I have such amazing news. The young girl from the motorcycle accident is alive, and I could not be more relieved. As the (very) misinformed police officer told me she had died, my heart completely sank.
Since the loss of my mom, I didn't know it could go any lower.
Monday night, my friend informed me of a discussion forum on the internet regarding the accident, and her parents have posted that she is alive, in serious condition in the ICU, but she is fighting hard. I just couldn't believe it. I am so happy.
I have been told by several people that I was supposed to be witness to this, for one reason or another. My counselor has shared that she thinks I was meant to be involved because I have fought so long and so hard to deny death and its consequences and hurt. I have wanted to put it all aside, the loss of my mom, the emptiness in my heart, so that I could move on "peacefully." But there is no peaceful departure from loss. I am starting to understand this, and I am starting to embrace it.
As I read the details from her parents on the forum, I felt something I can't explain, not even now. Almost like an adrenaline rush of sorts, but combined with hope and faith and happiness.
I can't tell you the last time I felt anything like this. It's been far too long.
Her condition is very serious, and she is on life support, but for some reason, some unexplainable reason, I feel good about this. I have faith that something good is going to happen, and that everything might really work out for her.
Faith and hope have been so absent in my life, it took me until now, Wednesday, to recognize them. My life has been so dark and my outlook even darker. For the first time in a long time, I feel renewed and hopeful.
I am sorry it took such a traumatic, monumental event that has impacted so many for me to realize all of this. I feel bad about that. My counselor assures me this is the way it needed to happen, because my block against life was so strong and hard to break down, it required this type of event for me to see.
I understand it now. I had to stare it in the face. I had to feel immense loss again. And I had to be lifted with hope. My faith had to be renewed. I get it. I am there. While her life hangs in a delicate balance, and the outcome may not be as I wish for her, I am hoping for her with the strongest faith I have had in nearly a year, and that has got to count for something.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
I will never forget today for as long as I live
This post is unlike any of the others before. It is not about my mom, or about dealing with her death. I will say that will be gruesome and at times, down-right disturbing, but it is an account of what happened to me this morning that I will never forget for the rest of my life. If you are easily upset, do not read this.
Yesterday was the year anniversary of my mom's bone marrow transplant, and although I felt a strain all day, this morning I felt great. Back to normal. I got up early for work and left out for my commute at seven. I was stuck behind a school bus who had stopped at railroad tracks, and as it stopped, I and everyone else in my lane and the left lane next to me had to stop as well. I heard a loud motor coming from behind me and saw a motorcycle speeding ahead the traffic, left of the double yellow line in the oncoming lane. Just as my brain was able to register what was happening, I saw him approach the intersection with the railroad tracks and collide with a van who was turning left out of the left-hand lane, the same lane he was riding illegally left of. This was always one of my worst fears, to witness a motorcycle accident. It was horrific.
I could hear the collision and no longer saw the bike or it's riders (a guy and girl). I was able to make my way over them, and I was the first to arrive on the scene. I was calling 911 as I parked my car on the curb and ran to them. The bike was shattered and in several pieces along the road. The boy was on the side of the street, jutted up against the curb and partially lying in a rain gutter. He was moaning, and I saw him and immediately started to panic. I kept telling him it was ok, but I kept saying "Oh my God." I've never seen anything like it. His legs were backwards. He, believe it or not, was telling me to calm down. I grabbed his hand, and he did not squeeze my hand back. He kept moaning a girl's name. I finally saw her out of the corner of my eye. My God. Horrific. She was curled up next to the telephone pole, and it was extremely evident she had hit it head first. Her body lay mangled on the ground, nearly wrapped around the pole. Blood was everywhere.
Neither of them were wearing helmets. The 911 dispatcher told me ambulances were on their way and I immediately hung up. The girl was breathing very shallow and gurgling blood. Blood was coming out of everything. Another woman came up behind me, and she was yelling "We have to do CPR!" By this time, many people had stopped, but for what only seemed for them to watch, not to help. I think people were in shock and probably didn't know what to do. I cannot ever possibly tell you how surreal and horrific it was. The woman knelt down by the girl's head, I at her chest. The girl wasn't breathing. The woman breathed two breaths into her mouth, and I began compressions. I counted out loud, nearly screaming from panic. The boy could hear us talking about her not breathing and he began to panic for his girlfriend. He screamed her name over and over. He never complained of pain, not once.
