Category: family

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True Love

Something caught my eye. I looked up and to the right and saw a woman in her late forties trying to help her aging mom down the stadium steps. Her mother was petrified. She was shaking her head no and holding on to the safety banister for dear life. The daughter pulled her mother’s arms, trying to get her to budge.

It was her feet. I couldn’t stop looking at her feet. Pink Keds with white laces folded around white ankle socks. The way the foot tapped around looking for some safe place to be, the feet of someone older, someone less steady. I saw Grandma Jean in those feet.

Joe turned to me and asked, “Should I help?” “Yes! Do it now!” I replied.

I remembered how Grandma Jean had been scared to fall. How Joe and his aunts and uncles had at first helped her move from chair to walker, walker to car. One person in front, one on the side and someone in back so she would feel safe. Then it was chair to walker to bed. And then there wasn’t a lot of moving anywhere anymore.

I heard the older woman murmuring in a small voice and I wondered if she had dementia. Something about how she didn’t seem to recognize her daughter or the place or what they were doing. She was just afraid to the exclusion of everything else.

I thought about my dad. His dementia has made it nearly impossible to carry on a phone conversation. I miss him. I miss the old him that would get into a lively discussion about pretty much anything and told the corniest jokes in the universe. The kind that made you groan so deep you could cause an earthquake. I love this latest version of him, this softer, gentler version, I will always love however he is, but I hate the disease that makes him unsure of how to speak to someone in case he just asked that question a minute ago or makes him forget who those nice people are in his home, my kids. I hate the uncertainty on his face knowing he’s worried on the inside and aware enough to feel scared or stupid or ashamed.

In an instant Joe jumped up and went behind the older woman, grasping her around the waist and telling her in her ear, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You won’t fall. I’ve got you.” And I watched my husband help support her weight and walk her down those steps to sit by her husband, who this entire time had been standing in the row, waiting for his wife, with a look of frustration and love on his face, having been told to stay put by the daughter, realizing his older body wasn’t going to be of much help getting his wife down the stairs, but being unable to sit down and relax until she was next to him, his fists clenching and unclenching.

It was awkward, that walking down the steps all together, the daughter in front showing her mom the way and Joe in back supporting her weight. They jerked down one step at a time. People were starting to stare. Joe kept encouraging her, never stopped talking in her ear. Slowly the procession made it to the row and there was profuse thanks from the daughter and her father to Joe as they all sat down.

I was overcome with so many feelings and started to weep a little. I saw Grandma Jean, my dad, myself in 40 years, and even Phyllis who was loved by everyone but especially her family, just as this woman was.

And I fell deeply in love with my husband all over again.

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5/12/11

Today was a low day. A very low day.

In another life, today would have been the day I decided things were too hard to bear and so bleak I’d never see the blue skies again.

I would have left my OBGYN results appointment (from the same woman who raked me internally) knowing she wants me to get my uterus biopsied because she thinks it’s precancerous and knowing she wants me to get on birth-control pills and remembering how she called me a liar just moments before when I showed her my daily food logs and exercise chart, because I’m fat, so I must not be telling her the truth. And how she rolled her eyes at me when I explained how painful the fibroids in my breasts make a mammogram.

I would have placed those thoughts next to the ones from the two rheumatologists who tell me I have lupus and need to take antimalarial drugs and noninflammatory drugs and muscle relaxers and it doesn’t matter what I eat or what drugs I take, my life is going to be painful, however long it lasts.

And then I would have added the words from my psychiatrist who told me I need to up my dose of some things and add other things and that fibromyaligia is mostly all in my head. Because I have bipolar, along with other things.

With those things lined up next to each other to look at, I would have added my guilt at not earning money to pay for all these doctors and tests and how uncomfortable I feel calling my health My Full-time Job right now. And how shameful I feel thinking about applying for disability in case I never have reliable healthcare. And how ashamed I feel that I have such a need for it.

I would have really honed in on that shame and guilt and despair and frustration at my inability to change things to be easier.

Then I would have gone to bed. Maybe fantasized about selfharm. Maybe begun the journey toward the romantic notion of ending it all, because surely that would be better for my family who has to watch and feel helpless and uncomfortable at my flailing. Who must surely feel I am such a burden.

And then the darkness would have been fully descended. Over my eyes, and ears and mouth. Over my brain that couldn’t think straight anymore. And it could have been months before I resurfaced to try again if I hadn’t been successful at terminating my life and never tried again at all.

