Category Archives: #depression

Making Space for Forgiveness

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Making Space for Forgiveness

I told her it was OK as my mother sobbed on my shoulder. I turned out fine, my life is far better than anything I could have dreamed. I told her that I forgave her and I understood that she just did what she had been taught, modeled patriarchal behavior. The same shit that her parents did that tore her down. Now she feels regret for repeating those awful behaviors.

Women are so eager to take on the blame. She’s crying over the bad wiring in her brain. The structure and synapses which were created by her own traumas, one by one, they formed a new way of thinking; alcoholism, rationalization, self-preservation, victim-hood, depression and decades of regret, at 73 the guilt is smacking her in the face, hard.

It’s sad and predictable, I remain calm and reassuring, while simultaneously hoping I can get home before the ice cream melts in my car. I know that sounds callous but I’ve been living with this drama my ENTIRE life. My head wanders in several directions: my recently deceased father and the damage he inflicted on all of us, groceries in the car, company coming over and being a witness to my mother dissolving in front of me, again. It’s almost too much to take but I’ve taken so much more than this when I was little.

She laments about her mental illness and the limitations it has caused. Her brilliant mind is her best worst enemy. She talks about her long ago marriage to my father and how brutal he was…he’s been dead less than 5 months. She begins to tell me about the rapes, the beatings, how awful he was and I don’t want the details. She holds the worst of it back and I am grateful for that. I already know too many terrible things about my parents, I don’t need more. I do ask for clarification on a few things, the answers surprise me.

I asked her why she left me in Florida when I was 9 while she and my brother went back to New Jersey for a visit. She has a puzzled look on her face and says that I wanted to stay. I was 9 and calling the shots apparently, I stayed with friends that we barely knew for those two weeks. She asked me if anything bad happened during my weeks with Kay and her family. I tell her no, remembering that is when I started smoking and I kissed a boy for the first time. I don’t mention these things, she has enough on her mind. She didn’t want me to stay with Frank, her then live-in boyfriend. She asks me if Frank ever made a pass at me. He didn’t, I was never assaulted by any of her boyfriends which, in retrospect, is sadly miraculous.

Then she confessed one of her biggest regrets as I stood there. She regrets how she handled it when she found out that 16 year old me was in a relationship with a 32 year old man. A man who 6 months prior, had been my counselor. So predictable, the textbook definition of a vulnerable girl and a predatory male. She’s mad at herself for not lashing out at this man 34 years ago. Instead she gave me the anger and disgust because that is what she was taught. It’s the females fault, it always is, men are the way they are. It’s OK mom, you reacted the way you were taught, I forgive you. She seemed to calm down a bit and I told her I loved her and left to go home.

A few hours later, I’m in my kitchen making a damn good tomato sauce with sausage, eggplant and roasted garlic. I have the echo blasting 70’s music, I’m in my happy place. Then I have one of those ah-ha moments. My mother doesn’t hate me, she hates herself for all the ways she’s failed me. Somehow this awareness removes a burden and I have more space for forgiveness.

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Six Blankets

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Six Blankets

I’m fighting a quiet battle within myself. Some might call it depression, I hesitate to use a label. A sad awareness is wrapping itself around me like a blanket which I keep shrugging off. It’s the state of the world and the sad stories that swirl around me like a thin fog that clings low toward the ground. I’m able to go about my day and do what needs to be done with the added presence of my unwelcome shadow.

Yesterday I went to a luncheon for hospice volunteers. I’ve been a hospice volunteer for a decade. I provide respite for caregivers of terminally ill people. I know that sounds depressing in itself….honestly, it’s rewarding work. After the lunch volunteers are asked to take blankets to patients on hospice. The blankets are crocheted by generous, kind souls that enjoy their craft. I volunteered to deliver six blankets to patients that share my zip code.

Each blanket is paired with an index card with pertinent information about the intended recipient. Name, address, phone number and helpful hints like the neighborhood name or the patients age. It’s recommended that you call the families first to see if they want to accept the blanket.

