I've noticed a general dichotomy among people. It is the zucchini verses tomato dichotomy.
The first summer I planted my own garden, I did fairly well. I had three four foot long rows of corn, sweet peas, chives, tomatoes, and squash. I also tried cucumbers and some banana peppers but those didn't take. I had each veggie in its own section and used those water lines with pinholes - super easy and efficient. As the summer progressed the tomatoes were sluggish in growing so I dug trenches along the tomato plants so the water would soak the roots longer. The squash had little islands and the water generally fell around. Both did well, though I had some odd mixed-breeds of squash.
Last summer I planted another garden. Less space and no access to drip lines. All hand watered by hose and sprayer. I'd already learned that the tomatoes liked lots of water so I made sure all my plants got plenty. I learned another lesson. Due to the less space, the zucchinis did not have the same runoff area as in the first garden. As I had watered the first garden all on the same water levels for the same length of time, I did the same on the second. Lesson learned: zucchinis need less water. I got a handful of decent vegetables but nothing near the expected harvest. The tomatoes were on overload, however.
Tomatoes need lots of water to produce their fruits and then a slacking of water for them to begin to ripen. By drowning the zucchinis in the same manner, they did not thrive as they had the first time around. Both are staples in my gardening and cooking. But by considering them to live and grow under the same conditions I actually impeded the growth of both. They needed different things.
People are the same way. I had one roommate who lived (probably still does) by planning and formatting everything she did down to the littlest detail of scheduling when she'd take a sip from her water bottle every day at work. And she kept it. That's how she functioned and she functioned well that way.
I, on the other hand, provided a number of moments for anxiety for her because I can't function that way. It often happened when one of us asked the other if they wanted to watch a movie. I'd decide what genre I wanted to watch by what I was in the mood for. She'd decide by the movies she'd purchased but not yet watched - in chronological order.
I need space to breathe. She wanted/needed to structure to guide and enable.
A couple days ago I had a nearly non-functional day due to the efforts of the day before. I actually watched TV again (it's been months - I prefer DVDs). I came across the Extreme Weight Loss show which I have seen once before. I had enjoyed it, so I watched it again. The woman on the show's journey got highly frustrated when she came home from her first three months away in the 'boot camp' to find that her husband had maintained all the problematic life-habits that enabled her trouble in the first place. The tension continued on for months.
Finally, the show's host and weight loss/exercise guru guy decided to put them both on a challenge in a manner to show the microcosm of the relationship. The husband was to golf (his hobby/passion) and the wife was to wear a vest with all the weight she had lost up to that point - 115 lbs. And caddy for him. So long as he golfed well, the wight would be removed piece by piece.
For the first nine holes, you wouldn't know he had any skill at golf and she grew more and more upset that he only made excuses. She reached breaking point and he knew it. The viewer and the wife was shown, through the host's guiding, how upset the husband was. She finally realized that he really did care and it distressed him as much as it did her.
The host guided her to the core question of, 'Recognizing that he will fall short, even when you need him, will you still stand by him?' The husband was quite anxious about the answer. (I felt bad for him having such a vulnerable moment being filmed for national TV.) She said yes.
Here's the kicker - as soon as the pressure was off, he golfed well, including what both he and his wife called his best shot ever.
The world, and many of the red personalities who seem to idolize the Stephen Covey goal-fixations, tends to think people will only achieve if they are pushed to it. That they need the coach screaming in the ears, berating every failure, demanding effort and success or they will degenerate into lazy, worthless bums. Some people respond to that by bringing forth great efforts. Some people are drowned, like the zucchinis, when too much pressure is applied.
I've seen this pattern in my life so many times. I am often amused that when I'm at my most non-functioning, I'll tell myself 'this is all I will worry about today' and then, inevitably, I manage to do a little bit more. (Of course, some days I'm doing good just to make it to the kitchen to eat.) This is not reverse-psychology. It is accepting that demanding the world is not fair and not even necessary. It is rejoicing in what I do accomplish and especially in any extras I manage. Having a chronic-illness often teaches this pattern to people. I was lucky enough to catch glimpses of it even before the dysautonomia kicked high-gear.
If you need the structure of the tomato cages and the steady, solid waterings, use what you need. But don't think or demand that others need the same. Give us zucchinis the basics and then leave us to our own ways. Gardeners are often overwhelmed by just how much the zucchini plants produce.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Delusion or the Devil
(I state in my bio that I tend to challenge assumptions. Fair warning that this will likely challenge many.)
Wow. I never imagined I'd actually post about this. My heart's racing just thinking about it.
Long but necessary set-up required to set the stage. Long in general, but I've found myself wanting to refer others in troubling circumstances to this story so that perhaps they might find insight and encouragement. And so I share one of the two most tightly held stories of my life.
I've indicated before that I came from a problematic home. A mother from an abusive home (guessing from breadcrumbs of random details gleaned since she hated the topic of before) who was therefore not perceptive of her own fiance-then-husband's abusive nature. Her dedication to her belief that marriages entered into should not be dissolved and then her own terrible cascade of illnesses that limited her resources to self-sufficiency. But none of this was understood while I lived at home, before she died.
What was understood was that he somehow had power to make me forget. Who I was, my motivations, my thoughts. I was a horrible nothing that had inflicted myself upon him. And since twisted people will twist whatever ideology at their command, it was religion and scripture used against me.
I always thought it dumb when people would say, during church, that if it weren't for the gospel they wouldn't be where they were. Duh? If you didn't believe in God, why would you be at church? Kind of a no-brainer. But then one day I paused to think about it. I realized that if I hadn't had a bolstering by the concept that 'God loves His children' and that it's not right to suicide, his compulsion, manipulation, and only ever demeaning of me would have resulted in me suiciding to try to atone for the sin of existing. Since nothing I did was ever enough. Never good enough. Never.
But these were all things beyond my comprehension in high school. Mom was sick. Everything would go out of kilter for months until she, the doctors, we finally got a handle on the new circumstances and things would even keel for a few weeks. Until a new symptom appeared and threw everything back out of balance. This started my Sophomore year in high school. That was also the year he was out of a job. It was a pattern that continued for six years until she died (though he did finally get a job after that first year).
I am rather unique in nature. I understood this as early as 7th grade. I did not expect life to go as it did for others or for me to have a traditional form of the teenage years. I think this, combined with a brutal and overwhelming home situation, meant that I did not interact with kids my age in a 'normal' fashion. Also, that I did not always recognize the disparities. I was usually preoccupied with my rather consuming own little world.
The teens I had contact with in high school did notice. For all I knew, I had friends. There was very little interaction outside of school, choir, and the play, but as all my time away from school was occupied by home or work, I did not not think anything of it. I was, however, troubled my senior year and the year after with dismissals from those I had thought of as friends because, "You just don't want to be happy." And, "You just bring everyone down."
I went on a handful of dates in high school and to one dance - girl's choice. The kid had such charisma and an energy that somehow made it feel as though I could actually breathe again. I confess a substantial crush. I also re-confess to a general awkwardness due to my opposite spectrum of life-experience. It didn't help that the parental units tried to make the dance their vicarious own and easily doubled whatever awkwardness of mine. The kid got skittish. Then apologized months later when he 'realized he hadn't been a good friend and he promised to be a better one.' He graduated. I had a year left. Whatever.
University. Except for summer choir, there was very little crossing of paths since our subjects differed. A couple months before my mom's death, I saw him in the parking lot as I headed in. I felt a sorrow that people who knew each other become strangers and accepted that he was to be added to the list. He stopped me to talk as I passed. Invited him to a show I was in the next month (he didn't come).
