The Waiting Room ... Again

 Since my last post, most of the time has been spent in waiting. Day-to-day duties and chores are getting done, even if a bit late at times. The main feature of our moments has been hubby's pain management, as the tumour on the pancreas presses in on his spine and causes nerve pain, which we are managing with prescribed pain-killers. 

We have been charting the little victories: the chiropractor whose treatments and whose prayers over him have reduced the severity of the pain - as the muscles around the area are very tight and increase the pain, and discouragement also increases the pain - and we look forward to those sessions.

Free photo from Pixabay

I've been waiting specifically for any contact from Oncology. Thankfully, two days ago (Friday, July 3) we got a call from the Cancer Centre with the information we'd been waiting to hear: he has appointments this coming week - July 6, 7, and 8 - culminating with a consultation with the medical (chemo) oncologist who will be working with us. I say "us" because we are just as much a part of hubby's treatment as the chemotherapy drugs will be. 

We've been asked to bring a few things: his health care card, his medical insurance number, and his pills (including supplements and over-the-counter meds) in their actual pill bottles. That leads me to believe that they will be billing his medical insurance for the chemotherapy drugs, and they are NOT CHEAP. Since his plan covers only 80% of the cost, there will be a cost to him for the treatments that have the purpose of trying to kill the cancer while saving his life. 

Wow. Just ... wow.

To ask for help is not in our nature, so I'm not going to do so at the moment. People have been very kind, offering help in tangible ways like mowing the grass or transporting garbage bins, etc., and we are grateful for every single act of love and support we have been receiving, knowing full well that there is no way we can repay anyone for their kindness. We are so humbled by their generosity. We are so blessed by their love and their prayers and positive thoughts toward us. 

Nobody has been negative - at least, not on purpose - and we are grateful for that as well. We can feel the love holding us up, the prayers acting like a life-jacket in deep water, the social media likes and comments that remind us that we are not in this alone. It all helps. So, even though it feels so NOT enough for me to say, I say it anyway: THANK YOU ALL. 

We still believe in miracles, whether they come instantly or gradually. And we look forward to what our Higher Power will do through those whom He has gifted with special talents and gifts.   

Dearest Judy

 One of the hardest things about life is when the opposite happens, and we are forced (ready or not) to say goodbye. I am no stranger to separation by death. Yet every time it happens to a beloved family member or a close friend, it feels just as awful, just as violent - whether the person died in their sleep or in a tragic accident, or whether there was time to prepare or not. 

One of those incidents happened not long ago. A dear friend, unbeknownst to me, had a stroke and dropped out of view. When Judy was not on social media for 3 weeks, I began to get concerned and I contacted her family, who told me about the stroke. She was in the hospital. 

Judy had always been so strong, so independent, that we did not think much of the fact that she was getting old and it was getting harder for her to move around. We enjoyed her company, her laugh, her stories, her enjoyment of the little things, and most of all her love. When she would call me, she would identify herself as "Judy too," as my name is Judy. We would invite her to our house for Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. She and I would make "play dates" or as I called them, "aerie times", referencing our favourite metaphor, the eagle. She would invite our family to Dairy Queen and pay for our meals. She prayed every single day for each of us, as well as for her family and other friends. What a precious lady.

My husband and I went to see her on Christmas day 2023 when she was in the stroke unit; she was largely unresponsive, and her words slurred when she spoke, as if she was drunk. About a week later, we went in to see her again. This time she had been moved to a full-care unit where people go to recover. We were hopeful that she would get better. However, it struck me while we were there that they had put in a feeding tube through her abdominal wall into her stomach. She was totally dependent on them. I remember being grateful that the stroke seemed to affect her ability to compare the quality of her current life with the one she had been living prior to the stroke. We wanted to make our visits a regular thing.

The week after that, we got sick with some sort of flu and we didn't go to see her for fear that she would catch our sickness, which would not have been good. We were sick for about three weeks. 

During the time we were sick, Judy passed away. We didn't know. One day in early February, I went onto her wall on Facebook, and learned from a post someone left that she had passed, just about a month or so prior to her 80th birthday. 

I'd been keeping a Christmas card for her in my purse, which i wrote to her after our second visit. Yesterday I was looking for something else ... and I found it. Slowly, I un-tucked the back flap of the envelope, and slid the card out. The picture was of a cardinal. Inside I had written a short note to her from us, and I started it out with "Dearest Judy," as I often did on Christmas or her birthday. 