As I sat in my car, outside the hospital, dizzy with so many thoughts and feelings, I decided to breath. I made a small choice. A very small choice, to open my lungs and take in a breath, and then expel the air with a little force, listening to the sound in my throat. And then I did it again.

I thought of Grandma Jean, who just left us days ago. She fought her way back from a debilitating stroke and learned to live her life again when most people just die who experience that same stroke, it’s so damaging. I thought of her smile and quick laugh, even as her body failed her these past weeks. How she thanked me every time I did anything for her and told me she loved me even when she couldn’t recall who I was, because she knew I loved her.

Grandma had her brushes with depression and contemplating her own death. She didn’t have the knowledge or support I have with managing those symptoms. And she survived for years, decades, from sheer determination. And I’m better for knowing her. I’m so thankful I didn’t miss out on knowing her like I did. Thank you, Grandma Jean, for what you suffered in this life so I could know you.

Then I thought of Phyllis, my mother-in-law, who passed last October. The cancer never won. It was just her time to go. And she was ready. She told me so every day, but it was always with a smile and expectation of meeting her God, not sadness, fear or regret.

I watched her barely able to carry the groceries, mop the floor or move the vacuum, but refusing help because it was her sincere joy to do it. She loved her work. She delighted in doing what she could to care for others. As she told me many times, she loved the work because she loved the people she did it for, and her face would shine when she said it and I knew it was true.

As the cancer grew in her body and ate her alive, she refused to get down or be afraid. She prayed and read and worked at the soup kitchen when she could. She found new recipes and showed me how to cook them. She laughed. She was beautiful always, but when she laughed, her countenance beamed. She laughed all the time and her smile was so genuine and sincere it made you smile and laugh, too. She was a great beauty even as breath left her.

Phyllis was careful what she said and how she said it and said nothing to hurt others. I knew I was safe with her because I never heard her say an unkind thing about anyone else. She taught me so much just by being herself. The year I spent as her companion was so precious. Thank you, Phyllis, for teaching me so much about how to live as you prepared to pass. Thank you for your unconditional love even as I carried my shortcomings around on my back and brought them out to show you on occasion. Thank you for showing me how to love others with the fierce fire of love I also carry in my chest. And thank you most of all for giving birth to and raising a beautiful, caring son who has become my partner and champion. Because even with his few shortcomings and my many, we somehow make a perfect fit and support for each other.

At 3pm today I went to yoga. My Yogini welcomed me and listened while I poured out my heart in a rush and never hurried me when I paused, choking on my words and tears. She placed my body in poses while I cried and she used her own breath to show me how to better breathe out my pain. She soothed my shoulders and neck and witnessed my entire body in sorrow. Her kind and loving touch calmed my fears and sadness and in time, I felt calm and strength in my chest instead of tightness and daggers. With each breath’s inhale and exhale, my body released the old and filled with new strength.

With my eyes closed, breathing deeply, I thought of the women in my life. My daughter. My mother. My friends. My sisters and aunts and grandmas, some of them here with me now and some carried in my heart. I drew on the power of Mother Earth and felt connected to everything and everyone.

The things that are hard in my life didn’t seem so overwhelming in that moment. It felt shared, like a thousand shoulders were carrying my pain and I even felt room on my own shoulders to help carry another’s hurts, should they want or need that.

And I felt a bit of joy in the journey. It was just a bit, but large enough that I think I might find it again.

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Grandma This Morning

These three lovely ladies are, L to R, Julia, Grandma Jean and Liz. Seconds after I put my camera away, Julia asked if she had smiled showing her teeth, to which Grandma replied with one of the best smiles I’ve seen since I’ve been here. Curses to not capturing it on film!

Liz and Julia take care of Grandma Jean during the day. They get her up, help her do her exercises, bathe her, get her breakfast and turn on her favorite morning game shows. They give her her meds, adjust her position every 2 hours, hold her hand and generally keep her happy and in good spirits if at all possible.

From the living room, we can hear over the monitor them in her bedroom asking her questions to prompt her memory and keep her sharp. They are loving and encouraging and we are so lucky to have them. Grandma Jean can be feisty on a good day and will refuse to eat for one of her children or grandchildren, but somehow, Liz can make the food sound so appetizing that Grandma will want to eat some in spite of herself. But after refusing food for a few days, she’ll have a morning where she requests quite adamantly some french toast. And on those days, Joe practically skips to the kitchen and whips some up for her. She eats 6 small bites and we all cheer.

