Tag Archives: death

21

Mar. ’21

Shittiest Year Ever: The Truth

“We live in a fantasy world, a world of illusion. The great task in life is to find reality.” – Iris Murdoch

My kid just went through the hardest year of his life.

He had his colon removed. He had multiple surgeries and was in and out of hospitals through the entire year. In the middle of this, he lost his father. And in the process of losing his father, he lost his home. This 22-year-old “kid” (yes, he’s still a kid) had his entire world turned upside down.  And you know what I posted on Facebook through it all?

Smiling faces.

Yep. I posted the triumphs.

The photos of him walking after his first surgery. The photo of his first day home after his first 21-day hospital stay. The photo of him smiling at his new home (my house), surrounded by pets and love.  And, most recently, the photo of his triumphant first day back to work. His smiling first step back into “normalcy.”

Etc. Etc. Etc.

But you know what I didn’t post photos of during all that?

I didn’t post photos of the fear. The sadness. The anger. The pain. So, so much pain. Unimaginable, gut-wrenching pain – emotional and physical.

I didn’t post photos of him waking up and seeing a piece of his intestine on the outside of his body. I didn’t post photos of the bag of waste he wore on himself for months. I didn’t post photos of him doubled over in pain when his remaining intestines would not work properly. I didn’t post photos of the ribs we could easily count and the hipbones and shoulder bones that stuck out grotesquely with no body fat to surround them.

I didn’t post the photo of him as he climbed in the bed beside his dying father with tears streaming down his face.

I didn’t post photos of the fights.

Oh my god, the fights.

I didn’t tell everyone how awful some of the times got between us.

Jeff and I have always had trouble getting along – he was always his daddy’s boy and chose to live with him from an early age. The older he gets, the more I realize why we had so much trouble bonding. We are so incredibly alike. We feel things and we feel them hard. We get angry. We get scared. We love. We hate. We feel it all. Too much, and all at once.  (And, frankly, we both despise that facet of ourselves.)

There were arguments over EVERYTHING over this past year. Especially during those endless four-hour drives to his hospital. I like to take my time. I like to go in a gas station and peruse. I tend to be late for things. Jeff is always in a hurry. He likes to be insanely early for everything. He likes to get in a store and get out.

Every trip was a minefield.

But did anyone see that?  Nope.  Just our “on the road again” smiling faces in the car as we set out on that beautiful drive to yet another appointment. Yet another surgery. Yet another long, drawn-out hospital stay (and hotel stay for me) where we still felt like he wasn’t any better when we left.

And you know what else I didn’t post photos of?

The argument we had this week when he realized that this job wasn’t going to work and abruptly left it. When I got so unfairly angry at him over that choice that I told him he needed to find another place to live. When we fought back and forth over texts for days after he got his things and left. When he cried alone in an empty house that he had to go back to without his dad. When I cried alone in my bedroom because I missed him so much but somehow thought I was doing the right thing to make him a ‘better person.’

No. No one saw any of that.

And why not?

That’s what I’m sitting here asking myself as I write this.

Why didn’t anyone see all that?

Now, I didn’t lie. When I showed you smiling faces, we were really smiling. There were definitely happy times. There were bonding times. There were moments where, even though all of this tragedy was happening all around us, we both knew we would not have been spending this kind of time around each other had it not been happening. Somewhere deep down, even through all the turmoil, I think we both realized we were getting to know one another in ways we hadn’t taken the time to do in the past because we had never been afforded the opportunity.

So, no, I didn’t ‘mislead my public.’ I don’t think any of us ever do that on purpose.

We just conveniently leave things out.

We filter our lives so that they look the best they can.

Sometimes I sit and look at pictures that women post [yes, I’m being gender specific here because we all know it’s usually women] where they’ve filtered themselves to the point that they are practically unrecognizable. I hate to admit this, but I make fun of them. Sometimes even out loud. I make all the jokes. (“Hope they don’t go missing…no one will know what they really look like.” Etc.)

I’m kind of a jerk.

You know what else I am?

A frickin hypocrite.

Because I’ve done that with my life. I’ve done that with my kid’s life. I’ve given him this impossible standard to live up to.  All this darn happiness and strength and triumph. Why do I do that? Why did I do that to him? To me? To us?