On my 30th compression, the woman would give two breaths. It was amazing, looking back now, at what a well-oiled machine we were. I could feel the girl's heart beat again under my hands, it was so fast I thought it might explode. Her breathing was shallow, but finally returned. She coughed and sputtered blood, and we turned her over onto her side to help it out. We continued CPR for what felt like an hour but in reality was probably only 7 minutes or so. The girl continued to start and stop breathing, but she never gained consciousness or made noise. The paramedics arrived and got in place to take over our job. They quickly got her onto a stretcher and left the scene, sirens and lights screaming.
I looked up at this woman who's job it was to breath air into the girl's lungs, and her face was covered in blood. "You're an angel," I told her. How many people would put their face to another person's face, into their blood? The woman said it was in her nose and in her mouth. What a selfless person she was. She was amazing. As both of us wiped blood from our bodies, I asked her name. Melinda.
"Well, Melinda. You are an absolute angel. You are amazing. You are absolutely amazing," I told her. She hugged me. Both of us were shaking. And crying.
As I wrote down my statement, another office pulled onto the scene, and said very quietly to the officer who was helping me, "Most likely fatal." My heart sank. I looked at him in fear. "She's dead?" I asked quietly, but with panic. He nodded and his face looked strained. "She was in bad shape from the get-go."
In a way, I wasn't surprised, but in another way, my heart wanted to believe she lived. Did he really know for sure?
Many people gave statements. The woman driving the van that hit the motorcycle was on her way to take her son to day-care. They took her to the hospital in one of the ambulances. I've never seen someone so white and in shock in my life.
Melinda had to go to the hospital to get tested, since she was in contact with so much blood in her mouth and nose. I'm glad they took her. She looked just as much in shock as the driver of the van.
I was asked to go to the hospital as well. I declined. I had blood on my hands and feet and pants, but I didn't see any real danger for myself besides being shaken up. Since it was nearly just two minutes down from my house, I was able to drive home.
I sat in my car, in front of my apartment, for nearly 20 minutes without a thought in my head, just staring. I looked down at my hands and realized I still had the girl's blood on my right wrist and hand.
I sobbed. For her and for her boyfriend. For their families. For the innocent woman driving the van. For Melinda. There will be many people tonight who will not be able to get that image out of their minds, whether that be the actual accident they witness or unfortunately, what Melinda and I witnessed.
I know I will never forget that. I did not go to work today. I cried most of the day, sat in shock during the parts I didn't cry. I immediately took off my blood-stained clothes and put them into a plastic bag to be washed. My shower felt like it took an hour. I washed everything twice and shampooed my hair three times.
I still did not feel clean. Even now, hours later, I do not feel clean. I feel uneasy, and I feel sad and worried for that boy, having to find out that his irresponsible actions have killed his girlfriend.
Looking back on this event, it feels as though it did not happen. It is almost too hard to believe, and my brain can't possibly process all of it. I am not the only one who will feel this way tonight, and I hope and pray that everyone involved is able to find some peace tonight, and if not tonight, soon.
To Melinda, wherever you are: The world would be a much better place if more people were as amazing and selfless as you. God bless you.
Yesterday was the year anniversary of my mom's bone marrow transplant, and although I felt a strain all day, this morning I felt great. Back to normal. I got up early for work and left out for my commute at seven. I was stuck behind a school bus who had stopped at railroad tracks, and as it stopped, I and everyone else in my lane and the left lane next to me had to stop as well. I heard a loud motor coming from behind me and saw a motorcycle speeding ahead the traffic, left of the double yellow line in the oncoming lane. Just as my brain was able to register what was happening, I saw him approach the intersection with the railroad tracks and collide with a van who was turning left out of the left-hand lane, the same lane he was riding illegally left of. This was always one of my worst fears, to witness a motorcycle accident. It was horrific.
I could hear the collision and no longer saw the bike or it's riders (a guy and girl). I was able to make my way over them, and I was the first to arrive on the scene. I was calling 911 as I parked my car on the curb and ran to them. The bike was shattered and in several pieces along the road. The boy was on the side of the street, jutted up against the curb and partially lying in a rain gutter. He was moaning, and I saw him and immediately started to panic. I kept telling him it was ok, but I kept saying "Oh my God." I've never seen anything like it. His legs were backwards. He, believe it or not, was telling me to calm down. I grabbed his hand, and he did not squeeze my hand back. He kept moaning a girl's name. I finally saw her out of the corner of my eye. My God. Horrific. She was curled up next to the telephone pole, and it was extremely evident she had hit it head first. Her body lay mangled on the ground, nearly wrapped around the pole. Blood was everywhere.
