The Sounds of Silence

"To hear, one must be silent."

~ Ursula K. Le Guin

It has taken me a few months to venture into the waters of silence. I'd like to say I purposely chose to wade in, but it has happened gradually and accidentally at first. Like so many folks these days, technology has made it all too easy for me to be distracted - the computer, the TV, the phone, notepads - so easy and enticing.

With John's death, 21 months ago today to be exact, I initially found silence to be foreboding. In the middle of the night, when I would wake to overwhelming grief and anxiety, it became a habit to get up, turn on the TV or music and distract myself until I could fall back to sleep. During the day, I would read (usually with a background of music), or call a friend, or run off to do errands or attend a meeting—anything to keep the pain at bay, at least for a little while. At least until I could parcel it out in doses and drum up tried and true approaches that had guided me through other challenges of my life - approaches, in retrospect, that only kept the demons at bay. 

And then, the virus hit, and though I thought and hoped, as many of us did, that everything would be back to normal by autumn, the rising statistics this summer soon proved me wrong. June and July presented a confrontation with everything I believed about myself, the future, and my ability to quiet the cacophony in my head and plan for the future. How does one plan for such an unknown future?

Then, one recent morning, with no particular reason that I can recall, I started to journal in total silence. No music, no news, silence, and the quality of my writing and the level of honesty was so noticeably different that I knew immediately that I could only still the inner noise and confusion by being willing to be quiet enough to hear and deal with it.

At first, I was stunned by a level of grief that I now realize I had simply covered up. Cloudbursts of tears became thunderstorms at the mere glance at John's photo or the discovery of a loving card. I could feel waves of irritation or anxiety physically when I prepared to run even the simplest errand. The more I wrote in silence, the more I got in touch with outrage over how this virus has been mishandled and my dismay over the distrust, nastiness, and division I see in my country. The more I wrote, I more I got in touch with a fear of incompetence and a degree of loneliness I had not felt in decades.

Gradually, I lengthened the periods of silence. I wrote more and more. Began to take my lunch out to the patio and just listen for birds or children playing behind the backyard wall. Slowed down and enjoyed my food. Noticed the sound of the breeze through the trees in the early hours of the morning or Rufus' gentle breathing as he curled up beside me in bed. Caught an idea as it surfaced unexpectedly. 

But most importantly, I recognized, quite abruptly in fact, that my underlying fear was not that I couldn't cope with the present, but instead that I had no sense of purpose for the future, and that I knew errands, and house maintenance and even volunteering were no longer enough. That, without John, I have come to yearn for family and physical proximity to people with whom I have a longer and more intimate shared history. At that very moment, I decided that I will move to New York State when my younger sister retires. At that very moment, I accepted that just as a future decision has emerged in my willingness to be still, so will a larger purpose.

One recent night I realized that I hadn't watched TV for a week other than to turn on some music while I cleaned the house. And that I am going to bed earlier and sleeping better. That when I do wake, I don't get upset. I merely read awhile until I go back to sleep. That projects are emerging more naturally, like simplifying the house, not just organizing it. Or finding it easier to let go of "stuff" because I'm already thinking of moving. Or knowing what I want to blog about without false starts and second-guessing!

Am I totally comfortable with silence? Not by a long shot. Do I plan to take up meditation? Not now, not yet. But I am growing comfortable with long stretches of silence, more confident that I will hear what I need to hear. And, surprisingly, grateful for this period of solitude.

Looking Back in Order to Look Forward

"Sometimes you have to look back to be able to look forward."
~ unknown

It's that time of the year when I look back to see where I've been, what I've accomplished, and where I want to head in the coming year.  I've done this every year for the past 35 years except last year.  John had died in November and the best I could do was hope that I'd endure the grief and mourning that overwhelmed me - and I wasn't so sure about that.

So, this year I dared to pull out my private journals from 2018 and 2019 (six in all) and began to read, hesitantly, a few pages at a time.  Knowing I would dredge up painful memories, bittersweet memories, but also, hopefully, memories that could sustain me and buoy up my tentative optimism for the coming year.

 I had so many questions:

• Had I been the compassionate companion I wanted to be?  Did I do enough?
• What help and support meant the most to John, to me, to us?
• What help could I or should I have asked for sooner?
• Why was this past autumn so challenging? Why am I optimistic, even if cautiously, now?
• What have I learned from these past two years?  How have they shaped me?
• What could I accomplish or contribute as a result?  What calls to me?

I've started at both ends of those 26 months, the early months after the diagnosis and the last months immediately preceding and succeeding his death.  And the months of this previous autumn.  It's glaringly obvious that this will take me more than a couple weeks to accomplish, as I write a minimum of two college-lined 8 1/2 x 11 pages every day and many of them are challenging to read.  I've taken on a  project that could well take a few months.

