Looking around, I quickly determine that everything seems to be pretty much as I left it the last time I was in here. I exhale, surprised to realize I have been holding my breath.
I seem to come to this room more often these days.
I don’t really want to but I feel compelled.
It seems like the natural course of events to review my Life and try to make sense out of it.
Usually, I’m compelled by a thought, a past memory from somewhere deep that wells up maybe as a lump in the back of my throat, or perhaps as a stabbing pain in my head, or more often than not as an ache-a longing I can’t quite name. Other times it’s a random question casually asked by one of my children or grandchildren.
How else can I reduce this Generational Trauma other than to face it?
My goal is to downsize as much as possible and leave a much more manageable (though undoubtedly mismatching) set of baggage for my family to have to deal with. Of course, I’d rather leave none but that’s impossible. But I can choose to leave a Legacy that accepts responsibility, seeks to make amends, and authentically represents me.
I think I’ve made a pretty good effort so far. I’ve sorted through piles of memories, thoughts, feelings, decisions, behaviors, traumas, etc. Progress feels painstakingly slow as I bring each item under consideration into the light of day. Scrutinizing carefully and honestly, searching for any holes, damage, or inconsistencies- these tasks cannot be rushed.
“This is a process,” I think, noticing the chill in the air, willing myself to be patient and brave. Looking within takes courage. You don’t get to choose what you will discover.
I take a step toward my next task and in an instant, I’m no longer verticle but laying on the floor. I glance over and see the culprit. Grief has caught me unaware (again) and tripped me! I fell hard.
I decide to just stay here and wait for the throbbing pain in my heart to subside into a tolerable and familiar numbness before attempting to get up. Absently reaching out my hand, I am startled to discover a bony phalange (the distal phalanx to be precise). The bony finger of one of the (many) skeletons in my closet, long forgotten and left crumpled on the floor like a discarded prom dress, points at me accusingly. I immediately relax because of course I have long been aware of the presence of the skeletons! I’m the one who put them there!
A ray of light shining on the skeleton from above illuminates something I’ve never noticed before. I lift the hand of the skeleton to pull it closer for a better look. The dry bones and dust briefly turn into the fabric of a favorite dress I used to wear. A familiar pattern sparkles for just a second as if waiting for my acknowledgment, before fading and crumbling into dust into my hand!
“It can’t be true,” I think excitedly, scooting around on the floor to reach an old carcass in the back. I try it again and I am rewarded with the colorful flash of an outfit I wore long ago.
Before the swirling specks of dust can hit the floor I’m up and checking every skeleton.
Most turn out exactly the same. As soon as I recognize the past version of myself, it disintegrates.
I’ll come back again soon. I have a lot of dusting to do.
Encouraged by my new knowledge I accept and extend this moment of Grace to myself, feeling hopeful as I close the door behind me.
In May 2021, Texas Gov. Greg Abbott (R) signed legislation (S.B.8) to ban abortion at six weeks of gestation, so early in pregnancy that many people may not even know that they are pregnant.
Watching the whole Texas Abortion law issue I decided to lean in and take a deep look.
Yes, I can see you rolling your eyes already but bear with me. It’s frustrating how a conversation about a very complex issue gets stuck on political talking points and stops the progression of any meaningful, collective understanding we might attain. Changing ones perspective can help.
Since the question When does Life Begin? is so contentious I decided to start at the end: What determines death? This is a straightforward question, right?!
Turns out…. nope!
Legal death is determined by irreversible cessation of heartbeat (cardiopulmonary death), and death determined by irreversible cessation of functions of the brain (brain death). Doctors perform confirmatory tests to document either no blood flow to the brain or no electrical activity in the brain.
There are three main schools of thought on death. There’s the commonly accepted view that a person is dead when all brain functions cease. But there’s also the view that a person is only dead after their heart stops beating. That’s the view held by many Orthodox Jews and Native Americans, as well as some Catholics and fundamental Protestants.
And there’s a third variation. While most definitions of brain death mean that all parts of a person’s brain are out of commission, Veatch and some others believe that a person can be brain dead even if certain minor functions of the brain remain. For example, if a patient shows a gag reflex, but no other signs of life, they should be considered brain dead.
In the United States, each state has laws for determining death that are modeled after the Uniform Determination of Death Act. States that do not recognize “irreversible cessation of all function of the entire brain, including the brainstem” to be death include Arizona, Illinois, Iowa, Louisiana, North Carolina, and Texas.
In these states doctors must accommodate the preferences of families who refuse to accept the diagnosis for religious reasons.
If you have the money you can legally keep your loved one on a ventilator (not life support. There is no life to support in a brain dead person. Only their organs are being kept alive.)
Another sad story involved John Peter Smith Hospital in Texas, maintaining a corpse against the wishes of the family, for the protection of a fetus that couldn’t live. The young mother, Marlise Munoz, declared brain dead, was to be kept on a ventilator until either until her 14-week-old fetus was delivered or died, as the hospital interpreted the existing law. As the standoff approached the end of its second month, Erick Munoz had had enough. He sued John Peter Smith Hospital for “cruel and obscene mutilation of a corpse,” that corpse being the love of his life.
