Which way am I facing?

 There's no super easy way to say this.

On September 6, around 11:45 am, my husband quietly slipped away into Eternity, after a brief (3-months is brief) but intense battle with metastatic (i.e., Stage 4) pancreatic cancer, which affected his liver, one adrenal gland, and eventually his stomach.

He died of a gastrointestinal bleed, a fancy way of saying he lost a lot of blood and threw it up. Transfusions had worked the previous day, but this time, his body was having none of it. His organs started shutting down. By then, it was a matter of making him comfortable, and it wasn't long after that when he breathed his last.

I'm not going to tell you all that happened. Some of it was intensely personal and very wrenching.  

The week after that day, all that week, people gathered around me and my daughter, and they loved on us. They cared for us. And love (as I have said so many times before) does heal. 

His service was the following Friday. And it was amazing. I felt as though he were watching from Heavenly places. Perhaps in another dimension we can't see. Perhaps in that very room. 

I cannot describe or explain how this can be. When we first heard he might have cancer on June 1 (and it was confirmed June 16), I had this terrifying moment of sheer panic. And then I remembered who was in the room. My daughter was sitting beside me ... and I knew I couldn't afford to fall apart because she would need me - and so would he. So, I stayed strong, even when I felt so very frail inside. 

I truly believed he would be physically healed and that the miracle would be a testimony to the greatness and power of our God. When it became clear that physical healing didn't happen, I was ill-prepared for the flood of sadness and shock and grief that flooded me on that morning. 

But ... but ... God knew I would need someone, not my daughter, but someone, to lean on and grieve with. My daughter was carrying her own pain and didn't want to be comforted. 

But about 10 minutes before hubby passed, my best girlfriend phoned me. "I can't talk right now," I told her. "Do you want me to come?" she intuitively asked. "Yes, please," I said. "I'll be right there." And she was ... but only after he had stopped breathing, and we were in fresh grief. It hit her too, for we were all such great friends together ... and for the next hour, we sat there, unwilling to leave... because leaving would mean they would take his body to the morgue.

Free image by pixabay.com

Finally, though, as we sat in silence, I began to feel restless, and we gathered up our things - and his - and we took our leave. Nurses hugged us and told us how sweet he always was. "I know," I said. "He was just so grateful for the excellent care you gave to him." 

The rest of the week seems like a blur. Somehow, however, I managed to get the details of the Celebration of Life service put together and someone to speak, folks to serve as pallbearers, music chosen, and so forth. And it all came and went in a jumble of faces, words, and final duties. 

And suddenly, a week had passed and I was amazed at how well I was sleeping (Ativan is a thing!) and still functioning day to day. And then I saw it.

An email from a training organization that sometimes gives free workshops on various topics, offered one (in 3 parts) on helping clients through grief. Hmmmm. Well, I guess I could check this out!

The speaker was Tara Brach, who is a mindfulness-based psychologist. And in those 45 minutes or so, she suggested turning TOWARD grief, instead of AWAY from it. It's normal to turn away from something that is painful. But in turning toward it, we allow ourselves to experience the deep feelings that need to be expressed, and in so doing, we participate in our own healing. 

I had been cringing away from this thing. The crying I was doing was (with rare exceptions) making me feel worse. Until I participated in Tara's demonstration guided imagery exercises. And then, when I cried, I was feeling my feelings with NO JUDGMENT ... and I was able to start the healing process. 

So I'm learning to ask myself, "Which way am I facing?" Am I running away from my pain, or am I turning toward it and accepting my own vulnerability and need for comfort? Am I allowing sadness to accomplish its work and gather people around me who will help me? The more I do that, the more completely I will heal and embrace my "new normal."  

 

 

  

This place

As I look around my apartment this morning, and reflect on the last three months here, so many thoughts and feelings arise. In two days, I will be moving back home from here. I will be resuming an improved version of my former life with my family. It will be improved in the sense that I will be spending more time with them, due to the fact that I will continue to work remotely from home for my employer. It will be improved as well, because I decided to continue my march toward retirement in spite of the fact that my practicum didn't work out; this will leave me more time to volunteer and thus enrich and expand my life and my comfort zone.

But looking around me, I find my thoughts drawn to the lessons and the skills I have learned while living alone, and to the ups and downs of having nobody to answer to in this place except myself. A common thread through it all is the truism that you never know what you can do until you are forced to do it. I've been forced to sleep alone, eat alone, work alone, amuse myself alone, wash dishes alone, take out the trash by myself, do chores without anyone's help, and many more things. 

And I have learned that I can do it. I have learned that I can survive living alone. However, I have also learned that it is a lot easier to do when I have support and connection with the people who love me. My phone has been my lifeline while living here; I talk with my husband three to four times a day on average, and I speak with my brother about once every day or so. My relationships with both of them have deepened in the last three months. 

