Overwhelming green and lush roadside grasses welcomed me back.
Flying down the road, feeling strong and independent
Believing I could handle anything that came, albeit a snow plow, a flatbed of hay,
Eating alone in a dive restaurant.
Yes, I could do it.
I needed this trip to tell me I could still do it.
I needed it to tell me Health and Vitality will return.
The green told me it was all true.
The social setting said none of it was true.
Someone I had not seen for decades asked,
"What's the one big thing you've learned since Rod died?"
His emotionless question shot directly to the top of my list:
"Worst things to say to a grieving person."
While I maintained the expected, social composure required of educated adults
My brain, heart, soul, and spirit spun out of control.
Wanting to say,
"What an idiot you are to ask such an academic research question!
Clearly, you know nothing of death, nothing of loss, nothing of grief!"
Instead, I took the hook that always gets me -- if I can explain it well enough then the other person will understand and have empathy.
Always a lofty intellectual goal, but not realistic in the ever deep minefield of grief.
Heard myself getting lost in this example and that example,
With emotions building deep inside with literally nowhere for them to go,
Fiddling with the half eaten piece of pie on my plate,
Wishing for a quick escape.
One man lingers at the church door with tears in his eyes,
Another tells an old classmate to back off because he's still raw with loss,
She lives now in a small apartment without her lifelong love,
His young frame is bent with pain while his cane matches Grandma's,
She puts on a brave face knowing she's the only widow in her peer group ~
They all know grief.
I wish I'd had the courage to tell the man there is no lesson, only experience.
There is no biggest or smallest thing from the past twenty months, only experience.
It's impossible to explain, for you to know, until it is your experience.
I can say, though, that those who grieve are the toughest people on the planet.
Resiliency becomes the only outfit we wear, day in and day out.
The ever present, low hum of life itching for another chance propels our steps.
Exhaustion may greet us every night as we fall into the bed that used to be full of love,
but somehow we get up every morning and do what we have to do.
For some it's faith, for some it's deeply grooved habit, for some it's blind willpower.
I wish I'd had the eloquence to tell the man about the beauty in the midst of pain,
About the dreams where Rod looks so good,
is clearly not part of this world,
And always, always, always standing by a door.
Grief winnows the heart and soul like no other tool on earth.
We take the moments of resilience along with the hours of pain and confusion,
Trusting that soon life will morph into
Hours of resilience and only moments of pain.
The trip told me I can still do it - fly down the highway independent and strong.
It broke the news that Health and Vitality will return.
In the midst of my brokenness
Wearing my widow label
I am more resilient than I knew.
With the Lord's help, I am stronger and more faithful than I thought possible 20 months ago.
Next time he comes in a dream looking younger, healthy, smiling at me, full of love and
Standing by a door
He'll know, too.
And, as he always was, he'll be proud of me.
I can do this.
I can do this, even with tears in my eyes and forever in my heart,
I can do this.
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
Friday, March 10, 2017
Rod's Name
After almost 20 months, he still gets mail. It's not important stuff, but enough to set me back every time I pick up the mail. Cabela's and Sweetwater Music are just a couple. The trash bill still carries his name after multiple requests to change the account. Many junk mail outlets have gleaned his name from who knows what lists. I can't possibly contact all of them. What am I supposed to do with this stuff several times a week? This is the kind of grief detail that people rarely hear about. I don't want his name and our address in the recycling bin so I tear the labels off before throwing it in there. But, then his name stares at me from the counter. Before I throw the remaining label pieces away I tear them up and doing this several times a week is sadly exhausting. It just seems wrong to tear up his name, but letting it pile up on the counter would be crazy.
Two weeks ago I made a home visit with a newly grieving widow. When she looked at my business card she asked the question I've heard for decades, "Castro? What kind of name is that?" Overlooking her obviously racist tone I explained, "Oh, it's Spanish. In the 1700's my husband's family received California land grants from the King of Spain. In fact, they owned much of the Monterey coast." She backed off.