Mom died. My prior reality shattered. My identity shattered (mom's caregiver). For two years I'd been overwhelmed with her care, my schooling, my work, siblings' care, house and chores and shopping, insane expectations (like the demand to paint the house professional grade for moving purposes without even the knowledge that painting tape to enable straight lines existed)... I'd also begun realizing that the (Heavenly) Father I was coming to know in the scriptures was opposite in nature to the he I will only call him.
The shock lasted for months. I'd had no one to talk to for years. But the kid had renewed the lease on the friendship. I clung to it as the lifeline I so desperately needed. For all of my hating to write, I started writing him a random one-paper letter once a week and leaving it in his President's cubbyhole since I knew he was far too busy to have time to talk to nobody me. They weren't anything ground shaking. Maybe a little about mom, but mostly just an outlet for all things random (a talent of mine) which run through my head. All I needed was to know that someone was hearing me. I didn't have anyone else.
In my gratefulness, I wished I could somehow return the favor which helped me survive. But I was no one. The crush matured. I couldn't imagine he'd look my way that way. He had a girlfriend, then another. I don't, I won't, compete. I clung to the best friendship I had available, unable to be aware of how empty it was.
Enter "Delusion or the Devil"
Being religious, I will address that element/angle first. If you are not, continue reading anyway. The delusion thread explanation will unfold and follow at the end.
Still wishing I could return the gift I so valued, I prayed to God that He would show me how. I already saw myself as unequal. How could I make any difference to him? How could I make a difference like he did?
Sometimes God uses our asking for one thing to teach and guide us in another. In my mind I saw two paths. To the left was my future symbolized by a man of no specific nature. To the right I saw it represented in the kid I so respected. I knew they represented choices. Would I take the easy - whatever happens to come my way path? Or would I choose the harder one that would lead me to that state higher, more capable, than where I happened to stand?
I am stubborn. Both parentals blamed it on the other. I think I came with a dose of my own, as well. I don't back away from hard. I may be terrified inside, but that just makes me more determined to overcome. I was going to settle for the 'whatever comes' path.
Having admitted my level of feeling for the kid, I spent weeks pondering this, wondering if it could possible mean that I had a chance with him. God did not tell me no. I concluded that I would continue as though that conclusion were assumed. (It was, after all, the only way that the answer could truly be known.)
I made the fatal mistake, however, of relating this to the him. I thought I had to as he demanded knowledge of everything I did, thought, felt, with full editing rights. I was terrified to tell him, but I did not comprehend I had a right to privacy and I don't back down just because something could go wrong. His assessment? It is delusion or the devil.
As the year came and went and I moved away, this was a constant friction between myself, the him, and the step-her. I cannot say I fully believed my hopes would happen, but I did not dare to let them go for I found they provided me, for the first time in my life, with something more powerful than the him. I was starting to keep my identity and will as my own where he demanded submission. I consciously used the hopes, stated as fact (for his disdain would make him give up on arguing whereas he would have battered had I confessed any amount of being unsure), to shield me when a certain decision was expected that my real reason would have been dismissed. This reinforced his idea but it was the safer course for me.
Off and on contact with the kid, not a lot but more than I was used to. I'd finally confessed my feelings months before, but by way of getting it out there rather than expecting any response. He knew that. I did seek him out as I passed his work twice as I still valued the inter-personal contact. And with the new territory of living away from home, the stability the letters provided appeared again possible when his email was listed in a mutual friend's mass mailing. I still have the copies. They are of the same nature as the first with additional reports of my efforts in my church music to encourage others to attend the area's workshop later that summer. It was my calling in church. It also happened to be organized by his mother.
I went to the special choir rehearsals prior. The first had me nervous as I hadn't seen him for months. Nothing so no biggie. The next week I had a premonition that there would be trouble. I couldn't conceive of why and I don't run and hide so I went anyway. I was a little late so I ended on the front row. He came in later, saw me and walked straight back out, conversed with his mother, and left. Whatever. I was there to sing.
At the end of rehearsal I noticed that only one woman was putting all the hymnals back from the stand. This seemed a shame since we'd all brought one up so I decided to stay and help. The mother was talking to some lady. Aware of her, but nothing to do with me. Most of the books are returned but there is one slot left by where the mother stands. I could try to find another empty slot. The premonition stirs again. "This is stupid," I thought. I'm just putting a hymnal away. So I did and I left.
I go home. Ten minutes later I get a call from the him. The mother had called to complain that I had tried to talk to her. This was way too easy for him to manipulate. He told her his less than accurate version of my story which merged into her own mis-assessment of my actions. Together they cooked up the notion that if I dared to attend the workshop I'd be slapped with a restraining order.
A couple days later the he and the step-her finally deigned to visit my humble abode in the guise of loving parental concern. I was then notified that he and step-her had talked on the phone with her psychiatric friends and was diagnosed third-person with classic delusion and suicidal tendencies, and it might be a good idea to institutionalize me. This he graciously offered to pay for.
Though shaken and highly upset by the turn of events (the kid couldn't talk to me about the problem he had to go run to mummy and threaten the police?!) I collected myself to tell the him and step-her that I would somehow survive just fine left to myself. He didn't like this answer. He then said that as the father-parental he held the priesthood authority over me and it was therefore to admit that I had sinned and submit. In a rare capacity to speak counter to his demands I told him that if that's how he thought to 'use the priesthood' then he'd lost any authority he claimed to have. They left shortly thereafter...
Lives diverged and I can't say I was sad to not see the kid. I still had (and present tense - have) years of recovery from the trauma and abuses of home. I didn't understand what the path that I thought meant him was if it was not him so I still didn't dare let go of the possibility, though I can't say it brought me the same level of comfort it did when first conceived.
I moved hundreds of miles away and somehow managed to land in the same little college town as him. I hadn't known he'd moved away. I was terrified when I realized he was there and avoided him like the plague. I mourned what when I saw he'd married simply because I'd been so invested in the idea that life could be better, that it could be different from what I'd been raised with.
It took years further to realize that that was what the path symbolized - that hope - not the kid. The kid was just the closest I could comprehend to that new abstract possibility. A possibility so foreign that the abstract concept would have been insufficient to hold onto and enable the separating of my will from the his'.
I do believe in God. I believe He guided my imaginings to enable a critical choice for my future well being. I believe He knew I would not understand it as He meant it but that my not understanding would in fact provide the strength of power to follow it through. I believe He helped me through years of confusion an turmoil and healing of trauma. And when that healing had progressed far enough, He helped me understand what He'd meant. I believe that my doing the best I understood was perfectly acceptable to Him and I have no need to feel ashamed at how events played out.
If you do not believe in God, then consider that delusion is not always a bad thing. Consider that our minds can provide protections to enable us onward and upward out of dangerous circumstances. And consider the source of the circumstances that led me to need such a delusion to be able to escape.
Wow. I never imagined I'd actually post about this. My heart's racing just thinking about it.
Long but necessary set-up required to set the stage. Long in general, but I've found myself wanting to refer others in troubling circumstances to this story so that perhaps they might find insight and encouragement. And so I share one of the two most tightly held stories of my life.
I've indicated before that I came from a problematic home. A mother from an abusive home (guessing from breadcrumbs of random details gleaned since she hated the topic of before) who was therefore not perceptive of her own fiance-then-husband's abusive nature. Her dedication to her belief that marriages entered into should not be dissolved and then her own terrible cascade of illnesses that limited her resources to self-sufficiency. But none of this was understood while I lived at home, before she died.
What was understood was that he somehow had power to make me forget. Who I was, my motivations, my thoughts. I was a horrible nothing that had inflicted myself upon him. And since twisted people will twist whatever ideology at their command, it was religion and scripture used against me.