Authors of the Texas Advance Directives Act told reporters they never meant for their law to be used to keep a pregnant dead woman “alive” until the hospital could deliver the baby. They said if that’s what John Peter Smith Hospital was doing, the hospital was misreading the law.
Losing someone is so difficult. It’s very hard to accept. Personally, I will always have doubts, questions, and uncomfortable feelings regarding my son, Kevin and his death and I know I will never find resolution. I will hear the sound of his last breath when the ventilator was taken off until I take my last breath.
Stories matter. Laws affect the lives of real people. How those laws are interpreted matters.
Under Texas law, a declaration of brain death means the patient is legally considered a deceased person, regardless of the patient’s heart still beating and oxygen pumping through his or her body. [https://texasrighttolife.com/]
So if, for the purposes of this conversation, the brain is the standard for determining death then how and when is the brain detected in a fetus?
Week 5or 6 not until the end of week 5 and into week 6 (usually around forty to forty-three days) does the first electrical brain activity begin to occur.
Week 6 or 7 the neural tube closes and the brain separates into three parts,
Week 7 the first synapses in baby’s spinal cord form during week
Week 8 electrical activity begins in the brain
End of second trimester (week 14-27) At the tail-end of trimester two, the brainstem (controlling heart rate, breathing and blood pressure) is almost entirely mature, resting just above the spinal cord but below the cerebral cortex (the last area to mature).
Third trimester (week 28-40) the brain triples in weight during the last 13 weeks of pregnancy.
The cerebellum (chiefly responsible for motor control) develops faster now than any other area of the fetal brain. Its surface area increases 30-fold in the last 16 weeks.
When are brain and other problems detected in fetuses? How are they detected?
Genetic amniocentesis (week15-20) involves taking a sample of amniotic fluid and tests it for certain conditions, such as Down syndrome. Amniocentesis done before week 15 of pregnancy has been associated with a higher rate of complications.
Ultrasound scan mid pregnancy (week 18-21) to detect major physical abnormalities such as spina bifida, cleft lip, and heart and brain abnormalities.
Why are abortions illegal after 6 weeks when testing to find out about major abnormalities cannot happen until week 18?
I’ll wait…..
While I’m waiting I’d love for those Texas legislators to just Google a few of the abnormalities listed above (Google Images, of course).
Then I’d like to ask:
Questions for Texas Legislators
Imagine this was your family member. Which one of those abnormalities would you find acceptable enough to force your trophy wife or side chick (or daughter or granddaughter) to have to carry to term?
How would your wife (or side chick et al.) feel finding herself in such a heart-breaking situation?
If your answers are a. there are no abnormalities that you would force your woman to continue a pregnancy to term, and b. you have no idea how it would feel to be her, then congratulations! Your humanity is showing!
What if someone else made that very personal decision for you?
How would you feel?
Why you should even have an opinion on the choices Others are making with their doctors, for themselves and their families?
Why are lawmakers making healthcare decisions for families? Are they medically trained doctors? Do they know the details particular to each situation and family?
Does this not sound like government over reach to you?
Do you not see how taking away rights to reproductive decisions is about as anti-family as it gets?
None of us can ever truly know someone else’s situation. We might think we know what we would do. Reality often teaches otherwise.
Don’t forget your oath of office:
Oops! Sorry that’s the Hippocratic oath that doctors take regarding their patients. Yours actually says nothing about preserving, protecting, or defending those who pay you to serve them!
IN THE NAME AND BY THE AUTHORITY OF THE STATE OF TEXAS, I, , do solemnly swear (or affirm), that I will faithfully execute the duties of the office of of the State of Texas, and will to the best of my ability to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States and of this State, so help me God.
It’s been 5 years, 9 months, and a few days since my son Kevin died.
I now feel like I’m ready to move forward with my life.
This feels like nothing short of a miracle! Apparently, my position being eliminated, losing my insurance, and needing to move, were exactly what was required to give me the space and time for healing to arrive here.
I want to say a huge thank you to those who believed in me and respected me and my process. It means more than you know! I only have a few friends left. I apologize for not being there for you. While I was struggling to breathe, most gave up on me.
Maybe I’ll write about my process at some point just in case it can be helpful to someone else.
And I want to say from the onset. There is no moving on or getting over losing a child. Ever.