I froze. Floods of memories from before the stroke came to me, as if to comfort me. 

Try as I might, I could not (and cannot) be sad for her. In 2007, she lost her beloved husband Bob to a heart attack, and she often spoke of him with us, because we knew him from when they were married. We knew that they were reunited after all this time (this coming April 3rd it would have been 17 years). She is happy and pain-free for the first time in many years - head injuries from a previous relationship gave her Menière's Disease, affecting her hearing and her balance. She is finally free of it. 

No, I cannot be sad for her. However, I can be sad for me. I will miss this wonderful big sister of mine, who was technically old enough to be my mother. I will miss our long talks, our prayer sessions, our sing-songs, her vivid imagination, and so much more. I will miss how articulate and talented in writing she was, how spiritual and yet down-to-earth she was. 

And I can imagine her keeping watch over us all, in that "great cloud of witnesses" the Scriptures mention (Hebrews 11, I believe, but I could be wrong.) I can picture her joining our daughter Arielle's twerking class (Mother Theresa was her first graduate, haha)... and dancing with all her might. I can imagine her singing while Bob makes his heavenly electric guitar just wail ... and I know that while it seems like a long time here, it won't be long for her when she turns around and I'll be standing there, arms wide for a big hug.

Annnd GO!

 I'm less than 38 hours away from my orientation at my practicum site. Normally I would write this on my student counselling blog, but I wanted to reflect on my feelings as I start to turn this corner into a second career as a counsellor.

I've done similar work to counselling before: six years as a La Leche League leader (breastfeeding support via telephone and in monthly group meetings), six months as a mentor to an at-risk single mom, and of course face-to-face practice counselling of my classmates in my grad program. 

But real-world, real-time clients? I would be an idiot if I were to not feel some trepidation. And I do!  

I have the feeling that once I get into seeing clients, things will come together. I have the training, I have the practice, and I know how to use the theories effectively. I just need to calm my jitters and take one client, one day, sometimes even one moment, at a time, and things will all come together.

Photo from http://www.pixabay.com

I do know that I feel a strong sense of gratitude for all that I have been given, not the least of which is my family and their support and encouragement. The same goes for my close friends, my work colleagues, my former and current classmates, my profs, my supervisor, and my on-site mentor. I have been (and am) thoroughly blessed by my higher power. 

The reality is that I don't have any clients booked yet. Other than times booked to observe my supervisor, my appointment book is empty. I'm trying not to panic, and I've been getting the word out, but it's hard not to worry that I won't be able to get the number of clients I need to satisfy my university's expectations for the first couple of months of my practicum. So here's where the rubber meets the road. Do I trust God? Do I trust myself? Where are all these people who keep complaining that there aren't enough counsellors in my province and they have to wait for months to see one? At what point do I ask for help? 

My emotions are in a bit of a jumble, as you can imagine. I am both confident and unsure, excited and terrified, happy and nervous, hopeful and discouraged. I believe I have done all I can, but I wonder if it's enough. 

Time will tell. 

I truly hope that three months from now, I will be able to be confident with no question marks in the back of my mind. 

So, here goes!

The strange face of gratitude

Almost nine days ago, on February 24, 2020 at 10:10 pm, my brother passed away. It was unexpected, as he had been getting slowly better with dialysis and his kidney function was improving. But one of his two catheters, the one that carried his bile out of the gall bladder, became infected and caused blood poisoning (also known as sepsis.) He became too weak to get out of bed, and to make a long story short, after police got to him, he was in bad shape and died later in hospital from septic shock.

I say this only to set the stage for all of the aftermath of his passing.

Free photo by Larisa-K at pixabay

My brother and I were as close as any brother and sister could be. He and I were like soul-mates. We thought alike, felt the same things, and had the same background. We "got" each other. Almost every day, separated by the miles, we talked for at least a half hour, sometimes as much as three hours. And we enjoyed ourselves to the full while doing so. It was a joy to talk to him, to watch him grow as a person, to share experiences and thoughts and hopes with him and he with me, to make plans together for the future, to talk of our love for God, for family, for animals, for nature, for music, and for life.