Neither of them were wearing helmets. The 911 dispatcher told me ambulances were on their way and I immediately hung up. The girl was breathing very shallow and gurgling blood. Blood was coming out of everything. Another woman came up behind me, and she was yelling "We have to do CPR!" By this time, many people had stopped, but for what only seemed for them to watch, not to help. I think people were in shock and probably didn't know what to do. I cannot ever possibly tell you how surreal and horrific it was. The woman knelt down by the girl's head, I at her chest. The girl wasn't breathing. The woman breathed two breaths into her mouth, and I began compressions. I counted out loud, nearly screaming from panic. The boy could hear us talking about her not breathing and he began to panic for his girlfriend. He screamed her name over and over. He never complained of pain, not once.
On my 30th compression, the woman would give two breaths. It was amazing, looking back now, at what a well-oiled machine we were. I could feel the girl's heart beat again under my hands, it was so fast I thought it might explode. Her breathing was shallow, but finally returned. She coughed and sputtered blood, and we turned her over onto her side to help it out. We continued CPR for what felt like an hour but in reality was probably only 7 minutes or so. The girl continued to start and stop breathing, but she never gained consciousness or made noise. The paramedics arrived and got in place to take over our job. They quickly got her onto a stretcher and left the scene, sirens and lights screaming.
I looked up at this woman who's job it was to breath air into the girl's lungs, and her face was covered in blood. "You're an angel," I told her. How many people would put their face to another person's face, into their blood? The woman said it was in her nose and in her mouth. What a selfless person she was. She was amazing. As both of us wiped blood from our bodies, I asked her name. Melinda.
"Well, Melinda. You are an absolute angel. You are amazing. You are absolutely amazing," I told her. She hugged me. Both of us were shaking. And crying.
As I wrote down my statement, another office pulled onto the scene, and said very quietly to the officer who was helping me, "Most likely fatal." My heart sank. I looked at him in fear. "She's dead?" I asked quietly, but with panic. He nodded and his face looked strained. "She was in bad shape from the get-go."
In a way, I wasn't surprised, but in another way, my heart wanted to believe she lived. Did he really know for sure?
Many people gave statements. The woman driving the van that hit the motorcycle was on her way to take her son to day-care. They took her to the hospital in one of the ambulances. I've never seen someone so white and in shock in my life.
Melinda had to go to the hospital to get tested, since she was in contact with so much blood in her mouth and nose. I'm glad they took her. She looked just as much in shock as the driver of the van.
I was asked to go to the hospital as well. I declined. I had blood on my hands and feet and pants, but I didn't see any real danger for myself besides being shaken up. Since it was nearly just two minutes down from my house, I was able to drive home.
I sat in my car, in front of my apartment, for nearly 20 minutes without a thought in my head, just staring. I looked down at my hands and realized I still had the girl's blood on my right wrist and hand.
I sobbed. For her and for her boyfriend. For their families. For the innocent woman driving the van. For Melinda. There will be many people tonight who will not be able to get that image out of their minds, whether that be the actual accident they witness or unfortunately, what Melinda and I witnessed.
I know I will never forget that. I did not go to work today. I cried most of the day, sat in shock during the parts I didn't cry. I immediately took off my blood-stained clothes and put them into a plastic bag to be washed. My shower felt like it took an hour. I washed everything twice and shampooed my hair three times.
I still did not feel clean. Even now, hours later, I do not feel clean. I feel uneasy, and I feel sad and worried for that boy, having to find out that his irresponsible actions have killed his girlfriend.
Looking back on this event, it feels as though it did not happen. It is almost too hard to believe, and my brain can't possibly process all of it. I am not the only one who will feel this way tonight, and I hope and pray that everyone involved is able to find some peace tonight, and if not tonight, soon.
To Melinda, wherever you are: The world would be a much better place if more people were as amazing and selfless as you. God bless you.
Monday, September 13, 2010
The truth will come out
My husband and I have been house hunting for the past several weeks. It is so interesting how people choose to live in their houses, what color they paint the walls, what type of carpet they walk on, and how lovingly, or un-lovingly, they live amongst all of their things. One thing, the main thing, I have learned is how completely deceiving pictures can be. To look at the pictures of a listing and to actually see the rooms themselves are often two very different scenarios. I find it almost appalling how the outward appearance of a house can be polished, charming, and simply lovely, and the inside can be a complete disaster. Candles melted into carpets, ceilings with water marks and rot, bricks covered in white powder, exposed by the calcium buildup from a flooded basement. When you see the outside of the house, your mind immediately makes an opinion of the inside, and then, the truth comes out. Filthy. Rotting. Moldy. Sometimes, unlivable.