But this much I have learned already:

• This past autumn was so challenging, in part, because the summer flew by with relative ease, and I became complacent.  I was stunned by the impact of darker mornings and earlier dusks and much more anxious than I had anticipated for the impending anniversary of John's death as well as the holidays.  My private journal pages contain more grief and anxiety than is my intention to share here.  Not that I didn't share that with close friends and a counselor, but my intention here is to be helpful and as positive as possible.
• Speaking of intention, I was reminded that we promised each other from the very first week that, whatever came our way, we would handle it together with as much grace and dignity as we could muster.  And my reading to date reaffirms that we did, some days better than others, of course, but we clung to that promise especially in the final weeks of his life.
• In the weeks following John's death, I was overcome with regrets.  Normal, I'm told, but so very painful.  It was, therefore, a gift, and an affirmation of the value of all that journal writing, to come across the passage where I captured one of the last things he said to me - "How was I ever so lucky to have found you?"  He thought I did enough, more than enough.  And today, that's good enough for me.  
• Regarding support,  I learned so much about support - especially about needing it, asking for it and accepting it willingly and graciously when offered.  So much that it will be the topic of my next post(s), maybe eventually, a book.  For me, looking back is helping me to rebuild a bruised sense of self-confidence, to reassure me that I will be ok, maybe stronger than ok, and to point optimistically to a future that holds purpose and satisfaction.  
• I'm back.

Because He Listens

"The first duty of love is to listen."
~ Paul Tillich

I write this as we approach our 35th, and I fear our last, wedding anniversary.  We met 38 years ago, Aug. 18, 1980, to be exact.  In a bar in Kansas City, as the song goes.  Just 15 minutes before I had determined to leave.  I was there with a colleague, sharing with her the highlight of a long road trip I had taken alone, so proud of what I had done.

John walked in with a friend to celebrate a successful business transaction and sat at a nearby table.  His first trip to Kansas City, he asked a question of his friend that the man could not answer.  But I could, and without much thought, did.

We continued to talk - about the city, and then work, and backgrounds and interests - and he listened, at a level I had rarely experienced.

When we parted, we exchanged telephone numbers in case I ever got to Cleveland, his home base.  In case he ever visited Kansas City again.  Which I seriously doubted.  

The next day, I told my mother that I had met someone who, though I was sure I would never see again, gave me hope that there might be someone with whom I could build a lasting, supportive relationship.  In fact, I told her, were we to live in the same city I was sure we would end up married.

He called the following Sunday morning just to talk.  And he listened.  As he did every Sunday morning for weeks.  And eventually every Wednesday evening, and eventually every night.  As he did throughout the challenges of determining how to create a lasting relationship across miles and different careers, across different backgrounds and commitments, across significant hesitations and considerations.  Somehow, even when he became most fearful or I became most frustrated and angry, he strove to listen.

And I came to realize that for all the reasons I had come to love him, at the top of the list was that he always listened, no matter how difficult the conversation.  I moved to Cleveland, and we married in l983.

That foundation of talking and listening through the tough conversations has served us well.  Sustained us through several moves, career changes, presidential campaigns, caregiving for my elderly parents, and battles with cancer.  It continues to be a basic survival skill as we deal with this, the greatest challenge we have ever faced, the most difficult conversations we have ever had to have.  Still, he listens.  I have never loved him more.

Random Acts of Kindness

"Unexpected kindness is the most powerful, least costly, most underrated agent of human change."

~ Bob Kerrey

I woke this morning to a damp and dreary day. A good day to rest, read, and reflect - especially since we are still recouping from our recent trip to MD Anderson Cancer Center.

This trip can take a lot out of us. It's not just that air travel has become more difficult. It's also the emotional stress of not knowing what we might hear from the hematologist, the physical stress of pushing John everywhere in a wheelchair, the physical stress for him of yet another bone marrow biopsy.  And when we're done, managing another day of travel and our morale for at least another week until we receive the biopsy report.

We've made this trip three times within 17 months. Each with a similar routine, yet each yielding radically different reactions. The first visit we met with the hematologist assigned to us, an austere Russian trained research physician, whose honesty bordered on bluntness, a shocking confrontation with reality while we were already shell-shocked. By our second visit, she was warmer, gentler, but the news she delivered still bleak and unpromising. Still no cure on the horizon. No appropriate clinical trials available. And her concern for John's appearance disconcerting. The biopsy took two attempts, and the results still were inconclusive. Overall, every bit as challenging a visit. Maybe even more so.

It was a surprise, therefore, when we both affirmed as we left our accommodations that this trip was a much more positive experience even though we couldn't pinpoint why at first. Yes, our doctor was even warmer, more personable, more patient with our questions, clearer with her answers.  But still no cure, no appropriate clinical trials. The biopsy went smoother. But still no results yet.