Why did I make us think we had something to prove to someone?  Why did I subconsciously show him that he has to be tough all the time? That he has to be such a success?

Screw that.

Life is hard, y’all.  It’s so incredibly hard. And sometimes we’re going to make the wrong choices. Many times, situations are not going to have a silver lining.

They just aren’t.

Some of you may not know, but I write for the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. Later this year, my eighth story will be printed with them. My publicist sent me an email a month or so ago about an upcoming book title regarding overcoming tough times. They wanted to know if I was interested in writing a story about any possible tough time I’ve overcome lately in my life.

Ha! Seriously? How serendipitous. This was going to be right in my wheelhouse. Let the typing commence.

When I sat down to write this, that was my intention. I was going to spin out the best overcoming tough times story they’d ever heard.

But nope. Not this time.

Somehow the truth just started flowing out of my fingers and I am powerless to stop it. It’s time to be real. It’s time to admit that life is hard. Things hurt. Things hurt so bad that you sometimes can’t breathe. You sometimes spend almost an entire day in bed because you are too sad to even try to get up.

But then the next day, you do.

You just do. Because you have no choice.

So there you go. The other side of this horrendous, pile-of-shit year that my kid just went through. That I just went through. That our family went through.

And are still going through.

This is the real us. And you know what?

That’s okay too.

It just is.

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12

Feb. ’21

Blogging Break: My 2020 Writer’s Block

“You may be able to take a break from writing, but you won’t be able to take a break from being a writer.” – Stephen Leigh

It has been almost two years since I wrote in this blog. I realized that with astonishment today as I looked back at my last post dated July of 2019. When I started this blog, I couldn’t imagine even going a week without writing in it. And yet, here we are. (Funny how life likes to make liars of us, right?)

So, why the absence?

Wow. Where do I even begin? I guess we’ll start here:

In October 2020, I lost my ex-husband.

(Ok, I know that’s a strange thing to say. How can I lose my ex-husband?  Yes, Kevin passed away – but is that allowed to be my loss?  Trust me, I struggled with that almost more than the grief itself. Was I even allowed to be grieving? What right did I have?)

But I digress. A little back story:

For the last five years or so of Kevin’s life, his health started taking a drastic turn downhill. In his late teens, he was diagnosed with Becker muscular dystrophy, a progressive disease that causes a slow deterioration of his muscles over time. He had trouble walking for his entire adult life, but those last five years found him in a wheelchair. Our son Jeff, now 22, spent his older teen and early 20 years taking care of his father. While watching his younger sister move away and go to college, Jeff stayed behind in their little small town with his dad. It was just the two of them – father and son; caregiver and patient; roommates; friends. His dad and I had been divorced since the kids were very young, but I still lived close by. I had remarried my wonderful husband Richard and we all got along just fine. My husband and I even rode over and played cards with Jeff and Kevin occasionally if you can believe that.

Then 2020 struck.

I know we all have our 2020 stories. But man. Ours was a doozy.

The year started with my son getting drastically sick. We took him to the local hospital where he was promptly admitted, diagnosed with ulcerative colitis, and, after a 20-day hospital stay (complete with a transfer to a larger hospital four hours away that specialized in his condition), had his entire colon removed. A seemingly healthy 21 year old kid now had an ostomy bag. Needless to say, this put a bit of a damper on his caregiving for his father. Suddenly, Jeff was the one needing care himself.  After some heartfelt conversations with my husband, we decided I needed to go stay with them to help.

I began living part-time with my ex-husband and son.

To outsiders, this was quite the strange situation. But to us? I don’t know – it just worked. My son needed me. And, even more than that, he needed to know that his father was being taken care of. Now, at this point, his father only needed small things. A little help with household chores and things like that. But that was soon to change.

In June 2020, the very day that my son and I returned home from his second week-long hospital stay for a second surgery, his father was attempting to walk down the hall to greet us at the door, and fell.  He broke his femur.

He was whisked away in an ambulance and, like his son, was transferred to a larger hospital where he would stay for close to a month. When he came home, his need for care drastically increased. He was no longer able to take care of his basic needs. Already suffering from muscular dystrophy, there was no way his other muscles could work in place of the leg that he had so badly broken. With little to no upper body strength, he couldn’t even transfer himself to a sitting position – meaning he needed help with pretty much everything he did to care for himself.