I also find myself remembering the events of the last three months and how this place has been my "home base" - a place I could be myself - a haven from the stress of being in a practicum with a supervisor who was not a good match for me, and whose attitude and words reminded me too much of childhood traumas I have never fully addressed. This place has housed me, fed me, given me a place to sleep, to think, to cry, and to grow. 

My plants - and other friends...

And soon, I must say goodbye to it. And I find - to my surprise - that I have mixed feelings about that! 

I will miss the freedom to keep my own schedule and be able to listen to music or TV programs (read: Netflix) without using earphones. I will miss the ability to sit in my chair without removing a cat or worrying about cat hair sticking into my clothing (or anyone else's who might visit me). 

But I know that I will be able to bring back certain things with me - like the rugs I bought for the apartment. The big one will adorn my home office and the smaller one will be placed beside my side of our bed. My plants will be in my home office and some will go to their original perches in the front hallway. Others will go back to my work office (the ones that are poisonous to cats). The paintings my family bought for me will also go in my home office - and from the rest of the furniture, I hope to be able to make a livable space in the other room in the basement.

And I am looking forward to being able to be close to my friends and living (instead of just visiting) with my family again. Yes, even the cats - I have missed those furry folks! My own bed beckons me, as does my kitchen (which is over twice the size of this little one in my apartment...) and the other creature comforts: cable TV, access to exercise equipment for when the weather is bad, and oh yes, did I mention my family? And friends? 

But this place - as eager as I am to move and get back to all I hold dear - still holds some sentiment. 

It will be hard to say goodbye.

Transition

The last several weeks has been a time of transition, of moving from one way of doing things to something completely different. The next seven weeks will be so as well, a continuation of the changes that have slowly been happening as I get ready for my first time living alone in my 57 years. 

No, my husband and I are not separating; there is no problem in our relationship. In fact, were it not for his support and encouragement, I would not be even considering what I am about to do. 

After months of trying to secure a practicum in my province of residence, and doors slammed in my face at every turn, I found a placement - but this one is in a neighbouring province, and with a counseling agency that wants me to stay on with them after I graduate with my Masters degree. That means that I have to move - temporarily - to an apartment in a city that is two hours' drive (and an expensive toll bridge ride) away from the house I have lived in for the last nearly 29 years. My practicum begins on September 5, 2018.  That is less than seven weeks away!

Anyway, since my family needs to stay here, for a lot of reasons, I must live alone in what amounts to a strange city, on a reduced salary, and live like that for almost a year. Then, the agency will start to pay me, and for another year, I will be working two jobs part-time, until I retire from my current job in the fall of 2020. After that, I can go to full-time with the agency, which will speed up the process of me getting enough experience to launch out on my own. Once I can do that, I can move back in with my family. 

Which brings me to the meantime, this period of transition, this intense, can't-wait-but-no-it's-too-fast time where I have been picking away at things that need doing. Like finding an apartment (cha-ching $$), getting it ready to be lived in (MORE $$), being sure to maintain my quality of homework and assignments (the time requirements this term are SO much higher than ever before!), and trying to find time in there to sleep and eat and MAYBE fit in some self-care and activity. 

Social life?  What's that?

About a month ago, I had to go on stress leave from work because all the stress of all of that PLUS having to be at work for eight hours a day was just too much for me to take and I was approaching burnout. I am feeling a bit more like myself these days, but I still have to deal with that transition period that I am going through, from this place to that place, from here to there, from together to alone. The changes are happening more and more quickly; I have started to get a feel for where things are located in my new place, and I have familiarized myself with my newest friend, Siri (that's the electronic assistant on the i-Phone that can look up directions on Google Maps and talk you through traffic. What a great feature that is for reducing stress!) 

And yesterday, I even got some groceries so they would be there when I moved in - all stuff that won't spoil (canned goods, rice, cereal, boxed meals, and some cleaning supplies.) It makes the reality seem more real... that, and all those trips up and down those stairs to my 2nd floor apartment lugging heavy bags and boxes. 

Transition from "our place" to "my place" - transition from "our" to "my." Fears that I won't be able to handle the winter alone. Excitement at starting the final year of my graduate school journey. Sadness at leaving my loved ones behind and knowing that I will have to get used to sleeping alone. Anger at the system in my own province that cannot accommodate my educational needs. Determination to do my best. Nervousness (and a sort of joy) about working with real clients and making a difference - hoping that it is a positive one. Trepidation at driving in the city and possibly getting lost or stranded. And more, so much more. 

I am so very grateful. My family has been so supportive and helpful during this transition. It feels like they have worked harder than I have to make all this work for me, knowing my physical limitations. They have trudged up and down those stairs to my apartment more times than I have (so far), and worked together to put furniture together (mostly my daughter who seems to have inherited my father's ability to see with his fingers and thread a screw without even looking!). They have popped up and down my step-stool to put up brackets for curtains, change light bulbs, and so much more, WITHOUT the benefit of air conditioning, fans going full blast. 