I always thought it dumb when people would say, during church, that if it weren't for the gospel they wouldn't be where they were. Duh? If you didn't believe in God, why would you be at church? Kind of a no-brainer. But then one day I paused to think about it. I realized that if I hadn't had a bolstering by the concept that 'God loves His children' and that it's not right to suicide, his compulsion, manipulation, and only ever demeaning of me would have resulted in me suiciding to try to atone for the sin of existing. Since nothing I did was ever enough. Never good enough. Never.
But these were all things beyond my comprehension in high school. Mom was sick. Everything would go out of kilter for months until she, the doctors, we finally got a handle on the new circumstances and things would even keel for a few weeks. Until a new symptom appeared and threw everything back out of balance. This started my Sophomore year in high school. That was also the year he was out of a job. It was a pattern that continued for six years until she died (though he did finally get a job after that first year).
I am rather unique in nature. I understood this as early as 7th grade. I did not expect life to go as it did for others or for me to have a traditional form of the teenage years. I think this, combined with a brutal and overwhelming home situation, meant that I did not interact with kids my age in a 'normal' fashion. Also, that I did not always recognize the disparities. I was usually preoccupied with my rather consuming own little world.
The teens I had contact with in high school did notice. For all I knew, I had friends. There was very little interaction outside of school, choir, and the play, but as all my time away from school was occupied by home or work, I did not not think anything of it. I was, however, troubled my senior year and the year after with dismissals from those I had thought of as friends because, "You just don't want to be happy." And, "You just bring everyone down."
I went on a handful of dates in high school and to one dance - girl's choice. The kid had such charisma and an energy that somehow made it feel as though I could actually breathe again. I confess a substantial crush. I also re-confess to a general awkwardness due to my opposite spectrum of life-experience. It didn't help that the parental units tried to make the dance their vicarious own and easily doubled whatever awkwardness of mine. The kid got skittish. Then apologized months later when he 'realized he hadn't been a good friend and he promised to be a better one.' He graduated. I had a year left. Whatever.
University. Except for summer choir, there was very little crossing of paths since our subjects differed. A couple months before my mom's death, I saw him in the parking lot as I headed in. I felt a sorrow that people who knew each other become strangers and accepted that he was to be added to the list. He stopped me to talk as I passed. Invited him to a show I was in the next month (he didn't come).
Mom died. My prior reality shattered. My identity shattered (mom's caregiver). For two years I'd been overwhelmed with her care, my schooling, my work, siblings' care, house and chores and shopping, insane expectations (like the demand to paint the house professional grade for moving purposes without even the knowledge that painting tape to enable straight lines existed)... I'd also begun realizing that the (Heavenly) Father I was coming to know in the scriptures was opposite in nature to the he I will only call him.
The shock lasted for months. I'd had no one to talk to for years. But the kid had renewed the lease on the friendship. I clung to it as the lifeline I so desperately needed. For all of my hating to write, I started writing him a random one-paper letter once a week and leaving it in his President's cubbyhole since I knew he was far too busy to have time to talk to nobody me. They weren't anything ground shaking. Maybe a little about mom, but mostly just an outlet for all things random (a talent of mine) which run through my head. All I needed was to know that someone was hearing me. I didn't have anyone else.
In my gratefulness, I wished I could somehow return the favor which helped me survive. But I was no one. The crush matured. I couldn't imagine he'd look my way that way. He had a girlfriend, then another. I don't, I won't, compete. I clung to the best friendship I had available, unable to be aware of how empty it was.
Enter "Delusion or the Devil"
Being religious, I will address that element/angle first. If you are not, continue reading anyway. The delusion thread explanation will unfold and follow at the end.
Still wishing I could return the gift I so valued, I prayed to God that He would show me how. I already saw myself as unequal. How could I make any difference to him? How could I make a difference like he did?
Sometimes God uses our asking for one thing to teach and guide us in another. In my mind I saw two paths. To the left was my future symbolized by a man of no specific nature. To the right I saw it represented in the kid I so respected. I knew they represented choices. Would I take the easy - whatever happens to come my way path? Or would I choose the harder one that would lead me to that state higher, more capable, than where I happened to stand?
I am stubborn. Both parentals blamed it on the other. I think I came with a dose of my own, as well. I don't back away from hard. I may be terrified inside, but that just makes me more determined to overcome. I was going to settle for the 'whatever comes' path.
Having admitted my level of feeling for the kid, I spent weeks pondering this, wondering if it could possible mean that I had a chance with him. God did not tell me no. I concluded that I would continue as though that conclusion were assumed. (It was, after all, the only way that the answer could truly be known.)
I made the fatal mistake, however, of relating this to the him. I thought I had to as he demanded knowledge of everything I did, thought, felt, with full editing rights. I was terrified to tell him, but I did not comprehend I had a right to privacy and I don't back down just because something could go wrong. His assessment? It is delusion or the devil.
As the year came and went and I moved away, this was a constant friction between myself, the him, and the step-her. I cannot say I fully believed my hopes would happen, but I did not dare to let them go for I found they provided me, for the first time in my life, with something more powerful than the him. I was starting to keep my identity and will as my own where he demanded submission. I consciously used the hopes, stated as fact (for his disdain would make him give up on arguing whereas he would have battered had I confessed any amount of being unsure), to shield me when a certain decision was expected that my real reason would have been dismissed. This reinforced his idea but it was the safer course for me.
Off and on contact with the kid, not a lot but more than I was used to. I'd finally confessed my feelings months before, but by way of getting it out there rather than expecting any response. He knew that. I did seek him out as I passed his work twice as I still valued the inter-personal contact. And with the new territory of living away from home, the stability the letters provided appeared again possible when his email was listed in a mutual friend's mass mailing. I still have the copies. They are of the same nature as the first with additional reports of my efforts in my church music to encourage others to attend the area's workshop later that summer. It was my calling in church. It also happened to be organized by his mother.
I went to the special choir rehearsals prior. The first had me nervous as I hadn't seen him for months. Nothing so no biggie. The next week I had a premonition that there would be trouble. I couldn't conceive of why and I don't run and hide so I went anyway. I was a little late so I ended on the front row. He came in later, saw me and walked straight back out, conversed with his mother, and left. Whatever. I was there to sing.
At the end of rehearsal I noticed that only one woman was putting all the hymnals back from the stand. This seemed a shame since we'd all brought one up so I decided to stay and help. The mother was talking to some lady. Aware of her, but nothing to do with me. Most of the books are returned but there is one slot left by where the mother stands. I could try to find another empty slot. The premonition stirs again. "This is stupid," I thought. I'm just putting a hymnal away. So I did and I left.
I go home. Ten minutes later I get a call from the him. The mother had called to complain that I had tried to talk to her. This was way too easy for him to manipulate. He told her his less than accurate version of my story which merged into her own mis-assessment of my actions. Together they cooked up the notion that if I dared to attend the workshop I'd be slapped with a restraining order.
A couple days later the he and the step-her finally deigned to visit my humble abode in the guise of loving parental concern. I was then notified that he and step-her had talked on the phone with her psychiatric friends and was diagnosed third-person with classic delusion and suicidal tendencies, and it might be a good idea to institutionalize me. This he graciously offered to pay for.
Though shaken and highly upset by the turn of events (the kid couldn't talk to me about the problem he had to go run to mummy and threaten the police?!) I collected myself to tell the him and step-her that I would somehow survive just fine left to myself. He didn't like this answer. He then said that as the father-parental he held the priesthood authority over me and it was therefore to admit that I had sinned and submit. In a rare capacity to speak counter to his demands I told him that if that's how he thought to 'use the priesthood' then he'd lost any authority he claimed to have. They left shortly thereafter...