Last week I met some friends after work at a restaurant near the University of Oregon. One of them was trying to remember the name of a small brewery north of Eugene. She asked, "What's the name of that place you went to with so and so when your husband was still alive?" Really? I was dumbfounded. First, of course we went when Rod was still alive. Second, she could have used his name. Third, there was no need to remind me that I was the only widow in our small group of seven.
Less than a week ago I pulled together Mom's tax material to send to her accountant in Montana. I went to my desk to get a 9x12 envelope and randomly pulled one from the middle of the stack. That was it. I was taken out. In Rod's handwriting, the return address started with Rev. Rod Castro and continued with our/my current address. He obviously changed his mind about using it and put it back in the drawer. What was I supposed to do with it? In no way could I tear it up like the junk mail labels. It's in his hand. I couldn't put it back in the drawer, either. With conflicting emotions of dread and courage, I stuck it on my studio bulletin board. It graphically reminds me, in his own hand, that he was here. His name is good. He was very much alive and had plans for the future.
Rod's name. It's precious to me and 20 months into this I struggle greatly when it's trivialized by junk mail and insensitive comments. I thrive, though, when I hear it in loving conversations, "How did Rod serve communion?" "I remember when you and Rod did......" "Rod would have..."
Yes, the names of the dead are precious and holy. Those who remain on this side of eternity need to hear them in this frame, in this space.
Two weeks ago I made a home visit with a newly grieving widow. When she looked at my business card she asked the question I've heard for decades, "Castro? What kind of name is that?" Overlooking her obviously racist tone I explained, "Oh, it's Spanish. In the 1700's my husband's family received California land grants from the King of Spain. In fact, they owned much of the Monterey coast." She backed off.
Last week I met some friends after work at a restaurant near the University of Oregon. One of them was trying to remember the name of a small brewery north of Eugene. She asked, "What's the name of that place you went to with so and so when your husband was still alive?" Really? I was dumbfounded. First, of course we went when Rod was still alive. Second, she could have used his name. Third, there was no need to remind me that I was the only widow in our small group of seven.
Less than a week ago I pulled together Mom's tax material to send to her accountant in Montana. I went to my desk to get a 9x12 envelope and randomly pulled one from the middle of the stack. That was it. I was taken out. In Rod's handwriting, the return address started with Rev. Rod Castro and continued with our/my current address. He obviously changed his mind about using it and put it back in the drawer. What was I supposed to do with it? In no way could I tear it up like the junk mail labels. It's in his hand. I couldn't put it back in the drawer, either. With conflicting emotions of dread and courage, I stuck it on my studio bulletin board. It graphically reminds me, in his own hand, that he was here. His name is good. He was very much alive and had plans for the future.
Rod's name. It's precious to me and 20 months into this I struggle greatly when it's trivialized by junk mail and insensitive comments. I thrive, though, when I hear it in loving conversations, "How did Rod serve communion?" "I remember when you and Rod did......" "Rod would have..."
Yes, the names of the dead are precious and holy. Those who remain on this side of eternity need to hear them in this frame, in this space.
Monday, February 13, 2017
The Kink and The Graces
We've always been on great terms, my two kidneys and I, over the past almost-six decades. In fact, I thought we were the best of friends...... until a few weeks ago when Ms Left decided to announce herself with pain. The very bad pain earned me a trip to the emergency department, CT scans, the urology clinic, the nuclear medicine suite, and back to the clinic. Whoever wants to go to such places? Anyway, I'd become quite familiar with the urology clinic and last week I became incredibly familiar with its outpatient surgical center. The tests and my new doctor all said something is partially obstructing the ureter/tube between Ms Left Kidney and Ms Bladder. Apparently, this is not good and swollen kidneys should be avoided. He said a stent needed to be placed in the ureter to drain the kidney and maybe he could fix the obstruction at the same time.