And then, he started getting worse.

At first, we thought maybe the fall and subsequent break had just weakened his muscles to the point that he had lost all energy. But soon, he began getting sick to his stomach. And then, the tell-tale sign – his skin starting turning yellow. After some bloodwork, it was determined that his liver was not functioning properly and he was, once again, shipped off to another hospital for more tests. Meanwhile, our son had his third surgery (the second of a two-surgery series that involved removing his ostomy bag and placing a surgically engineered “replacement” called a j-pouch) and was not healing as well as we had expected. So, with our son recuperating at home, and Kevin’s mother and I taking turns between caring for Jeff and visiting Kevin in the hospital (during the small windows of time we were allowed given the COVID situation), life became a bit hectic, to say the least. And, within a few days, we were given the diagnosis for Jeff’s dad – it was cirrhosis of the liver.

At first, there was a hope. Even though his cirrhosis was extremely advanced and treatment was probably not an option – there was always the chance of a transplant. Even with Kevin’s preexisting muscular condition, there was a possibility he was a surgical candidate. So off he went to another hospital – where we were soon to receive the devastating news: the cirrhosis was too far advanced. He would not survive the transplant surgery.

Kevin was told there was nothing that could be done, and he was sent home to live out his last days.

We were hoping to have 6 months to a year with him but, sadly, that was not to be. Less than a month from being sent home, he passed away early one Sunday morning while the rest of the family was sleeping and I sat by his bedside, holding his hand.

There’s so much more I want to say about his passing – and I’m sure I will one day when I find the words – but that’s not what this blog is about. What it is about, I’m not sure really. I just know that somehow I need to vomit this last year out onto a screen. As I read over this, it seems to be reading as a news report, and I’m sorry for that. But I’m still, even all these months later, trying to learn to feel what has happened to our family. I’m just not there yet.

After Kevin’s passing, Jeff’s condition proceeded to go downhill. At first, we all assumed that it was just emotional. Of course he was mourning his father – his best friend – so he’d need a little time to be able to concentrate on healing and adjusting to life without his ostomy bag. But soon, we began to realize the problem went deeper than that. He continued to lose weight and could not eat without immediately rushing to the bathroom to lose it all, one way or the other. When the kid who had just the year before weighed 182 pounds hit his lowest weight of 110, it was obvious that he was not thriving.

So back to the hospital he went.

Which brings us to now.

After a two-week hospital stay that ended at the end of January, my son is now on a PICC line where he receives his nutrients in liquid form that go from a tube in his upper arm that extends directly into an artery in his heart. Just since being placed on this line, though, he has gained over 30 pounds. It’s working!

After the year we’ve had, I’m almost hesitant to start to feel any hope; but yet, I do. A small part of me is truly hoping that maybe this time, the worst is behind us and there’s an end in sight to all of this disaster. Maybe that’s why I feel drawn back to this blog? Maybe a small part of me is ready to start processing what has happened to all of us? What has happened to me?

I don’t know.

I recently started therapy. (Zoom therapy of course as COVID still looms over us. Ironically, this whole story has existed amidst a pandemic and I’ve barely mentioned it…) I’ve only had one session so far and I found myself sitting there at first wondering what I was even doing. Why was I there? But as is the case with good therapy, the answer suddenly presented itself.

I have forgotten how to feel.

When there was so much requiring my attention – requiring my participation – I had no time to stop and process anything. No time to decide how I felt about it because it wasn’t about me. It was about my son. It was about my ex-husband. It was about my grieving daughter. It was about everything and everyone around me that needed me. They needed my presence. My action. My feelings would just have to take a backseat for the time being.

But now?

I don’t know. Maybe now it’s time to try to get out of my head, and see what’s going on in my heart. I haven’t checked in with that fella for a while. Maybe I better make sure he’s still there.

Thanks for listening. Maybe I’ll see ya again soon as I start the journey back to figuring out what’s in this jumbled head of mine.

***

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04

Feb. ’15

Traces

“What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for others and the world remains and is immortal.”
– Albert Pike

Traces

Leave behind a legacy, friends
Carve your names in stone;
Be remembered for what matters
For what is you and you alone.

For the artist, be remembered
For a canvas filled with swirls;
For the dancers, make your memories
Of pirouettes and twirls.