Over the past few weeks I’ve seen good days and bad days with Grandma. It’s heartbreaking to watch someone you love get weaker and weaker. She sometimes can’t scratch her own nose, her arms are too tired and heavy. She is always so appreciative of anything we do for her. Sometimes she’s in pain but can’t tell us where. She frequently is in the middle of telling you something and loses her train of thought or loses the words that come next, or replaces words in a word salad kind of way. She talks to people in the room that we can’t see and is confused about what year it is or the time of day. You start to wonder if she understands anything anymore.

Then, just when you feel a little sorry for her, she finds her charm and wit, and for a time you forget the hospital bed and the catheter and all the pain and indignity that comes along with dying, and you witness a completely lucid moment.

Days ago, as Joe walks in the room – “I still say you look good in orange!”
A few days later, Joe forgets exactly what she said and says to her, “And now your favorite color is orange.”
Grandma says, “No. I said orange is my favorite color on you!” (emphasis hers)

or

Joe says, “Remember yesterday a friend came over with her little boy?” And Grandma remembers his name, having only seen him for a few moments. This after a night of practically no sleep and mild hallucinations.

or

The second morning in the hospital being woken up every 2 hours and totally exhausted, not being able to tell me where or how her pain hurts, feeling helpless and murmuring, “I just want to die,” a few times, the doctor comes in and she turns on the charm, being witty and funny and smiling. The doctor asks her how she’s doing and she says, “Well, I’ve seen better days, and she’s (gesturing to me) seen better nights!” Then, when Joe walks in to say good morning, she says, “Joe! You look tired! I hope you get something to eat.” Then she smiles.

or

This morning, after a hellaciously painful prior evening, she eats a good (8 bites of cream of wheat and a few bites of toast and a few sips of tea) breakfast. I, inanely, say, “You ate a good breakfast.” To which she replies, “I know! I’m the one who ate it!” And then she smiles that smile that makes you forget the agony she was in 12 hours ago.

I don’t have the time and history with her the others do. I met her only 8 years ago and have only this small slice of what and who she is. Her children and my husband tell me stories of her younger versions, before and after the major debilitating stroke she had in ’82, which she fought as hard as anything to come back from, crawling, then walking with assistance, then finally feeding herself. Grandpa Joe, or The Chief as he was sometimes known as, took great care of her, doing most of the cooking and cleaning and shopping.

When the much beloved Chief passed a year and a half ago after his fearless battle with cancer, her care fell to her children. The 6 of them have made it possible to keep her almost exclusively at home, which is her wish. She has a history of chemical imbalance manifesting as depression and anxiety and being cared for in a facility by strangers makes her inconsolable. I’m sure there are other families that pull together to take care of an aging loved one, but I don’t know any that have done it so willingly and so well. They all take turns supporting and caring in any way they can including alternating nightly shifts after work every night. Her care needs have ramped up since Joe and I have been here in San Diego, almost as if the Universe had timing in mind, since able bodies were needed and we were able bodies manifested.

This morning I thought of my Grandma Phelps who needed care and passed on when my children were very small and my (now ex)husband traveled 3 weeks out of the month. It was impossible for me to assist with taking care of her and my heart ached with the need to help and show her love in that way and the inability to do so. I realized this morning that I’m blessed to be able to take care of Grandma Jean in the way I wished I could have taken care of Grandma Phelps and I have the skills to help in a real way because of my recent wonderful year and a half with Phyllis. The Universe does have a way of making things up to you, if and when it’s possible to do so.

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Fin 2010

This past year has turned out to be quite something, no?

Here is the family on Thanksgiving Day.

Joe’s wonderful mom Phyllis made a graceful adieu in October. You could not have asked for a better mother-in-law or friend. We spent much of 2010 initially getting to know each other and eventually sharing inside jokes. Having never been a morning show person, I was amused sometime during the summer when I realized that watching Regis and Kelly and then Hoda and Kathie Lee with Phyllis were the best hours of the morning. Actually, I guess watching her watch them was the fun part. Phyllis got a kick out of everything. Her joy and happiness were almost always right at the surface ready to bubble out. For a quick look into the kind of person she was, read what she wrote for a book I was working on. You can see so much about her through her wonderful smile.

I’ve taken a big step back from the internetty way of life. I’ve downsized. I’m working on a much more local level and relearning how to be happy. I went in the mental hospital, came out on more medication than you could shake a stick at. I went to intensive out-therapies for months and changed meds around. Still in progress. My brain is frequently on fire then ice.

Music plays a huge part of my day. It soothes my soul, heals my heart and cleanses my chakras. You can view my fav 2010 songs – Leahpeah 2010 Fasty Mix and Leahpeah 2010 Slowy Mix.