I am truly blessed. And as I ponder this, the clock is silently ticking away, bringing me ever closer to the reality that will be upon me soon enough. Soon I will be poised on the beginning of a new and different journey, one that will change my future. 

Am I ready? I guess I will have to be. I'm just ever so glad that the future only comes one day at a time.

A Gilded Cage

She sits in her room.  Or she wanders the halls, sometimes with her walker, sometimes without (because she forgets.) Her mind flits about like a butterfly, from memory to memory, all of it disjointed and from different time periods. But to her, it is all the same. 

There is only one consistent thought.  She wants to go home.  That's where she belongs.  She must get out of this place.  And she asks every visitor who comes to see her if they would just help her with her things so she can leave and go back home where she is needed. Her desire is so great to go home that at times, she has gone to the door and pounded and kicked at it. All that gets her is more medication so that she can be more "manageable."

Her visitors, when she begs them to take her home, change the subject. They let her patter on about the same stories, let her ask the same questions over and over again, and when they must go, they make some excuse to get out of the room ... knowing she will forget they were even there in a minute or so. And then she will complain because "nobody ever comes" to see her. 

Mom (in the foreground) in her element - August 2015.
My sister is in the background.

I spoke with her this morning on the phone. She was so pleased to hear from me, and talked about needing to have someone drive her home so she could fix supper because she was working and couldn't come home for lunch. So today, she was stuck in 1992... 25 years ago ... and in that brief period of time, she wasn't even in the hospital. I just let her talk.  It wouldn't have done any good to tell her that this was 2017. She would have forgotten anyway. Time has no meaning for her anymore - except for the interminable wait to go home and how the seconds seem like hours when nobody is in to see her. 

Her nurse tells me that she is doing fine, that she occasionally gets agitated, feeling like she is trapped there (which she is, really), and they just give her an olazepin and she calms down. So I look up that medication on the Internet, and I think about how offensive it would be to her if she realized she was on an anti-psychotic drug, something to keep her from freaking out.  But she isn't in control of that anymore. And now, as never before, I realize that neither am I.  The hospital staff are in control; the government is in control. 

I know that she is safe and protected where she is, that she is fed nutritious food and sleeps well at night with no danger of her wandering. I get that. And it's probably a blessing that she doesn't realize how powerless and dependent she is. It is just wrenching to watch, even from this distance, to hear her lose more and more of her sense of time and self.  One minute is pretty much the same as the next.  She is incredibly lonely, a nearly empty shell looking for a place to lie down, the homing instinct being the only thing she has left.  Much of what made her what she was, is going or gone. The spark, the chutzpah, those are disappearing into the fog of dementia.

And it's Mother's Day. 

Wow.

Lighting a candle

For me, and for too many of my friends and family, the darkness starts with the letter C. Cancer. Even the word itself conjures up helplessness, fear, anger, in the face of this tyrant that consumes everything in its path.

As we all get older, we know more and more people who have it, and the monster gets closer and closer to home. Or it has already touched us. It is a horrible, hateful disease in whatever form it takes. 

There was a time - years ago - when the very word was a death sentence every time. That was when it was detected too late and it had already morphed into another beast: metastatic cancer (cancer cells that were in one place in the body, and traveled to another place, like a horde of evil missionaries, to continue their dastardly mission). Today, with more early detection, cancer need not be a death sentence.  But the oldest ones among us usually think of it that way.

Time is both friend and enemy with this thing. Early detection is our friend; a delay in treatment is not. Waiting - especially with no indication of how fast the cells are growing - is torturous. Add to that any other pressure: financial, family, work, school, or community (whether that means neighborhood or church involvement) and molehills become mountains pretty quickly. 

The darkness does not need to win. All it takes is one candle to push back the darkness. The people most likely to recover (regardless of the type of cancer) seem to be the ones with the most positive, and peaceful, attitudes. One man I know has a rare form of non-Hodgkins lymphoma - aggressive and dangerous - and from the moment he found out he had cancer, his attitude has been nothing short of inspiring. Today he is fighting infection (which happens 70% of the time after the kind of treatment he just had) and is feeling weak - but he is fighting. And he is peaceful, and happy. 

Another lady I know had breast cancer about 5 years ago. She had surgery, chemo, and the recovery process was long ... but she beat it! Throughout it all, her sweet temperament and thankful spirit came through. Still another lady went through this process not long ago - with four surgeries and treatments that made her feel sick and weak, she still never lost her positive attitude, and she made sure that she looked after herself. 

Fear is (of course) inevitable. But it is the enemy. I know the enemy. But it doesn't have to win.