For the writer, leave the beautiful words
That you were born to say;
For the actor, leave those scenes to last
Far beyond the stage.

Musicians leave your music,
Singers leave your songs;
For when we leave behind these parts of us
We’re never really gone.

***

In memory of our friend and fellow actor, Michael Yelton.
Your legacy lives on.

oliver2

***

“Choosing to be in the theatre was a way to put my roots down somewhere with other people.
It was a way to choose a new family.”
– Juliette Binoche

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10

Dec. ’14

A Heavy Life

“Measure what is measurable, and make measurable what is not so.”
– Galileo Galilei

So, I have a question to ask you guys today.  And if I were guessing, I’d say it’s probably not one that you get asked very often. What I want to know is this:

How heavy is your life?

heavylifeAny idea what I mean by that? I’m going to guess that most of you probably put a negative connotation on the word “heavy.” Am I right? That word is thrown around a lot when used to describe not-so-pleasant things. Weight, for instance. (That’s the first thing that would come to my mind.)  Or it’s used in various negative phrases…”a heavy heart” or “carrying a heavy burden,” things like that. But today, I want you to think of that word in a drastically different way than you may have before.

Let me explain.

Too often, we find ourselves measuring our lives incorrectly. We measure it in terms of success or status or…the one I despise…money. (Nothing makes me angrier than greed….UGH…but that’s a blog for another day.) We constantly compare ourselves to the Joneses. Do I make as much as he does? Is my house as big as hers is? Is my bank account as fat as it possibly could be? What do I need to do to make more money? To be more this? To have more that?

Sigh.

Frankly, I think we are idiots.

My husband just lost a very dear friend yesterday. In the process of his passing, something has spoken to me so loudly and clearly that I can’t seem to ignore it. All around us are words of comfort to the family and words of praise for the man that he was. Not once…not once…have I heard anything about the amount of money this man had. Or how far he got in his career. Or what kind of car he drove. Or how big his house is.

No. Of course not.

No, I’m hearing his life being described in much more measurable ways than money. It’s the weight of his life I’m hearing about. And let me tell ya, this man had a heavy life.

Most notably, his life was heavy with family. He leaves behind three children who adored him and countless other relations whose lives will now have a gap where he once belonged.

His life was heavy with friends. I can’t count the number of people on Facebook who have changed their profile pictures to one of him in his honor. So many status messages have been shared honoring him and the life that he lead. It doesn’t get much heavier than that, if you ask me.

His life was heavy with dedication. In addition to being a dedicated father and friend, he was a dedicated Mason. Twenty-five years, to be exact. That’s a long time to dedicate to the love of your fellow brothers and to the good that these men do for the world…more than we are probably even aware of.

No, the weight of his life has nothing to do with his money. Not at all. It’s the weight of all of the other things that matter. The weight of the tears that are shed in his absence. The weight of the words of praise that describe the life he lived. The weight of the kindness and compassion he showed towards others while he was here.

The weight of the love that surrounded his life, both given and received.

That is how you measure how heavy a life is, my friends.

So, again, I ask you: How heavy is your life? Are you using the right tools to measure it by?

Just checking.

***

“The measure of a life, after all, is not its duration, but its donation.”
– Corrie Ten Boom

In memory of our friend Jim Nelson, 1944 – 2014

jimnelson

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12

Aug. ’14

Robin Williams

“This news hit me as if I actually knew him.” – random Facebook poster

Robin%20Williams-7I want to talk about Robin Williams.

But I don’t just want to talk about him per se. I want to talk about why the news of his death yesterday hit so many people in such profound ways.

Now, first of all, I’m no psychologist. I have no degrees in psychology or sociology or psychiatry or anything else that ends in a “y.” I’m no expert. But now that those disclaimers are out of the way, let me tell what I am.

Human.

And being human [See what I did there?], that makes me somewhat adept at understanding my fellow humans. (Well, sometimes….) In fact, I’m pretty fascinated with other humans. Why they do what they do, what motivates them, what makes them so different, so alike, etc. And a few of my fellow humans have had a response to Robin Williams’s death that is reminiscent of the responses to many other previous celebrity deaths. What response is that, you ask?  Let me summarize:

Why do people care so much about a celebrity death? Stop posting all of these “RIP” messages on Facebook for someone you don’t even know. What about all the senseless deaths in Gaza, Iraq, etc. etc. Get your priorities straight, people! Being famous doesn’t make his life any more meaningful than anyone else’s. What about the soldiers that die every day? What about this, what about that…why is he getting so much attention? It’s a shame you people don’t put as much thought into the real problems of the world as you do into some celebrity’s death…

And so on and so forth.