Sometimes, in order to make up for the inside, we have to put up a facade. A fake appearance in attempt to prove that the inside is good, worthy. If you think about it hard, you can find many instances in which this discussion applies to far more than just houses.
Off the top of my head, I can name several people who fit this description. Those who have terrible insides, only to put on a front for all the world to see. Those who have to "mold" themselves into something they're not to make up for the part, or the whole, of themselves they do not like. I bet you can too.
On the flip side, I have seen this play out in my own life. I did not realize it until just recently, however. From my previous posts, I have mentioned that I have recently continued to see a counselor due in large part to my denial of my mom's death and how hard I have worked to keep it a very small part of my life. Unfortunately, as we all know, it is real, and probably the hugest, and realest, part of my life. I have worked so hard to put it away, to not accept it, and to not look at the reality of the situation that has, in fact, made myself and my life, harder to deal with as this truth, this awful, heartbreaking truth, works its way out into the open. I am amazed at how your brain and your heart will not let you hide your pain, and it, unfortunately will come out when it sees fit: while you're driving on the highway, when you're at work in a meeting, when you're at a wedding celebrating your friends' life and marriage. Inappropriate versus appropriate, good versus bad, safe versus dangerous...it will find its way out. It does not care.
I am told that this happens when we suppress things for far too long. They will come out. Eventually. And when they do, we have no control.
I have experienced this. I am now dealing with the harsh reality that I have not wanted to let myself accept for 11 months. My mom is dead. I watched her die. I told her everything would be alright. I was part of the decision to "pull the plug," as we so lovingly call it.
As part of my therapy, I read my blog from the first entry to my birthday entry, four months total worth of postings. I relived every moment, every emotion, every memory. Except, they did not feel like my memories to me. Reading through descriptions of the moments leading up to her death, the events that took place before she left for the hospital, the day of the bone marrow transplant, the last 36 hours of her life--they were not things I recognized in my memories. You know how pictures or a letter or journal entry can jog our memories and take us back to scenes in which we once lived?
This was not the case. Reading through four months of my life did not feel like my life at all. I felt as though I was reading a novel, not something that I myself wrote, much less from memories that I myself encountered. I could not believe what I was reading. Things slowly came back to me, and I felt as though she was dying all over again, and I cried so much for myself and for her.
And I let myself. And I kept crying. And I tried as hard as I could to understand that these were not stories, but things that I once lived and breathed. They were real, from the moment I heard "leukemia" to her last dying breath. All real, and all mine.
I continued to read until I couldn't take it anymore. But the reason I stopped wasn't because my sadness prevented me from moving on...it was the complete and utter bullshit I wrote about after she died. Things like "I might actually be OK" and "I feel really good today, I am starting to move on." What a joke, and how embarrassing to realize the falsity and forced feelings of "being ok."
There's a huge difference from saying you're ok and actually being ok. I was just saying I was ok. I would be lying, now, to say that I am ok.
I mean, I wanted to be ok. I really wanted to. With everyone so distraught around me, I felt like I had to be the tough guy. Crying was weak. Being sad was weak. Letting myself feel anything was weak. So I was strong, and blocked it all out, "moved on," and forced myself into "being ok."
If you did not understand the facade comparison, this is where it comes in. I put up a facade to the world, to my family, to my friends, and to myself. I acted like nothing was wrong and eventually believed nothing was wrong. But all in time, it shows its ugly head. Just like the leakage in the room or the cracks in the foundation, you can see it in someone's eyes, in their face, in their smile. You can see that sadness that lies within , that truth that's dying to come out and be real.
My mom is dead. She has been dead for 11 months. I am miserable. I want her back. Nothing seems real without her.
I admit it.
My first post states that I will always end my blogs on a positive note, that I would not let cancer take me down, and that it would not take my mom down. It has taken her down. And you and I both know that I have not ended this blog on a positive note in a very long time. In the attempt to be honest with myself and my feelings, I cannot end this on a positive note myself, but I can let someone else do it for me.
