Day 9 – Out with the Old, In with the New

Posted by BecomingBetty

My mom wasn’t much of a housekeeper. Truth be told, I struggle with keeping a clean house myself. My brother and I didn’t have many chores growing up. I had to load and unload the dishwasher, and I vacuumed and dusted for a few pennies, but I always liked dusting. I still love the actual act of dusting and polishing wooden furniture (not that you would know it from the current condition of my home).

I was in my 20s the first time I ever saw someone wipe down the inside of their sink after washing the dishes. Sure, we cleaned the sinks in our house, but it was part of a weekly “heavy duty” cleaning – not something we did every time we used the sink!

My mom and dad were both pack rats. There were parts of the house that could have been featured on an episode of Hoarders. Both grew up in the aftermath of the Great Depression, and neither threw away something that they might need or that “might be worth some money someday.”

I searched Mom’s apartment for some important documents while she was in the nursing home. I never found what I was looking for, but I found drawer after drawer stuffed with the gifts that I had purchased or made for her in the past decade, many with tags still attached. She was “saving them for a special occasion,” I am sure.

I haven’t cleaned out Mom’s apartment yet. I’m dreading the task. I think the long Thanksgiving weekend is probably the time to dive in and get it done. First, I’ve had to learn to let go. Mom and Dad had an auction sale when they sold the family home more than a decade ago. They moved from a 3-4 bedroom house (depending on how you counted) with a full basement, garage and two sheds to a 2-bedroom apartment. Every nook and cranny was filled. I ended up with at least a truckload of furnishings during that move.

They moved into an even smaller place a few years later and I again was elected (by default) to take possession of the “family heirlooms” – mostly broken furniture and wedding presents that Mom had never used because she was “saving them for something special.” I never used them either, for the most part.

I’m enrolled in a program with a life coach, and serendipitously, October was all about organizing. I learned to winnow the mounds of stuff that I have accumulated over 30+ years of adulthood by asking 1) does it serve me, 2) do I love it, and 3) is it outdated or broken? I was shocked by the realization of how much “stuff” I was holding onto because it was important to someone else. The local Goodwill store was the recipient of multiple loads of bric-a-brac, furniture and books.

My mom crocheted hundreds of doilies. I have them all over my house and I still had boxes and boxes of them left when she died. At her funeral we laid them out in stacks on a table and invited guests to take them to remember her. I felt a catch in my throat “What if it makes me sad that I don’t have these anymore?” Then, I remembered that these doilies had been occupying a corner of my closet for several years in boxes – just like the things that Mom never, ever used. It gave me joy to watch friends and relatives sorting through the piles, smiling and admiring Mom’s handiwork.

My coach reminded us that the blanket that Grandma made isn’t Grandma. If it’s worn out and stained and you’re ashamed to have it on display, perhaps it’s time to take a photo and let it go. There are a few things that I will keep from Mom’s house. There are things that I have always found beautiful. They would bring me joy to have, and I would USE them. Those will come home with me. The rest will find new homes. Those things that hold special memories but would never be used will be photographed. I don’t need to fill my home with physical objects to fill it with beautiful memories.

Along with the old “stuff,” I am letting go of old ideas, old resentments and old grudges. Out with the old. Bring in the new. New life, new ideas. I’m never going to love cleaning. Perhaps one of those “new ideas” is that hiring a cleaning service would be a good investment – it will give me more time to blog.

Day 8 – Sometimes You Just Have to Feel It

Posted by BecomingBetty

Sometimes the lesson is simply indescribable. You just have to feel it. Any attempt to find the words to describe those profound, deeply-felt changes will pale in contrast to the realization.

This is as close as I can come: The depth of the feeling of being very sad about a change – like death – is in direct proportion to how hard we resist the change. As long as I dwell in the past, wishing things could have gone differently or that I had said something or did something else, I will continue to feel sadness.

When I accept that Mom is gone, and that it happened just the way that it was always going to happen, the sadness eases. It’s out of my control. It always was.

The words make it sound much simpler than the feelings do. You’ll have to trust me on that one.

Day 7 – The Keeper of Secrets

Posted by BecomingBetty

The word “secret” has so many nuanced meanings. Some secrets are precious – the “secret recipe,” for example. Then there is “The Secret,” the power of intention that some believe can make a strawberry ice cream cone appear without them lifting a finger to help themselves. Other secrets are neutral. I hold a lot of confidential information for my clients. The “secrets” aren’t necessarily dark or ominous – they simply aren’t anyone else’s business.

When Mom died a week and a half ago, her secrets died with her. At 50 years of age, I realize how little I know about my mother’s years before me. I know a few select stories, of course – the ones that she told regularly. Those are committed to memory, some word for word. There are other stories that died with her – good and bad. I now have to make peace with the things that I will never know. There are curious, half-formed memories from childhood that will now never be explained.