You’ve seen them, right?  Maybe you’ve even posted them? Or at least thought them.  And hey, I get it. I do. I hear what you’re saying. I really do.

But I want to tell you why you’re wrong.

I used to be the same way. Seeing the outpouring of grief over a celebrity used to fill me with almost a bitterness in a way. I had all those above thoughts, and more. But this time is just different somehow. Hearing of the death of Robin Williams suddenly made me understand something that I didn’t understand before about celebrity death grief.

I just lost someone I know.

Now, of course, I don’t really know Robin Williams. I’ve never met the man. But, like my fiancé Richard said when he heard the news, “I feel like I grew up with him.” See, that’s just it. Robin Williams, and other celebrities, are people that have impacted our lives in one way or another. We turn on the TV, and there they are. We watch a movie, and there they are. They portray situations and events in their roles that give us something to identify with. We remember them.  Especially actors like Robin Williams – the ones who have been around for quite a while. We connect them to events from our past because they were there.

Let me explain.

When I think of Robin Williams, the first thing that immediately pops into my head is Mrs. Doubtfire.  And let me tell you why.  The movie Mrs. Doubtfire first became popular right around the time that I was living in Germany. There’s a scene in the end of Mrs. Doubtfire where Robin Williams, dressed as the old lady “nanny,” gives a speech about parents and children.  He talks about their physical location and the love that remains between a parent and child no matter the distance that may be between them. I hadn’t seen the movie, but I can remember opening a letter from my dad back in the states (my step-dad was the one in the military and I lived primarily with him and my mom), and in the letter my dad told me to be sure to watch that movie. He said there was something at the end that he wanted me to pay special attention to.  So, when I watched it, and heard that part, I cried.  I knew my daddy loved me…even though I had only seen him twice in three years.

And you know who was there for that moment that I remember so well?  Robin Williams.

I know that’s a stretch. But psychologically speaking, I don’t think I’m the only one who connects these people to events from my past. They’ve always been there. We’ve always known them.

And then they’re gone.

And in the case of Robin Williams – here we have lost this man who, on the surface, appeared to be full of happiness and laughter. And what took his life?  Depression. Oh, how we can relate with that.  Don’t lie – you know you can.  Who among us hasn’t felt depression?  Obviously not to the extent that he must have, poor man, but we know that feeling. We know the overwhelming sadness. And, we know what it feels like to paint a smile on to cover it up. We identify with Robin Williams. We identify with his family, with his pain, with their pain. We have lost one of our own.

It’s not a sadness that needs to be belittled.

Now, I’m not saying that the other events of the world are not worthy of our attention. Of course, we need to be saddened by all of the atrocities that are occurring overseas right now. But, thank the good Lord, we can’t identify with those atrocities like we can with the death of Robin Williams. We feel the most deeply over things that affect us. Maybe that’s selfish, but it’s just human nature.

Think how silly it sounds if you put it this way. What if mine and your fathers both passed away at the same time, and I got downright angry at you because you weren’t as sad over my father’s death as you were over your own father’s death. How ridiculous is that?  Of course, you’re not going to be as saddened over my family member as you would be over your own. You know your father, you don’t know mine. Both are human lives that are lost, but one affects you more than the other. It’s just the way it is.

See the connection?

And that’s all I want to say about that.

Rest in peace, Robin Williams. I am so sorry for the loss that your family is facing right now and for the pain that you felt while you were here on this Earth. I hope you know what a legacy you have left behind you, and I hope you and your family will get the respect that you deserve through this devastating time.

Thank you for being here.

Thank you for the memories.

Thank you for giving us the laughter that you couldn’t seem to find for yourself.

***

“No matter what people tell you, words and ideas can change the world.”
– Robin Williams

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14

Apr. ’14

Weed ‘Em and Reap

“Don’t water your weeds.”
– Proverb

Plant1Now, let me just start this blog out by letting you know that I know nothing – and I mean NOTHING – about gardening.  Or even about keeping a plant alive.  Case in point, the poor little plant you see here to the right.