I realized this after only a couple of months had gone by that it could not get better. It got worse. Grief remains messy, selfish, and complicated. (At least mine is. Grief is different for each person) It’s Grief with a capital G. It’s capital G because whether I like it or not it permeates my every pore, distorts my thoughts, and hides itself in the back of my throat and the corners of my eyes, just waiting for the most inopportune moment to emerge as a painful lump I can’t swallow and blinding tears at the least provocation. Sometimes it keeps me in bed all day. I will feel the phantom pain of my lost firstborn son in my body with every step I take. This is not only emotional. It’s visceral and supported by science. [https://www.livescience.com/62930-why-mom-keeps-baby-cells.html]
But the subject of this writing is surprising, even to me! You see, I’m emerging from my chrysalis (cocoon) of grief only to discover I’m angry! Curled up in my fetal position and concentrating on surviving I was too weak to even know I was angry, but I was. I guess I turned it inward (as one does) and it added to my already paralyzing Depression. I want to clarify that my anger is not just for me but to advocate for all grieving mothers.
But I’m not weak anymore! And with each tremble and flutter of my newly formed wings, my confidence grows. Buckle up, here are my grievances:
It takes a special kind of arrogance to judge a grieving mother.
Oh yes. I have felt so much judgment. I feel like I’ve been kicked repeatedly while I’ve been down.
I’m not sure why anyone feels like they have the right to judge someone else anyway, let alone such a personal situation. Am I overly sensitive? Absolutely. Do you have any idea how hard it is to go through a metamorphosis?? I literally feel my loss and the change it demands of me in the nerves of my skin.
I feel like I have been judged for everything: how long it’s taking me to get it together, how I should be going to a therapist, how I should be taking antidepressants, any personal decisions I’m making, in short, how I’m doing Grief wrong.
I guess I should not be surprised by this. In our culture, when mothers give birth they usually do not have enough support, having to rush back to work before their hearts, minds, and bodies are ready. Why would mothers be extended consideration when their children have died when it was not even extended to them when they were born?
No one can see my heart, my mind, my memories, or feel my emotions. I have a hard enough time figuring them out for myself. Yet I have had those very close to me, even those who don’t have children or even own a vagina, who feel they know what’s better for me. Someone very close to me actually asked me when Kevin had been gone for only 3 months “Are you better yet?”
How Kevin died doesn’t mean my Grief is any less legitimate.
It’s really kind of sick that I have to say this. Why do I even have to justify the mere existence my Grief, especially to family members and those closest to me. I had Kevin right before I turned 19. I grew up with him. Kevin’s life and death was complicated and a tragedy for everyone. Kevin’s life was destroyed by schizophrenia. But because it was Schizophrenia that took his life this does not mean his life was less valuable than anyone else s. The lack of humanity extended to my firstborn hurts my soul. It remains very traumatic for me that my son starved and drank himself to death-the worst kind of suicide. I still wake up in the night hearing his last breath when they took the ventilator off. How dare anyone intrude their opinion on such heartbreak! I can’t help but wonder if he had lived a normal, productive life and had died from cancer or a car accident, for example, would I have been treated differently.
For me, one of the worst things anyone could say to me is “He’s in a better place.” I doubt if there is a mother anywhere who thinks there is any place better for her son than being alive near her (but again, each person is different, so it might be okay for someone else).
A month ago I was wondering if it was possible for me to ever find joy again. Now I can feel Joy just from opening my eyes in the morning. And the miracle is lost on those I disappointed long ago.
But why did it take so long to get here? Factors I believe affected my ability to Grieve and move forward include:
Not having compassionate support from many of those closest to me because they were too busy judging me and Kevin
Not having a funeral
Not having my own home, where I could bring his ashes and create a garden, or plant a tree, and have a place to visit him
His wife, Amanda, remarrying on his death date. I don’t know why she chose this date to remarry. You would need to ask her. This makes this day even more painful for me for the rest of my life.
My grandson was adopted. Of course the more people who love him the better. But this was done without even a word to me or any of us.
Not having contact with my sons’ children. I’ve reached out.
The judgment that Kevin received while he was alive (that his was a moral failing and not a medical condition that needed treatment) has been extended to me.
I won’t sit long with my anger. But I needed to acknowledge it. I’m going to leave it right here with the remains of all of my painful and difficult work I’ve done in the shadows – my chrysalis. I don’t need it anymore. And honestly, your judgment and lack of compassion say more about you than they do about me.
I’m just waiting for my wings to dry, for I have places to go.
I’ve emerged from the shadows, the dark, with a grateful heart, finally knowing my worth.
And if you want to know where to find me in between my inevitable faltering, stumbling, and fluttering, look up ya’ll! You’ll find me soaring!
Sometimes Life puts you in a situation that forces you to sit up, pay attention, and take a good, long look at yourself. This happened to me when my son, Kevin, died five and a half years ago.
Of course, ever since I attained the coveted (and highly overrated) adult status decades ago I have been trying to understand the role and effects “the Church” has had on me, my life, my choices, my family etc.
Growing up in a small, denominational church in South Florida in the late 60’s and 70’s has had long term effects on my family. While I won’t say much about my siblings (not my stories to tell), this collection of events that became my Life Story keeps nagging at me, demanding that I examine it a little closer. My attempt to reconstruct and organize it between the four corners of this page, is my attempt to gain understanding. Am I looking for redemption? The purpose of this writing is to examine the effects that “the Church” had on my family financially.