At work, I have a patient who, due to a massive stroke, can only say the word "gunna." She can read and write, and she can understand what you are saying to her, but she can only express herself using this solitary word. Believe it or not, it is rather easy to talk with her. Despite the extremely limited vocabulary of my patient, her facial expressions and her hand gestures can do most of the talking for her. Today, she was readmitted to our facility after a bout with abdominal pain that turned out to be nothing serious. Upon my assessment of her, I attempted to find out if this hospitalization in any way changed her nutritional status. To put it kindly, she is not the thinnest of women. However, she has the most precious smile and kindest heart and for her to speak to you and wave to you to say "hi" simply melts your heart. She truly is a joy to my day, and I missed her while she was gone. I asked her if her appetite was still good like before she went out to the hospital. She was talking as she reached for a large snowman sitting on her nightstand. It is September, so this in itself was rather odd, but I began to think for a second that maybe she really didn't understand what I was saying.
She put the snowman on her bed, popped its head off, and showed me what was hidden in the belly of the snowman. Inside were probably 20 twinkies and ho-hos in individual plastic wrappers, all of which she dumped out of the snowman and onto her bed. She displayed them by waving her arms as if to say, "My appetite's fine! See what I have here!" I couldn't help but laugh. I laughed hard. This woman, who literally fills my heart with joy every time she greets me in the hallway, made my entire week, maybe my entire month, by this simple act.
She told on herself. And she didn't care.
For those of you who don't know, I am a dietitian. I am often loathed, to put it mildly, by my patients and sometimes by their families. But I mean well. On a daily basis, I am bombarded with people who weigh 300, even 400 pounds, with diabetes, heart disease, hypertension, who, while I'm assessing them, will drink two regular sodas and eat two bags of Doritos in front of me, all while telling me they wish to lose weight. I am not exaggerating. It's horrible and so very, very frustrating.
I am lied to, directly to my face, on (probably) an hourly basis. It is insane the things they will lie about. But not this lady.
She is herself, and no one else. She does not lie, she does not make excuses. Although she cannot speak, she can say more than most of the people I come in contact with every single day. She does not hide anything.
You cannot get any more honest than showing your dietitian your secret stash of guilty pleasures that have more calories in one cake than most humans need all day long.
We should all take a lesson from her. Why try to hide it? The truth will come out some day.
Sometimes, in order to make up for the inside, we have to put up a facade. A fake appearance in attempt to prove that the inside is good, worthy. If you think about it hard, you can find many instances in which this discussion applies to far more than just houses.
Off the top of my head, I can name several people who fit this description. Those who have terrible insides, only to put on a front for all the world to see. Those who have to "mold" themselves into something they're not to make up for the part, or the whole, of themselves they do not like. I bet you can too.
On the flip side, I have seen this play out in my own life. I did not realize it until just recently, however. From my previous posts, I have mentioned that I have recently continued to see a counselor due in large part to my denial of my mom's death and how hard I have worked to keep it a very small part of my life. Unfortunately, as we all know, it is real, and probably the hugest, and realest, part of my life. I have worked so hard to put it away, to not accept it, and to not look at the reality of the situation that has, in fact, made myself and my life, harder to deal with as this truth, this awful, heartbreaking truth, works its way out into the open. I am amazed at how your brain and your heart will not let you hide your pain, and it, unfortunately will come out when it sees fit: while you're driving on the highway, when you're at work in a meeting, when you're at a wedding celebrating your friends' life and marriage. Inappropriate versus appropriate, good versus bad, safe versus dangerous...it will find its way out. It does not care.
I am told that this happens when we suppress things for far too long. They will come out. Eventually. And when they do, we have no control.
I have experienced this. I am now dealing with the harsh reality that I have not wanted to let myself accept for 11 months. My mom is dead. I watched her die. I told her everything would be alright. I was part of the decision to "pull the plug," as we so lovingly call it.
As part of my therapy, I read my blog from the first entry to my birthday entry, four months total worth of postings. I relived every moment, every emotion, every memory. Except, they did not feel like my memories to me. Reading through descriptions of the moments leading up to her death, the events that took place before she left for the hospital, the day of the bone marrow transplant, the last 36 hours of her life--they were not things I recognized in my memories. You know how pictures or a letter or journal entry can jog our memories and take us back to scenes in which we once lived?
This was not the case. Reading through four months of my life did not feel like my life at all. I felt as though I was reading a novel, not something that I myself wrote, much less from memories that I myself encountered. I could not believe what I was reading. Things slowly came back to me, and I felt as though she was dying all over again, and I cried so much for myself and for her.
And I let myself. And I kept crying. And I tried as hard as I could to understand that these were not stories, but things that I once lived and breathed. They were real, from the moment I heard "leukemia" to her last dying breath. All real, and all mine.
I continued to read until I couldn't take it anymore. But the reason I stopped wasn't because my sadness prevented me from moving on...it was the complete and utter bullshit I wrote about after she died. Things like "I might actually be OK" and "I feel really good today, I am starting to move on." What a joke, and how embarrassing to realize the falsity and forced feelings of "being ok."