*sigh*

This picture is the reason I’ve never had plants.  THIS is what happens to them.

Now, in my defense, this poor little fella got left behind in a major move.  My boyfriend Richard’s family did a little house swapping and then I followed close behind by moving into the home with Richard.  In the midst of all the moves, this plant was left sitting on a shelf by a window.  Neglected.  Once we got moved in and settled, I finally noticed the poor little fella and went to work on trying to save it.  I diligently remembered to keep it watered and turn it towards the sunlight, etc. etc.  And what happened?

Um, well, nothing.

The plant looked exactly the way it looks in the picture for months.  And yet – somehow the parts that were alive (or at least I assume they were – they were still green), just kept going amidst all the dead stuff.  So, finally, it dawned on me that maybe I should treat the plant like you do gardens.  Get rid of the weeds to make room for the stuff that is still alive to be able to grow.

Hmmmm.

Eh, I didn’t know if it would work, but I figured it would at least make things look a little better, right?  So, I went to work.  After a full morning of picking and prodding and trying my best to efficiently differentiate between green and brown, I was left with…well…a much smaller plant.

Plant2Bless its heart.

(And hey, I didn’t even though that little fern-looking thingy was even in there!  How about that!?)

So, yeah, the little fella was looking a little pruned, so to speak, but I still had to admit he looked a heck of a lot better.  Right?

And that’s when that writer’s brain of mine kicked in.  Suddenly, all of those “weeding” quotes I’ve always heard began to make sense to me.  Looking at this little plant in front of me made me realize something important.

This is what it takes to change your life.

If you’re like me, you’ve probably faced some moments in your life when you realized that something just wasn’t ‘right.’  You know what I mean?  No matter how much you tried – no matter how many things you crammed into your life to try to fulfill some void that you were certain would top off that internal happiness meter – nothing seemed to work.  You tried this, you tried that, you packed your life with so many places and people and things just trying and trying to find that “thing” that would make your life perfect…and still.  Nothing.

And then, suddenly, when you realize that you can’t fit a single thing else in your life, it dawns on you.  There’s just no more room.  None.  You’re spreading yourself thin by trying to take care of all the things on your plate (or “in your pot” so to speak) that there’s just no more energy (or “water”) left.  And then, when you look even closer, you start to realize how useless some of these things are to begin with.  You’re putting precious energy into things that aren’t even serving you anymore, and maybe never even were to begin with.  And sometimes those ‘things’ are actually ‘people.’

In other words, you’ve been watering the weeds.

Kinda stupid, huh?  Sound familiar?  No?  Hmmm.

Think maybe it needs to?

I don’t know – maybe the way I am is unique.  Maybe I’m the only one who has crammed their life full of crap to no avail. But if the responses I’ve gotten from many of my blogs in the past tell me anything, I’m thinking I’m probably not unique at all.  I think we are a whole lot more alike than we may realize.  All of us.  And I’m betting someone out there probably needed to hear this today.  Was it you?

Get rid of the weeds, people.  You might feel a little empty to start with.  A little bare, maybe.  But what’s left will be worth taking care of.  And you’ll actually have the energy (“water”) to do it.  And before you know it, you’re going to have nothing but a pot full of life.

Doesn’t that sound kinda awesome?

***

“We’re like a gardener with a hose and our attention is water – we can water flowers or we can water weeds.”
– Josh Radnor

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17

Oct. ’13

Chasm

splitpaths1

Chasm

And then, just like that,
It happens.
Up ahead, you see it.
The path is splitting.
Your companion takes no notice.
They follow on their path as if nothing has changed.
As if nothing looms ahead.
But you.
No.  You’re different.
You’ve always been different.
You see what others do not.
What they will not.
Your paths are not the same.
You know the other path is not the one for you.
The things that please others do not please you.
You find your contentment among books, words,
Children, footsteps on pavement.
But not there.
Not where that path leads.
The loudness, the chaos, the fake laughter, the mornings after.
No.  No, those aren’t for you.
You have stepped over to that path in the past,
This is true.
But it was fake.  Not the real you.
You hurriedly made your way back to the path where you belong.
Where you felt safe.
Where you are content.
Where your footsteps make sense.
Where your smiles are genuine
And there is no pretending.
But now.
The distance between the paths is getting wide.
The chasm is no longer traversable.
Reaching out to hold the hand of your companion
No longer seems possible.
The path is splitting.
You hold on for as long as you can.
Until fingertips are all that connect you.
You stretch.  You reach.  You strain.
It’s no use.
The distance is too evident.
Too much.

