Bittersweet

…this has been my heart over the last number of months. These are my parents hands during one of our visits at her long-term care home. We’ve been grateful for these times, yet my dad and I struggled to keep it together when it came time to leave. We would walk to the car in silence, both wishing she could come with us.

These last two and a half years, I have had an underlying sadness and fear that I have struggled to put words to. I tried to explain to my sister, the unease and impending doom I couldn’t seem to shake. She is wise to these things and understood right away. She said it was “anticipatory grief”. There was a name for it and it was more common than I knew. For me, I was anticipating the inevitability of losing my parents. Admitting this and saying it out loud felt like a betrayal to life itself. However, I needed to look at this all-consuming feeling for what it was. It’s a reality that is part of life and of loving.

As the news of the Corona virus emerged, my anxiety grew deeper, and, like the rest of the world, I watched in horror at the lives being lost at such an alarming rate. Feeling we were all doomed, I kept the news on so as to not miss a thing. I wanted to help, I wanted to connect, but didn’t know what to do. I was, and still am, terrified, with my mom in long-term care and my dad, age 90, with diabetes. My heart still races with every mention of long-term care outbreaks. The devastation of not being able to see loved ones at this dire time is unimaginable. The emotions coming up inside of me around potentially losing my parents to this pandemic continue to fill me with an undeniable fear. This fear of loss, paired with my guilt for even “having such thoughts” adds another layer to my anguish.

The hardest moment was just after the long-term care homes shut down to visitors, my mom phoned me and we tried to wrap our minds around what was happening. We were fearful of the unknown and on the verge of breaking down. She echoed my thoughts when she cried, “I feel like I’ll never see you again…” In that moment my deepest fears were coming true and she was as terrified as I was. The pain of separation was unmistakeable as we tried to reassure each other that things will be okay. We knew we’d have to hang up sometime, and so through cracked voices, we expressed our love for each other and reluctantly said good bye. Overwhelmed with emotion, I cried until I had nothing left in me.

Each country, each family, each person, each with their own set of circumstances, has a story to tell. We’ve watched, we’ve waited, and we’ve stayed home. Never before has “we are as strong as our weakest link,” been so relevant to me.

As restrictions now loosen, and the world continues to be in turmoil, let’s remember to love ourselves and each other. If we are fortunate enough to have loved ones with us, let’s pull them close. The future is undetermined and our desire to love and be loved is universal. Let’s ease our hearts through connection, through sharing, through listening… And yes, through laughter.

“Love’s the only house big enough for all the pain in the world…” -Martina McBride, Love’s the Only House

“There is a silence into which the world can not intrude. There is an ancient peace you carry in your heart and have not lost…” -A Course in Miracles, L164

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Elder Care

It’s been too long since I’ve written a blog. I wanted so much to write a light hearted summer blog, and I tried, but it wasn’t coming out free and easy. It hasn’t been a summer of sunshine and lollipops. So this will be what it is. For those of you who have read my blog in June called “Who Are Your Heroes”, you know my mom had a stroke and now lives in a 24 hour care facility. My dad is 90 years old next month and is living by himself after 67 years together. It’s been 18 months now, and still, so many emotions.

This new set of circumstances has altered the direction of my daily life. Of all our lives. Aside from the emotional component, navigating our way through the health care system has proven to be extremely arduous. There has been an endless stream of unbending conditions and relentless problems to solve.

Growing up, and especially as an adult, I’ve always wanted to live close to my parents. As long as they were alive, I wanted be there for them, especially when the time came that they would need help. That time arrived, and oh what a journey.

This last year and a half I’ve spent a great deal of time with them in the care home that my mother now lives, whether it be tending to her needs, advocating for her welfare, or having a game of Rumicubes. I am honoured to help. I see other residents alone, longing for companionship, and my heart aches for them. My dad has limited vision and is extremely devoted, he visits nearly every single day, bringing her healthy food and flowers; steadfast in his care and concern for her.