I miss him terribly. And time will not diminish the pain of that. Only Love can.

In the last few days, I have had the opportunity to look back and marvel at how many wonderful and miraculous things have happened. Leave alone the miracles in his own life: being cured of colon cancer in 2017, surviving two heart attacks (fall 2017 and winter 2019), and witnessing many other smaller miracles of the everyday. Just in his passing and the subsequent events arising from that, I have been able to be thankful for several things:

• He did not die alone and undiscovered. This was his greatest fear, and it was on a day when he was expected at a medical appointment (dialysis) that I finally got someone to check on him and knew enough to call 9-1-1.
• He was spared having to say goodbye to our mother.  He was anxious regarding how he would handle her death. She is still alive (although she has dementia), so he was spared this pain.
• He was ready.  He was finally moving toward feeling at ease in his own skin, and he was growing spiritually and so excited for the things he was learning about how to live life. There is no doubt in my mind that he is waiting for me on the other side, enjoying restored / perfect health and strength in everything that gave (and gives) him joy.
• My husband is retired, and he never left my side during this whole ordeal of going out of province, making arrangements, and greeting people I had not seen in decades (and whom he barely knew) - even though it is outside his comfort zone. That's love, and that heals.
• My daughter was able to stay home and look after the animals all week, and she, too, went outside her own comfort zone to come and attend the funeral with us. This is a huge deal for her, because the thought of losing people in her life makes her very anxious and panicky.
• My work situation is such that I was able to take the time off to make arrangements for his funeral, plus some time to decompress. My boss was unexpectedly understanding about the whole thing.
• Co-worker after co-worker ... each has expressed condolences on Facebook. They really do care. That blows me away.
• I was in the middle of taking a break from my studies when this happened. As a result, my schooling was not interrupted, and I didn't lose any marks for lack of concentration. My brother was so proud of me for taking steps to be a counselor. He rejoiced with me over every milestone. He would want me to graduate with full honors.
• The circumstances of his death, plus the communication with family and friends, re-established old ties long since given up for lost.
• The fact that he died in the winter meant that there was no committal service (graveside) and I was spared the stress and pain of seeing his body put in the ground, the hardest part of death rituals for me.
• The love from family and friends has been nothing short of miraculous and has even now already started the healing process.
• My psychologist is amazing. I saw her yesterday and poured out my heart regarding many of the above things - in detail - and she listened and supported me in my grieving process.

I could say much more, but I will stop there. All of those things (and more) has left me with something I never expected:  the strange face of gratitude in the middle of my suffering, in the process of my grief.  That does not mean that I am untouched by losing him. Rather, it means that I feel somehow honored to have been a part of his life for as long as he was here - with no regrets for having helped him as much as I could - and privileged to be a part of a circle of family and friends that, unknown to me, was there all along.

Gratitude is a strange response to grief. But here I am. Grateful. And grieving. But grateful.

Existence versus Life

As I write this, my mind and heart is a jumble of myriad tangled feelings, thoughts, memories, and pain – each competing with the other and yet co-existing and draining my strength as they fight their constant battle. This battle? This war? This is grief. This is love when arms can no longer hold the loved one.

Less than 48 hours ago, my brother Ben passed away from septic shock combined with pneumonia that he developed from an infection in a tube-site for his gall bladder. The tube was initially inserted in February 2017 and his surgeon hesitated to remove both it and the gall bladder for fear of him experiencing a coronary on the table. He had atherosclerosis (with a total of 3 stents in various heart arteries, for which he was taking a blood-thinner since the last heart attack on February 14, 2019.)  He also had insulin-dependent diabetes, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, nephrolithiasis, and chronic renal failure, and he was on dialysis three times a week.

In fact, that’s how I found out that he was in trouble. His dialysis nurse called me and said he didn’t show up for his Monday morning appointment. After trying to reach him, thinking he had overslept, I called a relative and asked them to go check to see if he was at home. His car was, but he didn’t answer. After that, I called 911 who patched me through to the RCMP. They went to his house, saw him awake on his bed through his (main floor) bedroom window, and he was unable to get up. They broke the door down and called the EMT people. That would have been around 3 pm or so. The EMTs came and got an IV started. They took him to the local hospital who assessed him and intubated him as he was having difficulty breathing. Then they ambulanced him to the hospital where he normally did his dialysis. They got him there around 7 p.m.  Three hours after he got there, he took a turn for the worse, and went into septic shock. The nurse called me and asked me or someone to come to the hospital right now. They tried to revive him three times but to no avail. At 10:15 pm, he was pronounced dead.