Someone must step across.

Or let go.

***

“Look at every path closely and deliberately, then ask yourself this crucial question:  Does this path have a heart?  If it does, then the path is good.  If it doesn’t, it is of no use.”
– Carlos Castaneda

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23

Apr. ’13

Unreachable

Someone mentioned this poem the other day and I decided to go back and look at it.  I wrote this a long time ago.  And I’ll be honest – there has always been something about it that hasn’t exactly sat well with me.  You know what I mean?  For goodness sakes, I wrote the darn thing.  So I should like it, right?  I should believe it.  But something about it just bothers me.  Can’t quite put my finger on it.  Maybe because it could be construed as ‘giving up’?  Maybe.  But sometimes giving up is a requirement, right?  It’s necessary.  There’s no other choice. 

Maybe it just bothers me because there’s such a thin line between ‘giving up’ and ‘moving on.’ 

I don’t know.

You be the judge.  What do you think?

unreachableblog

Unreachable

Have you ever tried to climb a tree with no branches?
Oh, it is the most frustrating thing!
You know that reaching the top would be wonderful –
So many awesome possibilities –
So much possible potential –
Such a beautiful view!
But how do you get up there when there are no branches –
No stepping-stones along the way –
No one to help you?
You begin to think . . . maybe this tree isn’t meant to be climbed.
Maybe I’m not ready just yet.
Maybe I should just admire the view from the ground for a while.
After all, who knows?
Maybe there is another tree just around the bend.
It may not be as majestic and beautiful…
But it probably has branches.
Maybe, just maybe
It will even bend down to help me up.
Maybe it’s time to move on.

Good-bye to old unattainable dreams.
Hello to new, realistic ones.

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19

Apr. ’13

Problems?

“The huge problems we deal with every day are actually really small. We’re so focused on what bothers us
that we don’t even try to see our lives from a clearer perspective.”
– Susane Colasanti

problemsblog

I saw the above picture on Facebook yesterday.  The “someecards” are meant to be funny usually.  But every now and then, one pops up that is spot freakin’ on.

(I don’t mean to be snarky with this blog, but if the snark slips out, so be it.)

We humans sure are a bunch of complainers aren’t we?  Don’t believe me?  Go scroll through your Facebook for a minute or two.  Seriously.  Go right now and scroll.  I’ll bet you $100 and a Snickers that you’ll see someone complaining about something.  I’m not saying I’m not guilty of it myself at times.  I am.  But some people just seem to be pros.  For real.

“The people who live in a golden age usually go around complaining about how yellow everything looks.”
– Randall Jarrell

How much truth there is in that quote.  Sometimes I think we just forget to realize how incredibly blessed we are.  And this week is one of those weeks that should drive that point home for you.  And if it hasn’t yet, then maybe it should start now.  Ask yourself a few questions.  For instance – Are your limbs still intact?  Are your loved ones still around you?  Do you still have a place to work?  To live?  Have you gone through the week without being a firsthand eye-witness to a bloody, fiery trauma?

If your answer is yes to those questions, then I’d say you’re in pretty good shape.

Now, I’m not saying people are sick of hearing you complaining.  Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t.  Hey, it’s your life – it’s your Facebook – it’s your soapbox.  Do what you will.  You’re allowed.  But, that’s not my point.

My point is that for you – for your own well-being and your own peace of mind – you should probably stop complaining about things that, in the grand scheme, are really not that big of a deal.  And you know they’re not.  It’s really hard to find peace within yourself if you’re constantly in turmoil.  And that’s what complaining is.  It’s turmoil.  Give yourself (and – ok, I’ll say it – everyone else) a break, why don’t ya?  Chill out.  Relax.  Be calm.  Recognize.

Look around you.  See what others have been through in our country in this one little week.  One week filled with so much devastation.  Fall down on your knees and be grateful and appreciative.  Go hug your kids.  Go kiss your spouse.  Go pet your dog.  Take a big, deep breath and exhale gratitude.