Lives diverged and I can't say I was sad to not see the kid. I still had (and present tense - have) years of recovery from the trauma and abuses of home. I didn't understand what the path that I thought meant him was if it was not him so I still didn't dare let go of the possibility, though I can't say it brought me the same level of comfort it did when first conceived.
I moved hundreds of miles away and somehow managed to land in the same little college town as him. I hadn't known he'd moved away. I was terrified when I realized he was there and avoided him like the plague. I mourned what when I saw he'd married simply because I'd been so invested in the idea that life could be better, that it could be different from what I'd been raised with.
It took years further to realize that that was what the path symbolized - that hope - not the kid. The kid was just the closest I could comprehend to that new abstract possibility. A possibility so foreign that the abstract concept would have been insufficient to hold onto and enable the separating of my will from the his'.
I do believe in God. I believe He guided my imaginings to enable a critical choice for my future well being. I believe He knew I would not understand it as He meant it but that my not understanding would in fact provide the strength of power to follow it through. I believe He helped me through years of confusion an turmoil and healing of trauma. And when that healing had progressed far enough, He helped me understand what He'd meant. I believe that my doing the best I understood was perfectly acceptable to Him and I have no need to feel ashamed at how events played out.
If you do not believe in God, then consider that delusion is not always a bad thing. Consider that our minds can provide protections to enable us onward and upward out of dangerous circumstances. And consider the source of the circumstances that led me to need such a delusion to be able to escape.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
The Madness of Denethor
"The Madness of Denethor" has been a phrase that has come to mind numerous times over the past six months or more. It is not a happy observation.
In The Lord of the Rings, Denethor is steward, or acting leader, of the land of Gondor. Should the heir ever come to claim the throne, Denethor would then step aside as his stewardship would then be complete. At least he would if he did not resent the heir for making claim on authority Denethor did not wish to give up. If that was all there was to it, the story would simply be one of political rivalries.
But it is not.
Aragorn, the heir, was raised in obscurity because his lineage was hunted by the real antagonist. This antagonist, Sauron, was so beyond the powers and skill of the world's inhabitants that even the strongest man (wizard) had switched sides as Sauron's victory was considered 'inevitable'. Few stood up the wicked forces and some of those were of the weakest of beings. How could anyone expect anything other than being overrun by evil?
That is exactly how Denethor saw things. 'His' kingdom being taken away, his favored son dead, his despised son dismissed to death, and a force incomprehensible outside the city walls.
What was there for him to do? He chose death for himself and for all around him for he had decided that life was no more worth living.
Many are choosing the same things. It is no longer a horror story every few years. No longer once a year. Now it is multiple times a week.
It did not have to be.
And so many are following the same pattern. So many are succumbing to the madness of Denethor and taking others with them. But, as in The Lord of the Rings, we too must wait and place our hope in the return of the King, for He will come. It's gonna get ugly. In so many ways it already is. The world is polarizing and the differences expanding. But the scriptures (of many denominations and religions, mind you) promise that this end, of sorts, is also a beginning of a far better story.
In The Lord of the Rings, Denethor is steward, or acting leader, of the land of Gondor. Should the heir ever come to claim the throne, Denethor would then step aside as his stewardship would then be complete. At least he would if he did not resent the heir for making claim on authority Denethor did not wish to give up. If that was all there was to it, the story would simply be one of political rivalries.
But it is not.
Aragorn, the heir, was raised in obscurity because his lineage was hunted by the real antagonist. This antagonist, Sauron, was so beyond the powers and skill of the world's inhabitants that even the strongest man (wizard) had switched sides as Sauron's victory was considered 'inevitable'. Few stood up the wicked forces and some of those were of the weakest of beings. How could anyone expect anything other than being overrun by evil?
That is exactly how Denethor saw things. 'His' kingdom being taken away, his favored son dead, his despised son dismissed to death, and a force incomprehensible outside the city walls.
What was there for him to do? He chose death for himself and for all around him for he had decided that life was no more worth living.
Many are choosing the same things. It is no longer a horror story every few years. No longer once a year. Now it is multiple times a week.
D&C 45:26 And in that day shall be heard of wars and rumors of wars, and the whole earth shall be in commotion, and men's hearts shall fail them, and they shall say that Christ delayeth his coming until the end of the earth.The saddest part is that it did not need to be. He hated life because it was not what he decided it must be. But it was a decision. He chose to deny the truth of his position. His unwillingness to accept his part made the loss of the part not his own that much harder. It was his demands for power that led his favored son to be so desperate and therefore vulnerable. It was his own bitterness and hatred of difference that led him to misvalue his remaining son until he was left with 'nothing' and no one. It was his refusal to admit to hope, even from the source that denied him the glory he demanded that meant he could not imagine hope.
It did not have to be.
And so many are following the same pattern. So many are succumbing to the madness of Denethor and taking others with them. But, as in The Lord of the Rings, we too must wait and place our hope in the return of the King, for He will come. It's gonna get ugly. In so many ways it already is. The world is polarizing and the differences expanding. But the scriptures (of many denominations and religions, mind you) promise that this end, of sorts, is also a beginning of a far better story.
Monday, December 2, 2013
After the Manner of Happiness
After all of the drama of fleeing the murderous mobs of Jerusalem with his father and family, dealing with his older brothers' self-absorbed immature jealous attacks, surviving a trip across the ocean, and finally having to just break all ties with said brothers after his father died, Nephi and those who wished to follow the teachings of the prophets were finally on their own where they could live as they so chose without the constant fear of hateful antagonism.
As Nephi documents the story of his people, he lists the efforts to build up a new community - the building of homes and places of worship, planting, crafts-work, and the defenses should his brothers decide they don't want to leave well enough alone. After these details he makes this simple statement:
27 And it came to pass that we lived after the manner of happiness.
I'm sure most of you have experienced having read something more than once and later recognizing a depth to the idea previously missed. I've seen it happen with Shakespeare, Harry Potter, various movies, and obviously the scriptures. Years ago I had a particular 'a-ha' moment with this verse that has had me pondering for still greater understanding.
On a young adult camping trip, years back, some of us were in the cabin one afternoon playing the game, 'After the Manner of the Adverb'. It's quite simple. One person is chosen and must leave the room while the rest choose a particular adverb. The person then comes back in and can call on the others to perform/mime a verb, an action. The candidate performs it after the manner of the adverb and the person must try to piece together the clues from various mimes to figure out what adverb was chosen. Once he does, a new person is chosen and the game goes on.
I can't say why that game was near my surface thoughts when I later heard or read this verse but the pattern of words made me think of that game. To live is the verb, the action, performed after the manner of the adjective, 'happiness'.
The First Presidency message in December's Ensign begins by talking about being open about why we are happy, even in the hard times, and sharing the 'good news'. I confess I didn't make it much further than the first paragraph as it reminded me of this verse and my not-yet-complete efforts to process what it means to live after the manner of happiness.
Previous posts make it rather clear that I grew up in an atmosphere where happiness was never a concern. While I am not depressive by nature, I am not exuberant, either. I can be excited and passionate when there is something that strikes me so, but I have lived so long where 'happiness' never really came into play. No one cared at home or out in the world whether I was happy and simply trying to survive often preoccupies one's full attention.
I would describe myself as optimistic, stubborn (I won't let the hard things of life defeat me), reflective, observant, intuitive, intelligent, and with the dysautonomia I am now also frequently quite tired and sometimes even discouraged, but I've never been one to actively consider whether I am 'happy'. In fact, to avoid thinking about it when things were bad at home I began answering, 'I'm alive', when people would ask how I'm doing. (It did take me a year or so to realize most who asked didn't actually want to know the complicated details of a hard answer...)