Mark came from Missoula to help me and we were even early for my 11AM check-in. "Mam, did they talk to you about the balance due after your insurance pays?" asked the very nice clinic clerk. I handed over my credit card and just as she placed it in the reader the power went out! Well, they all said, this had never happened before. She wasn't sure my card had gone through. "Are the generators working in the surgical suite?" was the primary question as important looking people swarmed in and out of the waiting room. I was already nervous about the surgery and this situation didn't help at all. They asked us to wait for an hour before leaving in hopes the power would return. So, I picked up stressful political magazines that Mark said I should put away. I needed to stay stress free, he counseled. He was right. Instead, I scoured my phone for Springfield Utility Board reports about the outage. Nothing there. Nothing on the news. So, we sat. And sat. And sat. Suddenly, at 11:55 AM, everything came back on and within minutes my escort arrived to take me back for surgery. Now, they were in a rush to get my procedure moving.
I was already overwhelmed by the whole thing and halfway hoping it'd be cancelled. But, before I knew it I was changing into the completely unflattering surgical gown that she said I didn't need to bother tying in the back. Right. The doctor came in and wrote "L" on my left wrist with a purple marker. Good, let's make sure you work on the left side, I thought.
The calm anesthesiologist came to prep me. She had questions, checked my lungs, more questions, and then said, "You're really nervous." That's all it took. With tears welling up I said, "This is the first medical crisis since my husband died." I was petrified because Rod wasn't in the waiting room and wouldn't be there when I woke up. She was very kind and just as she started to give me something in the IV to calm me down, an anxious office person showed up saying, "Your card didn't go through! Can we run it now?" Really? I told her my brother had it in the waiting room. "Is he on the account? Can he sign it?" "Well, no, he can't." The anesthesiologist stepped aside until the office person came back with the fresh receipt on her clipboard. I signed, she was happy, I got my drugs.
I woke up in recovery and was told the stent was placed, but, unfortunately the obstruction couldn't be fixed with this procedure and I'll need another surgery. It seems I was born with a kink. A kink? A kink in the left ureter leading from my kidney? It's been there all this time and just now presenting itself?
There's ample bereavement evidence that widowed individuals frequently experience medical crises after the death of their spouse. I know this. I talk to clients all the time about the physical manifestations of grief. But, I thought I'd escaped anything huge following Rod's death eighteen months ago. Not so fast, sister. Not so fast. Seems my system has an eighteen month grief clock. Eighteen months after my Dad's death I'd gone by ambulance to the hospital for several days in Tacoma back in 2003.
This kink has been here my whole life, the doctor says. Maybe the grief really tightened it up? Certainly possible, but hard to know for sure. Unexpected kinks come in many forms throughout life, don't they? And their counterparts, called graces, also come in beautiful ways. Rod couldn't be in the waiting room last Wednesday or with me when I woke up. However, his love has flowed through graces named Mark, Tahoe, Sue, Gail, Terie, Fran, Cynthia, Tressa, Joanne, Fran, Denise, Athena, Lori, Victoria, Krista, Nate, Julie, Dan, Larry, Tara, Bryan, Eddie, Jim, Sandy, Fred, Connie, and Diane. These graces, amongst others, are lovingly supporting me through this time.
Even with a kink, a stent, and another surgery on the horizon, I'm awed and deeply grateful for so many loving friends near and far. Maybe I was wrong last Wednesday. Maybe Rod was in that waiting room, holding my hand during surgery, and with me when my eyes opened. I think that's right. He just looks different now. He looks like all the beautiful graces carrying me through this otherwise scary experience.