There's a huge difference from saying you're ok and actually being ok. I was just saying I was ok. I would be lying, now, to say that I am ok.
I mean, I wanted to be ok. I really wanted to. With everyone so distraught around me, I felt like I had to be the tough guy. Crying was weak. Being sad was weak. Letting myself feel anything was weak. So I was strong, and blocked it all out, "moved on," and forced myself into "being ok."
If you did not understand the facade comparison, this is where it comes in. I put up a facade to the world, to my family, to my friends, and to myself. I acted like nothing was wrong and eventually believed nothing was wrong. But all in time, it shows its ugly head. Just like the leakage in the room or the cracks in the foundation, you can see it in someone's eyes, in their face, in their smile. You can see that sadness that lies within , that truth that's dying to come out and be real.
My mom is dead. She has been dead for 11 months. I am miserable. I want her back. Nothing seems real without her.
I admit it.
My first post states that I will always end my blogs on a positive note, that I would not let cancer take me down, and that it would not take my mom down. It has taken her down. And you and I both know that I have not ended this blog on a positive note in a very long time. In the attempt to be honest with myself and my feelings, I cannot end this on a positive note myself, but I can let someone else do it for me.
At work, I have a patient who, due to a massive stroke, can only say the word "gunna." She can read and write, and she can understand what you are saying to her, but she can only express herself using this solitary word. Believe it or not, it is rather easy to talk with her. Despite the extremely limited vocabulary of my patient, her facial expressions and her hand gestures can do most of the talking for her. Today, she was readmitted to our facility after a bout with abdominal pain that turned out to be nothing serious. Upon my assessment of her, I attempted to find out if this hospitalization in any way changed her nutritional status. To put it kindly, she is not the thinnest of women. However, she has the most precious smile and kindest heart and for her to speak to you and wave to you to say "hi" simply melts your heart. She truly is a joy to my day, and I missed her while she was gone. I asked her if her appetite was still good like before she went out to the hospital. She was talking as she reached for a large snowman sitting on her nightstand. It is September, so this in itself was rather odd, but I began to think for a second that maybe she really didn't understand what I was saying.
She put the snowman on her bed, popped its head off, and showed me what was hidden in the belly of the snowman. Inside were probably 20 twinkies and ho-hos in individual plastic wrappers, all of which she dumped out of the snowman and onto her bed. She displayed them by waving her arms as if to say, "My appetite's fine! See what I have here!" I couldn't help but laugh. I laughed hard. This woman, who literally fills my heart with joy every time she greets me in the hallway, made my entire week, maybe my entire month, by this simple act.
She told on herself. And she didn't care.
For those of you who don't know, I am a dietitian. I am often loathed, to put it mildly, by my patients and sometimes by their families. But I mean well. On a daily basis, I am bombarded with people who weigh 300, even 400 pounds, with diabetes, heart disease, hypertension, who, while I'm assessing them, will drink two regular sodas and eat two bags of Doritos in front of me, all while telling me they wish to lose weight. I am not exaggerating. It's horrible and so very, very frustrating.
I am lied to, directly to my face, on (probably) an hourly basis. It is insane the things they will lie about. But not this lady.
She is herself, and no one else. She does not lie, she does not make excuses. Although she cannot speak, she can say more than most of the people I come in contact with every single day. She does not hide anything.
You cannot get any more honest than showing your dietitian your secret stash of guilty pleasures that have more calories in one cake than most humans need all day long.
We should all take a lesson from her. Why try to hide it? The truth will come out some day.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Faith Noir
I haven't written in a while, mostly because I feel a little awkward posting the same thoughts and feelings I've had since last year around this time, even though now, this year, they seem to be stronger and more pronounced in my life. I recently met up with someone who mentioned they read my blog, and then followed that statement with, "Has it gotten any more positive? I remember it being a little...noir." I immediately felt the need to apologize. This statement had really hit a nerve.
I have been extremely tired of myself and my feelings and sadness and loss, and I am always so afraid to put any of that on someone else. Especially my husband or my friends. I try to keep as many things to myself as I can, and this sometimes feels like my only outlet. Are you tired of me too?
I'm so sorry if you are, I can't help how I feel. Maybe I need to find a better way to express it?
I see a counselor regularly, who believe it or not, feels as though I do not express any of this enough. My first visit back to her, after my "break," I began with, "I know it's been ten months and I shouldn't be feeling like this, but I feel like she died yesterday. I feel like it just happened. I'm so sad, more so than I was when it first happened."