Recently, my family doctor referred me for a biopsy for an abnormal pap smear. While I was at the gynecologist's office, I mentioned some unexplained spotting, since I was in menopause,  The gynecologist said, "That shouldn't be happening." And so when I was under general anesthetic for the cervical biopsy, he also took cells from the lining of my uterus.  It turned out that I have "pre-cancerous" cells in my uterus... and although this type of thing usually takes a long time to develop into cancer in that area, it's like there is this ticking time bomb in my womb - and so he told me that my uterus and my ovaries had to come out. I am waiting for a surgery date and I expect the hospital will call me soon with one.

The same day I found out about this problem, I got a call from a very close friend who informed me that my brother was in the hospital.  Over the course of the next week, through testing and so forth, doctors discovered that he had stage 1 colon cancer.

Photo "Candle" courtesy of phanlop88 at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

The monster didn't win.

We both lit a candle in the darkness. 

Fear has far less power in the light. 

Each of us is looking forward to his or her respective surgery, and grateful that the doctors caught the problem early. My brother is thankful for the excruciating abdominal pain that first caused him to seek medical attention, and for the excellent care and attention that he has received since he went to the hospital to get checked out. They saved his life!  In much the same way, I am so grateful for the lady that put me onto my new family doctor's patient list just this past spring, as well as for the people involved in my care - my doctor, plus my gynecologist, and all of the medical staff on his team. They pretty much saved my life.

A few things about lighting a candle in the dark ... yes, you can see to find your way, but ... your attention is more drawn to the candle flame, and to what it illuminates, than it is to the farthest corners where the darkness still hides. You learn to go slowly, because going too fast would damage the flame or put it out. You learn to stay away from people who would bluster and blow more fear into your situation. Their negativity is something that you don't need or want in your life, ever! You learn to see their reaction as "cursing the darkness." You light your candle, you protect it, and you cherish it.  And you look for other candles to light from your own flame.

That's what I'm doing today. You - if you need to and want to - can light your candle from mine.

Absorbing it all

There has been a lot of stuff in the last six months that I have had to absorb. Some of it has been really good - like counselling practice that I got in July 2016, team leading opportunities I have had in August and then again starting in early October (which is still ongoing). I have had to absorb a lot of knowledge in a relatively short amount of time. But it's all been good, and good for me.

Back in May 2016 - some six months ago now - I got a new family doctor. After years of not going to my old family doctor and finally getting fed up enough to switch, this new guy made up for lost time - and scheduled me for all kinds of testing: blood, pap, other stuff. The result of all of it was a diagnosis of type 2 diabetes (and I am now taking medication to bring down my sugars ... and they are under control - he and his team literally saved my life), a referral for a mammogram (another story for another time) and a referral to a gynecologist due to some abnormal cells on a pap smear. 

During my initial consult with him, when we mutually decided that it would be better for me to go under a general anesthetic to do a cervical biopsy rather than try to do it in the office, I happened to mention to him a little thing I'd been noticing for a few months ... I had stopped having periods a year previous, but I was noticing some spotting on a pretty regular basis. He therefore decided to add a second procedure to the surgery, one that he had not planned on doing but he thought it best to include it "just to be safe" - a dilation and curettage (also known as a D-and-C). He would then biopsy the uterine lining that the D-and-C would give him. I underwent this procedure on October 12. 

Today, just a few hours ago in fact, I sat in his office and he told me the results of the biopsies, in detail. I won't go into as much detail as he did.  But basically my cervix is fine.  However, the D-and-C biopsy showed "pre-cancerous" cells. Since there is no way to monitor the interior of the uterus, he informed me that "we have to whip it out." It took me a minute to grasp what he meant... a hysterectomy - a removal of the uterus and of the ovaries. 

I was floored.  It took me a couple of minutes to absorb that information. I was frankly not expecting the news - I knew that some of the results might be "off" but ... I never made the connection between pre-cancer and the removal of my uterus. It had just never occurred to me. So ... that was a lot to take in at once.

"We want to do it sooner rather than later.  Weeks, not months away."  Again, a powerful reminder that this is serious stuff. More stuff to absorb!

He answered every question I had. Every. Single. One. And I had a LOT of them. He told me that he was hoping to be able to do it via laparascopy. That is, to have a small incision just under the belly button, and two similar incisions (one on each flank where the ovaries are). Failing that, he would go in through my old Caesarian section scar and do it that way. Depending on the technique, I would spend two to three days in hospital. 

When I told my boss/mentor about it later (she's a nurse), she told me that I would be recovering at home between three and six weeks after the operation, and would be off work during that time. (WEEKS? I have fifteen MINUTES of sick leave left!) We discussed my options - she set my mind at rest for the most part, and told me to ask for the "worst case scenario" for sick leave, and if it was shorter, it would be less time to pay back. ... and that the important thing was my health.

So today has been an "absorbing" day. I'm still sort of getting my head around it. And what do I do when I am trying to make sense of things? 

I write. (Aren't you lucky!) 😀

I have also been absorbing some pretty amazing things about my situation that I have been (and still am) very grateful for.