Mark came from Missoula to help me and we were even early for my 11AM check-in. "Mam, did they talk to you about the balance due after your insurance pays?" asked the very nice clinic clerk. I handed over my credit card and just as she placed it in the reader the power went out! Well, they all said, this had never happened before. She wasn't sure my card had gone through. "Are the generators working in the surgical suite?" was the primary question as important looking people swarmed in and out of the waiting room. I was already nervous about the surgery and this situation didn't help at all. They asked us to wait for an hour before leaving in hopes the power would return. So, I picked up stressful political magazines that Mark said I should put away. I needed to stay stress free, he counseled. He was right. Instead, I scoured my phone for Springfield Utility Board reports about the outage. Nothing there. Nothing on the news. So, we sat. And sat. And sat. Suddenly, at 11:55 AM, everything came back on and within minutes my escort arrived to take me back for surgery. Now, they were in a rush to get my procedure moving.
I was already overwhelmed by the whole thing and halfway hoping it'd be cancelled. But, before I knew it I was changing into the completely unflattering surgical gown that she said I didn't need to bother tying in the back. Right. The doctor came in and wrote "L" on my left wrist with a purple marker. Good, let's make sure you work on the left side, I thought.
The calm anesthesiologist came to prep me. She had questions, checked my lungs, more questions, and then said, "You're really nervous." That's all it took. With tears welling up I said, "This is the first medical crisis since my husband died." I was petrified because Rod wasn't in the waiting room and wouldn't be there when I woke up. She was very kind and just as she started to give me something in the IV to calm me down, an anxious office person showed up saying, "Your card didn't go through! Can we run it now?" Really? I told her my brother had it in the waiting room. "Is he on the account? Can he sign it?" "Well, no, he can't." The anesthesiologist stepped aside until the office person came back with the fresh receipt on her clipboard. I signed, she was happy, I got my drugs.
I woke up in recovery and was told the stent was placed, but, unfortunately the obstruction couldn't be fixed with this procedure and I'll need another surgery. It seems I was born with a kink. A kink? A kink in the left ureter leading from my kidney? It's been there all this time and just now presenting itself?
There's ample bereavement evidence that widowed individuals frequently experience medical crises after the death of their spouse. I know this. I talk to clients all the time about the physical manifestations of grief. But, I thought I'd escaped anything huge following Rod's death eighteen months ago. Not so fast, sister. Not so fast. Seems my system has an eighteen month grief clock. Eighteen months after my Dad's death I'd gone by ambulance to the hospital for several days in Tacoma back in 2003.
This kink has been here my whole life, the doctor says. Maybe the grief really tightened it up? Certainly possible, but hard to know for sure. Unexpected kinks come in many forms throughout life, don't they? And their counterparts, called graces, also come in beautiful ways. Rod couldn't be in the waiting room last Wednesday or with me when I woke up. However, his love has flowed through graces named Mark, Tahoe, Sue, Gail, Terie, Fran, Cynthia, Tressa, Joanne, Fran, Denise, Athena, Lori, Victoria, Krista, Nate, Julie, Dan, Larry, Tara, Bryan, Eddie, Jim, Sandy, Fred, Connie, and Diane. These graces, amongst others, are lovingly supporting me through this time.
Even with a kink, a stent, and another surgery on the horizon, I'm awed and deeply grateful for so many loving friends near and far. Maybe I was wrong last Wednesday. Maybe Rod was in that waiting room, holding my hand during surgery, and with me when my eyes opened. I think that's right. He just looks different now. He looks like all the beautiful graces carrying me through this otherwise scary experience.
Sunday, January 29, 2017
Just 18" from the Edge
The process of installing new flooring through the house began in December. A little less than half of my studio remains to be done and Mark will be here in a couple of weeks to finish it. Today's the first time I've sat in here since it's been under construction. I'm struck by the metaphor spread out before me. I'm literally sitting 18 inches from the edge of the floor. Tahoe is strewn out across it with his towel. This side of the room is clean, comfortable, welcoming, and warm. At the edge, though, it all changes. Boxes of flooring sit open and not yet open. A lone dining chair searches for its mates. Rod's favorite chair sits in the corner. The hamper from my Mom's previous apartment is sitting on top of my road atlas on the seat. Will his chair go back to the living room? Does it need to leave the house to make space for the future? My recently installed bulletin and erasable boards hang on the wall. The window is opaque with morning light.
