shadow of death. When I look back, I don't want to think about this weekend as the last hoorah, as trying to salvage moments and memories. I want it to be a weekend where we lived and loved intentionally, knowing you could do something miraculous and there might be other weekends, but if not, it's okay. I want us to have this weekend because this is how we choose to live, not because we are afraid to die.
And, God, help me be brave. Help me to engage emotionally, even when emotions feel like the enemy because right now, my heart hurts more than words can say. Help me not to miss the love and the joy because I'm afraid of the pain. Right now, I don't know how I am going to do this, but I guess we'll do this like everyting else, won't we? One moment at a time.
Even as I write that, I cannot really process it.
Last week I walked by our pop-up camper and suddenly found myself leaning against it with hot tears running down my face.
We bought the camper for our family to take trips together. Now our family...isn't. A few years ago my parents bought their camper so they could join us on our trips. We've loved it. Now my mom's health is fading quickly, and my stepdad isn't able to do the preparations and make the trips alone.
And my tears fall.
Yesterday when my mom called to ask us to camp this weekend, I bravely agreed, made the plans, packed the necessary things...and all the while wiped fat tears from my face. The "last times" are so hard...and so precious.
Camping in mid-August in Texas has got to be one of the craziest things anyone would do. The temps are in the triple-digits. Our pop up isn't made to stay cool in this weather, and there isn't much to do besides melt. My practical side is about to have a hissy fit.
But I am more than practical.
I am a mom whose daughter needs as many precious moments of Grandma as she can hold.
I am a story teller who needs the pictures, the whole story, and the opportunity to tell it...the adventure of living it.
I am a daughter who hates seeing her mom this way...but hates the future of not being able to see her mom...so I capture the moments...the laughs on the phone, the conversations in the hospital room, the insanely timed camping trips whose time is coming to a close. And I hold those treasures in my camera...in my mind...in my heart...and I know no amount of tears, no matter how big or how hot will wash them away.
And even though my vision is blurred, my purpose is not.
So I pack swimsuits, shorts, an extra fan, boxes of kleenex. I take a deep breath and do not think of what we will be leaving behind when we pack up our family trip...for the last time. Instead, I focus on what we will take home.
And I pray.
I pray for us to say what needs to be said, to hug as long as we need to hug, to laugh even when we cry. I pray we do not put on plastic faces that pretend all is well when it isn't, but I pray we do not miss the joy and laughter just because life isn't what we want it to be.
Oh, God, gives us the wisdom and strength to be okay with the glory of life when it is so easy to lose its joy in the shadow of death. When I look back, I don't want to think about this weekend as the last hoorah, as trying to salvage moments and memories. I want it to be a weekend where we lived and loved intentionally, knowing you could do something miraculous and there might be other weekends, but if not, it's okay. I want us to have this weekend because this is how we choose to live, not because we are afraid to die.
And, God, help me be brave. Help me to engage emotionally, even when emotions feel like the enemy because right now, my heart hurts more than words can say. Help me not to miss the love and the joy because I'm afraid of the pain. Right now, I don't know how I am going to do this, but I guess we'll do this like everyting else, won't we? One moment at a time.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Enjoying the Day
This morning I woke up mentally and emotionally heavy. It's the kind of morning that seduces me to stay in bed and wallow in the sadness and glum of my life at the moment. No tears fall. No defined emotion, just a numbed misery that wants to suck me in and suck the life out of me.
It is easy to succumb.
But I don't.
Instead, I speak the heavy thoughts to the Lord, the ones that whisper hopelessness and loneliness. I tell Him my concerns, the ones over which I have so little control. I confide my desires--to be loved, to embrace these trials, to learn from them, to learn to battle through them, to enjoy this day anyway.
To enjoy this day anyway. Quite possibly the hardest battle of all.
I have become rebellious to the plastic mentality of putting on a happy face and pretending all is fine even when my heart has been ripped out of my chest and I feel I can't breathe. I have become militant in my determination to be real, to live authentically, to embrace every moment and every emotion, suck all the wisdom out of them, and then move forward. I will not lie about my pain so others can feel better or be more comfortable around me. Yet, despite my choice to embrace the feelings of the moment, I have become ardent in refusing to let them define me or my day. I have become passionately purposeful in living each day with hope, joy, and excitement--to live life at its most glorious...anyway.
Life at its most glorious is not an absence of trials. It is the choice to flourish in and because of the trials.
How do I do that today?
"Lord, give me strength."
He answers, "Strong is something you choose to be. Strong is the choice to do the right thing. You know how to be strong."
"Give me wisdom."
"I am. Right now."
"Lord, tell me what I need to do right now to embrace life at its most glorious."
"You're doing it. You are embracing the option and the day's possibilities."
"I can't pretend to be happy."
"I'm happy you won't pretend."
I chuckle.
"So what do I do to move past this? Because hopeless and gloomy are not who I am."
"Then be you and enjoy it. Enjoy what you bring to the world. Enjoy the hope and encouragement you bring. Enjoy you. I do."
A soft laugh, and I smile.
Be you...and enjoy it...I do.
Honestly, so do I.
I take a deep breath and sigh contentedly. Oh, yeah, it's going to be a great day.
It is easy to succumb.
But I don't.
Instead, I speak the heavy thoughts to the Lord, the ones that whisper hopelessness and loneliness. I tell Him my concerns, the ones over which I have so little control. I confide my desires--to be loved, to embrace these trials, to learn from them, to learn to battle through them, to enjoy this day anyway.