When I was a young girl, my questions were met with “we’ll talk about that when you are older.” As I grew into adulthood, the deflection became, “I’d rather talk about you,” or “I need to go to the store.” I didn’t press for answers because I didn’t want to upset Mom. Making Mom cry was something I tried to avoid at all costs. I love(d) my Mom.

Ready or not, I have a new position in life. I am the oldest female. I have become the reluctant matriarch, for want of a better word. Like my mom, there are things I don’t talk about – things that are a part of me and that have shaped me and thus have shaped the lives of my children.

Without living parents to think about, I have the freedom to bring “secrets” into the daylight where they can fade without worrying about hurting feelings. No, I won’t be writing a salacious “tell all.” My life hasn’t been “that” interesting.

I do believe, however, that it is time to write my own “book of secrets.” My secret recipes. My secret thoughts. My private past. Someday when I am gone, one of my children may wonder what experiences shaped me. I can only tell them my side of the story, or at least my memory of it. My story would never be a bestseller. Indeed, it would probably be boring to even my own children. Still, one day they may have questions about what experiences made me into who I am.

I haven’t cleaned out Mom’s apartment yet, but I’ve been through enough of her things to know that there probably isn’t a “book of secrets” waiting to be discovered. It’s a shame, but at the same time, it is also a relief. I can live my life authentically. I can choose not to wear the title of the “keeper of secrets.” I control the narrative. I can tell my story without being a victim of anything or anyone in my past. I can choose not to die with my words still in me.

Day 5 – Be Authentic

Posted by BecomingBetty

I learned many lessons during Day 4, but I didn’t write about them. I was in a dark mood. I didn’t feel like doing anything except knitting and wasting time on social media, so I didn’t.

I spent a few minutes reviewing some of the comments that readers have left on my previous blog posts. One of the comments that I received recently made note of the observation that although there have been very difficult times in the past year or so, my posts have been (mostly) positive. That is by design, but I realize that perhaps that isn’t the for the greatest good.

I write as a way to cope with my emotions. Being sad, depressed or lonely feels bad. Being angry and anxious feels bad. For me, and I believe for many others, emotions each have a physical sensation that feels “good,” “bad,” or “neutral.”

These past months have been extraordinarily difficult. There have been many days during which I have lashed out at people who care the most about me. There have been days that I have cried and days that I have shirked responsibilities. I have made nasty comments under my breath and though unkind thoughts.

I will be the first to admit that I am extraordinarily imperfect. I strive to be positive and to show kindness. Some days I fail. Some days I am a miserable person to be around.

There would be something wrong with me if I only felt happiness while my mother was dying. I experienced sadness, rage, confusion and frustration on a daily basis. I had some really bad days.

I wrote in a journal daily. I let the feelings out. I didn’t keep them inside, and by letting them out in the light, I was able to deal with them. Writing about the negative emotions felt like opening the curtains on a dark room and throwing open the windows to allow the clean air to come in.

Many problems don’t look so big or so scary when you put them on a piece of paper.

I started writing in a new journal 3 days before Mom was hospitalized in August. I chose a book with black paper because I felt like even a grocery list could look elegant written in white ink on black paper. I filled every page of that book. Today I filled the last page. I’ve never been so relieved to finish filling a journal and being able to move on. Instead of a black book with black pages and a black cover, I’m next writing in a beautiful book wit a purple cover embellished with beautiful colors. The pages are ivory and they have lines so that my writing doesn’t end up all crooked.

I hope that the sadness and anger that sometimes filled those black pages becomes a thing of the past as I move out of this dark chapter in my life.

Death visits us all. My experience is not special or unique. Losing a parent is the “natural order” of things. Although I won’t allow myself to wallow in grief, the words of a dear friend remind me to be kind to myself. “You are never truly prepared to say goodbye to your mother, no matter hard you try.” He was right.

I’m not feeling very happy or positive today. I’m also not feeling very negative today. I’m pretty close to “neutral” on the emotional spectrum, and I think that’s a pretty good place to be at this stage in the grieving game.

Spread kindness, sprinkle joy. Be authentic.

Day 2 in the Life of a Motherless Mother – Loss is Universal – Grief is Indivdual

Posted by BecomingBetty

The writer in me outlined an agenda of all of the “lessons” that life and death would teach me, in order, for the next two weeks. Having buried a husband, my father, and many others close to me, I foolishly thought that I had learned the lessons that death had to teach me. I thought that I knew how to handle grief. Confirmation bias goes out the window when you’re learning about grief all over again.

I went back to work for a few hours yesterday. I had a list of work-related goals that I wanted to accomplish but I kept it short. One, two, three. Done. I began a blog post about bringing dull and lifeless diamonds back to life by giving them a good cleaning. I paused the blogging to run an errand out of town. No big deal. I was accomplishing tasks right an left. I got a little cocky.