My prayer journal calls out, "Show me the way I should go, Lord." The edge is definitely close enough to see, stumble over, and the expanse it borders is chaotic, unknown, and yet familiar. So very much like the world I inhabit, that we all inhabit. The small portion that is known and ordered provides stability that is fleeting and almost laughs at me as it flows across the edge.
Mark will return to fix this mess. A choice will be made about Rod's chair. Cleanliness, comfort, welcome, and warmth will then fill the entire room. The edge will be hidden beneath the floorboards, but it will still be there. It will remain all around me and often much closer than 18".
Seeing the edge, intentionally stepping towards it, crossing it, and being safe in the unknown expanse is the work of grief, the work of life. Sometimes it's best to just take a seat and let the view sink in.
Sunday, January 8, 2017
The Prayer Cloth
Over the past 17+ months I've done many things to help my heart understand and adapt to the reality that Rod won't come home again. The past six weeks have been involved with new flooring, removal of a wall unit, new paint, and overall redecorating of my living space. While being housebound by snow and ice today I opened the old wicker picnic basket we had when I was a child. Inside I found a plastic bag with a tightly folded cloth with rainbow edges. The prayer cloth! I hadn't looked at it for ten years. Rod and I had draped it over our dining room table in Tacoma, 2006, when we were seeking a new call. On it we wrote the names of places with churches eager to talk with Rod. As the Lord's leading became clear, one by one they were each crossed off until Brigham City, Utah emerged on December 3, 2006.
At the beginning of the search, we started with specific verses at the top and bottom in the rainbow with the question in the middle, "Where to, Lord?" Rod's prayer is at the top ~
Today the creased cloth flooded my heart with memories of our hope to follow God's leading and our dream of future adventures. My eyes were totally surprised to see one specific place written and then crossed off: Eugene, Oregon. A church here matched with him and they talked, but it wasn't God's call. It wasn't the right place. It wasn't the right time.
Now, it is the right place and the right time. Rod made sure we got here for my work. And, the scripture from Mark, written on the cloth in 2006, speaks deeply to me tonight.
As Jesus was getting into the boat,the demon-delivered man begged
him to go along, but he wouldn't let him.
Jesus said,
"Go home to your own people.
Tell them your story,
what the Master did,
how he had mercy on you."
Through this time, Lord, give me imagination,faith, and hope to be here now, to tell my story of the great, great mercy You have shown me. Great mercy, indeed.
Hesitant to Return - 8 January 2017
The universe has shifted in ways I would have never predicted.
My mirror and backbone have vanished.
I've been very hesitant to return to this page.
The man who used to come through the door at the end of day to joke about fruit in my cooking is no longer alive.
Volumes of journals rest next to my bed as my intimate companions of these past almost 18 months.
The river of healing I wrote about in August 2014 still flows and holds more value and preciousness than I could have imagined when we were joined there in our service of healing and forgiveness.
The universe has shifted in ways I would have never predicted.
Ice surrounds my trees and bushes right now, but warmer air is moving in. The dripping has begun, with potential for flooding.
Could warmer air be coming to me, too?
Could the ice containing my existence, protecting me from further harm, soon start to drip, to wane, to vanish away?
Could flooding call me back to my life? Back to my heart? Back to my creativity?
I don't know.
All I know is that I returned to this page today trying to continue my stories -
First time since the immediate ravages of Rod's death.
There, I typed it.
I don't think anyone reads this blog.
There's something quite weird about putting my thoughts out there online for anyone to see.
There's also something that hints of life, life taking an itsy bitsy chance at creating again.
His life force flew out the window with such certainty and focus that it took my breath away, too.
But, I need it back.
I really need it back.
The universe has shifted in ways I would have never predicted.
Saturday, February 21, 2015
Today's Dementia Log
Today the room stank when I walked in. Most of my visits begin while she's at a meal so I can check things out. The last time it smelled like this was the beginning of a terrible stomach bug that went through the whole place and included my stomach and my place.
