Feeling the risks inherent in the deep things of the soul - 12/6/08

Here in my writing is where I confront my meanest self, my angriest person. Here I challenge the fearful little girl inside of me. I push the conservative woman and pull for the liberal one, then turn around and pull, then push. Here in this blank space is where I pencil in my blessings and color in my joy. Here is where I find a courageous writer and a shy friend. And here is where I discover the strongest mother whose knees are sometimes weak.

I believe there is a reason why my ten-year-old son’s favorite subject is recess
- and lunch. I believe we all need time to play. In particular, adults become increasingly worried about finances, jobs. We wonder whether our child will become the next great genetic scientist. We are concerned as to their college prospects, their self-esteem and their clothing.

As a former single parent, I had these worries more often than not. And yet my son intrigued me because his self-esteem remained intact no matter the decisions I made regarding to his participation in baseball - let him play competitive or recreational, do homework – before dinner or after dinner. And in particular their social lives - let him skate or not skate.

Recently, his school’s PTA offered fifth graders the opportunity for an after school skating party at the local roller skating rink – Castle Skateland. I grew up roller skating on the weekends with friends. My ten year old birthday party was held at the roller rink because our basement flooded out. Skating is lights, music, and sometimes friends, but mostly, it’s you and your skates.

I’ve skated at Castle Skateland. I have seen elements there any parent might find disturbing. But my son was insistent on going. “But who of your friends will be there?” I quizzed him. “I don’t know. Brian said he may go if his mom lets him.” This was our conversation as we were walking out the door for me to drop him off. I was unsettled as to how he would manage – mainly without me.

I am no longer there to coordinate friends, nag about chores and mostly shelter him from some of the nastiness that life can sometimes deliver. Lastly, he can’t skate. Well, technically, he shuffles along the side of the rink, holding on to the rails and ledges where he can. He bobs his head to the music, because he at least loves music, and scoots around the rink, one time for every three revolutions of his friends.

Upon our arrival at Castle Skateland, he eased out of the backseat and hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should kiss me. Instead, he grabbed my arm and held it for just a split second and then he was gone. As I saw the scene unfurl in my mind, he walked up the plank over the moat of grass and pavement and opened up the large imposing double doors with their fake cast iron hinges and handles.

I departed for a meeting struggling with the fact that I would not be accessible for him, if he needed me. He had my husband’s cell number and a few extra quarters, which I never saw again. Davis, I had told him, “If you feel like your just done, call home and someone will come get you.” “Ok, Mom, but I’ll be fine.”

I called my husband to let him know that Davis MIGHT call. And I pleaded for him to keep his cell phone nearby – which as a doctor he always does. I wanted to be absolutely certain that if Davis was not having fun, he could get home instantly.

The evening passed without incident and as I drove home, I had absentmindedly forgotten about Davis and his skating. My mind was still on my meeting as I walked in the door at home. Davis was preoccupied with my I-pod, bobbing his head to the All-American Rejects or Pirates of Carribbean theme. “Mom, they played my song at Castle Skateland,” he said loudly over the music. “And I skated to it the whole time.”

I nodded my head, as if I understood, but I really didn’t. Nor did my husband as we exchanged curious glances. It wasn’t until later, as Davis and I sat watching a college football game did I ask again about skating.

“So, who did you skate with?” I asked. Davis rattled off a few names I knew and one that I didn’t. “How’d you do with your skating,” I inquired, knowing this to be a loaded question. “I did fine. I skated slow the whole time, but I didn’t care. I had fun.”

In the past, Davis has circulated flyers in the neighborhood to elicit sign-ups for the BFL – Backyard Football League. He and his Charlie Brown Peanuts gang run from house, rounding up players until they can get a game. After a few weeks, they even planned for a Super Bowl. And while he avidly follows Troy Smith and Ohio State, and Bengals and Carson Palmer, he would much rather play football than watch.

I was Davis’s first playmate. And for many years, I did double duty as playmate and parent. I taught him how to play. I taught him to walk away and remember its just a game. I taught him these things because I believed that he would learn more in the backyard than in front of the television. That he would learn how to manage relationships and conflict. That someday, he would know how to have fun in a life that wouldn’t always be so.

Recently, in my newly blended family, we skipped mass one Sunday and instead practiced what I have called outdoor church. It is nothing more than spending time outside in the neighborhood, at a park or sometimes, hitting plastic golf balls in the backyard. But the point is that we are together. There are no distractions and no space between us but sky and earth, creek and leaves. We took our kids, ages 10-15, to the park at the end of our street. The park has a play set, one of those universal three sided, one tube plus monkey bars set. We talked about God and heaven and our daughter Kaitylyn wondered aloud – “what if there is no heaven. What if we’ve been wrong all this time and there is no heaven.” Our kids were asking questions aloud, which doesn’t happen in church except asking to go the bathroom or get a drink.

Following a period of silence, I suddenly, I ran at my husband and yelled, Tag you’re it. And so began a twenty-minute game of tag. It was not a battle of wills. It was not a test of strength. It was a test of who could laugh the hardest and still run, who could lose a shoe(in 30 degree weather) and still be it.

I believe that we all must make time to play. We must turn away from our idols in the news or on the screen, and even on occasion walk away from our notions of God and heaven, and learn how to negotiate through our lives from the perspective of the playground.

The Memory of Kindness

I once wrote a poem that Kristi stands for kindness but she actually sat together with me on her kitchen bar stools. I am reminded of this kindness as winter approaches, a chill sends us scurrying inside, the darkness forces us to find light and warmth. This is en especially challenging time for caregivers who need reminding to care for themselves. But equally important, to remind others who may have contact with caregivers to take them into your circle. Share with them your kindness. Because kindness has a memory.