I decided that my hair needed a trim. I pulled into the parking lot of a “no appointment necessary” establishment. I froze. I realized in just that instant that I couldn’t bear the small talk that a 15-minute haircut involves. If my hairdresser asked how I was doing, I ran the risk of all of the emotion that I was holding back bubbling out through my tear ducts and making a mess of my shirt. I don’t recall if I actually shed tears in the parking lot, but I put the car into drive and headed back home.

My daughter celebrated her birthday yesterday. “How can we celebrate anything when Mom is gone?” I asked myself. Daughter wanted Mexican food. She wanted to go out – I didn’t think I could bear it, so we compromised and I made Taco Tuesday on a Wednesday. We sang the birthday song from Chi-Chi’s restaurants (how I miss them) and we enjoyed a meal together, minus the teenager who is never home these days. We had a brief celebration and then I went to the living room to hibernate.

While I pined for Mom, I flipped mindlessly through Facebook and saw again that a high school classmate and her mother were grieving the loss of a brother and son. Another friend was mourning the loss of a beloved pet. Others were passing the anniversary of the death of a parent. I talked to my cousin who lost his father last week. Death will touch us all. Loss is Universal.

My sister-in-law reached out yesterday. We had a brief text exchange. We agreed that losing a mother is different than other losses. It stings.

I didn’t just lose my mother. I lost the person I called upon for advice. I lost the person I called to share my happiness. I’ve lost track of just how many times I have though “I should tell Mom” in just the past five days. Dad wasn’t my “go to” person for the kinds of things that Mom was.

I can honor Mom’s memory by allowing grief to wash over me as it comes. I will further honor her by not allowing myself to be swept away. I have many “lifeguards” who have offered assistance if I should find myself floundering in an ocean of tears.

As Day 2 came to a close, I realized that while my grieving process for Mom is different than any I have gone through before, I am not alone. Nearly all of us will have the experience of grieving a parent. Loss is universal. Grief is individual. No two people will grieve their mother the same way. The loss of a mother will be grieved differently than the loss of a father. Life marches on.

Day 1 in the life of a motherless mother. Seek Beauty.

Posted by BecomingBetty

We buried my mother yesterday. She died on a Friday and we buried her on the following Monday. There was no real time for grief between death and burial. As the oldest child – the only child living in the U.S. – the responsibility to make arrangements fell squarely on my shoulders.

There was shopping for suitable clothing for burial to be done, clergy to be found, scriptures to be selected. Although Mom had “pre-planned” the service, there was still a 2 hour appointment at the funeral home.

there were phone calls to be made and announcements to be written. Worst of all were the fires that needed to be put out and the ruffled feathers that needed to be soothed.

Death brings out the worst in some of us.

I spent Sunday night doing difficult work – consciously working through anger and resentments and letting them go. I learned that forgiveness TRULY is for the forgiver and not for the perceived transgressor. I entered the funeral home on Monday with only love and sadness in my heart.

I didn’t arrange a meal, but my cousin surprised us all with a trip to Denny’s, where we enjoyed fellowship and more than a laugh or two.

Today, though, it is my first day back to “normal” without my mom. Tuesday is always my “day off.” That doesn’t stop me from fielding a handful of phone calls and responding to emails, and today is no exception.

As with most days, I had a to-do-list. Mine was pretty simple: run, cry and get a massage. I managed two out of three. I decided that calling to make a massage appointment would take too many spoons, so I let myself off the hook on that one.

Grief is a funny thing. I can be laughing one moment and then something that Mom would say or do hits me in the gut. Something will happen and I think, “I should call Mom.” I think of all of the days when I forgot to call her, or when I was tired and thought to myself, “I’ll call in the morning.”

I remind myself that forgiving myself is possibly more important than forgiving others.

I ticked “cry” off of my list early and often. “Run” was harder. I donned my cold-weather running gear quite early in the day, but I found other tasks to put off the run. I revised my monthly Amazon subscriptions (twice), I rearranged some flowers that I brought home from the funeral. I made tea, ate a snack and played with the dogs.

finally, I kicked myself out the door. I wore a heavy fleece jacket over my long-sleeved technical shirt and a baby-alpaca cap on my head. I drove to the park where my favorite trail “lives” and I checked Facebook and Instagram for “likes” while willing myself to get out of the car and run.

I took a deep breath and opened the car door. I shed the cap and the sweater, knowing I would be too warm after a mile or so. I queued up my playlist and started my GPS watch. I think I made it 200 or 300 yards before the cold wind cut through and chilled me to the bone. Teeth chattering, I turned tail to call it quits. On the (short) trip back to the car a small voice spoke. “You have a jacket and a cap. Use them.” I did just that.

