On Solitude

Marianne Moore, a poet, wrote that "the best cure for loneliness is solitude." This sentence explains my mother's demeanor. She spends a good deal of her day alone in her room, and yet everytime I visit her, or she comes downstairs, she is cheerful. I have asked her often, "Are you lonely? Are you bored?" Her response is always, "No, I'm content." On occasions, she has admitted to missing my father, but her missing him, I know, goes well beyond lonliness. His death has left a vacancy in her life that will never be filled, and yet her loving memories of him have colored in the darkness of her two years without him. She waits to join him, and she waits patiently. My mother has found solitude--that feathered cushion upon which she places her trust. A cushion that absorbs the outer noise so her inner voice is heard. She listens and finds safety in the space it provides.

Therapy

That which I most detest, I am.
Mom and I have been watching "In Treatment" on HBO. We thrive on watching others cry, lust, deny, and vent. As spectators, we can easily spot these patient's weaknesses and vulnerabilities, and we marvel that they can't see what we see. Like voyeurs, we are glued to the drama and especially enjoy the episodes where the therapist visits his therapist and behaves just as blindly as his patients.
As our own lives play out and we behave like humans do, it's comforting to know everyone else is just as nuts as we are. This is feel-good TV.

New Day

Where did this day come from? Out of the thick as molasses night air I could barely inhale dawned a crisp sunny morning with a breeze that ruffled the hickory's feathery leaves and nearly made the maples chime. "Want to have coffee out on the deck today, mom?" I asked. She has not left the house in weeks, now favoring the filtered chilled air that makes it easier for her to breathe in summer in Virginia. Nodding, she removes her oxygen and hangs the noose shaped canula over a chair stem. We step onto the deck and immediately I see her eyes close for a stretched moment in gratitude. She scans the backyard, so densely leafed out by now that we can barely see the houses that back up to ours across the creek. As she inhales deeply, a smile creeps in. It's her wedding anniversary today, but her husband died two years ago. He loved to sit with her out on this deck. As if called, our red cardinal flies to the feeder and glances at mom. Deciding it's okay to eat, he gets to work pounding out sunflower seeds. Her silver curl stirs in the breeze. "This is lovely, just lovely."

Going Away

I'm leaving for vacation tomorrow. I'll be away for about ten days, which feels like a lifetime in my anticipation. Once we go, it will be over in what feels like the space of a minute. Mom will be on her own, and she says she's looking forward to it. Even though she's staying home, it's like a vacation for her as well. Different people will be stopping by without the filter of Rosemary. She'll have the house to herself. She'll eat some of her favorite foods, like canned hash with an egg on top. I haven't made that lately:) When she sits in her small high back chair, I can hardly see her behind the tray that holds the small mountain of books she plans to read. Going away provides us with new experiences to share when we get back together. It will be like old times. I'll burst in the door when we arrive home, anxious to tell her all about our time in the city and at the beach, and she'll fill me in on all the news around home. Funny how going away is exciting but coming back home is the best of all.

Cages

Trapped.
There are worse cages then those that surround the body. The steel-trapped mind is one in which thought after thought runs up against a brick wall, negative sentences repeat, and answers loom as far away as the darkest reaches of the universe. How can we sever that electrical current that has a life of it's own --the one that has taken over our thought process and dragged our heart into the picture? The one that says, "Poor me. Life is so sad. No one understands me." I find that the only way to disconnect from this destructive thinking is to face the truth. "Yes, no one understands me--but for that matter, no one understands anyone, really." We all live in our unique, individual, and separate reality. The way to break out of this negative pattern is to reach out to others, not for understanding, but to connect. I find that anytime I ask someone, genuinely, "How are you?" and pause to really listen, I have severed that negative thought pattern by taking a new route. Anytime, I smile deeply into someone's eyes and receive a smile in return, I feel joy. And anytime, I grant a simple wish, or perform a small act of kindness, my mind calms down, and for a minute, I feel uplifted by connection. It's taken a long time, but waiting for others to "cheer me up" is not the answer. Pacing the floors of the cage only leads to more pacing. Opening the doors of the cage is up to me.

Simplicity

Yesterday, as I sat on the beach, I remembered our family trips to the ocean when dad brought along the habachi. It was a tiny grill that somehow cooked enough food for eight people. Just remembering that grill made me smile. I recently saw a man tug an enormous gas grill on wheels that would not turn in the sand, onto the beach. His state-of-the-art contraption came complete with hanging utensils and a kitchen cabinet built in underneath! There were three whole people in his family to feed, and the baby was an infant--hardly able to down a juicy burger with the works. Oddly, this train of thought led to my mother and how simple her life has become. She has emptied and moved out of her large home on Long Island. She has given away most of her possessions. Somehow, as she gives things away, she becomes more full herself. Last weekend, she gave the Healey family nativity-the one she and my father received as a wedding gift- to my sister who is graduating with her Master's degree in Pastoral Care. This gift had special meaning. It was given in recognition of a journey about to begin --a birth. My mother nurtured this gift for over fifty years, and now she can rest assured that each Nativity piece will bring a new sense of renewal and joy to her own daughter as she begins a new path. I'm deeply grateful that my mother has had the opportunity to simplify her life on her own terms, by giving away beloved treasures to the people she loves more than life itself.

A wonderful resource

I have been remiss. After three weeks without a break, I spent two days in the outer banks of NC with my husband and feel like a new person. My mother also had a great time with my sister while I was gone. Getting away, even for a day, is very rejuvenating. I also discovered a website that has tons of great information and soothing tips.

http://www.caregiverrelief.com/biography.html

Recently, I had lunch with a friend who is making frequent trips to see her mother who has Lou Gehrig's disease. After talking about her visits and heartaches, she apologized then sent an apology email to me that said, "Thank you for putting up with my whining."

I told her not to worry--she's the only kind of friend I have time for anymore. No more talk of weather, outfits, and gossip--I want good real conversation, complete with raw emotions and honest opinions. A dear friend of mine told me years ago after losing her mother that she did not want friends that called her up to talk about other friends. She would only make time for people with meaningful lives, people that cared about other people and wanted to make life better for those they loved- she had no time for petty grievances. She made a lasting impact on me.

Here's to real friends, raw honesty, and listening to each other with good intentions.