She told me never to say anything like this again. That I can't apologize for feeling the loss of my mom, that ten months is "two seconds" in grieving time, especially when it was my mom and especially when it was so traumatic. I'm trying not to feel bad for feeling how I feel, but sometimes I just do.
This whole situation and it's ripple effect it has had on my life have made me question a lot about religion and faith. I know this is a sensitive subject for many, and if you are easily offended by discussions like this, I suggest you stop reading. I can't help but wonder why God would put such a wonderful, amazing creature like humans on this Earth for them to suffer? Good, honest, hard-working people that have never wanted anything more than to have a family, suffering, and struggling, only to die in the end, for nothing. I don't understand it. The sad thing is, none of us really do. We can think we know, but none of us know for sure what this is all about.
That's a scary thought to me, to not understand why I'm here. Since my grandma got sick in 2000, me and my family have done nothing, and I mean nothing, but watch one of our loved ones suffer from cancer. Chemo, radiation, weight loss, hair loss, self-esteem loss, fear, hospitals, surgeries, medicine, doctors, nurses, dietitians, vomiting, screaming, crying, fighting, praying. Dying. All three of them. Gone. All of it, it all was for nothing. Why would you create such a beautiful person like my mom, only to make her watch her mother die, then her sister, then put the same fate on her? Why even do it?
I perfectly understand that we all die, and that it must happen for all of us. But not that way. Not the way any of them died.
How cruel. I do not understand.
We are all now dealing with the repercussions of this decision to create, to destroy. I watch my aunts cry and mourn for their sisters, their best friends they've grown up with. Their deaths were not peaceful or quick. Not by any means. How could you put them through that? These wonderful women, how could you make them suffer like this?
How unfair.
There are so many questions I have that remain unanswered, and no matter how hard anyone tries, they cannot be answered. For we do not know the answer, not one of us on this earth.
Faith allows us to walk among this place with hope in our hearts that this is all worth something, that our hard work to be good people will pay off some day. Faith keeps us going, and keeps us trusting that those who suffer do not do it in vain. Faith is the base of religion, of belief, of knowing that we will one day find the answer to why we are all here.
I am envious of those who have faith, and of those who cultivate it in a time of loss and mourning.
I once had faith. It faltered here and there, after my grandma, after my Aunt Polly. It was even once the cause for an argument between a friend. Some of us have such rock-hard faith we barely understand suffering or the empathy to support one another during a time of questioning. I have never been able to understand that kind of faith, but I could at least make sense of what it stood for.
It was shattered after my mom.
I know that it will never come back. At least not as "faith." Maybe understanding. Maybe respect for others' opinions. Maybe an open mind for different views and the ability to appreciate a different perspective. But not faith. Maybe just simply an appreciation for others' faith.
I hope that I am not being judged for this type of thought, and I hope that it is with an open mind and open heart that these postings are read. Otherwise, stop. Please. I have always been interested in religion and faith and belief and people's opinions. I have always wanted to hear what others think on the subject and have hoped, during these conversations that I am able to adapt their thoughts and feelings into the way I see things. I have always tried to appreciate differences among people. Please appreciate mine.
I do not understand why we're here. I go about my day, taking care of others, worrying about others, especially my family and my patients, and I wonder what the point is. Am I just supposed to be a good person? I certainly try hard, and I am hoping it is noticed. But. Is a "good" person a successful person in God's eyes? What if I'm not happy? What if I don't feel whole anymore? What if I'm not even myself anymore, but instead someone everyone wishes I was? What if I walk around all day, trying to be "better" and "over this" and "stronger than before," but all of it is just a show with no real meaning to it? What if I'm just faking?
Am I still a good person? If none of this is real, it's all for show, and I come home everyday feeling lost and sad without her, am I still good in God's eyes? If I'm not happy or myself, the person He created 24 years ago, and I'm struggling to remember that person, am I still succeeding, in the grand scheme of things?
What is this world, really, without the one's we love by our sides? If we've lost such large pieces of our hearts that we can't fully live the way we used to? I just don't get it.
I know that eventually I will move on and learn to live my life the way I need to, without them. I fully understand that. That doesn't mean it has to make any sense.
I have been extremely tired of myself and my feelings and sadness and loss, and I am always so afraid to put any of that on someone else. Especially my husband or my friends. I try to keep as many things to myself as I can, and this sometimes feels like my only outlet. Are you tired of me too?