***

“Remember, if you are criticizing, you are not being grateful.  If you are blaming, you are not being grateful.  If you are complaining, you are not being grateful.”
– Rhonda Byrne

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18

Apr. ’13

And still.

bostonpic

And still.

The week goes on.  New horrible news has filled the TV screen.  We go back to work.  We continue with our daily lives and go back to the way things were before we heard about it.

And still.

I continue to blog.  I continue to write on other topics.  But still it sits there.  Waiting for more to be said.  More to be done.  But what?  What can we do?  What can we say?

And still.

Still the thoughts won’t go away.  Won’t leave my mind.  Something is begging to be said.  But I have no idea what it is.

My thoughts keep going back to Kathrine Switzer, the first woman to ever officially run the Boston Marathon.  (Other women ran, but weren’t allowed bib numbers to show that they were “official” runners and to have their results included among the male runners.  Kathrine registered using her initials only and was given a bib number.  Once the “mistake” was discovered, race officials stormed the track and tried to remove her numbers, but other male racers formed a barrier around her and her boyfriend shoved them away.)  Kathrine is quoted as saying this: 

“If you lose faith in humanity, go out and watch a marathon.”

On Monday when I first heard the news, that quote immediately popped into my mind.  And I didn’t want that quote to be tainted by having it discovered that the bombing was intentional.  But, of course, it was confirmed that it was no accident.  Someone did this on purpose.  On purpose. 

And still.

Still, that quote was there.  I couldn’t get it out of my head.  But doesn’t this event erase that quote?  Shouldn’t what happened serve to prove that humanity is somehow tainted now and Ms. Switzer’s words no longer stand true?

No.

No, it does not.

I have struggled so much with this.  And I’ve finally figured out why that quote doesn’t want to leave my mind.

It’s still true.

“If you lose faith in humanity, go out and watch a marathon.”  Yes.  Watch the 117th running of the Boston Marathon.  Watch what happened surrounding the horrible, unfathomable bombing that took place at the finish line.  Watch how people immediately responded and started helping each other.  Watch how perfect strangers lifted each other off the ground and carried each other where further help awaited.  Watch how marathoners ripped off their shirts on the spot and used them as tourniquets to stop blood flow on the injured.  Watch how Dr Vivek Shah, an orthopedic surgeon who was just ready to approach the finish line area when he heard the blasts, continued to run towards the scene and immediately began using his expertise to aid the victims.  Watch how other finishers passed the 26.2-mile finish line and continued running an extra 2 miles to Massachusetts General Hospital where they donated blood.

Further still.

Listen to the stories that followed in the days to come.  Listen to the story of Laura Wellington.  Laura was one of the ones who did not finish and was still running when the blast occurred.  She knew that her family and friends were waiting at the finish line and didn’t know if they were safe.  Once she finally found out what was happening and, after wandering around alone and in fear for her loved ones, was finally able to contact a member of her party to confirm their safety, she fell to the ground crying with relief.  By this point, a couple, one of whom had finished the marathon, was walking in the same area and stopped to ask if she was ok.  She convinced them she was and, after explaining the situation, the man, who had just worked so hard to obtain the coveted Boston Marathon medal, took that very medal from around his neck and gave it her.  Just like that.  Laura put out a plea on Facebook as what she thought was a hopeless attempt at locating this kind man who extended such a humane gesture to her – and was able to identify him.  Brent Cunningham from Alaska.  Brent now joins the list among the many, many little heroes that surround this tragedy.

And still.

Even now, on a smaller scale, look around you.  Odds are that you probably know a runner.  And most of us, not having any clue what to do to show our support, have done all we know to do.  We just run.  Running isn’t going to fix anything (at this point, what can really?), and it’s not going to change what happened in any way, but it is our attempt to show that our spirit remains untouched.  We put on our fake little printed out Boston memorial “bibs” and run in honor of all who were affected in any way – including ourselves.  We don’t know what to say.  We don’t know what to do.  So we run.  We just run.

And still.

And still humanity stands firm.  We are still what we were seconds before those blasts occurred.  We are human beings who love each other; who care about each other; and who rise to the occasion when we’re needed.  We keep moving.

We just keep moving.  A little shaken, yes.  A little confused, yes.  Feeling a little helpless, yes.  But still moving.

Still.

***

“You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.”– Mahatma Gandhi

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