I paused the GPS and I pulled on the warmer clothing. Returning to the trail, I set off at a slow, steady pace. I paid attention to my breath and to the path. Fallen leaves covered hidden roots and rocks. Running safely became an exercise in being present. I did look around me and saw the brilliant hues of autumn. As I emerged from the first loop to the second (of three), I saw bluest skies in the clearing. As I ran through the meadow I skipped over puddles from the previous days’ downpours.

I stopped time and again to take photos to attempt to capture the moments of sheer awe at the world I have the privilege to run through on my two feet. I exited the second loop to make my way to the third loop and found what is normally a trail to be a six-inch deep pond / stream. I decided “let’s not get crazy now,” and decided that multiple loops around the “middle” loop would do.

I looped the “middle” loop three times, all in the same direction. Each trip round the loop I discovered something I hadn’t noticed before. On the first trip it was the view of the fields and trees across the clearing. On the second trip it was the low-hanging branch that I could reach up and touch. On the third trip, it was the prints of an unknown creature in the mud beside my own footprint.

Although I did, indeed, become quite warm in my cap and jacket, I made it 3.5 miles. I got to check “run” off of my mental list. As I guided my car through the twists and the turns of the parking lot to return home, I saw a brilliant crimson tree with the sunlight shining through its leaves. It was so beautiful that it took my breath away. I stopped the car to snap a photo which, of course, didn’t do it justice.

I returned home and inhaled the heady fragrance of a yellow rose the size of a peach. I sought out color and fragrance and sound that gave me glimpses of joy, and that joy brought me comfort. #Comfortandjoy was the hashtag I adopted for an abandoned attempt at building a MLM empire. It’s become my new theme for living through grief.

Today’s lesson was evident – seek beauty. It is everywhere. Enjoy it with every breath. Seek out beauty and find joy. In them, find comfort.

They call it the present because today is a gift.

I love it already!

Posted by BecomingBetty

There is a story about an old woman, recently widowed, who is moved to a nursing home. The woman is blind and cannot live independently. She waits, without family, in the lobby as her paperwork is completed and her room made ready. A staff member describes the room in great detail to her as she waits. “I love it already!” the old woman exclaims.

The nursing home staff member asks her, “How do you know you love it? You haven’t been inside it yet.”

The old woman, blind but wise, says, “The actual room and its furnishings has nothing to do with it. I’ve already decided that I love it. Happiness is a decision you make on purpose.”

I’m paraphrasing the story. I saw it originally on Facebook, and a google search showed that a similar story, but not quite the one that I remember was written by Joyce Meyer in “The Mind Connection: How the Thoughts You Choose Affect your Mood, Behavior and Decision.

It’s been some time since I wrote a blog post. To be honest, I’ve been feeling very sorry for myself. We discovered at the beginning of August that my 88 year old mother’s cancer had caused pathological fractures in her spine and right hip. She elected to have 10 radiation treatments to “beat it back” to alleviate the pain. Although I begged her to come stay with me for the duration of the treatments, she steadfastly refused to leave her home.

The treatments were harder than she expected. Due to the area that was being treated, there was a lot of irritation and inflammation in the digestive tract. She was frequently nauseated and vomiting, and there was nothing that I could do about it. Once the treatment started at the cancer center near her home, it couldn’t be transferred to the sister center near mine because of differences in equipment and dosages.

The day after her last treatment we received a call that she was gravely ill, and that management at her independent living community had determined that she was no longer independent enough to stay in her home. She was a danger to herself and potentially others. She had to leave, and I needed to be there when they broke the news to her.

I finished up some urgent matters at my office and drove south to Mom’s home. I packed up a handful of things in case I needed to stay overnight. When I arrived, Mom was sitting in her chair. Although we hadn’t spoken, she acted like she was expecting me. “I’ve decided to take you up on your offer to come stay with you. It will be a little vacation at your house – let’s see how it goes. I need some help.”

I was delighted that she had made the decision on her own. I knew that once she arrived at my home, she was unlikely to return to hr own, but we didn’t talk about that. I tried to get her to just get into the car so that I could help her (and so that my family could help me…) She refused. She needed to “clean the house,” and she couldn’t miss her doctor appointment in two days. I decided to stay with her for those two days.

To make a very long story very short, the doctor appointment never happened. Instead, my very sick mother slipped into a rapid decline and ended up spending the next two weeks in a series of moves that included two emergency rooms, three hospital rooms, two nursing home rooms and a bunch of procedure rooms.

I was with her night and day for more than a week that seemed like an eternity. Somewhere around day 4, my mom started to disappear. She changed from my loving mother to a scared, angry woman who told me that I was evil. She went from praising the staff to believing that they were possessed by Satan.

