Stain-glass Eyes

When I last wrote it was to give Mom voice. My way to somehow piece together her physical pain and emotional turmoil.   Her death journey. I felt helpless. Hadn’t I gained experience of how to cope with death from my husband Harry’s? Shouldn’t that give me some leverage? It took some time but I realize I wasn’t helpless when they were dying. More importantly, they weren’t either. Death isn’t really any different than life. One day at a time using whatever you have and yield to love. The experience I gained wasn’t about death. Death doesn’t teach you. It strips you of every power you thought you hid safely in your Denial Pocket . Powers useless at such a time.   Love dangles in front of our noses when a loved one is dying. We can either turn away or hug the hell out of it. Anger and resentment also try to distract us. Neither of those feelings heal the pain we go through. Mom and Harry both had charms of a four-leaf clover— they never said “Uncle”. Never wanted to appear helple...

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...

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.

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...