Background
There were four of us children, all close together in age. My mother, Muriel Jean Day, was English. She met my American father while he was in the navy and stationed in England. After a few back and forth trips between the USA and England, we moved permanently to Florida. My sister was the oldest, followed by me, and soon after, our two brothers. We lived in a wooden frame house and attended the Salvation Army.
I can still remember the military uniforms that most adults wore to the service, including hats and sashes. Tambourines with long ribbons attached danced in the air as everyone sang Onward Christian Soldiers and Are You Washed in the Blood of the Lamb? My father, Leslie McKinnes, played in their little brass band.
Me and Sissy. Look how adorable we were! We are wearing our uniforms for a singing group we were in at the Salvation Army!
When we moved into a newly constructed concrete block house across town we also changed churches. Honestly, I think it could have been just about any small non-denominational church and the outcomes would have been the more or less the same. But in this case it was First Church of the Nazarene.
My parents were regular, blue collar folk. My father was a surgical technician. My mother worked as a waitress at the famous Bahia Mar. I remember how excited she was when she got to wait on Johnny Weismueller- Tarzan!! Sometimes, if we were lucky, there was a banquet at her work and we would get the leftovers. Once it was chili dogs……endless chili dogs. It took years to be able to look at another one!
My father started a band at this new church. Salvation Army brass band music was the only music played. He scrounged for brass instruments wherever he could find them. And there were at least a couple of baritones and tubas being held together by surgical supplies he used in his daily job! One by one, as we were deemed old enough, Dad put a cornet in our little hands. We then went to group lessons he gave at the church until we played decently enough to play in the church service.
Financial Costs to my Family
As I mentioned, my family was working class. We needed any money we got
The Church took a huge toll on our family financially in a few different ways.
Tithing
Of course, there was the 10 percent tithe of income. This is no surprise and is expected. And honestly, ten percent is not that much. Surely that could not make such a big difference to a family!
Other offerings
But I doubt if a week didn’t go by that there wasn’t a special offering for this or that, and it seemed like even if you had already paid your tithe, you had to at least put something in the plate that was being passed down each aisle at each service you went to, which included:
Sunday School
Sunday Morning Services
Sunday Sunday Night Services
Wednesday Night Services
Other special opportunities for giving that consistently presented themselves included for Revivals, Missions, traveling preachers and musical groups, local and national emergencies etc. Sometimes a service would collect an offering more than once. Pledges were another ongoing way to get you to commit by signing and dating a piece of paper, committing to give a certain amount per week or paycheck to reach a certain goal (like a building project at the church). I remember as a child trying my best to earn change to put in the slot of a small cardboard bus and fill it to the top. I imagined the starving child in Africa opening the bus I sent and being so happy, finally going to the store to buy food!
In other words, the creative ways they got you to open your wallet were unending!
While growing up, our cupboards were not always full. We rarely ate out. We never had steak growing up. We barely had enough clothes to wear. We wore hand me downs and even those weren’t enough. In high school I barely had enough clothes to make it through one week. My brothers each owned two pairs of pants. This was at a time when you couldn’t wear shorts or jeans to school. We had one family vacation. No braces, no piano lessons, no money to be in school clubs that weren’t free. Nothing that wasn’t necessary.
Unexpected Costs to the Family
Of course, Tithing is not unusual. But as I started peeling off the layers and examining the role of the Church for my family, I found out some things that were very surprising.
Patriarchy, which is worse in the Church (when I was growing up they were still debating whether women should wear pants?!!) had a very strong influence on my mother.
As time went on, she was recruited from her job as a waitress, becoming a manager for Avis-rent-a car. She admitted years later that, despite being offered many opportunities to advance, she turned them all down, her beliefs telling her she should not make more money than my father. (My father used to siphon gas out of the cars she drove home!) So, in the short term, this affected day to day money in the household. In the long term, this directly affected the dollar amount of my mothers retirement benefits!
Besides taking money away from our day to day life, the Church also robbed us of our inheritance. My mother told us many times over until her death that she was not obligated to leave us children a financial heritage, but only a spiritual one. I never did know which bible verse supported her thinking. She was true to her word. My parents had no money saved for emergencies so when something unexpected happened it would add further daily strain. They had no savings account, investments, life insurance, and nothing to pass on. So, while most families want to improve the financial security for their family members, my family did the opposite. The Church stole generational wealth from my family.
Another sad long term financial effect is that my mothers house, that was purchased for 18k around 1966 has never been paid off! No, I’m not kidding. The house I grew up in has been remortgaged so many times since then, mostly for various failed get-rich-quick schemes that have been promoted by conservative religious groups, all while it crumbles due to lack of maintenance.
I’m sure my parents ever could have really used help here or there, as life’s emergencies came up but I’m just as sure they never would have asked for any financial help, despite all of the unwavering financial support to the Church. They couldn’t. They were most likely sure it was their fault.