She was treated for electrolyte imbalances and a urinary tract infection. Each time they discovered a deficiency, I grasped onto hope that correcting it would bring my mother back. It didn’t.

She finally settled into a nursing home for rehabilitation. She was unable to do even the most basic self-care chores for herself.

I really, really wish that I could tell you that she is like the old woman in the beginning of this post and that she was determined to like her room before she even saw it. Instead, each time I would visit her in the nursing home, she would berate me. She would accuse me of tricking her into agreeing to stay with her so that I could put her into a nursing home where they torture her, make her fly on trapezes, tie her to the bed, punch her in the stomach, and leave her alone in the dining room for hours and hours without help. Gradually, I came to accept that the person that I love as my mother has rather suddenly disappeared.

One trip she told me that I am not her daughter anymore. Another time she told me that there are two of me. One is evil and one is her daughter, and she is not sure which one I am. She tells me that she wants to go home – but now she thinks that home is in Kidron, where we lived for many years, but she hasn’t lived there in a decade. Every visit, she asks me how her mom is – my grandma – who died when I was a little girl. Every visit, she tells me that she wishes that she had just died.

For two weeks at least, it seemed that everything made me cry. I stopped doing the things that I love to do. I stopped doing the things that help me to function – to stave off anxiety and depression. Instead, I cried. Sometimes I raged – I would scream in the car driving down the road when nobody could hear me. I have often told other caregivers “You cannot pour from an empty cup,” but when faced with the same sort of scenario in my own life, I poured and poured and poured until there was nothing left to give, and it still was not enough.

I would start projects – writing projects, crochet projects, cleaning projects -and then I would abandon them. My living room became filled with half-done afghans, dish cloths and hats.

One day a few weeks ago when I didn’t have court or client scheduled, I didn’t get out of bed until past 10:00 a.m. I’m an early riser. I get up, make coffee and then journal, meditate, and study. My husband knew then that something was very wrong.

We were blessed with a beautiful weekend in late September. My husband suggested a boat trip to an island. Reluctantly I agreed to leave – immediately. Instead of packing a large cooler full of food to prepare, we left with just our clothing and toiletries, a couple of packs of lunch meat, a loaf of bread, a bag of trail mix and another of potato chips, and elected to treat ourselves to a whole weekend of restaurants.

Although I used to run many miles each month, I had stopped doing that, too, over the course of the summer. There was a charity run scheduled for Saturday that weekend on the island, and I decided to register and do my best. I joined several hundred runners at the start line. There were several times that I had a hard time seeing the road because the tears were flowing so hard. I wasn’t in physical pain -it was a mental and spiritual battle. I crossed the finish line with tears streaming down my face. I started something, and I finished it. The 5k run didn’t become another unfinished project.

I wish that I could say that I snapped out of my funk and began living life again immediately after that 5k, but the truth is that it took another week of slowly beginning again to use the tools that helped me to function after the last crisis in our family.

Anyone who has followed me on Facebook or in my blogs for any period of time knows that I tend to post the happy things. My life is spent cultivating joy whenever possible. It’s easy to find joy in a flower when life is smooth sailing. Applying the tools is much more difficult when the waves are crashing and it seems that the world is burning down around you.

I’m learning that people can’t hurt our feelings. It’s our own thoughts about events that hurt us. It’s our own thoughts about life that bring us joy.

For those weeks in September, I spent all of my energy trying to find a solution for Mom’s mental decline. I spent hours combing my memory trying to find signs that the dementia was there all along and I just missed it. I spent hours trying to convince her that she’s in a place for help and that she still has a life to live if she just tries. that “project” took all of the time and attention from all of the other “projects” in my life. I finally realized that making myself miserable and allowing depression and anxiety creep back into my life – forgoing joy and happiness won’t bring my mother joy. It won’t bring her peace. It won’t make her want to live.

I choose life. Mom will be 89 in a few weeks. Whether or not she emerges from this event, her life is nearing its natural end. My visits always upset her. I no longer see her every day. It’s not good for her, and it’s really horrible for me. If she tells my kids that she wants something, I send it. I’ve stopped worrying so much about what other people think about the matter.

I’ve finished crocheting two cowls and I’m almost done with a poncho that I started at the beginning of summer. I ran again this week. I am back into my morning routine. I go to sleep giving thanks and I wake up anticipating a great day.

I am here to love my life, no matter what may come. It’s the only life I have, and I’m not about to waste it. This weekend I am setting up my office in a different room in the same building. I don’t know exactly what furnishing will fit or how they will look, but I love it already. I’m going to learn to knit on Thursday. I don’t know what I will make, but I love it already.

I don’t know what may come, but I’m certain that I can find beauty and comfort in it. I love it already!