And that is what the doctor told me ten minutes later, over the phone, as I was getting my coat on to make the two-and-a-half-hour trip to see him. Such pain I had not felt in over six years since my youngest daughter died at the age of 21.

My night-time trip was cancelled, of course. I made plans to pack up the next day, and go to the homestead to assess the damage and the mess. I might have slept four hours that night. The next night, with the help of some Melatonin, I slept for six hours, although there was one interruption at five a.m. when Ben’s alarms went off to remind him to get up for dialysis. Hopefully, tonight will be better.

During my waking hours, I have been doing a lot of thinking about the difference between existing and living. For most of his life, Ben just existed. He grew up thinking that he was a nuisance to his parents. He bore the inner scars of physical and psychological abuse by his mom and abandonment by his dad who never stopped her, and the bruises of an older brother who criticized everything he did and regularly pounded on him. He bore other scars too: a marriage that lasted only 14 years before it ended in divorce, alienation from his sons, rejection from an endless string of women, as well as being used by women who befriended him only for his bank account. His was a lonely life. He battled the loneliness with his art: he could draw landscapes, animals, and people just by looking at pictures of things. He composed so many songs and sang them with me and with that older brother when we were all so young (I was 16 at the time, so he was 22 and the other brother was 26) – gospel songs that were so beautiful you could hear a pin drop when we were done.

Yet he suffered. I remember him coming home from senior high school and sobbing as he begged me never EVER to judge a man just on his appearance. I never EVER forgot his words. 

Yes, most of his life he was a melancholy man. He existed; he created beautiful things and appreciated beauty in nature and in people, but his existence was spent waiting for the next good thing to happen, and being disappointed time after time after time. 

After his divorce in the early 1990s, he moved in with Mom and Dad. He was there for Mom after Dad passed away, and he made sure he was there to look after things for her. Others would come in and see him lazing around, as they called it. He rested because he couldn’t breathe if he got up and moved around. He had so many ailments: his lungs, his kidneys, his heart, his gall bladder, his pancreas,… people didn’t understand and he felt a lot of condemnation come from them. Nobody understood him, he told me, except me. And sometimes even that wasn’t enough to tame the monsters of hatred and bullying that he experienced – whether real or imagined – from others.

Once, he even tried to commit suicide. He had finally learned how to love unconditionally, and his girlfriend stole from him and used the money to get high. 

A few months later that girl died … and it took him months to make peace with that.

Photo "Eye" by graur codrin at www.freedigitalphotos.net

But by that time, he had learned to live. To REALLY LIVE.

You see, in October 2016, Ben had been diagnosed with stage one colon cancer. And in January 2017, he underwent a six-hour procedure to remove the cancer along with a 5-inch section of bowel. And when he woke from that surgery, while he was still recovering in the hospital, he was listening to the radio and a singer Skip Ewing was singing, “How can he be a king? He’s just a kid.” And God spoke to him in his heart, and said, “Are you listening, son?”  And he responded, tears streaming down his face, “Yes, Father. I’m here. I hear You.”

From that moment on, Ben started to really LIVE. He had some setbacks and some heartaches (like the death of that girlfriend). And he was living on a very limited income, never knowing if he would need to starve in order to be warm, or to freeze in order to eat. It was hard. It was REALLY hard. But he was finally LIVING. We would talk on the phone – and I would let him listen to music that he liked – and he would cry tears of beauty and joy. He never forgot how God rescued him, miraculously let him live, and would look after his every need. Even if he misplaced his car keys. Or his needles. Or his wallet.

Last year, on Valentine’s Day 2019, he suffered a major heart attack. The paramedics found him and the emergency team had to put an intravenous shunt through his shin bone to give him liquids. He screamed in pain and then his heart went into atrial fibrillation. They had to use the paddles to get him back – and he was “gone” for a few seconds there.

