A Boy in A China Shop

When I was about 29 I met a man who told me this story.

He was a little kid dressed for a Newton Massachusetts winter, his puffy blue coat so stuffed with down that he could barely lower his arms.  His mother took him into a china shop with the admonition, "Don't touch anything!"

When they got inside all the delicate trinkets were arranged on shelves that were situated precariously leaving narrow aisles through which he and his mother tried to navigate with great caution.  The boy stood statuesquely, waiting as patiently as he could while his mother browsed.  He was trying so hard to be careful that when his mother moved along, he stayed still, quietly nervous behind her.  Behind him a few steps, she said his name, "Andrew, come on."  And with that, he spun around to follow her, his arms like propellers sending rows of delicate ceramic ware crashing to the floor in pieces.

He told me about how she, nearly in tears, got down on the floor and picked up all the shattered pieces and with only the kind of pride a Southern woman could muster, insisted on paying for them.

When he spoke of this story, his voice always became softer, more distant.  You could hear the admiration for his mother as he spoke of her, sitting determinedly at a table gluing the pieces of cups and saucers and plates back together.  He remembered actually trying to use those broken dishes for a while.

In a way, I think this snapshot of his childhood became a defining theme for his life.  He was a wanderer, a seeker who never seemed to know what he was trying to find.  He entered people's lives with the best of intentions at times, but usually left them in pieces.

I met him when he was most decidedly, a man.  A man with life experience, with hopes and dreams, with losses and with great victories behind him.  A decade older than me, I looked up to him, admired him even, though in retrospect I realize I never really knew him.  I accepted what he showed me, loved him for what he was able to give and hurt for all the damage his emptiness did, both to him and to me.

People come to us throughout our lives, often to teach us things about ourselves we might not otherwise ever discover.  For a while I let anger and bitterness toward him color every memory of the 5 years we were together; but time has a way of erasing anger and even pain.  Eventually I was able to appreciate even the worst things about him; instead of seeing him as a malicious person who intended me harm, I began to think of him as a four-year old boy in a puffy blue coat trying to be careful, yet always somehow breaking things.  Truth is, I needed to be broken and then broken some more and broken yet again before I could begin start to putting myself together the way I was meant to be.

Here I am, all these years later, glued back together, more satisfied with who I am that I've ever been and I cannot discount the role he played the paths I've worn thus far.  His road was a different one, one that led him far away from who I was or am or could have ever been.  So different from one another, I some times marvel at how the Universe ever threw us together in the first place.

Even broken things give us something to hold onto though, and among the many things he left me, the courage to write this blog is one of them.  He gave confidence to my voice, and took joy in knowing my mind.  Oh, my heart he tore into pieces, but my mind, he nurtured.

I rarely think about it, but next to my bed sits a little table well worn with time.  It has moved from Massachusetts to Charleston.  From Charleston to Atlanta.  From Atlanta back to SC with me where it has stayed beside me for many years.  He gave me that table, had no use for it anymore he said.   I've kept nothing else of his.  No photos, no letters, no little mementos at all.  But that table, it sits beside me every night, my books piled on it, my lamp perched just so that I can read myself to sleep.  Years' worth of books have rested there, glasses of water, stacks of journals, abandoned art projects; it has been a landing place for all the things I've used to glue myself back together.

A few nights ago he showed up in my dream.  My dreams, a place he has not occupied in so long, I thought were closed to him.  But there he was, looking 38 again, that bushy beard on his face, a serious scowl across his brow.  "I'm outta here." He said.  So I stood too look at him, and it only seemed right to ask for a kiss goodbye.  "Kiss me first." I said, and so he dd.  Then he was gone.

I woke up knowing he had finally found the end of that long road he always itched to travel.

He traveled it well.  Left trails of broken people all along the way, likely carrying pieces of each of them with him everywhere he went.  I hope he left this world finally glued together the way he was supposed to be.

Perhaps we all need a good breaking; but I hope we all deserve the chance to put ourselves together again before we have to go.

How amazing would it be if in the afterlife there are no more china shops or puffy coats?  Just wide open spaces and nothing breakable, ever again.

Rest in peace, my friend.

Grief is Never Easy: Why loss matters, no matter how old you are

My mother died two months shy of my parents' 63rd wedding anniversary.  She was lying in a hospital bed in the living room of the house my parents shared for more than 40 years, where they raised 5 daughters and played with 11 grandchildren.  On the night before her death my dad sat beside her holding her hand.  He had earnest conversations with her, even though she was growing more and more unresponsive.  He apologized or all the times he wasn't patient with her, for all the times when he felt he wasn't a good enough husband.  He told her sincerely and with tears streaming down his face, that he loved her.

 "You know I love you, don't you?" he asked.

 With what strength she had left she let him know that indeed, she always knew he loved her, no matter what.