A Subtle Sunrise

Posted by BecomingBetty

Easters were special growing up. We colored dozens of eggs. Mom made homemade candies and molded bunnies. I wore a new dress every year. Some years Mom made the dress for me. The white shoes came out of storage (forget Memorial Day!) and we posed for pictures in the back yard in our finest.

My Aunt would buy bags and bags of the left-over Easter candy and a week or so after Easter, we would have a big candy hunt with all of the cousins. Life was simple.

We didn’t always attend sunrise service, but I remember being excited to go. Some years, it would be very cold, and I would insist on wearing my thin Spring dress (often sleeveless) no matter how loudly my teeth chattered. Although I can vividly remember some of those dresses (and the hand-crocheted shawls Mom made to go with them), I cannot remember the sunrises. In my imagination, they were vivid – as we sang hymns, the bright ball of the sun peeked over the horizon and the angels sang. In my imagination, it was quite a spectacle – worthy of motion picture awards.

This morning, My dear sister-in-law and I decided to go to sunrise service. It was cold (low 40s), and the service was being held on the shores of Lake Erie, where ice covered the water mere days ago. I had no Easter dress, and as an adult, common sense ruled and I wore my heaviest wool pants, two sweaters, a winter jacket and woolen socks under my winter boots. I carried a travel mug of steaming coffee. I was prepared.

The rest of the early morning worshipers dressed like me. Nary a light spring dress with bare arms was to be found. In the pitch black darkness, we sat on rough wooden benches, our backs to the frigid lake. As the service began at 6:45 a.m., the sky began to lighten just enough to read the prayer on the bulletins we were handed.

Our Pastor shared the scripture from Mark 16 – “…trembling and bewildered, the women found the empty tomb and fled from the tomb. They said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.”

This account lacks the drama from the Passion Play. Mark doesn’t tell us about Jesus’ appearance to his followers. There are no vivid beams of light streaming from the empty tomb. No heavenly chorus – no trumpets – only frightened women fleeing.

As we said the closing prayer and sang the remaining hymns, the sky continued to brighten. There was no startling contrast, no brilliant colors. The lake didn’t sparkle. It was quite dreary (and still very cold). Pastor told us how some evenings when vespers is held at the same location, the sunset is stunning. Other times, like this morning’s sunrise, it is just a subtle transition from one day to another.

I wish that I had more time this morning to sit and contemplate that subtle sunrise. Instead, I came home, downed a cup of coffee and cooked breakfast for seven. After breakfast, I boiled eggs to color with one of the grandchildren who had spent the night. As my daughter helped him dye the eggs, I began preparation for the family celebration as we came together to enjoy fellowship (and food!)

After lunch, the children scampered through the yard looking for brightly-colored plastic eggs filled with candy. While I was inside the house being busy, the day had transformed completely. The cold had disappeared and the sun shone brightly. It was too nice to go back into the house, so we visited on the front porch. It was a wonderful time.

With the last of the family guests gone, I took my opportunity for that quite contemplation that I missed earlier. I donned my running tights and shoes and headed for the high school track. I reflected on the cross, and the excruciating pain that would be involved in crucifixion. I remembered Christ’s pleas for forgiveness for the people who were torturing and killing him. I imagined the empty tomb, and this time my mental movie included this morning’s subtle sunrise, as the black night gave way to the soft gray of a cloudy morning.

My own life has changed a lot in the past year or so. It’s been a slow process. Some days I am disappointed that the changes aren’t mind-blowingly vibrant. Other times, like today, I am grateful for the calm that fills me when I’m alone with the only sounds being those of nature around me and my feet striking the pavement. As I took my final lap around the track, the sun began it’s gentle descent toward evening. The bright ball in the sky was too bright for me to capture with my iPhone camera. It was the kind of light that chases away any kind of sadness left in the corners of your mind.

I sat in the car and watched the light. It was the kind of brightness that would be perfectly accompanied by angels’ voices and trumpets. It filled me with awe, and calm.

Last week was difficult. My mind was occupied with current events and political thoughts. I spent energy uselessly pondering issues that are beyond my control and problems that aren’t even mine to solve. While I was alone, in that moment, none of it mattered.

My subtle sunrise brought me calm. The light that ensued brought me joy – and peace.

The emotions today brought with it may be lost in translation, but the message for me came loud and clear – even a dreary, subtle sunrise can become a breathtaking day.

As the Easter hymns of my childhood echo in my mind, I am filled with joy.

He is risen [He is risen indeed!]

Celebrating Life – The Anniversary of My Decision to LIVE

Posted by BecomingBetty

Tomorrow is an important anniversary for me. I will celebrate one year of learning to love life again.

Sometimes depression creeps in unnoticed. We keep on doing the things we need to do, but we stop caring about the things that used to matter to us. We may continue to care about others, but we stop caring about ourselves. For me, it was like that. I can’t point to an event that triggered it. I don’t know why things changed. I just know that in the days and weeks leading up to March 9, 2014, I was in a dangerous place. I didn’t think anybody really cared.

