"Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children." - William Makepeace Thackeray
Sometimes I wish I could quanitfy the way I see things. The definition is always changing. Most times, thoug, it is like walking on a narrow causeway with time as an abyss on one side and insight's gaping maw on the other. The more I learn the more I know I need to learn. I am overwhelmed at this moment by the weight of knowing that my mother is fallible. Not only fallible, but incapable of taking care of herself. Nor am I capable of taking care of her. I have to watch her throw herself to the winds of fate and hope that she lands somewhere safe. I don't know what else to say.
With my mother's falliblity comes that old saw about the day I realized my parents weren't as smart or in control as I thought they were. It was a long time ago, but it seems like one of those lessons you learn over and over as you wait for your mother to come to her senses and she just...doesn't. She doesn't and you wonder what you'd do if she called in the middle of the night; her little ice floe in the middle of the ocean has shrunk once again from the vast, stable landscape it once was to something akin to the coffee-table; able to be rowed easily but also vulnerable to the slightest wave. How do you keep her from sinking?
As a mother, things my mother does make me think about the kind of mother I am. Wait. No--the kind of mother I seem. Does my daughter, at 7, think I have it all figured out? Probably. Will she think the same thing at 15, 23, 30--it's important to me that my daughter have a mother that has it together, and acts like it. It's important to me to show her a strong, postive role model that she can lean on--not one that leans back more than anything else. I am sure my mother never really thought about it that way. Maybe just thinking about it is a step in the right direction...
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Before Night is Through
I stole the title of this from a book I read; I'll admit it. It's a good book on a scary subject: death.
I am having to come to terms with what death means to me as I get ready to train as a hospice volunteer. Everyone I have talked to about it is concerned. A few think I am crazy to take on what could potentially be a depression-inducing situation that most people would pay the devil to avoid. Here I am rushing into it. Well, not rushing in a sense that I haven't thought it through. It's been occupying my mind almost non-stop for a week or more. I've probably been doing a normal person's 6-months worth of thinking, though. When I get to contemplating, it's fairly serious.
I've already had insights, the kind some people wait a lifetime for. That tells me a lot.
Lesson #1:
It is not my place to assume the worst about someone when they make a decision I would not make. Sounds simple, right? But how many of us have criticized the person who brings their new girlfriend to a funeral? (Ah ha! We've all had that niggling little thought that they are being somehow disrespectful! We've heard our aunties call them 'show-boaters' and whisper about how disgraceful it is. And maybe, deep down, we thought so too.) I specifically criticized (in my own mind) the decision of a parent not to hold a memorial for their son.
Lesson #1, Part a: I am an ass sometimes, as are we all. Who am I to tell someone how to grieve, and what does it say about me that I automatically assume that a decision made during a time of grief in any way reflects that the person making the decision cares less than they should? It might say a lot. I'm still working on it.
Lesson #2:
It might be really, really important to look death in the eye. Ignoring any problem or uncomfortable thing allows all sorts of fallouts to happen. In the case of death, you really can't go back and say "But I really wanted to be cremated", or "I hate white lilies. Why are there white lilies everywhere?" You can't give your iPod to your cubicle mate post-mortem, and you can't make sure that your Aunt Edna's patchwork quilt goes to the one kid that can actually appreciate it and not try to sell it on the Antiques Roadshow. One of death's ancient names means 'The Great Leveler"--we're all going there and we're going there with nothing but ourselves. This one has me thinking a lot.
Lesson #3:
There is no destination. Maybe there really is no time in your life that you should say "I'm here." When it comes to grieving, it is more likely that you will always say, "It's getting better." It's okay if it's never gone. We live in a fast-paced society that says you should be back to work in a few days and fully functional in a few weeks. Really? Who says?
Lesson #4:
I'm learning. If I had a deity to tell that to, I would. Instead, I'll throw that out to my painfully mortal brothers and sisters. I think the definition of a life well-lived includes something about being open to learning even past the time that I feel that maybe I should know all this stuff by now.
I am having to come to terms with what death means to me as I get ready to train as a hospice volunteer. Everyone I have talked to about it is concerned. A few think I am crazy to take on what could potentially be a depression-inducing situation that most people would pay the devil to avoid. Here I am rushing into it. Well, not rushing in a sense that I haven't thought it through. It's been occupying my mind almost non-stop for a week or more. I've probably been doing a normal person's 6-months worth of thinking, though. When I get to contemplating, it's fairly serious.
I've already had insights, the kind some people wait a lifetime for. That tells me a lot.
Lesson #1:
It is not my place to assume the worst about someone when they make a decision I would not make. Sounds simple, right? But how many of us have criticized the person who brings their new girlfriend to a funeral? (Ah ha! We've all had that niggling little thought that they are being somehow disrespectful! We've heard our aunties call them 'show-boaters' and whisper about how disgraceful it is. And maybe, deep down, we thought so too.) I specifically criticized (in my own mind) the decision of a parent not to hold a memorial for their son.
Lesson #1, Part a: I am an ass sometimes, as are we all. Who am I to tell someone how to grieve, and what does it say about me that I automatically assume that a decision made during a time of grief in any way reflects that the person making the decision cares less than they should? It might say a lot. I'm still working on it.
Lesson #2:
It might be really, really important to look death in the eye. Ignoring any problem or uncomfortable thing allows all sorts of fallouts to happen. In the case of death, you really can't go back and say "But I really wanted to be cremated", or "I hate white lilies. Why are there white lilies everywhere?" You can't give your iPod to your cubicle mate post-mortem, and you can't make sure that your Aunt Edna's patchwork quilt goes to the one kid that can actually appreciate it and not try to sell it on the Antiques Roadshow. One of death's ancient names means 'The Great Leveler"--we're all going there and we're going there with nothing but ourselves. This one has me thinking a lot.
Lesson #3:
There is no destination. Maybe there really is no time in your life that you should say "I'm here." When it comes to grieving, it is more likely that you will always say, "It's getting better." It's okay if it's never gone. We live in a fast-paced society that says you should be back to work in a few days and fully functional in a few weeks. Really? Who says?
Lesson #4:
I'm learning. If I had a deity to tell that to, I would. Instead, I'll throw that out to my painfully mortal brothers and sisters. I think the definition of a life well-lived includes something about being open to learning even past the time that I feel that maybe I should know all this stuff by now.
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