So then, what does it mean? I suppose, taking the cue from the game, it means how we choose to do things. Instead of thinking of it as a location to arrive at, perhaps happiness is rather found in the way we choose to travel. Do we follow the warning signs, obey traffic laws, be a friendly driver, help when we see need, stay alert at the wheel, be respectful and kind to people we meet along the way even if they hog the arm-rest, etc... (I am speaking metaphorically here, in case any of you suddenly got confused...)
Or, are we quick to road rage, temper flares, pettiness, vengeful-ness, scorn, greed, etc... Typing this out, it seems that the attitude we bring to things colors our world so if we hate the world and everyone in it, can we be surprised to be unhappy? Whether you see it as karma, the golden rule, or simple self-fulfilling prophecy, it makes sense to choose to live after the manner of happiness. Cause all that negative emotion? So not worth the energy!
Or, are we quick to road rage, temper flares, pettiness, vengeful-ness, scorn, greed, etc... Typing this out, it seems that the attitude we bring to things colors our world so if we hate the world and everyone in it, can we be surprised to be unhappy? Whether you see it as karma, the golden rule, or simple self-fulfilling prophecy, it makes sense to choose to live after the manner of happiness. Cause all that negative emotion? So not worth the energy!
Since I have spent the last couple years on working to get over the fear of my dad and the other problematic peoples of the family, it occurs to me that perhaps it is time to actively consider what it is to be happy. I suspect I manage it some proportion of the time but it is hard to tell since that column's data was turned off years ago. (Think iTunes song details.)
As I ponder this and other references, I think I'm already mostly living in the right sort of pattern. I suspect that those who are true practicers of their religion are as well. Perhaps, in my case, I just need to work on rebooting the awareness factor to more fully enjoy what that means.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
The Right to ReAssess
'It's a woman's prerogative to change her mind'
I've often heard it said by both men and women - men in long-suffering exasperation and women as a minimizing excuse to brush away the shame of being 'inconstant'.
Politicians are also shamed for having a change of position by being called 'flip-floppers'.
Frankly, I find this a vastly curious occurrence in today's culture which celebrates the 'no-fault divorce'. Commitments, especially within families, seem to have less and less value in society. And yet the idea that people can make an initial assessment and then must be bound to it for the convenience of the then established preconceptions of others is rampant! Women are given a partial 'bye' in deference to their hormonal 'irrationality' (condescending much?) but I suspect that is only because the men who quote it realize they can't change women so easily as they did historically.
It is amusing that it looks to be a level of laziness that condemns the changing of the mind when the changing of the mind requires engagement with the material being considered. Laziness resents activity? You know, that sounds accurate.
I'm sure some of you are pointing out the flaw in this that politicians change their positions according to the whims of public winds. Yes, many do. But I ask you, how many shifts are discounted as political pandering that are actually fair reassessment? Have you never made an initial evaluation of something and then realized over time that there was more to the issue than you'd first understood? Often times we think things translate directly from one medium to another (state government compared to federal, book to screen, family life to family life) but then learn it's a whole different nature you'd never comprehended. If learning and seeing something from a new angle means a different interpretation, why do we tell ourselves and others that makes us disingenuous? False? Hypocritical? If anything, it seems to me that continuing to hold to a now invalid assessment would be so while admitting to our learning process would best show our true character - willing to admit we don't know everything and are willing to learn.
It occurs that perhaps part of the problem is that so many seem anxious to have everyone labeled according to their positions on this matter or that. I think it must simplify their world view. That means that people are encouraged to jump to conclusions well before they might otherwise be ready to. I also think society has been training us to make instant assessments for these same reasons. This seems flawed to me and I'd guess it to be a causal nature to the high rate of changed positions, dissolved marriages, and ridiculous maelstrom we call politics.
The solution is two-fold and quite simple. We must simply recognize that it's ok to not form an opinion until we actually know what we think about something regardless of outside pressure. And it is also valid to realize our perspective has changed with experience and new information and change said opinion accordingly.
Proverbs 4:7
Wisdom is the principle thing; therefore get wisdom:
and with all thy getting get understanding.
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
You say, Sir, you hate Christmas
You say, Sir, you hate Christmas
List grievances not few
But I wonder if you have thought
These grievances quite through.
There's jangles and there's spangles
Mass frenzy for new toys
But stop to hear the quiet
Of the stable 'midst the noise.
His birth's been near forgotten
Its purpose been replaced
The promise in the life He led
In pop culture now debased.
But that promise holds forever strong
Regardless of the noise
Delight in that, ignore the rest,
Return to Christ-mas joys.
So, please, Sir, don't hate Christmas
But spread the truth drawn here
For Christmas is God's gift, through birth,
To draw His children near.
<written 6/24/2012>
Finding Mom, November 2, 2004 (written 2008)
Ugh! Light! What time is it? I pry my eyelids apart to look at the clock. 7:30.
You should probably get up, my responsible conscience tells me, ‘and get ready so you can go vote.’ It’s November 2, 2004 and all of the Political Science classes have been cancelled for the day to encourage voter turnout.
I should get up, I think, even as my consciousness slips under. I know our government requires responsible citizenship to function at its best. I know it’s said that you can’t complain if you don’t vote. I know there are many third, and even second and first world countries that do not have the political freedoms we have available to us in the United States of America. I know. Too tired. I can go after school. And so I sleep for another hour. After all, you don’t have to be first in line to be responsible. I have been excited to vote, though – this will be my first presidential election.
An hour later and I make myself get up. I’m still exhausted, but that’s nothing new: 15 credit hours at the University and either burn-out or let-down in every other part of a life can do that to a person. Fiddler on the Roof had ended mid-September and that had been my escape.
‘Escape?’ you ask. ‘Escape from what?’ Escape from the responsibilities of the eldest and the unreachable but still required expectations of the father. Escape from the diagrams keeping track of how much of the house still needed painted. Escape from keeping the house immaculate for sale so that we can move to a house that doesn’t have so many stairs so Mom can use her wheelchair. Escape from the sale that fell through taking my hopes of relief with it.
Escape from the schedules compulsively drawn by a psyche overwhelmed with responsibility placed in the same time restraints all others must live under. Escape from a mother’s many debilitating illnesses, her resulting dependence, anxiety, and depression, and the strain of being the dependable turn-to for everyone needing something and everything needing done. Escape from my dependability being expected, demanded, but never appreciated. Escape from Mom’s whimpering and moaning when the pain was too much and knowing there was nothing I could do to take it away. Escape from the panic that I wouldn’t be able to maintain it all taking the rest of the energy I didn’t have to keep the panic at bay.
But the show was over and there was no escape. Religion brings enough relief to continue, but Dad’s attacks lessen what relief it could give. I am an active member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, more commonly known as LDS or Mormons. So is my Dad. But where I took refuge in going to church, activities with my singles' ward (read 'geographic congregation' for 'ward'), and would spend what free hours I could at the Institute building (a religious education system the church provides as companion to higher secular education), Dad sees my activity only in regards to and as intended commentary on his own scattered attendance. "You think you're better than us because you go to all your meetings, but you're just a self-righteous, hypocritical Pharisee and you know what the Savior thought of them!"
No, there was no escape. While Mom was sick, my personal purpose, and therefore my identity and resulting satisfaction, would be found in knowing I was doing everything I could to limit Mom’s difficulties so she would have the energy to fight on. Meanwhile, I too must fight on.
I take a quick pit-stop in the bathroom and then head downstairs to grab some breakfast. J’s already up and watching cartoons from the daybed Mom used to occupy before she moved upstairs permanently. J’s ten and the youngest of the four girls. Her track is off in the over-crowded year-round school system remedy which means I don’t need to worry about getting her there.