My parents were less than perfect.  Like any two people who share more than half their lives together they had their good times and bad.  They had days when they got on one another's nerves, when they disagreed about things, when  petty disagreements brought out the worst in each of them; but the life lived between them that spanned decades affected change in them both.  It humbled them, made them appreciate one another more and more with every year that passed, until at last my mother lay dying in front of the picture window where our Christmas tree used to stand when we were kids, my dad sitting by her listening as her breathing slowed and finally stopped for good.

My sister left the room and let him have a few moments alone with our mother's body.  She described the sound of his weeping as he kissed Mama's forehead and lamented her passing--too soon for him.  Too soon.

We watched our father transform before our eyes in the days and weeks to follow.  His grief was so palpable, so heart wrenching that we, even in the our own loss couldn't fathom his pain.  His memory started to slip away rapidly.  There were times when I would visit and he would tell me that his wife passed away, going into great detail about the last few days of her life and the moment of her passing. He didn't recall that I was he daughter anymore, he only remembered Bonnie, the love of his life forever lost to him.  The house they shared seemed too empty, her very essence gone even from the pictures she hung on the walls.  Her big easy chair sat empty straight across from his. Often he would stare at it as if in doing so, he might make her reappear there.

My sisters felt we needed to discourage him from talking about our mom.  They thought he needed distraction, but nothing they tried got his mind off of the deep aching pain of loss that overwhelmed him.

Loss is the common denominator of mankind.  Sooner or later we will all face it and hopefully when we do we will have the love and support of friends and family to help us cope.  As a society we do a much better job of shoring up the defenses for children who lose parents or friends or siblings.  We do a fair job at being at the side of a friend who loses a spouse or a child at a young age.  However, when it comes to our elders, we often neglect to give them the time and care we offer others who have experienced loss.  For some reason we convince ourselves that loss is such a fact of life for our elders that it must not take a toll on them as much as it does on younger people.

I work with a group of seniors in which there is one member who is about to turn 100 in a few weeks.  A year ago a few days shy of her 99th birthday, her son who was in his 70's died from pancreatic cancer.  Sue is a tenacious lady.  She was a nurse who worked until she was 77 years old.  She attends our senior center daily, plays scrabble and never misses an outing about town.  But after her son's death she changed for a while.  She missed several weeks of attending Senior Action.  When she did come back I noticed she sat with her shoulders hunched.  She suddenly sighed a lot and became quiet and withdrawn.  One day she said to me, "It's just not right for a child to die before their parent."

 We have all heard this before, haven't we?  It's usually after a young child has passed away and her parents are left with that huge hole in their hearts; but we often fail to consider that a person who has outlived most of her friends and family might grieve just as deeply over the death of a son.  Sue grappled with the notion that she has had such a long life, yet her son's life was cut short at a much younger age than her own.  I had to remind myself that her pain was just as real, just as poignant as the pain of a young parent who has lost a young child.

Another man I know lost his wife 2 years ago after a long bout of illness and dementia.  He was her husband and caregiver and although there were times when she challenged him almost past his limits, her death shook him to the core.  Unable to even feel a sense of comfort at their happy memories together, he covered up every picture of her that hangs in his home.  He cannot bear to this day, to look at a photo of his deceased wife.  He tells me often that he would give anything to have her back again.  On her birthday he takes balloons to her grave and releases them, earnestly hoping they'll somehow reach her.  For a long time it was hard for him to go to church because her grave sits directly behind the building.  He no longer sings in the Christmas Cantata because his last memory of her at Christmas is of her singing in the choir.  He rambles through drawers in the house and finds knick knacks that were hers.  Sometimes he gives them away and other times, he hides them back where they came from.  A little blown glass angel sits on the dashboard of his car--a representation of her presence with him.  His daughter sent me a message a few weeks ago.

 "Do you know of any support groups for dad?  I really think he needs to move on. It has been two years since his wife died, he should be doing better by now."

She and I see things differently I suppose.  It is often far past the first year after a death when grief becomes the most acute.  As the loss becomes more distant, the realization that you can never go back, can never call that person up again or make a new memory with them becomes more and more real.  The sadness sets in deeper, the acceptance of that loss growing ever clearer does not dull the pain of its reality.

Here is where I think those of us who spend our days working with elders can make a difference.  We need to be ready, willing and emotionally available to hear their stories.

Every life is a story.  When two lives come together in marriage or friendship, our stories become deeper, more meaningful and more closely intertwined.  As time passes the story of one becomes the story of two.  The novel of a life, intricately written by moments and days becomes the essence of who we are.  When one half of that narrative is suddenly taken out of the storyline, the story does not simply end.  It is not as easy as ending one book and starting another.  There are no new novels, only new chapters, and the transitions that take place between the pages of loss and acceptance are filled with struggle and grief.

