The Sounds of Silence

I've spent most of the day feeling quite down. 

Aside from the fact that I have been concerned about someone I can't seem to reach for some reason, or maybe because of that (in part), someone reminded me this morning of that gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that I felt when my youngest was living in Alberta. It was the feeling that I'd never see her again: a feeling of dread, of fear (even panic), and of anger that there was nothing I could do to change it.  

So I've been flooded with memories of those days back in 2013, and I've been allowing those feelings to come to the surface so that I can feel them and deal with them. It's hard, but it's better than stuffing those feelings down underneath the surface, and having them pop up unexpectedly.  

Permeating all of that is also the unspeakable sadness that goes with the outcome of those days - she never made it home alive. 

Even though the television has been on and there is that noise in the background, there is a very real sense of stillness, a feeling of incredible silence, of unspeakable isolation. The background noise of grief took center stage for today. And I chose to let it come, and I breathed and felt my way through it.

And it is still going on. It will last however long it lasts, until it's done - another wave-crest in the flood of loss as I just try to stay afloat and ride it out. 

Photo "Lighthouse At Sunset" by
Serge Bertasius Photography at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Of course it will pass. It always does. Yet it is a journey, a passage from one place to another, this silence, this sadness. Nobody likes to talk about it when they're going through it, only when the "victory" has been won and the yucky parts are done. But this is real stuff. Life really is messy, and sometimes the only victory that can happen is the one-breath-at-a-time survival of the wrenching moments that claw into the soul. It's part of the journey to healing. It's part of embracing life. 

I'm grateful for my husband and my daughter, upon whom I lean when I need to. They see me struggling and - unbidden - they come alongside to help me, just like I've seen them struggling and have come alongside to help them when they needed it. 

And in the silence comes a sort of weird kind of calm. It's a reminder that I've traveled this road before and that I had help then too.  And so - I know that I am not alone, even though it might feel like I am. And because I've been through this before and come out the other side relatively unscathed, I'm going to be okay this time.

Maybe not without scars, but I will be okay. Maybe not today, but I will be okay. For today, I will listen to the sounds of silence and not stifle their voices. Nor will I dwell on them or try to stay here. It will be what it is. It will pass when it passes. And ... though it's not easy, I guess I'm okay with that.

It Still Counts

I was awake around four this morning. Those who have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder will understand when I talk about re-experiencing and how that interrupts sleep cycles and causes all sorts of nasty stuff like irritability, anxiety, fear of crowds and public places, and hypervigilance (the obsession with staying safe and keeping your loved ones safe). And the ones fortunate enough to have benefited from therapy know that talking about their trauma is a necessary part of their treatment because they process it instead of blocking it out.  

So I guess I had better warn my readers that I am about to describe a traumatic experience. If you can't deal with that right now, you are welcome to stop reading at this point. If you want to continue, you might want to grab a tissue. Especially if you're a parent.

Four years ago today seemed like any other day I had spent since my youngest daughter moved to Alberta and eventually ended up on the street, living in her car.  I was always wondering if she was safe, doing everything in my power to give her the tools she needed to get even half a chance out there. 

The previous evening she had asked for some money so she could sleep in a motel and have a shower to be ready to view an apartment the following day. I agreed and sent it.  

But she never got there.

All morning I was texting her from work, reminding her of her appointment. No response. I tried calling her again and again. No response. I gave up around 12:30 because I figured she was on the road by then.

She wasn't.

I remember what I had for lunch because I was eating it when the phone call came from my husband at 1:10 pm.  He told me that she had been in an accident. No, she wasn't okay. It was head-on at highway speed. She had died instantly.

I felt as if someone had drop-kicked me in the stomach. My breath came in gasps - I wanted to scream the words but they came out in disbelieving sobs instead. "Oh my God.  Oh my GOD!  My baby! My baby is ... DEAD!  Oh God!"

Suddenly the world seemed very, very small. There was barely enough room in it for me to breathe, almost like those scenes from horror movies where the camera gives an extreme closeup and there's a delay, an echo, in the words and actions - and they feel jerky, disjointed, surreal.