I'm so sorry if you are, I can't help how I feel. Maybe I need to find a better way to express it?
I see a counselor regularly, who believe it or not, feels as though I do not express any of this enough. My first visit back to her, after my "break," I began with, "I know it's been ten months and I shouldn't be feeling like this, but I feel like she died yesterday. I feel like it just happened. I'm so sad, more so than I was when it first happened."
She told me never to say anything like this again. That I can't apologize for feeling the loss of my mom, that ten months is "two seconds" in grieving time, especially when it was my mom and especially when it was so traumatic. I'm trying not to feel bad for feeling how I feel, but sometimes I just do.
This whole situation and it's ripple effect it has had on my life have made me question a lot about religion and faith. I know this is a sensitive subject for many, and if you are easily offended by discussions like this, I suggest you stop reading. I can't help but wonder why God would put such a wonderful, amazing creature like humans on this Earth for them to suffer? Good, honest, hard-working people that have never wanted anything more than to have a family, suffering, and struggling, only to die in the end, for nothing. I don't understand it. The sad thing is, none of us really do. We can think we know, but none of us know for sure what this is all about.
That's a scary thought to me, to not understand why I'm here. Since my grandma got sick in 2000, me and my family have done nothing, and I mean nothing, but watch one of our loved ones suffer from cancer. Chemo, radiation, weight loss, hair loss, self-esteem loss, fear, hospitals, surgeries, medicine, doctors, nurses, dietitians, vomiting, screaming, crying, fighting, praying. Dying. All three of them. Gone. All of it, it all was for nothing. Why would you create such a beautiful person like my mom, only to make her watch her mother die, then her sister, then put the same fate on her? Why even do it?
I perfectly understand that we all die, and that it must happen for all of us. But not that way. Not the way any of them died.
How cruel. I do not understand.
We are all now dealing with the repercussions of this decision to create, to destroy. I watch my aunts cry and mourn for their sisters, their best friends they've grown up with. Their deaths were not peaceful or quick. Not by any means. How could you put them through that? These wonderful women, how could you make them suffer like this?
How unfair.
There are so many questions I have that remain unanswered, and no matter how hard anyone tries, they cannot be answered. For we do not know the answer, not one of us on this earth.
Faith allows us to walk among this place with hope in our hearts that this is all worth something, that our hard work to be good people will pay off some day. Faith keeps us going, and keeps us trusting that those who suffer do not do it in vain. Faith is the base of religion, of belief, of knowing that we will one day find the answer to why we are all here.
I am envious of those who have faith, and of those who cultivate it in a time of loss and mourning.
I once had faith. It faltered here and there, after my grandma, after my Aunt Polly. It was even once the cause for an argument between a friend. Some of us have such rock-hard faith we barely understand suffering or the empathy to support one another during a time of questioning. I have never been able to understand that kind of faith, but I could at least make sense of what it stood for.
It was shattered after my mom.
I know that it will never come back. At least not as "faith." Maybe understanding. Maybe respect for others' opinions. Maybe an open mind for different views and the ability to appreciate a different perspective. But not faith. Maybe just simply an appreciation for others' faith.
I hope that I am not being judged for this type of thought, and I hope that it is with an open mind and open heart that these postings are read. Otherwise, stop. Please. I have always been interested in religion and faith and belief and people's opinions. I have always wanted to hear what others think on the subject and have hoped, during these conversations that I am able to adapt their thoughts and feelings into the way I see things. I have always tried to appreciate differences among people. Please appreciate mine.
I do not understand why we're here. I go about my day, taking care of others, worrying about others, especially my family and my patients, and I wonder what the point is. Am I just supposed to be a good person? I certainly try hard, and I am hoping it is noticed. But. Is a "good" person a successful person in God's eyes? What if I'm not happy? What if I don't feel whole anymore? What if I'm not even myself anymore, but instead someone everyone wishes I was? What if I walk around all day, trying to be "better" and "over this" and "stronger than before," but all of it is just a show with no real meaning to it? What if I'm just faking?
Am I still a good person? If none of this is real, it's all for show, and I come home everyday feeling lost and sad without her, am I still good in God's eyes? If I'm not happy or myself, the person He created 24 years ago, and I'm struggling to remember that person, am I still succeeding, in the grand scheme of things?
What is this world, really, without the one's we love by our sides? If we've lost such large pieces of our hearts that we can't fully live the way we used to? I just don't get it.
I know that eventually I will move on and learn to live my life the way I need to, without them. I fully understand that. That doesn't mean it has to make any sense.
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