I head back upstairs to take a shower. I glance into Mom’s room and notice she’s sleeping. It looks like she fell asleep while stretching her back – mid-twist. I consider waking her since her position is sure to cause soreness later, but decide against it. Sleep has been difficult for her to come by of late and if she’s able to sleep, it is best to let her. And so I shower.
I love showers. I love the feel of the water in constant rhythm against my skin, washing everything away. I love the smell of the soap that makes me imagine I am somewhere far away myself. I love the smell of the shampoo and conditioner, too: ocean breeze. I’ve only been to the ocean once, but I remember how big it was, the smell, and the feeling that I was on the edge of the world and that all I had to do was step across that edge and I could be anywhere. Yes, I love showers. It is good that the water heater is limited in size for life cannot be lived in a shower.
The shower’s over and I finish getting ready. Mom’s still sleeping. I go downstairs and pull my backpack together. J’s watching Scooby Doo. She’s wearing her purple bathrobe and her Scooby Doo slippers. She says she’s already eaten. I ditch my bag on the piano bench by the front door to wake Mom before I leave. She’s been in the same position for too long – she needs to move so the pain will be limited. Hopefully the pain won’t be too bad, but she needed the sleep.
I stand at her door and call a few times. She really must be tired. I negotiate my way to her side of the bed and gently shake her shoulder. She is twisted to the right with her left arm stretched across and her face hidden in her right arm and under her hair. She does not respond.
“Mom? Please wake up – you’re scaring me.”
I’ve had CPR and First-Aid training many times. I know that you’re supposed to try to get a response. If they don’t respond to normal sound, you try physical touch and calling more loudly – in their ear if need be. I choose proximity to decibels, mindful of J downstairs. No response. My pulse quickens even as it runs chill. I circle to the other side of the bed to try shaking more directly. Still nothing. My mind catalogs the details that she’s cold and stiff and maybe even blue but I force them under lock and key: I am not a doctor and I know high anxiety can be the cause of mistakes. I search for a pulse and find none. It was never this hard to find during certification, but then again, I was never trying to find it under mounting pressure.
I spend a minute debating inside whether to bother Dad or not. He left early this morning to go back to Jackson Hole to finish his repairs. I’m wary of calling 911 for the same reason. What if I’m missing something? What if I make a big deal out of a little thing and add more stress to everyone’s life – be it in bothering Dad or an ambulance and emergency room bill and then find out it isn’t anything to worry about? Heaven knows we have enough medical bills. I decide to call Dad and let him decide.
He answers and I tell him I can’t get Mom to wake up. He says to call 911 and to call G. When he asks, I tell him I hadn’t before because I was afraid I was missing something that meant it was ok. I think he hears the repressed panic in my voice. He says, “Call G, call 911.” I am confused. Which one do I call first – he gave different orders. Dad is frustrated. “Call 911 first, then call G.” He hangs up so I can call 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My mom won’t wake up.”
“Where is your location?” I give my address. “Is she breathing?”
“I can’t tell. She’s rolled over. I don’t think so.”
“Roll her onto her back.”
“I can’t. I never could on my own. She always had to help.”
“Is there anyone there with you?”
“My little sister’s downstairs.”
“Have her help.”
“No. She’s only 10.”
“Well, if you’re not going to cooperate, there’s nothing else I can do. The ambulance is on its way and should be there shortly.” She hangs up.
Now to call G. G. One of Mom's friends. She had been, and maybe she still is, Mom's visiting teacher (read a buddy-system in our church's women's society) and is one of the few who have been at ease with Mom and her sever illnesses, having one herself. She's a tiny little woman with a whole lot of heart. Call G. I don’t know her number. I can’t find Mom’s ward directory by her bed. I look in the kitchen and at the desk and still I can’t find it. I ask J if she knows where it is. She looks, I look. I freeze when I see her coming down the stairs with it in her hand. I can’t tell her – she’s only 10. I can’t tell myself – this is my whole identity.
I call G. I tell her Mom won’t wake up. I tell her an ambulance is coming. Can she come over? She says they’ll be there in a minute. I call Sister F, too. She brought her puppy over once to visit with Mom. I think she’s the Relief Society President. She’s not, but she says she’ll get a hold of the people who need to know.
I hear a knock. It’s the first EMT guy. That was fast. It had only been a few minutes. I hadn’t heard a siren. J’s still watching Scooby Doo and doesn’t even notice as I lead him to Mom. He throws the bed-side table down the walkway so he can get to Mom uninhibited. I crouch to pick up the laptop and get everything out of harm’s way. I stand in time to see him roll her over. I see her face and the lock-down is complete. Her mouth is stretched into a grin and there is a purple pooling around her cheeks and nose as though blood had settled underneath the skin. The EMT sees my face and makes me leave. I have to stay downstairs, he says.
More EMTs come up as I go down. G and her son, Z, squeeze past with the group. J is starting to notice and wants to know what is happening. Dad calls back and wants to know what is happening, too. I tell him the EMTs are upstairs with her. A police officer is there and I pass the phone to him. He tells Dad that there is no word yet. Dad is coming home. I don’t know what G tells J. Maybe the officer talks to her.
G asks if she can get me anything. I tell her I want my quilt. I tell her they said I can’t go up there. She sneaks up and gets it for me. I wrap it tight.
More people come. Relief Society sisters, the home ward Bishop - Bishop S. Sister F must have called them. Uncle S and Aunt T show up, too. Dad must have called them. My Bishop - Bishop U - and his wife come. I called them.
The EMT comes down. “I’m sorry,” he says. “We did all we could. She was already dead.”
Somebody holds J.
The police officer tells us they have called the mortuary. We can go see her one last time before they come for her body. I am afraid. The church support group says I should not be. I want them to see the death mask so they will understand. We go upstairs. Mom is lying on the floor next to the bed. A blanket covers her so that only her face shows. The blood pool is gone. They don’t understand. The mortuary comes and they make us, me and J, stay downstairs while they take the body. Someone stands in the way so I won’t see anything through the railing.
G asks if I want to sleep. I don’t want to close my eyes. Dad calls back. I think Uncle S tells him, maybe Bishop S. Bishop S decides to take Z to go meet Dad so he’s not driving alone. The Relief Society sisters ask what they can do to help. My mind is blank. We’ve taken care of everything for so many years and we’re good at it. Nothing much needs done. I remember the potatoes I’ve been meaning to harvest for weeks but haven’t had the time or energy to get to. The sisters are pleased to have something to do. I get the garden tool box from the garage and they go out back.
The police officer is about to leave. I think he gives his contact information to G. He gives me a hug and says good-bye.
I’m on the front-porch. My blanket is around me. The day is as calm and unruffled as the blankness inside. I wander across the yard to look through the fence. The potatoes are small but numerous. The bright sun is warm through the blanket.
Uncle S and Aunt T take J and me to the high school. We have to tell M and S. Lunch has just started. S had said her locker was upstairs. I go and see her coming. My face tells her before my voice does. We look for M but can’t find her. We go back to the office. They let us use a back conference room. Someone brings us simple snacks while we try to determine where M is. I go to the choir room – sometimes she spends lunch there. They don’t know where she is. I go back to the office. I stop at the attendance desk. Since Mom’s dead, she can’t be the emergency contact. I have them put me down instead. I go back to the conference room. Somebody found M and now it’s time to go. The secretaries tell us not to worry about the rest of the week.
S and T take us home. The others get their blankets and then S takes us to their home. The sisters sleep. I pretend to. Grandma has come. Maybe I do sleep. Dad comes. He laughs that Bishop’s van broke down and he ended up giving them a ride back. The night is dark. Eventually we go home. Exhaustion conquers all.