To enjoy this day anyway. Quite possibly the hardest battle of all.
I have become rebellious to the plastic mentality of putting on a happy face and pretending all is fine even when my heart has been ripped out of my chest and I feel I can't breathe. I have become militant in my determination to be real, to live authentically, to embrace every moment and every emotion, suck all the wisdom out of them, and then move forward. I will not lie about my pain so others can feel better or be more comfortable around me. Yet, despite my choice to embrace the feelings of the moment, I have become ardent in refusing to let them define me or my day. I have become passionately purposeful in living each day with hope, joy, and excitement--to live life at its most glorious...anyway.
Life at its most glorious is not an absence of trials. It is the choice to flourish in and because of the trials.
How do I do that today?
"Lord, give me strength."
He answers, "Strong is something you choose to be. Strong is the choice to do the right thing. You know how to be strong."
"Give me wisdom."
"I am. Right now."
"Lord, tell me what I need to do right now to embrace life at its most glorious."
"You're doing it. You are embracing the option and the day's possibilities."
"I can't pretend to be happy."
"I'm happy you won't pretend."
I chuckle.
"So what do I do to move past this? Because hopeless and gloomy are not who I am."
"Then be you and enjoy it. Enjoy what you bring to the world. Enjoy the hope and encouragement you bring. Enjoy you. I do."
A soft laugh, and I smile.
Be you...and enjoy it...I do.
Honestly, so do I.
I take a deep breath and sigh contentedly. Oh, yeah, it's going to be a great day.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
In the Darkness
2:00 am. Middle of the night. I'm awake, laid out on the couch, finding words to put with the reality. I don't know why I am experiencing the darkness while others get to rest. All I know is I am here for a reason.
The darkness won't last forever, and eventually I will rest. For now, I am believing in the purpose of being in the darkness.
In my life, my marriage is in question, and my mother is facing her final battle. Doubts of our marriage's viability assail my husband. Cancer ravages my mom.
It is dark.
I do not know why this darkness has come to my family. All I know is I am here for reason. The darkness doesn't last forever, and at some point, I will rest. For now, I know God has a purpose...even when I do not understand...even when I cannot see...even in this darkness.
The darkness won't last forever, and eventually I will rest. For now, I am believing in the purpose of being in the darkness.
In my life, my marriage is in question, and my mother is facing her final battle. Doubts of our marriage's viability assail my husband. Cancer ravages my mom.
It is dark.
I do not know why this darkness has come to my family. All I know is I am here for reason. The darkness doesn't last forever, and at some point, I will rest. For now, I know God has a purpose...even when I do not understand...even when I cannot see...even in this darkness.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Parts of Life I Hate
Like today. Not because it's Wednesday, but because it is an angry day. I hate angry days.
Honestly, angry days make me feel like defeated, not dejected or discouraged, but like I am losing a war. I hate that someone else' actions or life's circumstances can have so much control over my responses. I hate that my emotions just run amuck without my permission. I hate that I can be having a great time and some weird thing happen and suddenly I'm sobbing.
I hate this more than I can tell you.
I hate feeling like the sadness is bigger than I can get on top of some days, and I end up feeling like my whole goal is simply to find air pockets so I can breathe under this pile of life rubble I'm under.
I hate feeling broken, like I can't see people for who they are but through some shattered filter. I hate wondering when I will trust people's motives and words again.
And, yes, I know. All of this is normal, and my being angry about it is about as sensible as a soldier being mad at him-/herself for being shot in combat, hurting from the wound, and having to heal. I do understand that.
I understand my life has been ripped into a more pieces than I can count, and it seems that every piece has become some sort of shrapnel that has embedded itself into me in excruciatingly painful ways. However, I also understand that even if I am wounded, I have people for whom I am responsible. I take the responsibility very seriously, and I hate feeling like I am not doing the best I possibly can for them, to lead them, to train them up for when they face battles like this, to help them find their footing when everything around them seems to be crumbling, to help them find their way through the pain and questions to see there is still goodness and joy.
As I said, these are the days when I feel defeated, like I'm losing the battle, like I have to fall back to a defensive position instead of standing in an offensive one, and yeah, I hate that.
Honestly, angry days make me feel like defeated, not dejected or discouraged, but like I am losing a war. I hate that someone else' actions or life's circumstances can have so much control over my responses. I hate that my emotions just run amuck without my permission. I hate that I can be having a great time and some weird thing happen and suddenly I'm sobbing.
I hate this more than I can tell you.
I hate feeling like the sadness is bigger than I can get on top of some days, and I end up feeling like my whole goal is simply to find air pockets so I can breathe under this pile of life rubble I'm under.
I hate feeling broken, like I can't see people for who they are but through some shattered filter. I hate wondering when I will trust people's motives and words again.
And, yes, I know. All of this is normal, and my being angry about it is about as sensible as a soldier being mad at him-/herself for being shot in combat, hurting from the wound, and having to heal. I do understand that.
I understand my life has been ripped into a more pieces than I can count, and it seems that every piece has become some sort of shrapnel that has embedded itself into me in excruciatingly painful ways. However, I also understand that even if I am wounded, I have people for whom I am responsible. I take the responsibility very seriously, and I hate feeling like I am not doing the best I possibly can for them, to lead them, to train them up for when they face battles like this, to help them find their footing when everything around them seems to be crumbling, to help them find their way through the pain and questions to see there is still goodness and joy.
As I said, these are the days when I feel defeated, like I'm losing the battle, like I have to fall back to a defensive position instead of standing in an offensive one, and yeah, I hate that.
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