Christians, especially white evangelical Christians, are much more likely than non-Christians to view poverty as the result of individual failings.
“There’s a strong Christian impulse to understand poverty as deeply rooted in morality — often, as the Bible makes clear, in unwillingness to work, in bad financial decisions or in broken family structures,” said Albert Mohler, president of Southern Baptist Theological Seminary. “The Christian worldview is saying that all poverty is due to sin, though that doesn’t necessarily mean the sin of the person in poverty. In the Garden of Eden, there would have been no poverty. In a fallen world, there is poverty.” (1)
Now I know some will say that the Church didn’t actually steal since my parents handed everything over willingly. Since us four children had no say so in the matter and it affected our day to day lives and our financial futures I say they did indeed steal from us!
At least the Church provided services for other poor people, right? For all of the years that I attended church religiously (pun intended) I do not remember them ever doing anything (besides the occasional gesture) to really alleviate the suffering of others. It was actually a pretty good set up for the Church. Since any poverty and suffering in your life were considered moral failings and probably your own damn fault, this kept people silent and prevented them from asking for help or they would be judged harshly.
Mostly the poor I remember hearing about were not actually “one of us” and were either 1.) the ones we could judge (alcoholics, prostitutes, backsliders, fornicators, drug addicts etc.) so therefore we didn’t have to do anything except the only thing that would really work- praying for them! Duh! or 2.) starving children in Africa (and for sure it wasn’t their fault) so we could just keep giving money to the Church who would send it to them. Sometimes we would see pictures of the children we had helped!By the way, judging was important. It was almost protective in a sick kind of way. As long as those heathens out there (I just had a flashback of sitting safely in the pew inside the Church while the minister smugly railed about those Others) and they were the subject of the sermon then we did not have to look at ourselves!
Despite having large beautiful buildings and land, the Church did not open a day care center, a soup kitchen, a clothing closet, or any homeless services. There were a lot of pot lucks, but honestly those were mostly for Church members.
My parents turned themselves inside out to give all of their time, attention and finances to the Church, literally taking it out of the mouths of their own children. I don’t think they ever looked at it this way.
Thanks for reading. I’m very curious about the experience you may have had regarding the Church and your families finances. I hope to hear from you!
…….Craning my neck upward, I watch as my computer screen stretches and grows until it becomes two stories tall- a bright white empty canvas. Of course I am not surprised. My life has been full of magic. And this is not the first time I’ve attempted this project.
The scaffold squeaks a little as I climb up onto it, overwhelmed yet again at the magnitude of what I’m undertaking. ‘This time is different.’ I tell myself, knowing I already invited you to stop by and take a look when I’m done.
No offense, but it’s not because your opinion matters to me. Frankly, I cannot bear to hear it. I hope that extending this invitation to you and the others is enough to hold me accountable. I just need someone to force me to push through and keep working to finish at least one project. I’ve started and then discarded so many!
Often, your opinions and best intentions that escape your lips miss their soft landing and instead strike hard, boxing both sides of my face, making my ears ring. None of this is visible to you. In fact, I’m sure I look like a jerk because I’m not being gracious. While, in fact, I’m just trying to hold still, trying to keep my balance until the jarring reverberations stop. There have been a few occasions where I’m sure the intention was to hurt, perhaps to shock me out of who I am now and back into the person I used to be.
But there are no do overs. And so here we are right now.
I want to explain to you the process of my creation, or recreation, I should say, of my piece because it’s changed. (I guess maybe your opinion does matter a little!) My computer screen used to be a normal size like everyone elses’ but that was before.
Before my biggest nightmare.
Before, words were my friends. Now they evade me. When I try to pull them onto my giant canvas the letters are smudged, sometimes appearing as strange symbols or numbers. Some words become colors- some beautiful, some ugly, some are colors I have never seen before, and the color of dirt under my sons fingernails. Sounds- the sound of his last breath as they took the ventilator off, I hear it in the middle of the night, or as a breeze that touches my face. Though, I’m trying to remember his laugh instead, and the way he used to call me Ma! Smells- the smell of dirt, alcohol, weed and tobacco.
Indistinguishable words and letters are felt as emotions-water colors that change colors, shape, and form at their own will, as if they are their own entity over which I have little control. Words I don’t know, thoughts I cannot describe, and memories have attached themselves to my body almost as a final way to hold on to him and keep him alive. I feel the heaviness in my veins and sometimes have to force myself to keep moving. I feel his suffering physically. I feel the hunger he no longer felt as he starved. I feel his loss viscerally and carry him with me in my bones. I see him in the face of a stranger, and in my imaginings of what he may look like if he was alive and healthy.
They say as long as a persons’ name is spoken out loud that he never truly dies.
Kevin. His name is Kevin. Please say his name.