***
I had known that Mom would die. It only made sense. As the stress on her systems was magnified by the layered illnesses, it was obvious that, at some point, it would be too much for her body to maintain. I’d just thought it would take two more years. It was months before I finally realized why. There was no logical cause for the connection, but it held. I remembered that cause when I revisited the J. K. Rowling web-site. That summer I had read her autobiography that she has on the site. In it, I had been stunned to learn that Rowling’s mom had also had Multiple Sclerosis. She had died at the age of 45. Mom was 43. I remember thinking, 45. Two more years. I can’t go on forever, but I can do two more years. I was trying to fortify myself to face it.
***
It has been nearly four years. Mom’s death has become the time-central event in my life. Just as history is marked forward and backward from Christ’s birth, so I mark time with Mom’s death. “When did (this) happen? Mom was alive, so it was at least this long ago.”
***
I remember asking Dad what my new role was supposed to be. He was confused. I explained that before, it was to take care of Mom. Dad got mad. He said that it had been his responsibility to take care of Mom. He seemed angry that I should have any right to that claim. He did not give me an answer.
For years I saw myself, my identity, as broken, shattered. I am now learning to be myself and have been happily surprised to find I enjoy it and others seem to as well. It has required I stop talking to Dad and that I not let him talk to me. There has been much difficulty, but I sense that things are now as they should be. And I am coming to know hope. Sometimes I am still tired, but now there is hope.
***
Mom’s parents are still alive. Dad’s parents are still alive. My step-mother’s parents are still alive. Most people’s are. Instead, I have pretend moms. They are women who have known me and somehow love me. None of them are always there, but between them there is almost always someone. There isn’t the strength of blood, but it helps to pretend. And I have found family in church: siblings, parents, now even grandparents. Perhaps I can never return to the home that was and was not, but I have found welcome in many hearts around me. Perhaps they can be home.
I still spend many free hours at church and Institute. It is no longer serving double-duty as a life preserver, but has returned to its standard place as center of my life. I have learned that it is unwise to take Dad's pronouncements of the Savior's opinions of me as factual, and have found great relief in simply living my own life as best I can and trusting Him to see and judge fairly.
November 2, 2004 was a death blow to a floundering child's prayer for a happy, healthy home and family life. But it also cut the strongest string tying me to an unhealthy situation. What was is dead, and at times I still mourn that death, but I would not give up the life I have found growing in its place. Mom's life slipped beyond the mortal realm that day, but now, here, mine is just beginning.
***
November 4, 2008 is coming up. I am excited: it will be my first Presidential Election.
You should probably get up, my responsible conscience tells me, ‘and get ready so you can go vote.’ It’s November 2, 2004 and all of the Political Science classes have been cancelled for the day to encourage voter turnout.
I should get up, I think, even as my consciousness slips under. I know our government requires responsible citizenship to function at its best. I know it’s said that you can’t complain if you don’t vote. I know there are many third, and even second and first world countries that do not have the political freedoms we have available to us in the United States of America. I know. Too tired. I can go after school. And so I sleep for another hour. After all, you don’t have to be first in line to be responsible. I have been excited to vote, though – this will be my first presidential election.
An hour later and I make myself get up. I’m still exhausted, but that’s nothing new: 15 credit hours at the University and either burn-out or let-down in every other part of a life can do that to a person. Fiddler on the Roof had ended mid-September and that had been my escape.
‘Escape?’ you ask. ‘Escape from what?’ Escape from the responsibilities of the eldest and the unreachable but still required expectations of the father. Escape from the diagrams keeping track of how much of the house still needed painted. Escape from keeping the house immaculate for sale so that we can move to a house that doesn’t have so many stairs so Mom can use her wheelchair. Escape from the sale that fell through taking my hopes of relief with it.
Escape from the schedules compulsively drawn by a psyche overwhelmed with responsibility placed in the same time restraints all others must live under. Escape from a mother’s many debilitating illnesses, her resulting dependence, anxiety, and depression, and the strain of being the dependable turn-to for everyone needing something and everything needing done. Escape from my dependability being expected, demanded, but never appreciated. Escape from Mom’s whimpering and moaning when the pain was too much and knowing there was nothing I could do to take it away. Escape from the panic that I wouldn’t be able to maintain it all taking the rest of the energy I didn’t have to keep the panic at bay.
But the show was over and there was no escape. Religion brings enough relief to continue, but Dad’s attacks lessen what relief it could give. I am an active member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, more commonly known as LDS or Mormons. So is my Dad. But where I took refuge in going to church, activities with my singles' ward (read 'geographic congregation' for 'ward'), and would spend what free hours I could at the Institute building (a religious education system the church provides as companion to higher secular education), Dad sees my activity only in regards to and as intended commentary on his own scattered attendance. "You think you're better than us because you go to all your meetings, but you're just a self-righteous, hypocritical Pharisee and you know what the Savior thought of them!"
No, there was no escape. While Mom was sick, my personal purpose, and therefore my identity and resulting satisfaction, would be found in knowing I was doing everything I could to limit Mom’s difficulties so she would have the energy to fight on. Meanwhile, I too must fight on.
I take a quick pit-stop in the bathroom and then head downstairs to grab some breakfast. J’s already up and watching cartoons from the daybed Mom used to occupy before she moved upstairs permanently. J’s ten and the youngest of the four girls. Her track is off in the over-crowded year-round school system remedy which means I don’t need to worry about getting her there.
I head back upstairs to take a shower. I glance into Mom’s room and notice she’s sleeping. It looks like she fell asleep while stretching her back – mid-twist. I consider waking her since her position is sure to cause soreness later, but decide against it. Sleep has been difficult for her to come by of late and if she’s able to sleep, it is best to let her. And so I shower.
I love showers. I love the feel of the water in constant rhythm against my skin, washing everything away. I love the smell of the soap that makes me imagine I am somewhere far away myself. I love the smell of the shampoo and conditioner, too: ocean breeze. I’ve only been to the ocean once, but I remember how big it was, the smell, and the feeling that I was on the edge of the world and that all I had to do was step across that edge and I could be anywhere. Yes, I love showers. It is good that the water heater is limited in size for life cannot be lived in a shower.
The shower’s over and I finish getting ready. Mom’s still sleeping. I go downstairs and pull my backpack together. J’s watching Scooby Doo. She’s wearing her purple bathrobe and her Scooby Doo slippers. She says she’s already eaten. I ditch my bag on the piano bench by the front door to wake Mom before I leave. She’s been in the same position for too long – she needs to move so the pain will be limited. Hopefully the pain won’t be too bad, but she needed the sleep.
I stand at her door and call a few times. She really must be tired. I negotiate my way to her side of the bed and gently shake her shoulder. She is twisted to the right with her left arm stretched across and her face hidden in her right arm and under her hair. She does not respond.
“Mom? Please wake up – you’re scaring me.”
I’ve had CPR and First-Aid training many times. I know that you’re supposed to try to get a response. If they don’t respond to normal sound, you try physical touch and calling more loudly – in their ear if need be. I choose proximity to decibels, mindful of J downstairs. No response. My pulse quickens even as it runs chill. I circle to the other side of the bed to try shaking more directly. Still nothing. My mind catalogs the details that she’s cold and stiff and maybe even blue but I force them under lock and key: I am not a doctor and I know high anxiety can be the cause of mistakes. I search for a pulse and find none. It was never this hard to find during certification, but then again, I was never trying to find it under mounting pressure.
I spend a minute debating inside whether to bother Dad or not. He left early this morning to go back to Jackson Hole to finish his repairs. I’m wary of calling 911 for the same reason. What if I’m missing something? What if I make a big deal out of a little thing and add more stress to everyone’s life – be it in bothering Dad or an ambulance and emergency room bill and then find out it isn’t anything to worry about? Heaven knows we have enough medical bills. I decide to call Dad and let him decide.