When I am there with them, I don’t mind one bit, I’m happy to be able to spend time and be of support. It’s a privilege to be of service to two people whom I love so very much. It’s when I get home and my own to do list is screaming at me that I am overwhelmed with the responsibility of it all. There is never a shortage of things that must be done. Essentially, everything doubles, appointments for myself, appointments for them, groceries for myself, groceries for them, my bills, their bills, it honestly never ends and it is exhausting. But yes, I would do it all over again.

Then there is decision making – constant, challenging, and often time sensitive. Yet a bigger player in decision making, is emotions. Good old emotions, they just can’t stay out of anything. I understand that anger and discord come out of fear and are a cry for help, yet I can’t help but be terribly affected when in or around these situations. I am the type of person who avoids conflict at almost all costs. That being said… when it comes to a loved one, I am able to assert myself when necessary. I don’t like it, but I can do it.

Then there is the guilt, it serves no purpose and it blocks goodness. One of my favourite little books, The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Riuz says to always do your best, and I do. However, to quote from his book (page 76), “…your best will sometimes be high quality, and other times it will not be as good. When you wake up refreshed and energized in the morning, your best will be better than when you are tired at night. Your best will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick…” I have had negative feelings, I have vented to a friend, I have crashed on the couch, I have wished for a day with no demands, and I’ve had a pang of guilt in admitting all this… I realize that it’s okay to have these feelings, it doesn’t mean I love anyone less, it means I need to take care of myself as well. On the days when it all seems too much, I come home faded, frustrated and ready to break. And I do break. In the last year and a half, meltdowns have been a given for me.

It’s not just the busyness, the advocating, the decision making, and the guilt, it’s also the grief. My grief, their grief. It’s nearing the end of life for my parents. My beautiful parents. Hanging on to every moment they can. I’ve learnt more about my parents than I ever thought I would. Their personal dynamics, how they handle stress, and how they always come back to each other. I’ve learnt how deeply connected I am to them, if they are unhappy, I am unhappy, if they are happy, I am happy. I long to hear my mom’s laughter again, and to just “be silly” with my dad. It’s saying good-bye to what was, and accepting and settling in to what is.

The veil of sadness is slowly lifting and the pace of life is calming down. I am regaining the oomph to get my own shit done and spend time with my interests.

At the end of the day, it’s all about love, and only love. Every life has its ups and downs. Whether it be family, friends, care aids, people serving a meal, or our pets, caring for one another in what ever ways we can is what brings richness into life.

Forget the times of your distress, but never forget what they taught you. – Herbert Gasser

Love and guilt cannot coexist, and to accept one is to deny the other. – A Course in Miracles

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Belonging

This is a photo of me when I was three years old. When I look at it, I have such love and compassion, the innocence and playfulness is unmistakable. Something we all have at that age. The world is new and all we seek is love. I remember how my family would dance after dinner, mom and dad, my two older sisters, and our daschund, Heidi. Family camping trips, new clothes for school, lots of hugs and kisses, I had plenty of love.

When I was six or seven my parents and I were at our neighbours, the grown ups were having cocktails in the living room while my friend and I played all around the house. I was in the hallway approaching the living room, (probably to hide in the nearby closet) the adults were talking and I overheard my parents say, “Lisa was an accident…”

Wow….. I stood frozen. The life drained out of me, making room for deep sadness to set in. I was an accident? You mean I’m not supposed to be here? Don’t they want me? I had no concept of what to do. These few words established the course of my life, and I was never the same again. I was, after all, a blank canvas for beliefs and values to land and stick. My parents were the ones who loved me the most in this world and they thought I was an accident. So, I must be, that’s who I was, an accident. My little shattered mind knew no better.

I wish I had waltzed into that living room and said, “Hey, wait a minute!” But I didn’t, I kept it to myself. I buried my devastation and shut down, afraid to ruffle any feathers or be a bother in any way.