Years ago, I was in Seattle caring for my first husband who was undergoing a stem cell transplant. The apartment manager was constantly updating the lobby in order to improve upon not his good fortune, but to light up the lives of those who stayed there. He took a liking to our son and arrived at our door one evening, with a bike and a keyboard, playdough kit and a soccer ball. No one will ever forget the surprised look on my son’s face when he began poking at the keys. Of course, we soon learned how to turn down the sound. But I will remember that look in my son’s caramel apple eyes. He will remember, maybe not the house manager or his name, but the kindness associated with that act. Some day, he will do the same.

Kindness has a memory, I tell myself. That is why I remember Kristi, who sat for hours, listening, probing, caring, while I grieved my husband’s death. She cared for me, when I had completed my task of caring for my husband and couldn’t care a less about myself. She reached out daily to share a hug, a smile, a barstool and candy molds for unmentionables. She is where I went when I didn’t know how to be kind to myself.

I recall the National Family Caregivers Association (http://www.thefamilycaregiver.org/) promoting three tenets of caregiving: Believe in Yourself, Protect Your Health, Reach Out for Help. As much as we would like to think we are empowered to believe, protect and reach out, some days I was just too darned tired to do so. And that is when kindness stepped in. On the days that I couldn’t get out of bed, coffee and donuts arrived at my door and made me believe in living if for that day only. On days when I couldn’t lift a finger in the kitchen, or didn’t care to, kindness arrived like Mary Alice in Desperate Housewives, perfectly timed, perfectly prepared, to protect my health and my son.

Kindness has a memory. Not for specifics, but in my genes, in my cells, I feel a wave of gratitude as I reminisce about the kindness of mere strangers. Perhaps as the caregiver I was not feeling all too empowered to greet up each new morn. But Kristi felt empowered. She knocked and I let her in. And that power translated into energy for me, on days when I needed it the most. I guess that’s why I surround myself from mementos from that time – a rock here, an old phone bill, a picture, a pencil. I even have the bar stool pillow, located out of reach but not out of sight, to remind me the soft landing she offered after my husband died. When I merged with my new family, the bike was outgrown, the soccer ball busted and the playdough had dried to a flake, but the keyboard survived the cut. Occasionally some youngster will begin plunking on the keyboard and the broken hum of hot cross buns in a disco style will send a shot of warmth to my soul.

I believe we are a world waiting for kindness to come in and sit in our kitchen. So we shouldn’t let it get too late before knocking on that door or someone may not rise up in the morn.

A Hundred Miles Uphill - My Journey through Grief

My husband Devin died at the age of forty after a three year battle with leukemia. Our young son Davis, with wispy brown hair and eyes that resembled caramel apples, was left without a father. Yet, Davis alone was not my only means of support during this painful period in our lives.

A month prior to my husband’s death, I wanted to continue with the writing I had already happened upon. I had been journaling off and on through Devin’s journey and my caregiving. We both knew our account would become a book some day as he had seen the fire in my eyes that tears of grief would never quench.

In the months leading up to his death, Devin had presented me with a pen with the following inscription – For Inspiration - From Davis. Davis was my reason for rising in the morning. But to get to day’s end, I would need to write the stories that would free my fears, celebrate my love and recall who I was before I came to feel so old.

I began to research writing opportunities in the Greater Cincinnati area. A newspaper reporter had written a story about Women Writing for (a) Change (http://www.womenwriting.org/.) But I didn’t want change in my life nor had I felt the need to make change happen in the world. I would need a place for when change, BIG change, would be thrust upon me and at the present, I had no where to run but a hundred miles uphill.

I signed up for the class, paid my deposit and weeks later, was forced to cancel my attendance. The unavoidable change in life had just been thrust upon me – my husband had died and I had to make a change. The writing of our book had always been an unspoken creed between Devin and me, an agreement that he would fight his leukemia and live and love his life. If, in the end, his effort was in vain then I would pick up the work and carry on.

I waited only three months before signing up for class again. I decided upon a Monday night because I needed to look forward to the week ahead. The first night of class we were asked to respond to the prompt Why Write? I devised plenty of excuses to write and plenty more to not. The reasons balanced out until I found myself proclaiming, “Now is not the time to keep busy, as we had done for three years through three cities, two doctors, and countless medications.” There would be no more running from the waves of medical appointments and insurance paperwork. “Now, now is the time to sit still.”

I have continued to attend Women Writing for (a) Change classes over the past six years, serving on its foundation board, recruiting new writers through my own simple admission to why write? The program is open to any woman (and now men, too), but its core mission clearly supports those who grieve and allows them to hear their voices and not the beeps from the IV pumps and monitor which kept their loved ones alive. Not only have I, the writer, learned to sit still and heed my own voice. But there exists the practice where every woman is asked to “sit still” and observe the voice of others. My words have been heard and cared for in the same way I cared for my husband. I carry the words of other women and hold them at night in the same way I hold my son.

I did finish and publish my book – I’ll Be in the Car: One Woman’s Story of Love, Loss and Reclaiming Life. (www.illbeinthecar.com) I am working with the local chapters of Hospice and the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society to share my words with a broader audience. But the women of Women Writing for (a) Change sat with me and cried my tears when I didn’t have the courage to do so. They healed my heart when I was left with no desire to love. They carried my words on their shoulders one hundred miles uphill where I could retrieve them when I found the strength.