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I'm Not Sick, I'm Dying

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Ever since my son-in-law said death was like birth it has spun around in my head bouncing back and forth. To me it seemed like the exact opposite. Until I looked at it from an illness view-point it felt like the comparison wasn’t accurate. My mom is at the end of her life. She’s passing and she is not ill. Her body is done and her mind has wrapped itself around the facts. She said “I’m done” last week. Not her being done with curing an illness, getting better and living another ten years. Done with treating this time in her life as an illness and going from emergency room, back home and soon to emergency room again. Blood draws, X-rays, Infusions, urine samples new meds, new advice for her and her caregivers. She asked her doctor to be referred to Hospice. She asked more than once. More than one nurse, doctor, social worker. She shouldn’t have to voice this wish of hers. Her body resonates “I’m passing on”. Her every movement, pain, fatigue, difficulties with everything.   She’s wa...
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Throw Your Coffee Cup

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When you’re in pain, I hear it in your voice. It encircles your body. Snarl and twist. Until you have to close your eyes to breathe. I’ve seen you curl up to brace yourself. You don’t want anyone to worry. You want anyone's discomfort with your pain to disappear. I don’t want you to be in pain. You can’t possibly make discomfort with your pain vanish. Your needs have always come last. You’ve lived by others’ hard-fast rules. Women, like children - seen not heard. It’s okay to yell out in pain. To throw your coffee cup. It’s okay to call and cry.   Your pain deserves space. You are not a rock. I’m not a squishy marshmallow. You are not alone. Your needs are not last. I respect your space and truth.  I see you, you are loved. The only rule is .... there are no rules. Come around the corner in full view and throw that coffee cup. Please don't rush to clean it up. Your anger and frustration need space too.
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“Cell phones are so convenient that they’re an inconvenience.” — Haruki Murakami

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I find it interesting how brain and language grow together. I grieve for any culture that has had to hide their native language to survive. What that must do to the body and the brain…and the soul. I see advances in some technology slyly put a camouflage-membrane over our spoken language. I find it troubling. Most children learn language from listening, repeating and modeling after others. It’s a big chunk of brain development. Since their brains continue to grow into their late 20s, it makes me wonder the effect of less voice to the ear. A large part of my survival I have relied on my emotional intelligence. I wouldn’t be where I am without the experience of being able to listen to my siblings and parents talk to their friends, whisper in the back bedroom or talk on the single, wall phone we had.   I was exposed to quirks of language like inflections, humor, joy, fear, anger, sadness, secrecy, etc. and I studied it like a moth seeking a light, when I was young. Two parents and nin...
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Rock the Raft (My Aunt Madge's raft)

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  Aunt Madge Cronan-Ryerse Lately, I’ve used a raft anchored out on Lake Michigan, for a much-needed metaphor. I needed something to give me a visual for my challenges and aspirations. I needed a strong one! When I was growing up my Aunt Madge had a large, wooden raft anchored out in the bay on Lake Michigan. You could see it from her picture window, (in a cabin eventually made into a house) on a sandy, grassy hill above the beach. My memory intensifies with every one of my senses. Her raft had large, red, rusting metal barrels under it to keep it afloat. A marvelous wall-less room made of large planks of wood sat above the barrels. Exposed to sun and eyes. Wooden steps led from the water. There was a sturdy anchor to keep it from being torn away by waves. When I was under the raft the barrels seemed to deflect most of the small waves. The under part felt safe to me. It was shaded from the bright summer sky while I tread in the water, hanging on. Most of my body was camouflaged and...
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Muffled Rush Hour (2 min. read)

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  A distant train…peals through the city, Splats of cold flakes suddenly fall around me. I stop in my tracks on my way home. Rush hour joins twilight With an early snake out of the city.   Bumper to bumper it vibrates. Cool, delicate, woven pieces of snow land on my face. My senses are tickled and mesmerized. The north wind is still.   I smell winter. Everything starts to vanish behind the sheets of snowfall. Muffled with a soundless cover of white. Time and train bow before this crown of snow. Puffs of joy. It’s like I’m in a forest of floating white, Sheltered among soft cushions. “In this now can you stay with me?” Snow challenges. I tilt my head back in approval.   You fall like apple blossom petals, In adagio rhythm. Moisten my tongue and my eyelids grow heavy. You fold around me, Release me from adulthood. My inner-child steps out of me and smiles. Into your cloud of snow. Together we abandon ourselves,   In a floaty-dance. “I love you, Snow! Please….stay...
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