I made 6 calls and I got mixed results. Mindful with each call that this family is suffering on some level. It is impossibly hard to watch someone you love die before your eyes. It’s also an incredible gift to have some notice about the situation. Words can be spoken that otherwise might be left unsaid. I try to approach each communication with a blend of compassion and lightheartedness. I don’t want to add to the melancholy nor do I want to be overly cheerful, it’s a balancing act.

First Blanket – I left a message explaining that I had a crocheted blanket as a gift from hospice and left my phone number. I haven’t heard back which isn’t unexpected, they have a lot going on.

Second Blanket – I spoke with someone on the phone and they said sure drop it off.  I headed over after I picked my kids up from school. After ringing the doorbell, I  was told to come in. This is common. People are so busy caring for a terminal person they often leave the door unlocked for scheduled deliveries, home health aids or visitors. I handed the blanket to the caregiver and smiled and waved to the patient as I let myself out.

Third Blanket – My kids are still in the car, these are local deliveries. This was a house I was familiar with having just sat with the patient last week. They had a screened in porch so I left the blanket nestled on a chair and let myself out. I spoke with the caregiver later that evening and he thanked me for the blanket.

Fourth Blanket – Someone answered the phone when I called and gave a reluctant OK to the blanket. I don’t know if I spoke to the patient or a family member. The property was stunning with an Old World European curb appeal. This was a house with multiple doors which happens quite often. I chose a door which had a wreath on it, it was not answered. I channeled my inner MacGyver and fastened the blanket to the wreath with little more than stubborn determination. I took the kids home after this, our third, delivery.

Fifth Blanket – I spoke with the patient’s daughter on the phone. She sounded tense on the phone and promised to call me later. She left me a long voicemail this morning. She apologized for being curt on the phone (she wasn’t) and went on to say how hard it was to speak at work and what it’s like having a father on hospice. She was unsure if the blanket would be a welcome addition and I felt bad for adding to her burdens. She was a jumble of emotions and I’m still thinking of the best way to follow up.

Sixth Blanket – This was actually the first call I made and it gutted me. A composed gentleman answered the call and very graciously declined the blanket. He stated that the patient (perhaps his wife?) got one at chemo and there is just so much stuff around the house. I can vouch for the stuff – every hospice patient has a table full of items to keep them as comfortable as possible. Pain medications, body lotion, mouth wash, adult diapers, towels, wipes and an assortment of personal items. Things that would normally be kept in a bathroom or bedroom migrate to the kitchen or dinning room table. Most patients reside in a hospital bed in the living room of their home for convenience and to avoid isolation.

Prior to making the call, I put the address in my GPS. Then it dawned on me that this patient is half a mile from my home. The proximity was unsettling, more disturbing was the age, 58. That is young. I can count the difference in our age on my fingers. My mind takes this information and then I wonder if we have crossed paths. Does she have children? Do we shop at the same stores? Have I encountered this person at some point in our day-to-day lives? This patient, the one whom I will likely never meet…..she’ll stay with me. I’ll think of her when I drive past her house and I will say a silent prayer for her and her loved ones.

This is the shroud I wear from time to time. The memories of visits that I’ve had with patients that have passed. Thoughts of neighbors that I don’t know personally and yet I have some intimate knowledge of their situation. It’s profound and sad and somehow complete. This is the circle of life, a common path we are all on despite our attempts to deny it.

Death is the one universal truth. We will all die, each one of us. It doesn’t matter how much money you have, who you voted for, what country you’re from or what you believe in. Death doesn’t discriminate it comes for everyone. Everyone. So don’t be petty, hateful, hold grudges or act out of spite. It’s just a short ride on this spinning globe and then, who knows what’s next. I plan to use my time wisely with compassion, humor and then more compassion because that’s what we need. And somehow, by sharing these thoughts, my foggy companion has faded away.