He remembered those few seconds. He felt completely at peace. He couldn’t see anything, but he knew that he was loved, cared for, and safe. And from that time onward, he lost his fear of death. He lost his fear of living, too. And the living he had been doing up until then just intensified. He could not keep silent about God’s love for him. Anyone who knew him heard him talk about higher things, spiritual things, wonderful things like love and joy and peace and goodness. He touched so many people that way: people in dialysis, people in drug stores, people at church, in grocery store lineups, everywhere.

That’s not to say that he didn’t have questions. We would talk for hours at a time as he tried to understand some spiritual concept or other. We talked almost every day, for up to two or three hours at a time. (It’s a good thing I have such a good cell phone plan that includes free long distance!) But every time we talked, he would not hesitate to tell me what he had been learning, what God showed him or how He helped him find something he needed. Or met a need in his finances. Or let him talk to someone about his experiences in the Lord.

And now this week, I have been living in his house without him here. Memories galore. Yet it feels so surreal: not quite right, like he should be here laughing and joking with us, listening to YouTube videos, or talking about how wonderful Heaven is.

And yes, he could not let a conversation go by before he mentioned how deeply he longed to see his Master’s face, to walk the shores of Glory with Him, to hug Dad, and to jam with friends and family gone ahead.

And now he is there. And he is LIVING beyond his wildest imaginings – and he could imagine a LOT!!

Good night Ben. See you in the Morning. Keep a chair for me by the hearth, and say hi to Dad for me. I love you beyond measure. 

And … I will miss you. I’ll never forget what you taught me about how to live life in a positive way and not just exist expecting the worst.

Thank you. Thank you SO MUCH.

Saplings

I helped my family plant a couple of saplings today in our back yard. They were special saplings ... two different types of apple trees. One was a Honeycrisp and the other was a Red Nova (kind of like a cross between a Cortland and a McIntosh).

They came to us in a box, perfectly packed for shipment, with the root ball protected in a plastic bag with slightly moist compost around it.  And the saplings themselves looked to be little more than sticks. Long, bumpy sticks with a few tiny buds starting to poke through the tender bark. Below these tiny shoots, on each "tree", you could just barely make out the place where the grower had grafted the fruit-bearing portion of the tree onto the original sapling (the one attached to the root ball). That graft, apparently, was our guarantee that the tree would produce the type of apples for which we had ordered the trees... if that makes any sense. 

It will take a couple of years for these little sticks to resemble trees, and to produce blossoms in the spring. They will need to be staked before this fall to grow straight and tall, and they will need to be covered in burlap before the snow falls this year to protect them from the howling winds and deep snow. They have already undergone quite a process to get to the point they were when we received them, and they will need to be carefully tended until they can stand against whatever Mother Nature throws at them. 

Photo by Matthias Cooper from Pexels

I kind of feel like I am at that stage as a budding counselor. I feel bare, but I am showing growth; most of the growth is underneath, and I feel quite vulnerable.

To continue the analogy, even though I have not graduated from my Master's program, I have already done some growing and have experienced some cutting and healing - just like the graft that guarantees success - and I have started to send out a few tentative leaf-tips. I feel as though I've been planted in fresh soil, and part of me feels like I need to have support as I face the next year of my life when I will do the most growing I will have ever done. Hands-on experience is far superior to book learning - and I sure feel like I have done enough reading and studying to last me a while! So now it is time to move onward and put what I have learned into practice (pun intended.) 

My practicum has been approved, and I will be working on my Learning Plan over the next month or so with my future supervisor, in order to start my hands-on work in September. It is so surreal to realize that a year from now, I will have finished my practicum and will be taking my final course in the program. What an amazing ride it's going to be! 

There are still a few things to iron out between now and September, but these will fall into place as time goes on. I am looking forward to continuing my studies, to the helping hands and hearts of those who will be my "stakes" throughout the growing process, and to new growth in the meantime. 

The blossoms will come soon enough. I'm just taking it one day at a time. :)

Feeling ==> showing

Ever noticed how in some relationships, if you ask each individual, they feel lots of love for the other person but each person feels unloved? Parents and children, spouses, friends, brothers and sisters often fall prey to this seeming roadblock. We love the other person but we are not sure they love us.

The problem is not loving. The problem is SHOWING love. Let me explain.

A teenager loves his parents but they don't really talk much (no common interests, perhaps), and he doesn't know if they really love him because all they seem to do is tell him no. The parents love the teen but they wonder if the teen loves them back because all the teen seems to do is break the rules. Each of them silently asks the question, "Do you still love me?" What a tragedy. 