Grief is its own story.  It is a story that needs to be told over and over again until we have told it enough.  As caregivers, children, family members of elders, we have to learn how to be available to their grief.  I listened to the story of my mother's death so many times that it became almost too much to hear, but I knew my father needed to tell that part of his story.  It often started with their wedding day, reminders of how many years they spent together, how many children they had and stories of all the struggles they faced raising 5 girls together.  He talked of victories, of laughter and tears, disappointment and joy, and then he told in great detail about holding my mama's hand as she slipped away.

I watched my dad wither, withdraw from the world and begin to long for some other place--a place where he could join his wife again and feel at home in her presence.  We could learn so much from witnessing a love like that, even after the pain of loss has made that love a heavy burden to bear.  My father's health declined so rapidly after our mother's death.  It was hard for us to face, but as we watched him mentally transition, we knew he was preparing to leave us.  Two years to the day of our mother's death, our dad drew his last breath.  His story told for the last time, he left it with us to carry on.  Now it is ours, both to tell and to live and to incorporate into who we are still becoming.  I want to use it as a way to reach out to others who are struggling to find peace with their losses, to find meaning in their stories, and to reach that place of acceptance knowing they are loved, understood and supported.

In the coming months, my goal is to create a caring, safe place for seniors to come together in their journeys through grief and have a chance to tell their stories to one another and to anyone with the empathy and courage to listen.  I want my friend to go home and uncover the pictures of his wife because he has told his story of loss enough, and can finally look at her again and appreciate that she was, that she made his life better, and that his memories are too precious to hide away and try to forget.  He needs someone to let him know that it is okay to feel that pain, it is okay to be sad and to miss her.  Until he feels it is safe and acceptable and very normal to feel pangs of grief, he will avoid feeling those things and he will carry the heaviness of that pain so deeply inside him that it will eat away at his soul.  We have to give our elders a safe outlet for their grief.  We have to extend our empathy and understanding,  we have to let them know that we do not expect them to soldier on as if nothing has changed.

A stoic generation, many of them have lived through hardships we could never imagine; but it is our job to let them know that they do not have to hide their grief.  We must let them experience it fully, feel it acutely, comfort them through it, and guide them to a place of peace and acceptance.  We do that by hearing their stories, by offering them a hug, a sympathetic word.  We give them room to grieve by letting them talk about their lost loved ones, by sharing in memories of good times with them, by not seemingly forgetting that they've lost someone who was very important to them.  We give them space to share their experiences without changing the subject or pretending we do not hear them.

Death is very much a part of life, and no one understands that more than the elderly; that doesn't mean the pain is any less real to them than it is to us when we have to say goodbye to someone we love.  We owe them our support and encouragement, and we have so much to learn from the stories they need so desperately to share.

Completely Normal

Today I had the pleasure of taking my daughter and the new baby for his two week check-up at the pediatrician.  He is, of course, cuter than just about anything I can think of, with his little cleft-chin and chubby cheeks, sleeping undisturbed in his car seat while little kids race around the lobby in complete disregard of social moors.  As I watched him so perfectly comfortable snuggled in his blanket, unaware of the chaos around him, I felt a little envious.  Oh, to be so blissfully unaware of all the things in the world about which to feel anxiety!

When they finally called his name and we got into the exam room Hannah was overcome with relief to learn he had gained a proper amount of weight and is indeed already growing like a weed, having gained an entire inch in length in the space of two weeks.  I doubt if he's felt any growing pains, but I'm positive she has and will for years to come.

When the nurse concluded her duties and the doctor came in she spoke quickly, going over information that she no doubt repeats dozens of times a day.  Lay him on his back to sleep, if he cries a lot when he's about 2 months old don't be worried, never shake or hit a baby.  You know, all the things a doctor has to say but really shouldn't have to say.

Then she showed us his APGAR chart and assured us that he is on a good curve.  That was when she also looked up his hospital test results and concluded aloud that he was "Completely Normal."

I looked at him lying there peacefully in my arms, his little bottom lip curled out, milk dripping down his chin.  "Completely Normal" I thought.

"You are completely normal, little guy." I said to him.  Then, "Are you really completely normal?"

I looked at Hannah and repeated the phrase, "completely normal".  She smiled...maybe giggled a little.

"Sorry buddy," I said, turning my attention back to his sweet little face.  "You were born into the wrong family.  You will never be completely normal, and that's okay."

I know, I know...the doctor was talking about test results so we actually didn't meet on the same plane--but seriously, outside of blood test results, who the heck is completely normal??

Who wants to be?

I hope Liam, Athena, Arthur, Charlie and both my girls will forever be completely who they are.  Forget normal, I want them to just BE, and may they, by being in the world, bring color and joy and light to it.  May the world give back to them a hundred-fold the joy and color and light they send out. I want their lives to be complete, whole with the love and warmth that is meant for us all to embrace, no matter how far outside the bounds of "normal" we may fall.

I hope for them that all the dark corners of life are made bright by their ability to imagine, to grow, to reach past the ordinary and grasp the supreme.  What is life after all,  without the remarkable moments created for us by the whimsical and the wild?