My isolation is necessary. I am naked. My nerves are raw, exposed. While my arms ache, lonely, I will bleed if you accidentally brush against me. My emotions unpredictable, messy. This is life. I know you don’t understand. I wouldn’t want you to.
I won’t be there when you come to the exhibit. But I thank you for coming.
Stay curious. When we keep our hearts and minds open we have less room for judgment and become better humans.
Looking at this giant canvas I’m really not where to begin to turn these sensitivities, feelings, memories, blame, guilt, regret, thoughts etc. into anything that can make sense, or be useful, or anything that can even be truly defined or completely expressed. Emotions aren’t logical.
I just know I need to try. I want to create something beautiful
The one word title of this piece is deceivingly simple: Grief
Noticing a loose thought, I naively tug at it before I even have a chance to think. This is not my first rodeo. You’d think I’d know by now. But no.
To be fair, at first glance it doesn’t look so consequential. (But as I write this I realize this is exactly how I always get tricked! )It’s just a quick, loose thought I say as I reach for it intending to pull it off, smooth my outfit, stand a little straighter, and go about my day.
It starts innocently enough…..always negative, as a tiny whisper. Maybe it’s about my looks…… Does it even matter? The negative naggings are subtle at first. And hey, there is usually more than an element of truth in their tauntings so it is difficult to ignore.
I chase the thought, grasping to catch the end of it, to tie it off, to stop it. But the harder I chase, the faster it evades me, moving on to the next row and then the next, each rumination becoming harsher, memories reprimanding me for the choices that have put me in my present predicament. (I must admit I find this judgment rather harsh as many factors these days seem to be beyond my control!)
I cannot find the end.
What feels like hours later, I’m still in my pajamas, unraveled, exhausted, and feeling the pain from sitting too long staring at the pile of my own tangled-up cognitive contortions.
Normally I would sweep up the tumbled heap in my arms, put it in a corner, and try to forget about it as quickly as possible, vowing to revisit later, to fix this mess.
Not this time. I’m going to do something different. I lean into the situation instead of leaving it. Wondering how I can handle such scrutiny my idea is to step outside of myself and look at this situation as if it was not mine.
In other words, I’m going to take Emotion out of it.
As I take a good look it becomes quickly evident that without the judgment of Emotion, good or bad, this pile becomes just a pile of life events-past, present, and future. The meaning given to these events, positive and negative, is subjective.
It’s ME who is assigning emotion and judgment!!
I must say I’m shocked to realize such a small thing-like looking at something a different way- can make such a difference! How about I treat myself the way I would treat someone I care about?!
‘Life Happens’ I say out loud to no one as I reach down to help myself up. Embarrassed, I quickly toss out the mess I made, aware of my own undoing!
This year my youngest daughter, Liz, inspired by the children’s movie Coco, is creating her version of an offrenda for Day of the Dead, the day after Halloween
I’m happy about this.
When I was doing some graduate study in Puebla, Mexico, a few years ago I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to attend Dia de los Muertos. I spent the entire day at the cemetery, hanging out with local families, eating delicious foods, and hearing stories about their departed loved ones. A good time was had by all.
Halloween was my son, Kevin’s favorite holiday. He died nearly 4 years ago at the age of forty. For the offrenda, pictures of departed loved ones are displayed in picture frames, along with candles, marigolds, and favorite foods.
I’m having trouble finding a picture of Kevin.
You see, Kevin was schizophrenic, an alcoholic, misused drugs (I just can’t bring myself to write drug addict) and when he died had not eaten for over 2 weeks. He was a tortured soul and saying it out loud like this is something that many in our family still do not want to admit- Kevin’s death was a suicide.
It was a slow suicide in the worst possible way. It took 15 years from his initial break with reality to die and end the turmoil. He did not lose the battle with schizophrenia. He didn’t even stand a fighting chance.
I cannot find a picture I like.
I have pictures of him that often wake me up at night that I try to forget….his suffering and pain, how scary he sometimes was, his wasting away, his smile that became more like a grimace near the end, the sound of his last breath when he was disconnected from the ventilator in the hospital…..
……I’d like the picture to show who he really was…..when he had a squirrel in the yard that he named Jimmy…..when he had an eighth grade reading level in kindergarten……when he built a mini golf course in the back yard when he was five years old….Kevin who was funny…..Kevin who was so caring…..Kevin who had big dreams…..
I’ve often wondered if the cause of his death was cancer, or a car accident, or you know, something that did not carry the stigma of mental illness, how reactions to his death might be different. Kevin is (yes, I still say is) my son, no matter the details, the flaws, the unfortunate circumstances, and my love is just as strong as any mother’s can be.
Most people, including some family members, choose to remember Kevin in the most negative of terms. I’m not sure why this is. Maybe it’s because it requires less and is easier. I understand this. It’s been very difficult for me to look honestly while peeling off layer after layer, facing yet one more truth about what I could or should have done, and my role as Mother in Kevin’s life. Forever changed, all I can do is move forward and love fiercely, without fear.