Now to be fair and not throw my parents under the bus, I had a happy childhood, and they continued to love me as always. I see now, my “happy” had a low ceiling. I never wanted to be the cause of any grief for my parents, so I didn’t act out or say what I was feeling. I sucked up my emotions and stayed in the shadows. Pleasing them, and everyone else became my modus operandi.

As I became a teenager, I minimized my experience because I knew there were children who experienced far worse than this. But the suppression was deep, and by then, a part of who I was. “Being an accident” was in my blood and in my bones. If only I had talked to someone about it, preferably my parents, but I was too afraid to face it. As I grew into my 20’s, I would joke to them about what I heard and they always reassured me I was a “good” accident. I’ve not wanted to upset them and so I’ve never told them of the impact that one statement made so long ago, had on my psyche.

As I approached my 30’s, I was able to reflect on their situation. My mom was 30 when she had me, and they already had two little girls, ages six and seven. I was an unexpected pregnancy, I get it. By this time, life had presented me with countless opportunities to wake up to my emotional patterns. I had been feeling displaced for so long that I had forgotten why I felt how I felt. I recall the moment of clarity when I realized I could choose how to respond to life and to people. My fixed perception was keeping me from feeling fully alive. It was so freeing to become aware of the fact that I must belong as much as anyone, I was still here wasn’t I? That’s the beauty of perception, we can change it, and it was time for me to do so.

Like relationships, emotions can be short-lived, stick around for a chapter or two, or stay for a lifetime. Once I put the pieces together and had an understanding of myself, I took on the responsibility of self-change with great determination. It’s been (and still is) a process that keeps me alert to what is going on within and around me. For the most part, I don’t let myself off the hook when I want to revert back to my old, worn out ways of thinking and behaving, it just doesn’t feel like me anymore. I seek help from the Holy Spirit and never dreamt I could feel so connected and so content. Granted, I do have my moments. I have forgiven my parents for what they did not know, and I have forgiven myself for holding on so long to a belief that was never true. Now, instead of feeling sad when I look at my three year old self, I smile and know that she belongs and is happy with who she is.

Re-examine all that you have been told, or read in any books, and dismiss whatever insults your own soul. – Walt Whitman

The emptiness engendered by fear must be replaced by forgiveness. – A Course in Miracles, T11

What’s your comfort zone?

I’m writing this after overcoming some unexpected “resistance”; negative chatter that didn’t want to let up as uncertainties swirled through my mind…

The last blog I posted, Habits – Consistently Inconsistent? felt right, and then it didn’t. Fear and apprehensions intruded upon my mind and I began to question whether it was good enough, I should have said this and not said that…. The ego was slinking about.

I’ve been vigilant with myself about stopping negative self talk, and I noticed the unease of suddenly having such discouraging thoughts. It did get the better of me and I did pull off my last blog. I put it to the fact that because I’ve made writing deadlines for myself, I’ve put undo pressure on myself, I really don’t have to, who says I have to?

The thing is, I don’t have to do anything. I want to. I want to, for what it will make of me. I want to be consistent with my blogs. I want to step out of my comfort zone.

The ego can’t stand it when I ignore it and start to make changes in my life. It represents the undisciplined side of me that wants me to stay silent and small and miserable, whereas my true self wants to express and share and feel joy.

I’ve since done some “tweaking” of my Habits blog and have just re-posted it. I hope you enjoy reading my blogs as much as I enjoy writing them, and thank you for being my external accountability.

Without an audience, ideas remain mere words on a page. – from the movie Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein

The ego is, therefore, particularly likely to attack you when you react lovingly, because it has evaluated you as unloving and you are going against its judgment. The ego will attack your motives as soon as they become clearly out of accord with its perception of you. – A Course in Miracles, T176

Habits – Consistently Inconsistent?

Habits, we all have them, the question is, are they serving us well? Only we can answer that. I have a habit that drives me crazy. For those close to me, they know, and are likely tired of me complaining about the err of my ways.