Quickly I assessed the bed was rumpled, but not soiled. The new pants purchased just a week ago were hanging over one of the dining chairs as opposed to the laundry basket in the bathroom. They were wet and soiled. Following my new self-preservation protocol I put on a pair of gloves, got a garbage bag, and without any fanfare put the new pants in the bag for the trash. Next, I wiped down the chair with a disinfectant wipe. I opened the patio door to air the room out, but the smell was still strong.
I hadn't looked at the chair at first, but there it was. Smeared poop on the edge of the beautiful upholstery and on the blanket covering the chair that I'd just washed last weekend. Another pair of gloves, another bag, another trip outside.
When I returned she was back in her chair having not noticed her guest chair had been turned against the wall so she wouldn't sit in it without the cushion. All she noticed was my arrival and that it was really cold in the room.
"Mom, I had to remove the chair cushion again because I have to get the poop off of it. Are you feeling ok? When did this happen? This morning? Yesterday? Are your socks clean? Let me see. I have your pants (no mention of their demise in the trash outside). I know you try to take care of everything yourself, but you need to call for help next time you have a mess. The aide can help you get your pants off without making a mess on the furniture. Can you try to press your button and call for help next time?"
"Yes."
"Good, that'll be very helpful. Now, do you want to play some Scrabble?"
"Yes."
And the next two hours wittled away with game after game. She caught every word I misspelled.
Later in the afternoon I hosed the blanket and slipcover off on my front porch. All the while I kept wondering "How can she still spell, but doesn't know when she has to use the toilet?"
If I were playing Scrabble only using words to describe this experience of trying to care for her through this dreadful dementia journey I'd use - baffling- pathetic - sad - maddening.
Two afternoons ago she started to cry when I was leaving, "Why are you crying?" "It's so sad that I have to live here." Yes, yes it is. What is happening to her is beyond sad, pathetic, baffling, and maddening. It's unstoppable and cruel.
Quickly I assessed the bed was rumpled, but not soiled. The new pants purchased just a week ago were hanging over one of the dining chairs as opposed to the laundry basket in the bathroom. They were wet and soiled. Following my new self-preservation protocol I put on a pair of gloves, got a garbage bag, and without any fanfare put the new pants in the bag for the trash. Next, I wiped down the chair with a disinfectant wipe. I opened the patio door to air the room out, but the smell was still strong.
I hadn't looked at the chair at first, but there it was. Smeared poop on the edge of the beautiful upholstery and on the blanket covering the chair that I'd just washed last weekend. Another pair of gloves, another bag, another trip outside.
When I returned she was back in her chair having not noticed her guest chair had been turned against the wall so she wouldn't sit in it without the cushion. All she noticed was my arrival and that it was really cold in the room.
"Mom, I had to remove the chair cushion again because I have to get the poop off of it. Are you feeling ok? When did this happen? This morning? Yesterday? Are your socks clean? Let me see. I have your pants (no mention of their demise in the trash outside). I know you try to take care of everything yourself, but you need to call for help next time you have a mess. The aide can help you get your pants off without making a mess on the furniture. Can you try to press your button and call for help next time?"
"Yes."
"Good, that'll be very helpful. Now, do you want to play some Scrabble?"
"Yes."
And the next two hours wittled away with game after game. She caught every word I misspelled.
Later in the afternoon I hosed the blanket and slipcover off on my front porch. All the while I kept wondering "How can she still spell, but doesn't know when she has to use the toilet?"
If I were playing Scrabble only using words to describe this experience of trying to care for her through this dreadful dementia journey I'd use - baffling- pathetic - sad - maddening.
Two afternoons ago she started to cry when I was leaving, "Why are you crying?" "It's so sad that I have to live here." Yes, yes it is. What is happening to her is beyond sad, pathetic, baffling, and maddening. It's unstoppable and cruel.
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