This is no small task.
The pictures in my mind of who Kevin is include the good, the bad, and, especially in the end, plenty of ugly. But I know (at least I hope) we are more than the sum of our parts. And for me I cling to the hope that light triumphs over dark and that love does, in fact, conquer all. If I don’t I’m not sure how I can face each morning.
A picture is worth a thousand words.
Maybe I can’t find the right picture of Kevin. Maybe this composite image in all it’s complexity only exists in my mind. And it is what it is. But I know I will spend the rest of my life searching for the right picture, the right answer, trying to find, sort and organize the thousand words that can make sense of what happened.
Her response landed
swiftly and soundly like a slap…
‘I often
wondered why I didn’t just let you bleed to death that day.’
My ears burned and my cheeks stung from the sharpness and sudden delivery of her words. My eyes met my sisters. I heard myself ask through the ringing in my ears ‘Did she just saw what I thought she said’?
‘Oh yes she
did!’ She said looking a little shocked.
I don’t remember
how I reacted to this revelation. No one ever expects to hear this
from their own mother. I had been well aware of this kind of
sentiment towards me for as long as I could remember. Hearing these
words said out loud confirmed what I already knew and somehow gave
them more power.
My question was
about a medical emergency when I had my tonsils out at nine years
old. I always suspected it might have been my first near death
experience. I guess I was right.
My mother died
within a couple of months.
As often happens, my
mothers breast cancer had disappeared for a few years only to return
with a vengeance. My sister, Elizabeth, and I took care of her in her
home for about a year before she passed. Sometimes we alternated days
but mostly we took care of her together, taking turns going into the
kitchen and crying, trying to hide our tears from her. Cancer shows
no mercy and her suffering was a terrible thing to witness. But it
was also a privilege to be there. I wouldn’t change that for
anything.
What does this have to do with my son, Kevin, and his death?
My mother and Kevin.
Everything.
Death, loss,
illness, and other difficult experiences, and also joyful events, do
not happen in isolation. Everyone in your family, your close friends,
and your inner circle, affect, influence and are affected to some
degree by your happenings, your choices, and your Life events.
My mother was the matriarch of the family. Kevin was particularly close to her. He was her oldest grandchild. He also spent some time living with her as he grew up. She did not like me. She couldn’t. To her way of thinking I did not represent what a daughter of hers (a Christian) should be like. I wasn’t nice enough, or quiet enough. (My Life as a Tumbleweed: a memoir, available on Amazon, tells this story).
Happier days
The effects of your
mother feeling this way were many but the one most relevant to this
writing is that my mother didn’t believe me.
She didn’t believe
me when I was sexually harassed in high school by a teacher (this was
before they even had a name for it). She didn’t believe me when I
was molested by the father of some neighborhood children I was
babysitting.
She didn’t believe
that Kevin had a mental break down- a break with reality.
She did not believe
that he was diagnosed during his break down at a Mental Health Crisis
unit as schizophrenic! She told my sister that I made it up!
It took fifteen
years after his initial breakdown for him to die.
My mother was not
the only person unwilling to see what was going on.
My
family failed Kevin.
This unsettling truth is
constantly pressing at me.
Sometimes I see it out of the corner of my eye and try to ignore it.
What good does addressing it do? Then I wonder who do I think I am? I
do not know Others personal relationships with Kevin. I cannot speak
for them. But I know as a family unit we failed him. As
his mother I failed him most of all.
Did other family members tell him “Kevin I love you, I don’t want
you to die!”?
I don’t know.
Would an intervention have worked with Kevin?
I
don’t know. All
I know is what
I tried and it wasn’t enough.
It
was much easier
to see Kevin the alcoholic,
Kevin the asshole (and he often was), but I couldn’t get anyone to
see Kevin, the brain injured.
I couldn’t get anyone
else in the family to see that he was dying.
Somehow I have to live with
this knowledge.
Back to my mother…Why would she not believe this about Kevin? Well, no one wants to believe such life changing and heart wrenching news about someone you love. Her religious beliefs and practices that prevented her from accepting me also kept her from seeing how ill Kevin was. It was easier and preferable to view his drinking and smoking as moral failings that he could overcome if he just prayed hard enough about it. She did the best she could according to what she believed.
She wielded a great amount of influence over the family. Everyone
took their cues from her. What if she had believed what
was right in front of her? Would it have made a difference? Would
Kevin have gotten medical help?
I’ll never know the answer to
these and so many other questions.
This is Stigma in it’s ugliest and most damaging. If you
refuse to recognize a problem as a medical problem,
then how can you treat it?
I look at these words I just wrote and am surprised at how orderly
and tidy they look. To me they feel sticky and black and heavy like
tar. I can hardly move. Will putting these words on paper help? I
doubt it. Nothing can bring him back. Talking doesn’t help. Not
talking doesn’t help. Can we learn as a family to be there for
each other?
If only. What if. No do overs.
And nothing to do but keep going.