This is how it goes for me. I clean my house, surfaces are clear, things are where they belong and I feel fabulous. Before long….. surfaces are cluttered, things are not where they belong, and I feel anything but fabulous. I clean my house, surfaces are clear…. round, round I go.

The paradox is that I AM organized, my drawers and cupboards are neatly arranged and maintained. I am lover of small boxes, bins, anything that can help separate contents and define space, I’m all over it.

I don’t, however, put things away and end up overwhelmed by the mess I’ve made in such a short time. Things like my purse, papers, papers, papers, yoga gear, gardening gloves, nail polish, and books… oh how I love books… My “once” worn clothes, they aren’t dirty, they aren’t freshly cleaned, where do they go? On my floor, yup, on my floor, I know exactly where to find them. This is rudimentary I know, but it is messing with me (that just came out, no pun intended). And thus begins the cycle…..

To say I am frustrated with myself is an understatement. I’m not willing to continue to beat myself up over it anymore, and I’m unwilling to accept that things can’t be different.

This is where the works of Gretchen Rubin comes in, author of Better Than Before. On page 16 she says, “The first and most important habits question is: How does a person respond to an expectation? When we try to form a new habit, we set an expectation for ourselves. Therefore, it’s crucial to understand how we respond to expectations. We face two kinds of expectations: outer expectations (meet work deadlines, observe traffic regulations) and inner expectations (stop napping, keep a New Year’s resolution). From my observation, just about everyone falls into one of four distinct groups.”

What group do you fall under? Are you an Upholder? (these people just do it) An Obliger? A Questioner? Or a Rebel? For anyone interested in a better understanding of their own nature with regards to their habits, check out her website. http://gretchenrubin.com

When I read about my tendency, I couldn’t believe the accuracy, she was definitely talking about me. I am the Obliger, she describes on page 23, “Obligers may find it difficult to form a habit, because often we undertake habits for our own benefit, and Obligers do things more easily for others than for themselves. For them, the key is external accountability.” Whew…. what a relief, I’m not the only one.

External accountability, hmm…. that makes perfect sense. When I have company, it forces me to tidy up. If I am meeting someone for a walk I go, if I’m not meeting anyone, I don’t. Promises I make to myself are broken, while promises to others are not. This has developed into a habitual pattern of what I describe as consistently inconsistent.

For a period of time, a dear friend helped me by requesting daily photos of my clutter areas. I LOVED IT! My home was immaculate and I felt so good about myself.

Obviously there are others out there who struggle with their own forms of inconsistency’s. Perhaps, like me, they want to make a change, are ready to commit, and are willing to be accountable to someone. For people like us, Gretchen Rubin suggests starting an Accountability Group. I would love to do that! Anyone?!

A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labours of a spasmodic Hercules. – Anthony Trollope

The one thing I’m sure of, although I can be messy, I know I don’t need an orderly environment to pray and meditate and be at one with my Higher Power. This part of my life is consistent and requires nothing external.

Those who are certain of the outcome can afford to wait, and wait without anxiety. – A Course in Miracles M15

Who are your heroes?

Recently I was with a group of people and we were asked, “Who are your heroes?” Who do we admire, alive or deceased, that has shown great courage, is of noble character, or has influenced us through their actions. The group was listing many well known people such as Mayo Angelo, Mother Teresa and Nelson Mandela. There was no pondering this one, my Mom is my hero.

You see, just over a year ago, I got the call, it was my Dad, his voice frantic, “You’re Mother’s had a stroke….” I remember running out the door and within minutes I was in emergency, by her side, as more family arrived. I held her hand and caressed her head. Her swollen head. She had landed face down, the impact bruising and disfiguring her beautiful face.