First, I am grateful that I am such a wimp about pain.  It's because I couldn't handle the discomfort of the initial office procedure (and the gynecologist was unwilling for me to be in pain) that I opted for it to be done under a general. 

Second, I am grateful that, as my gynecologist and I were discussing the procedure that he would do under the general anesthetic, and he mentioned post-op bleeding, that I thought to mention the spotting I'd been having.  If I had not, he would never have done the D-and-C. And I would be oblivious to the fact that I had pre-cancerous cells in my uterus. And ... it might have been too late by the time I DID find out.

Photo "Doctor In Surgery" by taoto at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Third, I am grateful that the hysterectomy will not only completely remove all chance of uterine cancer (well, um, the uterus will be gone!), but removing the ovaries will also reduce my estrogen production down to zero - and with that, any chance of causing cervical OR breast cancer. 

Fourth, I know this man's work from personal and recent experience; he's excellent and I have absolutely NO worries about his skill or the skill of those on his team. I am in good hands with him and with everyone on his surgical team (including the anesthetist). And I am so grateful for that.

And fifth, I am so very grateful that "we" caught this early, before those cells had a chance to become something life-threatening.

And that is just the medical stuff that I'm thankful for.  There is so much more - it's taking me a while to absorb all of that too.  What I mean is the phenomenal support and the love of my family and friends, their positive vibes, their prayers, their words of encouragement. I'm blown away by all of that. I am so blessed. SO blessed. 

Direction ... Not Destination

“It becomes easier for me to accept myself as a decidedly imperfect person, who by no means functions at all times in the way in which I would like to function. This must seem to some like a very strange direction in which to move. It seems to me to have value because the curious paradox is that when I accept myself as I am, then I change.”
- - Carl Rogers, On Becoming a Person: A Therapist's View of Psychotherapy

About a month ago, I sat across from someone who really listened to me and heard my concerns. He wasn't a therapist, and quite frankly, to listen to his career accomplishments, I would have considered him to be unapproachable under normal circumstances (at least, what normal was for most of my life). However, I had heard him open his heart and share his passion with people... and I knew instinctively that he could be trusted.  So I poured out my heart to him. And he listened. And he cared. 

In doing what I did, I admitted to myself that I was not happy with the current state of affairs and that I wanted something to change. I also admitted to myself that I didn't have the power to change anything about my circumstances, but I could talk to someone who did. 

And you know, it happened. When I heard what had been done to fix things, it was like someone removed a 70-pound pack from my back, one that I'd been carrying around for a year. The relief was so great and so tangible that I welled up and spilled over in tears for a few minutes. And then I contacted the man who had listened - and I thanked him. It was all I could think to do. And it was as natural to do that as to take my next breath. 

I write all that because ... because seven years ago, I never would have been able to reach out like that and ask for help. I would have suffered - perhaps not in silence, but in helplessness and misery - and today I realize that the person I was then was me, and the person I am now is still me ... only better, healthier. And the catalyst for change was nothing other than accepting the me that I was then the WAY I was then - and learning to like that person. (By the way,  I had help.)

Photo "Woman Relaxing With Her Eyes Closed"
courtesy of photostock at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Without realizing it, my behavior and my attitudes about things (not necessarily in that order) began to change. The change was automatic. I didn't have to work at it, except to realize and be aware of my behavior patterns. There were a lot of uncompleted sentences and one-eighties in the beginning as I learned a new way to be. I was becoming a better me. And I still am.

As you can tell from the above quote, I love to read things that Carl Rogers (father of modern psychotherapy) said or wrote. (I even listened to part of one of his taped sessions once. It was amazing.) He also said something else about personal growth. He said that it wasn't a destination ... that it was a direction. A process, not a product. That is my experience. Some of that experience was pretty intense - it involved doing things that were hard - but I tackled them when and as I was ready for them, and not before ... and I still do. 

But the weird thing about it all is that without that core of acceptance of who and what I am at the moment, none of the changes I've experienced (and am experiencing) would have been possible or would be possible. It is, as Rogers said, a "curious paradox." 

I can't explain how it works. It just does. Slow but sure, millimeter by millimeter.
And I'm okay with that.

Same same

There is a [word-] sign used by the local deaf community that means "Same" - it looks like the ASL sign for the letter Y - as shown - but the hand is not raised up but facing the floor (in other words, palm side down). The hand goes back and forth horizontally a couple of times between the two items or people being compared, as if sliding back and forth on an unseen table. If the deaf person talks when he or she signs, the words that come out are "Same-same." 
The idea usually is that the thumb and pinky point toward what or who is involved in that comparison. 

That doesn't mean that differences don't exist. It just means that at some level, there is something essentially the same about those two things or people. 

Illustration "Sign Language And The
Alphabet,the Letter Y" by
taesmileland at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

And that sign can be a complete sentence when the second component is added - facial expression. Take for example the comparison between two people. I've seen my deaf friends sign "same-same" over the years with amazement, sympathy, sarcasm, boredom, delight, disgust, and a whole host of other reactions that convey tone of voice - something that (as yet) the printed word cannot do very well. 