"Do you want me to come pick you up?" he patiently asked me after I stopped talking ... if you can call what I was doing talking. 

"Up, oh yes, pick up. Yes that would be good."

"I'll see you in about 20 minutes. Okay?"

"Umm, yeah. Okay.  Umm, drive safe," I said automatically. 

People at work had formed a small crowd around me, I noticed as I hung up the phone. Someone handed me a tissue. Apparently my face was wet. I can't remember who all was there, but I know there were concerned faces all around me.  I heard voices expressing sympathy - but they sounded like they were coming from the other end of a metal tube. 

I was still clutching what was left of my lunch - a spoonful of peanut butter and a couple of dried mango slices - as my manager suggested that I go to her office. She guided me there, sat me down in a chair, and waited with me for my husband to arrive.  She expressed her condolences, and asked if there was anyone she could call for me to let them know. I obediently gave her the number for the church I attended. She called them and told them the news while I ate the rest of my lunch - which felt drier than usual in my throat - because all I could think of was that I needed to keep my strength up, that my family would need me to be strong. So it became all-important for me to finish eating. Strange what trauma will do to the mind.

As we waited after my manager hung up, she leaned over and hugged me, rocking a bit, and started to sing softly in my ear, "Come to the water, stand by My side, I know you are thirsty, you won't be denied...I felt every teardrop when in darkness you cried, and I want to remind you that for those tears I died..." - the chorus of a song that (there was no way she could know this) I sang with my brothers as a teen. Of course that helped to set off a fresh wave of tears. I appreciated her expression of caring; I needed it!

When my husband arrived, those with clearer heads met him at the door. Others ushered me downstairs to meet him. One dear lady took charge and arranged to have someone drive us home - my manager took the front passenger seat and let us sit together in the back - while someone else drove behind us in a car and followed our van back to our house. 

These memories are fresh for me today because - well - it's one of those anniversary days. As I think back and remember, and relive those moments and the grief that overwhelmed me during those days and weeks that followed, the one thing that overarches everything is the one thing that heals the most: the love shown to me and to my family from all who knew us. And I mean all, from my best girlfriend who took my daughter's death as hard as I did, to the co-workers who all were so affected by it, to the doctors who worked in our area at my work, to those who came to the wake and to the funeral, to the hundreds and now thousands of people who have read my blog post about it (look in my archives on this blog for my October 24, 2013 post). 

Image "Snowflake Background" by oana roxana birtea
at www.freedigitalphotos.net

Those who know her story (which I told in that post I mentioned) know that she lived her life by the motto, "Every Snowflake Counts" - which to her didn't mean that everyone is unique and special like a snowflake, but that every bit of good that a person does, no matter how small, is helpful. It counts. There is nothing insignificant. 

It still counts. Folks who know me well, know that 2017 has been particularly hard for me emotionally, partly because if my baby girl had not had that accident, she would have turned 25 this year. So this anniversary date is a bit more raw than one might expect after four years. Grieving is not something that one ever stops doing; it takes a different form after a while, but it never goes away. 

My friends have been so supportive and so compassionate - and so patient - toward me and my family. To them I say, it still counts. Your love and your kind thoughts and words do not go unnoticed; I appreciate every bit of good that you intend and that you do and say. And I just wanted to say it.

Thank you. Thank you all. :') 

The importance of self-care

As busy as life is working full time and fitting in all the other important things into the day (add to that school for most of the year for me), it is easy for me to assume that retirement will give me more time to do those things that just got "fit in" before. However, watching my hubby the last 7 years has taught me that retirement doesn't do that at ALL!! In fact, retirees have LESS time to fit everything in because everyone thinks they have time on their hands to do extra things, and their days easily fill up with errands, projects, visits, and appointments. Self-care is just as important (perhaps even more so) for the retired person as for the career-minded person. 

For those people who are mentally and emotionally drained by spending time in social situations with others - even if enjoying that time (like me!) - sometimes that means letting opportunities pass by for activities that they might really enjoy but they have just no energy to spend on those things because they need to spend that energy on getting through the rest of the day. I find the explanation known as "spoon theory" quite fitting to describe this phenomenon.