So on it goes. The problem is not that they don't love each other; they DO! The problem is that they have no idea how to SHOW that love. 

In his book, "How to Really Love Your Teenager", Dr. Ross Campbell, a child psychiatrist, describes this phenomenon and also gives the solution. The answer is in learning to communicate love in a way that the other person will understand. In our Western culture, his advice is sound. He gives three cornerstones to communicating love:

1. Eye contact
2. Physical contact
3. Focused attention

It sounds simple, doesn't it? Yet it can be hard to learn to do. I have learned, however, that it does work. Making the time to talk, and not being distracted by other things, can do a lot to bridge the gaps and repair relationships. Each person needs to know that they matter to the other. You can say it, and yes, please do, but showing it backs up those words. Establishing this kind of relationship early is the best way to ensure that the other person is secure in the relationship, but it is never too late to start.

I'd like to say a few things about each of these cornerstones I mentioned above. Perhaps by giving some examples, I can spark your imagination to try something that would be specific and meaningful to you. You can do them with family members (spouse, kids, parents, siblings) or close friends. They don't just apply to teens. (Everyone needs to feel worthy of love and belonging, as Brené Brown says.)

Eye contact - In our family, the 'wink' - even from across a room - can convey a special meaning. It can mean, "I notice what you're doing, way to go!" Similarly, it can mean, "I'm proud of you." And in certain situations where the person may be nervous, the 'wink' can mean, "I believe in you! You got this!" 

Okay, I know that these days, a lot of teens don't make eye contact well. But they will know that you are looking at them when they talk to you. And in some cases, it's a good bridge-builder to have talks while driving in the car. They don't feel threatened by your gaze, but you can talk about pretty important stuff when you have to be 20 minutes (or longer) in a car going somewhere together. 

But adults? Yeah, we were brought up to pay attention. In our generation, it shows respect when you look at someone who is talking to you.  So show respect. Please. It could save your relationships.

Physical contact - I get it that some folks are not touchy-feely. That's okay. But sometimes a hand on someone's shoulder when they are having a rough day can express in a non-verbal way that you care about their feelings. And nowhere is this more true than in families: with your spouse and with your child(ren). 

In our family, a hug goes a long way. Not just that sterile, pat-pat-pat type of hug but one of those fierce, heart-felt, "I'm with you" hugs. Life is tough sometimes! Hugs can help. They can communicate a feeling of solidarity, support, and caring. I've experienced hugs from one of my family members that lifted me off my feet - and aside from throwing me a little off-balance, those hugs told me that, as a teary Samwise Gamgee said in Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, when the burden of carrying the One Ring got too much for Frodo to bear, "I may not be able to carry it for you, Mister Frodo, but I can carry you." And Sam picked Frodo up, Ring and all, and carried him the rest of the way to the top of the mountain. Such expression of love and support is hard to show with just a few Hallmark cards a year. 

Focused attention - In our fast-paced, information-highway world, giving someone focused attention takes something we don't think we have: time. Off with the TV, the cell phone, and/or the video game. Make a date. Go somewhere; it doesn't have to cost a dime. Our kids and I used to go to the local public pool; they would play in the water while I watched. Sometimes I would even go in the pool and splash around a bit. But I was always watching them, drinking in their enjoyment, knowing that at any moment they would look back to see if I was looking. And I was. "Watch me, Mommy!" means something to a child. It's important to him or her. I could have sat there with a book but it would not have meant as much as being WITH them, being PRESENT. 

Photo by it's me neosiam from Pexels

I lost track of the times we would go to the animal shelter and just visit with the critters. Our one family rule was that we were there to look and visit the animals, not whine and plead to take one (or all) of them home (unless previously decided.) I remember the folks at the shelter got to recognize us. We obeyed all the shelter rules (no running; ask permission; wash your hands after you handle the animals, etc.) and we had a whole lot of fun. And it never cost us a nickel (or in those days, a penny. We don't have pennies in Canada anymore.) 

I also can't count the number of times I have heard someone say to me about their spouse, "He (or she) never listens to me!" as they described a spouse totally absorbed in the TV or the newspaper, or a computer game. Or some sort of sport or hobby. It's a relationship. You can't have a relationship without relating!! Focused attention means that you give the person your undivided attention. And that needs to happen on a regular basis. I'm not saying not to read the paper, watch TV, or have a hobby or interest. Just make time for the people you love doing something you will both / all enjoy.