I was thinking about this sign a couple of days ago and it came to me that no matter how same-same people think they are, there is always something that is different. And not just different, VASTLY different - just like the pinky and the thumb point in nearly opposite directions. 

And no matter how different people are, there is always something that is the same between them, just as the pinky and the thumb are part of the same hand and signifying (in their differences) that they are same-same. Basic feelings are the same regardless of gender, gender identity or socioeconomic class; the colour of the blood is identical regardless of the colour of the skin. 

I might feel uncomfortable around someone because of our differences, but looking for common ground helps me to accept that person and acknowledge his or her right to take up space. And ... (this is a more subtle but just as important a distinction) just because I might share an identity label (same workplace, same church, same family relationships for example) with someone else, it doesn't give me the right to assume that this person thinks or believes or has the same values as I do. 

Or that the person can automatically be trusted because of that one similarity. 

Or that someone of another group is automatically untrustworthy because of the differences between us. 

"Peoples is peoples," a wise man once said. (Pete from Pete's Diner in Jim Henson's "The Muppets Take Manhattan", haha). More and more, I'm coming to live my life on that simple principle. Each person is capable of both good and evil. 

My quest in recovery from the chains of my own limitations is to find the people in my life that I can trust, the ones who help me be truly me (without trying to make me exactly the same as they are in every respect), and then surround myself with them. And to discover those - while I might care about them - who are toxic to me, who try to manipulate or control me ... and to distance myself from them. To make sure that the "sameness" between my circle of friends and myself is concentrated in the things that matter most to me, and to let go of the differences that would tear me down and hinder my growth.

It's a tall order, but no other human being has the right to do it for me.

The Acid Test

The term, "the acid test" has been around since the days of the early gold prospectors. They needed a way to determine if the metal they found was real gold or some other metal. So, they would mark the metal with nitric acid, which would melt other metals; gold, not so much. That term came to mean the way by which someone would know if something was genuine or not - from merchandise to someone's promises or beliefs. 

I got to thinking about this expression this morning as the face of this one person came into my mind, someone to whom some people react one way while others react the opposite way.

I first met Joseph in the late 1990s. He's an itinerant - a man who chooses to be homeless. He has a "home base" - the home of a relative in a different province - but he only goes there once in a while to catch up on his mail. Most of the time, no matter what the season, he walks and sometimes hitch-hikes from place to place.  He has a full beard, wears layer upon layer of clothing (because there's no other place to put it) and smells of spruce, wood smoke, and sweat. He makes no apologies for his appearance or his lifestyle. He sleeps in the woods, sometimes in a sleeping bag and sometimes not. 

It's intriguing to see the reactions of different people to this man. The first time I saw him, I was a receptionist at a church office. He walked into the office one day in 1998. My immediate impression was that he was a homeless man in his mid-fifties, in need of a bath, a good meal and a change of clothes.  There was something about him, though - something in his eyes, which contradicted what my sense of smell was telling me. My boss at the time, a wonderful pastor, caught sight of him and came out to greet him warmly. I decided to watch him, talk to him, and get to know him a bit better. 

Taken at Picadilly Circus, London.
Thanks to photographer Mantas Ruzveltas
for this photo, "Homeless Man" - obtained at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Over the course of the next week, as he used the woods behind the church to sleep in (with the pastor's permission of course!) I learned that he loved his life, that he enjoyed country and western music (well, nobody's perfect), that he was a diabetic, and that he had the most gentle, humble character you would ever want to meet. I instinctively knew that if I ever needed anyone to look after my preschool children, I could trust him implicitly to guard them with his life. 

I began to look forward to his visits; he was always so full of joy, so content with his chosen lifestyle, so grateful for every bit of help offered to him, and so accepting of others. About once or twice a year he would show up, stay a few days and then move on. Whenever he did, he'd stop for a church service on a Sunday morning. He'd usually sit at the back, close to the door, so that he could slip to and from the washroom unnoticed. It was there that I noticed the varied reactions to his presence. They were much like my original impression had been - except that they were a bit more (how shall I put this nicely? oh never mind) "in your face."  Some reactions were downright visceral; they were clearly repulsed by this man and got as far away from him as possible. 

Many of these people are the first to attend prayer vigils and go to spiritual retreats, talk about the glory days, and tell others exactly what they believe. 

But Joseph is the acid test  -  his very existence challenges people and he isn't even aware of it; he just is who he is. Yet the challenge hangs in the air, "Do you really believe what you say you believe?"

A few months ago, as winter melted into spring, I found myself wondering where Joseph was, if he was still out there tramping the roads and touching lives with his uniqueness. 