I have to keep moving.
Guilt and Sadness breathe into my ear, threatening to swallow me whole….
Sitting
on the floor, I examine the contents. This project doesn’t look too
hard I think, glancing at the various screws, boards etc.
Of
course there is a huge difference between theory and practice. It
usually seems to me that authors of assembly instructions have never
put together the objects they are writing about.
The
wrong screw, a board that’s backwards……. Start over. Fix this.
Adjust that.
I was never very good at puzzles and this particular conundrum (a bed frame), which should take about 10 minutes to solve will end up consuming hours of my life to complete (okay so it took all day!)
While I
was going through this whole process I had a realization
(not about my glaringly obvious lack of skills….duh!)!
I
realized that I had the patience to actually complete
this project! This was a first for me!
It is a
perfect time to have a chat with yourself (or someone else) when you
are engaged in an activity. I’m not sure why but it seems like if
your body is busy it frees up your mind a little bit. I used to go
for walks with my daughters when there were serious things to
discuss. It was easier to talk.
So this
turned out to be a great opportunity for me to learn more about
myself (still learning at 61!).
Where
did this new found patience come from, you ask? Marijuana edibles!
Here’s
how I got here….
…..I
was diagnosed with major depressive disorder a couple of years ago
after my oldest child, Kevin, died. One of the most crippling
effects to me was major insomnia. I would only get a couple hours of
sleep for nights in a row before crashing from exhaustion and getting
1 good nights sleep, only to repeat the cycle again. Falling asleep
and staying asleep were huge issues. When I would get up to go to the
bathroom my mind would wake up completely and decide to overwhelm me
with traumatic and painful nightmares, thoughts, and memories.
My
doctor prescribed an antidepressant (I don’t remember which one).
It did nothing.
She
said I could double the dosage. I did and I don’t know how to
describe it except my eyes felt strange so I stopped taking it.
My
roommate suggested marijuana. But I don’t like to smoke.
I feel like I cough all of the time anyway. And the last time I tried smoking was in Mexico as a grad student in Mexico in 2006 (yes I am not slow at only assembling furniture). My chest hurt for days afterwards.
Back in the day I had nothing to do with stoners. I was in church and band and really did not have associate with sinners who smoke or drank (yes I was a lot of fun! Ha ha) But I had to do something and I happen to live in Nevada where marijuana is legal. So I went to the local marijuana dispensary.
The patient consultant who saw me was very knowledgeable and made
some recommendations, including an indica edible. I was not
surprised to see so many of the other patients were older like me.
Apparently seniors make up a huge portion of those using cannabis
these days.
It’s recommended that a starting daytime dose is 5 mg THC and
a starting night time dose is 10 mg.
You may have heard some horror stories about people getting pretty sick on edibles. I was told that the trick to not having any problems is to to go low and slow, but honestly at this point I felt so desperate to try anything that would make me feel human again. The really important thing with edibles is that after you consume them you wait 2 hours before you even think about having any more (and re dose with same small amount) as it can take up to 2 hours to feel the effects completely, depending upon your metabolism.
So I looked at the clock to note the time and ate a 10 mg brownie. I
have been eating them ever since!
For the most part I sleep (there is always the exception). I don’t
have nightmares anymore. When I get up to go to the bathroom I can
almost always go back to sleep. This is huge!
I was so happy with these results I decided to be my own guinea pig
(rather than be one for big pharma!) and decided to experiment a
little (I know….gateway drug!) I decided that I would microdose
(small doses at consistent times) to see how I would feel and if it
would be helpful to me. No one else has my answers. I need to find my
own. I started off only dosing at night.
When I tried doing it during the day I found it really did help with
other issues of nausea, pain and…..What is the word I am searching
for? Good. I felt good.
This whole concept of feeling good can be a tough one to surmount. For some, it can feel irresponsible. Especially in this American Life there is this notion that you have to be always pushing, working, striving for something. What if the secret is to quit struggling and actually be comfortable in your own skin, right where you are? What if you are allowed to be…. happy?
So now I usually micro dose with edibles 3 x a day, breakfast, lunch
and dinner, with an extra dose before bed. Luckily, the brownies I
am currently eating are very strong and I only eat about a half inch
by 1 inch piece so not too much sugar. I have virtually eliminated
processed sugar from my diet.
If you have too much you can feel really bad (remedy: dose of CBD)
if you feel bad you have to wait until it wears off (see tip above)
strong marijuana taste
edibles can have a lot of sugar
….So here I am putting together this bed frame and wondering why I
now have the patience to do this. It also makes me look back and
think that I probably have experienced anxiety my whole like
and have just thought it is normal. How many times have I been
unable to walk around a crowded store and have just left my cart
sitting in an aisle? How many times have I driven around with no idea
where I am going? How have I gone my whole life without knowing I
didn’t have to feel like that?
How have I been able to make myself stick to something I previously
could not have?
My Life as a Tumbleweed 