I realize this update is not what some of you have been waiting for and I’m sorry for that. Let me add that to the tip of my 2010 regrets pile before I sweep them out the door, never to obsess over again. I have to keep my front porch clean and open to new possibilities, you see.

My father-in-law Jim, a doctor, has just prescribed a treatment of 2 rice krispies treats to be taken over the next 4 hours and I need to get on that. If I don’t see you around for awhile, take good care of yourself.
xoxo
Leah

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Humongous Thank You

Friends,

I can’t express how much your notes, emails, texts, messages, love, support and prayers have meant to me this past week. Joe printed everything out and brought them to me in the hospital. Every night it was like a surge of encouragement to work hard and keep going.

My meds are still being fine-tuned. I’m a little up and down. I occasionally get a wave of hopelessness that dissipates in a few minutes, but the lithium is definitely making a difference.

I’m not quite ready to jump back into regular life, but I am sticking a few toes in.

I would be dead if it wasn’t for Joe. He saved my life and continues to do so. He’s gentle and sincere and kind and loving and I can’t believe how lucky I am to have him as a partner in life.

I’m still processing everything that’s happened. I’ll write more next week.

Have a wonderful holiday weekend.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

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Mr. Bas

Back in 2003, I first wrote about Basilone and how much we loved him, how totally rad he was. Then in 2005, we had to say goodbye to him because our landlord was super-duper allergic. We sent him to live with Joe’s parents. It was a sad, sad day.

Bas has loved it at the Crawford’s in Virginia. He is happy and spoiled and gets treats a few times a day.

Here he is at the bar, waiting for someone to give him something chickeny. His front leg on the bar like that kills me. Like he’s about to say, Vodka on the rocks, and make it a double!

He loves Phyllis.

And not just because she gives him the most treats.

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Starting Over

Here’s the thing – life doesn’t give you the opportunity to really start over very often. I’ve been married and divorced and remarried and lived a ton of different places. I’ve had all kinds of jobs. I’ve been mentally ill, fake-cured, mentally ill again (and will be for the rest of my life). I’ve lived near my kids and far away from my kids. I’ve been in mental hospitals and released. I’ve been to individual therapy and family therapy and couple’s therapy. I’ve been sexually abused and in loving relationships. I’ve been happy, sad, depressed, excited and everything in between.

I’m sure many of you have been through some of those things, as well. And you probably know what I mean when I say that each time there was a positive change, I looked at it as a new beginning. A chance to get things right, do better. Be better.

These past few years have been a roller coaster for me and those close to me. I’m sometimes a bit (read: a lot) unstable when it comes to everyday life. It’s never been my strong suit. Being mentally ill has its challenges and while I’m really good at some things, maneuvering through life always capable of facing the day is not one of them. Working a straight 9-5 job is sometimes impossible while telecommuting and working my own hours works great. I have to create a life that works for me. I craft what I need for myself on the terms that make sense in all my weirdness.

If you’ve read my blog for very long, you know that the highs and lows of being with or not with my children is a regular topic around here. As a mother, I’d like to think that I’m the best thing for them. That they need me to be nearby and to take care of them. I’ve learned the past few years that they really don’t need me to take care of them in the way I thought. They get that from who they call their ‘Parents’, my ex and his wife. They don’t think of me like That Kind of Mom. I’m a friend and someone they want to hang out with sometimes. And when my mental illness makes an appearance in any variety of ways, it makes them feel like they did when they were little kids – scared, sad and worried for my well-being instead of experiencing their lives being taken care of by an adult and worried about regular things like school and friends. Their grades slip, they get depressed, they don’t sleep well, they find reasons not to visit my home and then feel guilty. As the person that wishes they were the mom that was able to take care of them, I feel horrible. I live with the guilt and shame every day.

Recent circumstances have brought these things to light with more force than ever before and I guess I’m finally listening. Yes, I want to be near them and just watch, if that is all I can do. But at some point, I really have toput their needs ahead of mine and give them their space. And now is that time.

As if that wasn’t enough, some of you know that Joe and I have been having some issues. Much of it too private to mention here, but let’s just say that being mentally ill is no picnic for your spouse. We considered a divorce, but that sounded too final and decided to try and do what we needed to do as Separated, which so far has worked really well. Part of the reason we are succeeding, I think, is because we do actually love and like each other. With that as a foundation, we’re pretty sure we can work the rest out.

As confusing as this is to others, it makes a lot of sense to us. We’ve come up with some solutions to help change our lives in a very real and substantial way. More on that very soon.

Here’s to Starting Over.