Looking Back at Our Life's Journey

A new friend-- who did not know I love, and write, poetry-- lent me a book by Maren C. Tirabassi called The Depth of Wells. She knew I work for hospice, and she thought I'd find some something of worth in these poems.

I am amazed at how many of these poems are so very like my own experiences. One is of a woman who relates having been accidentally shot by her husband, with no lingering damage. “I promised I would never tell,” she says. I've heard similar confessions. Another is of a man dying in a hospital bed in his own living room, surrounded by loved ones on Thanksgiving who were watching the football game. I've urged families to keep their dying in their midst.

The poem that particularly struck me is of an old woman at a senior center, putting jigsaw puzzles together. Onlookers theorize she's enjoying the beautiful scenes and wishing she were there. Instead, she is trying to make sense of her own life. “Finally she remembers to start with the borders.”

Ever since I read that, I’ve been trying to understand what the borders of my life might be. Here are some of the things that came to mind. (Apologies to Kay, who is through with being introspective.)

What are my boundaries, places I would not go outside of, inner rules I would not overstep? Do I always stay within my comfort zone? Or do I push at the growing edge of me, both frightened and attracted by that which I feel most passionate about?

Something I learned from a high school photography class, so many years and so much technology ago, was how to vignette a picture. You could either cut a hole in a piece of cardboard with, say, pinking shears, and shoot the picture through it; or you could actually apply Vaseline to the edges of the lens to soften and blur the parts of the picture that weren’t necessary. Those ideas have always been for me metaphors for how I sometimes look at life, choosing to see only what I want.

How do we focus in on our lives, in reflection; or does it matter if our view is ten degrees off center? Don’t we frame and reframe ourselves, as co-creators of our lives?

The mood I’ve been in too much lately, the worm-eating, poor-me mode, feels like a retreat from my growing edge, much like the brain atrophies within the skull. Now that’s a terrible picture, isn’t it? This is a better one: sometimes when we are in pain, we double up into as small a ball as possible, holding ourselves and literally rocking. When we are comforted enough, we can return to our full stature, resume our activities, prepare again to grow when the time is right.

I do believe that we have to grow, in wisdom or in spirit or love, or we retreat. We can’t hold still for long.

The question is, do we have the courage stretch out toward that growing edge again? Growth is painful. But failure to grow is death.

When I work with the dying, I hope to help them think about their lives: to validate themselves, to teach their families what they've learned, maybe to try to make amends. There isn't much they can do to change the course of their lives, but sometimes they can change the ending, the meaning they leave for others.

We, in the mainstream of our lives, can do even more by pulling back and taking a look at where we're headed. We still have time, maybe, to change, to alter our course.

This is a Lenten theme, and Lent begins next week! Blessings to all of you, and thanks for putting up with my solemn side tonight.

children's chaotic lives

I thought I had just enough time to take Seamus for a walk before sunset, and he was very pleased with the idea.

Heading out the door leash in hand, I had to pull him to a halt so I could come back in and answer the phone. It was the leader of the writing group I go to sometimes, letting me know that, due to the snow, we wouldn’t be meeting tomorrow. I told her I’d be busy for the next eight weeks with the children’s grief group on Tuesdays, so I wouldn’t be able to be there for some time.

She asked if it was a group for children who have experienced a loss due to death, and I said yes. “Children need something like that for other kinds of losses as well,” she said. Divorce was the first thing to occur to me, but she said more than that. “Children lead such chaotic lives now, they can’t even verbalize what the loss is. It’s stability, trust, being cared for. Too many children don’t have any of that. They may have plenty else, but not those basics, and they act out. Then people say to them,’Why are you acting like that?’ and they don’t know.”

It turns out that she’s a retired professor of childhood development. She went on to talk about men who are out of control. “Ever since Mt. St. Helens exploded in 1980,” she said, “the amount of violent behavior from men has gone way up. It’s because they feel helpless to protect their families, and that’s their job. Like drunks, as my mother used to say, they either get angry or they cry like babies. They’ve lost their manhood when they can’t take care of their families.”

I said something about personhood, trying to take the gender issue out of it, because I believe we all do react to powerlessness, although maybe not in the same ways. What I was really reacting to, I realized as she brought the conversation to a close, is the idea that men are supposed to take care of their families, men and not women. Then I remembered that she lives in a little town that has a church sponsored university, and most of the inhabitants of the town belong to that church. It has a very patriarchal view of family: the man must be the head.

Even though Bill is from a younger generation and a very different religious tradition, he expressed the same feelings the other day, that it was his main duty to protect and take care of his family. I like being taken care of and protected, but I also rail at the idea that it’s a man’s job and God intended it that way. I don’t agree with that; but, weren’t families stronger when more people believed that? What do you think?

waiting for an ephiphany? do something!

I don't know why, but I feel a whine coming on. However, I'm going to try to reframe it, because I don't like myself when I feel like a victim. If I'm in any way a victim, it's a victim of my own making, helplessness that I ought to be able to fight my way out of like a paper bag.

The phrase, "See how you are?" has popped into my head several times this week. I need a new vision of how I am, how I could be. An epiphany would be just fine, and it's the right season for it.

I keep thinking that when the repair man comes and I have a workable laundry again, things will be better. But will they? Last week I thought that when I'd given my talk on hospice, I'd feel better and be able to tackle some other things. Then the windstorm came up and left me some very other things to tackle, but still I didn't feel good about it.

Today I helped lead a grief group for children, the first we've tried. I like the co-leader, the leader, really. He has lots of experience with children's groups, and my experience, other than with teens or family, goes back to Cub Scouts and Brownies-- a very long time ago.

I haven't been dreading it, not anything like that, so it's not quite like the hurdles I often find in my weeks. Like, oh, when I can finally get appointments to see the folks in the town sixty miles away, I can breathe easier. Or the woman who wants to tube feed her husband and tells me, for no reason as far as I know, that I ought to buy a copy of the Catholic catechism and listen to Catholic radio if I want to help her. I don't know how she'll let me help her then, and suspect she won't ever, but it's another mental bump in my road.

Sometimes those bumps in the road have a salvific effect, that is, I find the dreaded task to be a source of joy and accomplishment when I've gotten into it. Not this time. It went okay, was sort of fun, sort of frustrating.

What I need is something to feel good about. Not just passable, but good. Enthusiastic. Spirited. Challenged. And appreciated for it would be good too.

A counselor came to hospice yesterday to talk to the group about compassion fatigue. I didn't think I had it, because I don't feel very compassionate, at least not that hooked kind of teary identification with people going through their difficulties. I don't get very attached. Then, as I thought about it, I thought about how that may be a symptom in itself. I have a couple of patients now that I will miss and will feel real grief about, but, in a way, I haven't gotten close to them emotionally. Self-protection, or a symptom of burn-out, or both?

One of the things that came out in our discussion was expectations. I have very low expectations of myself at this time, and that isn't good. It isn't good to have them too high to reach either, but so low they won't trip you up isn't high enough to feel like you've accomplished anything.

I'm just babbling. Now, to work on some goals, that's what I need to be doing. I'll give it a try. Wish me well.