You see, at over 300 pounds I was having a lot of health issues. Daily life was difficult. Losing half of my body weight seemed like an impossible task to contemplate. I was having “heart palpitations” and began to feel as if I was about to lose consciousness on more than one occasion. I came to believe that I was dying. Rather than seek medical help, I decided to let nature take its course. I wasn’t about to take steps to actively end my life, but I didn’t want to make the effort to save it. I guess you’d call it passive suicide. My overeating and inactivity were robbing me of life in a very real way, and I didn’t care enough to stop it.

I wish I could tell you what, exactly, flipped the switch in my head. On March 9, 2014, I made up my mind to call my doctor and ask him to prescribe an antidepressant medication. It was a Sunday. The office was closed, but I made up my mind.

I called first thing on Monday morning. My doctor was out of the office for the week, but I had a prescription bottle and an appointment for the next week before noon that day. Opening the bottle and putting the first pill in my mouth, I felt both a sense of failure for not being strong enough and a sense of relief that maybe, just maybe I could feel better.

I have a group of online friends who I have “talked” with in various places for 7-8 years. They are my invisible (not imaginary) friends. I have plants they sent to my dad’s funeral to prove they exist. I confessed to them my feelings of failure over needing medicine.

I confided in them about the tremendous loneliness and the feelings of isolation I was experiencing. One of them suggested I try running. I chuckled at the thought. I tried going to the gym the next day. I had a panic attack. I couldn’t do it. I was afraid of judgment. I made my husband turn around and take me home.

A fellow attorney practicing in another part of the state (not one of the previously mentioned group of invisible friends) who I have never met in real life sent me a message suggesting we virtually work out / run together and sign up for a race.

The “Arthur” video began showing up in my facebook feed over and over. I’d watched it dozens of times before. I’d even purchased the DDP Yoga videos in 2012, shed quite a few pounds, and did a great job of learning to get off the floor (a skill I’d retained) before eventually giving up and going back to my old ways and regaining nearly every pound I had lost.

I watched the video again. This time, when Arthur began running, the tears streamed down my face.

I’ve learned in my life that when I start getting the same message over and over from different sources, God is trying to tell me something. I listened. I decided that if I wanted to live badly enough to put medicine in my body, then I wanted to live badly enough to take back my life. If Arthur could learn to walk again, and learn to run, then so could I.

Those of you who have followed me the past year know how the rest of the story goes. I started walking, and then I began running slowly on the treadmill. I got over the fear of the gym and added weights to my workout. I hit the yoga mat and did some DDPYoga. I swam laps. I posted on Facebook (a lot).

Soon the weather warmed and the outdoors called. I ran on the high school track. I ran through town. I ran on trails. I ran on the beach. Although I sometimes took Jimi the Wonder Dood with me, usually this was time to myself. I started seeing the wonder in nature- in leaves and waves and birds. I talked to God. He talked back in rustling leaves and wind on my face. He talked to me through “cheers” when friends “liked” my runs on Facebook.

It wasn’t quick or easy. I still had days when sadness pressed on my heart and made it difficult to do anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Slowly, though, I returned to the land of the living. I stopped just going through the motions. I devoted more time to getting my soul back in order through prayer, meditation and lots and lots of sweat.

The popular adage says that when life hands you lemons, make lemonade. I’m making lemonade and trying to give it away. One year ago I really didn’t care if I lived or died. One year ago, I thought that nobody cared. One year ago I couldn’t have dreamed how wonderful life is today.

I still take those pills. I take another for my thyroid and one for my blood pressure. It’s part of my daily routine. The pills didn’t fix me. I had to do that myself with a lot of help from God and my friends and family. I still run. I still get sad once in a while. It’s no longer overwhelming.

I’m a little frightened to post this, but I feel it is necessary. It’s scary to admit that you struggle with depression. I worry that it could hurt me professionally. I fear that people will think less of me if they know that I have problems just like anyone else. I believe that we need to move beyond the stigma that mental health issues hold. I believe that if people in pain knew how many people suffer with them, people would be more inclined to seek help before it becomes easier to think about dying than to think about living.

Writing this blog post is me making lemonade. It’s not the “koolaid,” if it’s not your thing – move on.

I don’t believe that God tests us like Job in the Old Testament, but I do think that he gives us opportunities to understand and help others when we face trials. I think that he gives us the grace to move through our challenges if we ask. I think that when we are taught lessons paid for with blood, sweat and tears, it is only right to share the lessons that we have learned.

Please don’t give up. Don’t passively wait for your vices and problems to kill you. If you are depressed, there is hope. Medicine is not shameful. Therapy is not shameful.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Don’t be afraid of failure. Don’t be afraid of judgment. Never, ever give up.