And then one Sunday morning recently, I saw him - sitting by himself in the back near the door. His hair and beard were more gray; his face was more gaunt, but it was him. He was beaming, basking in the simple but profound pleasure of good music and shelter from the rain. When the service was over, I rushed over to where he'd been sitting, but he was gone. Disappointment settled on me like a wet blanket. I made my way back to my seat and began to pick up my purse and other items.

Then I turned and saw him, not ten feet away! He'd been in the washroom (most likely) and was coming up to the front to talk to the pastor and ask for a drive. My eyes misted over; what a beautiful soul. I shook hands with him and was delighted that he remembered me - his grip was a little weaker, but still firm. He was wobbling a bit with age and the ravages of life on the road - but it was the Joseph I remembered. His eyes were still as bright, and his smile as ready as it always was. 

Given the rainy day, the pastor asked a young man (a student interning at the church) to drive Joseph to where he needed to go next - across town - and I wondered if yet another generation would come to appreciate the inner beauty of this simple man ... and pass the acid test. 

I sure hope so.

Want Not

In my last post, I talked about growing up as a child of parents who grew up in the Depression.

My dad was a factory worker; he worked on an assembly line making oil stoves for Fawcett, before the company was taken over by Enterprise. He didn't make much money, and we lived a very simple, very spartan life.  

To keep the "past due" notices at bay, in desperation my mother hired her services out to various clients as a weekly housekeeper, when I was eight years old. By the time I was ten, she was helping to pay off debts that had piled up: car loans, oil bills, grocery bills, even. At least the collectors weren't calling anymore. Yet money was still a major issue; there seemed to be barely enough to survive, even with a large vegetable garden. Extras were almost unheard of. 

As I mentioned in my previous post, the lessons we had learned about not wasting what little we had, paid off, and I can't ever remember a time when there was no food to put on the table. 

Yet, there were times when I would "want." I longed for a certain lifestyle that I could never have. I spent a lot of time imagining and fantasizing about what we'd do if a lot of money dropped into our laps. 

At times, it seemed as though our lives revolved around money. Not the way rich people's lives can ... but ours was more of a "poor man's greed." We were preoccupied with saving what we had for the essentials to the point of re-using milk bags to freeze food, for example. We wondered if we'd ever get enough ahead to have something nice: we were thrust from pillar to post by circumstances beyond our control, and the wolf of potential poverty was never far from our door.  All it would have taken was a prolonged illness, or some sort of disaster like a fire or a flood or even a car accident - and we would have been left with nothing. We all were keenly aware of it, and yet we didn't want other people to know how close the wolf was... a classic case of "poor man's pride."

Photo "Between Seasons" courtesy of Evgeni Dinev at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

It wasn't until many years later, after I had moved away from that atmosphere and had lived many years as a wife and mother, that I realized how it was possible to "want not." 

Always in my life I had looked away to what I didn't have, the next big purchase or the next nice thing I wanted, as if I were trying to make up for my parents having to eke out a living. 

I only focused on what I didn't have. 

It never crossed my mind to be grateful for the good things that I did have.

When my life took a 180 degree turn in February 2009, I learned a whole new way of looking at life, one that demanded rigorous honesty with myself, one that required an attitude - a daily attitude - of thankfulness and gratitude. Thankfully, there were those who came alongside of me and modeled that lifestyle for me ... because I didn't have any clue how to do it; nobody had ever showed me before. Nevertheless, as I learned how to let go of unrealistic expectations and to live in "Today" instead of "If Only" - a new experience for me - I began to notice something I hadn't expected.

I smiled more. I was more relaxed, more ... content. Less and less did I care about "what if" and "if only." (I can't say that's disappeared completely, but it's a work in progress!) I could live more and more in Today; I could be present in the Present and not fret about the future or rail against circumstances (or against people) I couldn't change. 

Learning how to live in the Now helped me to allow others be who they were, and gave me permission to be who I was... and am. I began to feel a little more comfortable inside my own skin. That was a new feeling, too.

I started to "Want Not." I started being content with exactly who I was - and with where I was. 

I began to realize that I was right where God intended me to be, and I finally determined to just do the next right thing. It doesn't sound complicated - and it isn't - but it was at the point of desperation, because life wasn't working for me, where I was willing to let go of my old lifestyle. After I did, and I started to get unwrapped from all the constrictive, nasty grave-clothes I'd had wrapped around me all my life, my life was slowly transformed.

Of course, I am far from having arrived ... but all I can say, now that I'm on this journey, is that I wouldn't want to go back to the way it was before. 

Not for anything.

Born to stand out

Chameleons can change color to blend into their surroundings. It's a protective mechanism. It keeps them from being targets, so they don't get devoured. 

I know I've called myself a chameleon before, in the past tense, you know: before and after recovery and all that. But lately there have been some changes happening in my life, some of which feel good, and others that don't. I'm being transformed even more. And mostly I like what I'm becoming, because mostly, that is happy.