Emergency staff hustled about her, assuring me I could continue to be her side. I closed my eyes and let the tears fall quietly onto our hands. I was able to find a place of peace in my mind and focus on just breathing, my chin trembled with each exhale. When I opened my eyes, my Mom was watching me, questioning my emotions. No words were necessary to know she was asking, am I going to be okay? An ache pierced through me so intensely I thought I might collapse. I will never forget that moment, it was as though all time had stopped and we were really seeing each other for the first time.

She was cognizant, but like us, unaware of the intensity of damage that had taken place. My heart pounded as the Doctor gathered our family around her bed and explained to us the severity of her stroke. The next week was critical and she may or may not survive. This could be it. Oh my God.

I wrapped my arms around my 88 year old father who shook with grief as his world shattered. I held him and we cried, our hearts breaking in disbelief. I have a sister who does not live locally, it was time to let her know the seriousness of the situation. I went into the hallway to call, I remember relying on the wall behind me to keep me up as I sobbed and stammered out the words, “…it’s bad… better come… might not make it…”. The week wore on, day by day, and with tremendous relief, my Mom made it through.

She spent months in physical rehabilitation, my Dad and I cheering her on as she desperately tried to get her left side to move on its own. Her determination and lack of complaining never failed to leave me in a state of awe and great respect. But the stroke had done its irreversible damage and she would never walk again. She is paralyzed on her left side, but thankfully, her mind is good, she can speak well and eat on her own.

She now lives in a home with 24 hour care and gets lifted from her wheelchair to her bed. She has to rely on help for the smallest of things. Things I take for granted, like putting toothpaste on my tooth brush, doing up a zipper or putting on a sock. She has been on such a difficult learning curve and hasn’t bitched about it. I complain when I’m tired or sore, or can’t get the lid off something.

Despite her devastating challenges, she is always wanting to make sure our family is okay. I have developed such a deep reverence for this woman who will never be home again, will never hug her husband, or make me a birthday cake. The woman I love most in this world, is my hero. My Mom, who has overcome great adversity and still has so much love in her heart.

I see her gentle spirit sitting in that wheelchair and I am reminded of the essence of who really we are. We are more than just a body, we are spirit, true and pure and beautiful. Capable of heroic measures.

You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them. – Maya Angelou

I have forgotten what I really am, for I mistook my body for myself. – A Course in Miracles, W260

Why “A Spiritual Badass”?

Well, because I’m in love with my Higher Power AND I still have a potty mouth. I treasure my time in stillness, and I still love rock and roll. I live for deep personal connections, and I still have a rowdiness in me.

I refer to my Higher Power as “The Holy Spirit”, it’s what fits for me.

This is a big step for me, to write “out loud”. I’ve been hard on myself that I’m not a “writer” per-say. My image of being a writer was one of perfect order. Bathed, dressed, with a pep in my step by 8 in the morning, sitting down at my perfectly tidy desk, to begin my systematic, disciplined writing process of pounding out words on a keyboard for hours at a time. 

This is so not me, and has caused me a lot of (self imposed) grief, feeling like I just didn’t have what it takes and never would. This decades long belief has held me hostage and kept me from moving forward. I believed I had to be perfect, disciplined and have my shit together in every area of my life before I could be a writer. I allowed my ego to keep it’s grip on me, and make a false image of how I should be. My attachment to the “form” blinded me straight into procrastination, which only cemented my hopelessness.

The unraveling of this belief has taken its sweet time. But with much desire, reflection and support from my beautiful tribe of women, I now say screw it!

It is with great joy that I have finally embraced the fact that I AM a writer, I DO write. I always write. Every single day I write. Only my process involves a one hundred year old rocking chair, pyjamas, and dogs on my lap, journaling long hand in any blank notebook I can find.

No more, do I think I need to be someone I’m not.

“For the person who has learned to let go and let be, nothing can ever get in the way again.” -Meister Eckhart

It is your thoughts alone that cause you pain. Nothing external to your mind can hurt or injure you in any way. –A Course in Miracles, W361