One more side-note about spending time together while giving focused attention. You know when you tell your friend, "Yeah, we really should get together sometime," and it doesn't happen for weeks? or even months? Ummm, "sometime" usually doesn't work, especially if you (or your friend) has mental wellness issues. Instead of "sometime," how about "WHEN can we spend time together (or have coffee, or lunch, or an evening)?" Nail down a time and a place. Put it on your appointment calendar. I'm just saying. And I'm talking to me as much as to anyone else.

As 2019 dawns, we might do well to invest our time in strengthening the relationships we have and making connections with the people who mean the most to us. It will be worth it. Trust me.

New Vistas

In my last post, I was about to go to a couple of interviews for practicum placements, and I said that I might have an offer on the table by the end of that interview day.

I did. And I accepted without hesitation!

My university, once I had informed them of the details, was very quick to accept my practicum proposal (12 minutes, no kidding!) and now I am looking at being an intern starting in September 2018. For real. Me.

There is still a lot of work to do before I can get to the first day of my internship, and it will take a lot of hard slogging in between, but in this moment, as I have crested the hill I have been climbing so arduously the last few months, I can see a new landscape opening up to me. I see some of the road ahead. I can almost see what some of the journey will look like. 

Photo "Double Rainbow" courtesy of evgeni deniv at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

One friend mentioned to me, when I was chatting with him the other day,  that after one man climbed Mount Everest for the first time and stood on the summit, he realized that at some point he would have to climb back down again. And that is part of what I'm experiencing as well ... but I also know that I will have help. 

I won't have to go it alone. I will have the assistance of a great practicum supervisor, my professor and practicum advisor, my classmates, my employer, and my family and friends.  Even though I will be living alone for the first time in my life, doing things I have never done before, I will have a support network that I know will come alongside / beneath me and help me to adjust. I'm not worried in the least. 

Funny isn't it.

Next week I will be attending a workshop on the kind of work that I will be doing as a practicum student and the clientele with which I will be working. And then, in the weeks that follow, I will be working with my practicum supervisor to formulate my learning plan so that I can submit it to the university in early June.  After that, I will be taking care of some details that have more to do with accommodations, work arrangements, and transportation, so that I am settled in my "new place" before I show up to my first day at the practicum site. But all that will unfold as it needs to. There is the overwhelming sense that I am doing what I was meant to do - and that events will play out the way they are meant to play out. 

For the moment, I am enjoying the view. And the view, if I may say so, is spectacular...  

Around the Bend

I like to be able to see a clear path ahead. I like to know what is coming so that I have time to prepare. I like it, but it doesn't often happen.

There are bends in the road. Where I live, the members of my family joke about how the designers of the roads must have been on a drunken binge because the roads twist and wind and nearly turn back on themselves so much that if you took all the curves out, and went in a straight line, you could get to your destination 80% quicker. 

Mind you, the scenery would be a lot more boring. :) 

Photo "Serpentine Path Stones On A Park Lawn (concept)"
courtesy of arturo at www.freedigitalphotos.net

Lately, in my work and professional life, things have been taking quite the twisty path.  After my best prospect for a counselling practicum placement fell through in my city, I received rejection after rejection until I had exhausted all possibilities. It was quite discouraging.

I had also looked into placements outside of the province, but these seemed unworkable... until one day my husband indicated that he would be willing to make whatever sacrifices he needed to make to allow my dream to become a reality - and if that meant me living in a neighbouring province, then so be it. 

Really?

Yes, really. So I contacted these prospects and tomorrow, I will be attending two interviews with these places. By the end of the day, there MAY even be an offer on the table. In the space of about two or three short weeks, I have gone from ultimate discouragement to first a glimmer, and now a beam of hope. And not a moment too soon.... with only three weeks until my practicum arrangement must be approved by my grad school, timelines are tight. 

And yet ... and yet aside from the usual jittery feelings preceding an interview, the deep inside part of me feels a sense of calm about the whole thing, like I don't need to be concerned about it.  It will be what it is. And it could be quite wonderful. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. And before you know it, I will be around that next bend in the road.