He answers and I tell him I can’t get Mom to wake up. He says to call 911 and to call G. When he asks, I tell him I hadn’t before because I was afraid I was missing something that meant it was ok. I think he hears the repressed panic in my voice. He says, “Call G, call 911.” I am confused. Which one do I call first – he gave different orders. Dad is frustrated. “Call 911 first, then call G.” He hangs up so I can call 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My mom won’t wake up.”
“Where is your location?” I give my address. “Is she breathing?”
“I can’t tell. She’s rolled over. I don’t think so.”
“Roll her onto her back.”
“I can’t. I never could on my own. She always had to help.”
“Is there anyone there with you?”
“My little sister’s downstairs.”
“Have her help.”
“No. She’s only 10.”
“Well, if you’re not going to cooperate, there’s nothing else I can do. The ambulance is on its way and should be there shortly.” She hangs up.
Now to call G. G. One of Mom's friends. She had been, and maybe she still is, Mom's visiting teacher (read a buddy-system in our church's women's society) and is one of the few who have been at ease with Mom and her sever illnesses, having one herself. She's a tiny little woman with a whole lot of heart. Call G. I don’t know her number. I can’t find Mom’s ward directory by her bed. I look in the kitchen and at the desk and still I can’t find it. I ask J if she knows where it is. She looks, I look. I freeze when I see her coming down the stairs with it in her hand. I can’t tell her – she’s only 10. I can’t tell myself – this is my whole identity.
I call G. I tell her Mom won’t wake up. I tell her an ambulance is coming. Can she come over? She says they’ll be there in a minute. I call Sister F, too. She brought her puppy over once to visit with Mom. I think she’s the Relief Society President. She’s not, but she says she’ll get a hold of the people who need to know.
I hear a knock. It’s the first EMT guy. That was fast. It had only been a few minutes. I hadn’t heard a siren. J’s still watching Scooby Doo and doesn’t even notice as I lead him to Mom. He throws the bed-side table down the walkway so he can get to Mom uninhibited. I crouch to pick up the laptop and get everything out of harm’s way. I stand in time to see him roll her over. I see her face and the lock-down is complete. Her mouth is stretched into a grin and there is a purple pooling around her cheeks and nose as though blood had settled underneath the skin. The EMT sees my face and makes me leave. I have to stay downstairs, he says.
More EMTs come up as I go down. G and her son, Z, squeeze past with the group. J is starting to notice and wants to know what is happening. Dad calls back and wants to know what is happening, too. I tell him the EMTs are upstairs with her. A police officer is there and I pass the phone to him. He tells Dad that there is no word yet. Dad is coming home. I don’t know what G tells J. Maybe the officer talks to her.
G asks if she can get me anything. I tell her I want my quilt. I tell her they said I can’t go up there. She sneaks up and gets it for me. I wrap it tight.
More people come. Relief Society sisters, the home ward Bishop - Bishop S. Sister F must have called them. Uncle S and Aunt T show up, too. Dad must have called them. My Bishop - Bishop U - and his wife come. I called them.
The EMT comes down. “I’m sorry,” he says. “We did all we could. She was already dead.”
Somebody holds J.
The police officer tells us they have called the mortuary. We can go see her one last time before they come for her body. I am afraid. The church support group says I should not be. I want them to see the death mask so they will understand. We go upstairs. Mom is lying on the floor next to the bed. A blanket covers her so that only her face shows. The blood pool is gone. They don’t understand. The mortuary comes and they make us, me and J, stay downstairs while they take the body. Someone stands in the way so I won’t see anything through the railing.
G asks if I want to sleep. I don’t want to close my eyes. Dad calls back. I think Uncle S tells him, maybe Bishop S. Bishop S decides to take Z to go meet Dad so he’s not driving alone. The Relief Society sisters ask what they can do to help. My mind is blank. We’ve taken care of everything for so many years and we’re good at it. Nothing much needs done. I remember the potatoes I’ve been meaning to harvest for weeks but haven’t had the time or energy to get to. The sisters are pleased to have something to do. I get the garden tool box from the garage and they go out back.
The police officer is about to leave. I think he gives his contact information to G. He gives me a hug and says good-bye.
I’m on the front-porch. My blanket is around me. The day is as calm and unruffled as the blankness inside. I wander across the yard to look through the fence. The potatoes are small but numerous. The bright sun is warm through the blanket.
Uncle S and Aunt T take J and me to the high school. We have to tell M and S. Lunch has just started. S had said her locker was upstairs. I go and see her coming. My face tells her before my voice does. We look for M but can’t find her. We go back to the office. They let us use a back conference room. Someone brings us simple snacks while we try to determine where M is. I go to the choir room – sometimes she spends lunch there. They don’t know where she is. I go back to the office. I stop at the attendance desk. Since Mom’s dead, she can’t be the emergency contact. I have them put me down instead. I go back to the conference room. Somebody found M and now it’s time to go. The secretaries tell us not to worry about the rest of the week.
S and T take us home. The others get their blankets and then S takes us to their home. The sisters sleep. I pretend to. Grandma has come. Maybe I do sleep. Dad comes. He laughs that Bishop’s van broke down and he ended up giving them a ride back. The night is dark. Eventually we go home. Exhaustion conquers all.
***
I had known that Mom would die. It only made sense. As the stress on her systems was magnified by the layered illnesses, it was obvious that, at some point, it would be too much for her body to maintain. I’d just thought it would take two more years. It was months before I finally realized why. There was no logical cause for the connection, but it held. I remembered that cause when I revisited the J. K. Rowling web-site. That summer I had read her autobiography that she has on the site. In it, I had been stunned to learn that Rowling’s mom had also had Multiple Sclerosis. She had died at the age of 45. Mom was 43. I remember thinking, 45. Two more years. I can’t go on forever, but I can do two more years. I was trying to fortify myself to face it.
***
It has been nearly four years. Mom’s death has become the time-central event in my life. Just as history is marked forward and backward from Christ’s birth, so I mark time with Mom’s death. “When did (this) happen? Mom was alive, so it was at least this long ago.”
***
I remember asking Dad what my new role was supposed to be. He was confused. I explained that before, it was to take care of Mom. Dad got mad. He said that it had been his responsibility to take care of Mom. He seemed angry that I should have any right to that claim. He did not give me an answer.
For years I saw myself, my identity, as broken, shattered. I am now learning to be myself and have been happily surprised to find I enjoy it and others seem to as well. It has required I stop talking to Dad and that I not let him talk to me. There has been much difficulty, but I sense that things are now as they should be. And I am coming to know hope. Sometimes I am still tired, but now there is hope.
***
Mom’s parents are still alive. Dad’s parents are still alive. My step-mother’s parents are still alive. Most people’s are. Instead, I have pretend moms. They are women who have known me and somehow love me. None of them are always there, but between them there is almost always someone. There isn’t the strength of blood, but it helps to pretend. And I have found family in church: siblings, parents, now even grandparents. Perhaps I can never return to the home that was and was not, but I have found welcome in many hearts around me. Perhaps they can be home.
I still spend many free hours at church and Institute. It is no longer serving double-duty as a life preserver, but has returned to its standard place as center of my life. I have learned that it is unwise to take Dad's pronouncements of the Savior's opinions of me as factual, and have found great relief in simply living my own life as best I can and trusting Him to see and judge fairly.
November 2, 2004 was a death blow to a floundering child's prayer for a happy, healthy home and family life. But it also cut the strongest string tying me to an unhealthy situation. What was is dead, and at times I still mourn that death, but I would not give up the life I have found growing in its place. Mom's life slipped beyond the mortal realm that day, but now, here, mine is just beginning.
***
November 4, 2008 is coming up. I am excited: it will be my first Presidential Election.
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