I've been moving away from the Internet lately and closer to my writing. Seems unbelievable, but true. Twitter has helped. I could do 148 characters for a while. Still, eventually even that seemed like too much cognitive function. Better to just read twitters by others...
I've also been on this long and dark journey called cancer with my Mom. (Well, she's in the dark water, I'm just on the shore helplessly looking on.) A friend of mine from college wrote diligently every day when his wife was struggling with cancer, to the point where if I hadn't begun to read his blog before she passed, I wouldn't have known when/where her funeral was. He's currently working through a memoir about her/their experience. I can see how his writing kept him sane and strong during the process.
For me, it has been the opposite. Me, the girl who started to read in the womb, the girl who was writing and binding her own books when she was eleven, the girl who said in 5th grade, "I'm going to become a writer when I grow up, Mom."
It's as if words are a molten stone on my tongue. They sear the moment out of my mind if I try to capture them, wipe away the deep swirl of emotion, the fast ticking of the clock inside my mother's body. Sometime during the last four months, my mind drifted from words until - for once in my life - that noisy voice in my head fell silent. Perhaps that is my own form of therapy. I've been saying for years I'm going to learn to meditate, to keep my anxious mind in line. Now it's been forced on me. For several weeks, I've only been able to read poetry, and then only sporadically. Anything longer could not hold my attention. Nature holds my attention now. I sit on my porch at midnight and watch the full moon whisper through the tree branches and past my besom (Witch's broom). I drive to Burlington and watch clouds caress the mountains - clouds shaped like angels and doves sometimes, or dark fingered spectres. The hills are so green it burns my eyes, the sunset so orange I can feel the heat of the sun in my chest.
The worst time I've had was the last three days before we admitted my mother to the Fletcher Allen because I could no longer take care of her. The crushing moment of having to let her care go into someone else's hands, coupled with the moment of realizing something was wrong with her cognitive abilities as she tried to speak to us that day, finding only a slur of words and a distant stare, told me that this was the last bend in the river. She was heading into the last leg of her journey. An hour after I had her admitted, because she couldn't use her right leg, and I could no longer carry her from bed to chair, she had a seizure. It was the most frightening moment in my life, mostly because it was so frightening for her. She is all about control in her life. Her strength and ability to be in control helped her raise three children alone, after all.
Tomorrow, she goes to the Williston Respite House, where she will have her own room, be a resident and not a patient, and be able to get some strength back for this final leg of the journey. My one wish for her is that she can just 'go home and feel normal again and play with Daniel' (her youngest grandchild) at some point over the next few weeks. It's not much to ask is it? A night in her own bed, an afternoon with the grandchildren?
Life used to seem so difficult. This journey has given me the blessing of so much quality time with my mother, and some not so quality time. It's allowed me to see how deep the roots of strength grow inside of me. Now, as I release my burden, and move into a time where I can simply visit with her, the words are blossoming again. Again, a gift from my mother. Always, she is giving to me, even during her own struggles.
I've also been on this long and dark journey called cancer with my Mom. (Well, she's in the dark water, I'm just on the shore helplessly looking on.) A friend of mine from college wrote diligently every day when his wife was struggling with cancer, to the point where if I hadn't begun to read his blog before she passed, I wouldn't have known when/where her funeral was. He's currently working through a memoir about her/their experience. I can see how his writing kept him sane and strong during the process.
For me, it has been the opposite. Me, the girl who started to read in the womb, the girl who was writing and binding her own books when she was eleven, the girl who said in 5th grade, "I'm going to become a writer when I grow up, Mom."
It's as if words are a molten stone on my tongue. They sear the moment out of my mind if I try to capture them, wipe away the deep swirl of emotion, the fast ticking of the clock inside my mother's body. Sometime during the last four months, my mind drifted from words until - for once in my life - that noisy voice in my head fell silent. Perhaps that is my own form of therapy. I've been saying for years I'm going to learn to meditate, to keep my anxious mind in line. Now it's been forced on me. For several weeks, I've only been able to read poetry, and then only sporadically. Anything longer could not hold my attention. Nature holds my attention now. I sit on my porch at midnight and watch the full moon whisper through the tree branches and past my besom (Witch's broom). I drive to Burlington and watch clouds caress the mountains - clouds shaped like angels and doves sometimes, or dark fingered spectres. The hills are so green it burns my eyes, the sunset so orange I can feel the heat of the sun in my chest.
The worst time I've had was the last three days before we admitted my mother to the Fletcher Allen because I could no longer take care of her. The crushing moment of having to let her care go into someone else's hands, coupled with the moment of realizing something was wrong with her cognitive abilities as she tried to speak to us that day, finding only a slur of words and a distant stare, told me that this was the last bend in the river. She was heading into the last leg of her journey. An hour after I had her admitted, because she couldn't use her right leg, and I could no longer carry her from bed to chair, she had a seizure. It was the most frightening moment in my life, mostly because it was so frightening for her. She is all about control in her life. Her strength and ability to be in control helped her raise three children alone, after all.
Tomorrow, she goes to the Williston Respite House, where she will have her own room, be a resident and not a patient, and be able to get some strength back for this final leg of the journey. My one wish for her is that she can just 'go home and feel normal again and play with Daniel' (her youngest grandchild) at some point over the next few weeks. It's not much to ask is it? A night in her own bed, an afternoon with the grandchildren?
Life used to seem so difficult. This journey has given me the blessing of so much quality time with my mother, and some not so quality time. It's allowed me to see how deep the roots of strength grow inside of me. Now, as I release my burden, and move into a time where I can simply visit with her, the words are blossoming again. Again, a gift from my mother. Always, she is giving to me, even during her own struggles.