Photo "Mix Spoon It Multicolored On White
Isolate Background" courtesy of jk1991
at www.freedigitalphotos.net

Spoon theory was invented by a lady who has lupus (Christine Miserandino) to describe to her best friend what it was like to live with a debilitating sickness.  It has since been used to describe what it is like to live with any chronic illness (including mental illness).  And, while I've never been officially diagnosed with a mental illness, I'm sure that I would be diagnosed with several if I were to seek a referral to a psychologist: the ones that come to mind are social anxiety disorder, complex post-traumatic stress disorder, agoraphobia, seasonal affective disorder, and maybe one or two others.  

Spoon theory says that every day, someone who has a chronic illness starts the day with a certain limited number of "spoons" - units of energy - that they get to spend on activities that require mental, emotional, and/or physical energy to do.  Getting out of bed isn't just getting out of bed, it's opening the eyes, screwing up the courage to roll over, to sit up, to put one's feet on the floor, to stand up.  Depending on the degree of effort, that might cost three spoons instead of just one. And so it goes.  Cooking breakfast costs a spoon.  Driving to work in tourist traffic at rush hour is at least one if not two spoons.  By the time one gets to work, half the spoons for the day are probably already gone.... and there's the rest of the day to re-plan.  If one runs out of spoons for the day, one can borrow from the next day's supply - but then that next day will be that much more difficult with fewer spoons to start with.  

Other people don't have to think about how many spoons they have. They just do things willy-nilly, and seem to get by with spoons to spare at the end of the day. Those with a chronic illness, though, have to plan every move, and often have to change plans ... sometimes without notice.  This can lead to them being judged by their non-sick friends, especially if the illness is "invisible." That is, the common perception is that if someone doesn't LOOK sick, they aren't. Whether these friends mean to do it or not, they can be quite judgmental, even if they try to be nice about it.  They spread shame and guilt as if running out of energy was a deliberate choice designed to make them feel bad.  "I'm so disappointed that you couldn't find the time to spend with me," I've heard people say.   

Wow.  Just ... wow.  

It is just as much self-care to refrain from spending spoons as it is to actively go about replenishing them - and there are things that replenish spoon supply - in whatever way works for the one who is running low.  For me, that looks like sunning myself (in the summer) with my music playing, or laying down in a quiet room with a white-noise machine going to drown out the constant ringing in my ear, or watching a feel-good movie, among other things.  But it also looks like staying away from outings that I know will drain me - anything with anyone outside immediate family: the more people, the more draining it will be - and from topics of conversation that require a confrontational stance: politics and religion come to mind.  (That one is HARD to manage because everyone seems to have a different opinion and I'm no exception! The last time it happened, though, it took me three days to recover to where I felt ready to face a full day again ...)  If someone is constantly bringing up topics that drain me, I am learning to stay away from that person.  The mere knowledge that I won't have to be exposed to those things tends to give me a bit more energy - strange, I know, but it is true - and at the end of the day, I might find a spoon in my pocket that I didn't know I had. That is a rare and special find - because while I can save a spoon or two for the next day, I can't save up a whole lot to use later.  I made the mistake of thinking that earlier this year ... and the results were disastrous.

The bottom line is that self-care is so very important, and at the same time, so very under-rated.  There are lessons I've learned about it that have been hard to learn; I am still learning others.  One of the most crucial lessons for me was that self-care, contrary to popular religious and cultural belief, is FAR from selfish.  It is often the kindest thing one can do for one's family and friends, because someone who doesn't practice self-care will NOT have any reserves left and could end up damaging people who are near and dear, sometimes irreparably.  And another learning is that it is okay to (1) say no, and (2) ask for help.  It doesn't mean that I'm less of a person; it means I am becoming aware of my limits and I am trying to stay within them. 

So if I use a spoon to spend time with you, know that (1) it is a good day for me and (2) if someday I can't, it's not your fault ... and it's not mine either.