Today, I celebrate the life I have been given. I am excited to see what the next 365 days holds. I am a work in progress. Next year you will see another brand new me. I can’t wait.

To those of you who have “liked,” “commented,” or “shared” my writing in the past, thank you for encouraging me. To those of you who are new to this page, welcome. Thank you for giving me an opportunity to share with you.

Today, I am celebrating life. Welcome to the party.

~Be~

I Sure Wish God Didn’t Trust Me So Much

Posted by BecomingBetty

I don’t know whether she ever truly said it, but Mother Teresa is credited with saying,

“I know God won’t give me anything I can handle. I just wish he didn’t trust me so much.”

I’ve shared that quotation on my Facebook wall in times when life is handing me lemons so fast that I can’t make the lemonade quickly enough to use them all up.

Yesterday, one of my many beloved Invisible Friends (people I have met online and have never had the pleasure to meet in real life) posted words to the effect that she doesn’t believe the old adage that “God won’t give us more than we can handle” is appropriate to say to someone in their time of trouble. God doesn’t give us the pain, but he helps us through it. She later posted a link to a powerful blog by another writer who expanded on the thought. Having had a day to think about it, and facing my own obstacles this morning, I must say that I am in agreement.

Life is not fair.

Cancer and other terminal illness has been a constant in my close family since 2006 when my wonderful father-in-law succumbed to cancer after successfully fighting it off multiple times. No more than a month after we laid him to rest, my own father was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. It seemed that he had no more than gone into remission than he was struck with severe congestive heart failure as the result of damage to his heart muscle from the chemotherapy that had saved his life. We fell back into a rhythm for a short time, and Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. She had surgery to remove her right breast and 23 lymph nodes, which all tested positive for cancer. She consented to radiation, but refused the chemotherapy which might have killed off the cancer cells that remained. We lost Dad a short time later. Mom was struggling to recover herself and caring for him. They finally consented to come to my home so that I could help, and we lost Dad within 2 weeks. I struggled. I thought that surely now things must get easier.

Mom’s PET scans have been negative for cancer in her soft tissue since that time. However, a tumor marker protein in her blood work has been creeping up – slowly at first, and now rapidly. She went for a repeat PET scan last week and yesterday her oncologist said that there is no sign of tumor in her soft tissue, so we must look to the bone. The tumor marker is elevated to the point that there is no question – there is an active disease process raging in her body that will require aggressive treatment.

My dear mother looked defeated – not at the thought that the cancer was in her bones, but more at the thought that she must, again, endure another long test in a lonely room with no television, no music, and not even a picture on the wall to look at. My heart wanted to break.

We went from the doctor’s office to get lunch, visit family, and go shopping. Mom seems to be handling it all very well. I, on the other hand, am ready to pitch a hissy fit. My friend’s post was timely. God isn’t testing me. God isn’t giving this to me. Life happens. It isn’t all about me. God didn’t select me out of all of the people on this planet to shoulder the load I am toting right now because he has some belief that I am tough and I can handle a little bit more. I am not Job.

We are intricate creations, but our design allows flaws (cancer and other disease) to develop. Our environment and our choices influence the likelihood that disease process will start, stop, slow or speed up. We don’t have an infinite life here on earth. Our bodies eventually wear out, whether or not cancer strikes. Eighty-six years is a long life by any standard. Many women don’t get to keep their mothers for 47+ years. I’m not giving up hope, by any means, but I know that whether it is cancer or heart disease or simply old age, I am going to lose my mother – I just don’t know when. This latest crisis has removed my ability to pretend it won’t happen. It’s not an “if” – it is a “when”. Death happens to us all.

I will survive this challenge. I will not survive it because I am strong, though. I will survive it because I have no choice in the matter. I will pray for strength and for grace and peace. God didn’t give this particular challenge to me because I have some ability to be resilient. God didn’t plan for me to find my husband after his suicide in 1998. He didn’t plan for me to tell the doctors to remove life support for Dad in 2013. God didn’t plan this – he gave us free will. He’s not the superhero in the sky whose purpose is to go around putting out fires for those who are too weak to handle it. Instead, he promises us his grace.

I will be there for my Mom through whatever treatment she chooses to take. She will turn to God for comfort, as will I. God doesn’t give me challenges because I am strong. I am presented with challenges because I am human – I am alive. Mom is alive, too. I will treasure our remaining days together whether I have to say goodbye to her, or whether I am the first to leave this earthly plane.

I will experience more pain, suffering and grief than I can handle. God’s not dishing it out to test me. People around me aren’t developing cancer because I am strong. I don’t have to be strong. I can admit that I am powerless. I can allow myself to cry. It isn’t all about me – and I’m so glad it isn’t. It’s not about God trusting me – it’s about me trusting Him for strength to weather the storms.