Still, there is a part of me that tries to blend in, to fit in to what's expected. That tendency is so insidious ... wanting to be liked, validated, affirmed. It puts me in a position where I end up not being true to who I really am, sacrificing myself to the siren song of people-pleasing. Especially to pleasing people that won't - or are incapable of - approving of me or my accomplishments in any way. I've already written about that in previous posts, so I won't go there right now. Suffice to say that not everyone in my life is supportive of the decisions I've made. Yet I still try to win their approval. I still try to fit in. I still try to change who I am to be accepted, even now that I know who that person is.

That fact confronted me one evening recently. I was watching a movie, and the leading man turned the his girlfriend and said, "Why are you trying so hard to fit in, when you were born to stand out?"

It kind of took me off guard. But it also gave me pause.

The pull of wanting to fit in drips constantly like water wearing away a rock. One drip isn't that much, right? but one drip leads to the next, and the next, and before too long it just wears away and crumbles the rock; it kills the soul by millimeters, diminishes the very things that make the individual unique. 

I know these things, but still I find myself trying to conform, to disappear, to hide. Make all the right noises. Lie about how I feel. Put on that hypocritical mask - or any mask for that matter. Pretend to like certain activities because that's what I'm supposed to like in this situation or that one. 

I am afraid that if I were to stand out, I would stand a better chance of being abandoned. I hear it inside as if it's my own voice: "Show-off." "Brazen." I was always taught that it's wrong to call attention to yourself. That it's somehow sinful, or selfish (which I guess is the same thing.) 

But slowly, ever so slowly, I am learning not to 'hide my light under a bushel' ... and I'm encountering more and more people who are so glad when I take that bushel-basket off and let my light shine. 

And someday, I might even stand out.

Those who matter

Be who you are and say what you feel, because "Those who matter don't mind, and those who mind don't matter."

This quote is incorrectly attributed to Dr. Seuss. The portion in quotation marks was spoken by Bernard Mannes Baruch (presidential advisor to Wilson and Roosevelt) regarding whether he wanted any special seating arrangements at a banquet.

In my previous post, I opened myself up to scrutiny by those of you who still read my blog... and I will admit that when I clicked "publish" ... it was with fear and trembling, even dread of being judged - much more so when I submitted it to the one who issued the challenge about which I spoke, since I have 15 followers and she has over 300. (Gulp.) 

I will also admit that I care - even after three and a half years of recovery from such things - far too much about what people think of me. Being human, I like to be liked.  I am (just like the rest of the world) hard-wired for connection. As much rejection and abandonment as I have known in my life, it still hurts to be excluded, ignored, or passed over - for whatever reason.  

But it's slowly dawning on me, this radical truth of "those who matter don't mind, and those who mind don't matter."  Married with the idea that "friends are God's way of apologizing to you for your family," I'm beginning to see that it's the heart connections that matter - whether those are blood ties or not.  That the support and encouragement of true friends ... trumps the pettiness and poison of those other toxic relationships, whether they are with family or not.  Every time.  I have a few such golden friends.  I value them ... I treasure them more than I can begin to express. And I can express a LOT.  ;)

As I was saying, when I submitted that blog post to my fellow-blogger for inclusion on her site ... it was with much fear and trembling.  I felt exposed, raw, vulnerable to attack. I think I even said to myself, "NOW what have I done?"  

Yet I was curious (morbidly or not) to know what my fellow-blogger thought.  I kept watching my inbox.

Nothing came.

HERE is a great article on hugging!

A few hours later, I once again checked my inbox.  Nothing was in there, but there was something sitting in my Spam folder.  "I wonder..." I said, for sometimes my email server mistakes real communication for spam.  

Sure enough, there it was, an email from Ellie.  And in the first two sentences, I was brimming with tears, which gradually turned to sobbing in gratitude and love by the end.  I won't tell you exactly what she told me -  but suffice to say that it started with a desire to hug me - and contained some of the most encouraging and uplifting affirmations I have heard in a very long time.  

I've already lost count of the number of times I've gone back to that email to read those incredible, supportive words, to feel that warm blanket of acceptance and kindness and trustworthiness enfolding me.  Ellie reached out to me across the miles, even though we've never met in person, to remind me of what is important -- and of what isn't. 

Her words made (and make) me feel ... heard.  Understood.  Even important, and not in an arrogant kind of way, but in the way every human being needs to feel valued.  Worthy.  Safe.  They gave me the courage to lean into, to make peace with, even to embrace, the truth of my birth family's rejection of me.  They gave me access to the Strength to do what I need to do - whatever that is - to accept "what is" ... and to move on.  They gave me enough wisdom to discern who are "those who matter" and who are "those who mind" - and enough security and whole-heartedness to embrace the former and to walk away from the latter.  As difficult as that is (and will be) it is also quite liberating.

I don't have to prove anything to anyone.  
I don't have to justify anything to anyone.  

I just need to look after what (and who) matters ... and leave the rest alone, because it's out of my hands.  If it was ever there in the first place, that is.