And then it hit us in the airport as someone offered to help with our luggage. This what was different. The constant stream of kindness that had enveloped us the entire trip. People who lifted luggage without being asked. People who held doors and offered help with the wheelchair. People who not only gave directions but walked with us to be sure we were headed the right way - and not because they were paid to do so. People who smiled first. People who genuinely seemed pleased to see us and willing to listen. People who reminded me with every gesture that there are wonderful, kind and decent people all around us.

Simple, unrequested, unexpected acts of kindness. I'd like to think I would always be aware of and grateful for them. But I suspect they have meant so much more because I am so much more aware of our fragility, so much more susceptible to cynicism and despair. Powerful, inexpensive but not underrated in this household.

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It Was a Very Good Day

"How beautiful a day can be when kindness touches it."

~ George Elliston

I made a promise to myself at Thanksgiving that this holiday season, possibly our last together, would be one of our best, something for John to brighten his days, something to cherish for the rest of my life.  I made lists of possible activities, moments that could qualify as special, places we enjoy, meals I'd prepare - and I don't like to cook.  That weekend I took extra care to create festive touches in every room, even the bathrooms.  I spent an entire day just on the Christmas tree.  And crossed my fingers, hoping that my vision would become reality in the following weeks.  Hoping I'd hear him say that this was the best holiday ever.

Then, unexpectedly, unplanned, the telephone call from old friends, friends of three-plus decades.  Friends whose wedding we stood up for 32 years ago, friends whose conversations pick up where they left off even if months go by without contact.  Could they come out for a visit?  

They arrived last week.  And we did what old friends do - got caught up on each other's lives, shared wine, ate out, gossiped, laughed, reminisced, offered help without being asked for it, wished we lived closer.  And each of the three nights they were here, John commented to me, "This was such a nice day."  

Each day was a nice day, but I will cherish one in particular.  The two men went off for the day, a special treat for John, a day to spend with this man who in many ways has been as much a younger brother as a friend.  A chance to say things he might not say to me for wanting to protect me.  A chance to say what each needed to say in case this would be the last time they saw each other.

And they did just that.  When I asked John what they had talked about, at first he answered simply, "Love."  And then, "Of our love for one another and our special bond and how much I have touched his life." And then, "I cannot tell you what that meant to me.  To know I made such a difference to such a good man."  

There are other memories to create this holiday, but we have already had our Christmas.  John's days are brighter, I will always remember our conversation and cherish the man whose kindness and support made it possible.  A very good day, indeed.

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Reflections on Christmas Past

"Christmas is a season not only of rejoicing but of reflection."

~  Winston Churchill

I woke the other day with the sudden realization that this is my 76th Christmas and a flood of childhood Christmas memories washed over me.  For no apparent reason.  No dreams that I could recall.  No family traditions binding me to the past.

Then again, I have been decorating with a vengeance and friends have called to say they will be visiting.  And I have indulged in more than a few Hallmark holiday movies.  You know the ones, filled with romance and fantasy, ideal families and happy endings.  Simple plots and enough good cheer to last all year.

Our family was not filled with good cheer.  Money was tight. Relations could be strained.  But, somehow, we were at our best at Christmas.  

I loved watching my mother bake cookies for weeks starting right after Thanksgiving.  Enough chocolate chips and pecan snowballs, Spritz and sugar cookies, pinwheels and ladyfingers to fill the turkey roasting pan and several large bowls.  All made with real butter and leaving an aroma that filled the house for weeks.  Enough to give packages to all the family who came to visit.  And they came - all six brothers of my dad, and the two brothers and a sister of my mom, and their children.  They flowed in and out for days.

I loved decorating the real tree, purchased only a week or so before the holidays and laden with family heirlooms and silver tinsel that had to be layered a string at a time - I remember feeling so grown up when I was finally allowed to do so.  And the cards, checking the mail every day to see if we received a card from someone Mom had sent one to, her cards signed in red ink for the season.  She would read them, looking for a message, and then tape them to the archway to the living room.  And count them, every year.

The other sure sign of the season - the music.  Not only did Mom enjoy the traditional Christmas carols, (well, I think Rudolph was tolerated), but once we attended Catholic school, I sang in the church choir.  And Midnight Mass was the second time Dad could be dragged to church, Easter being the other.  Such a treat to get "dressed up" and sing before my parents.

And of course, the food.  Both Mom and Nonna were great cooks.  We celebrated Christmas Eve with Nonna who made pizza, from scratch naturally, and fried the leftover dough and rolled it in sugar, a treat for the grandkids.  Then, returned for Christmas Day to a feast that took days to prepare and almost as long to clean up after.

Gifts were simple - coloring books and crayons, puzzles, roller skates, a game.  And always pajamas and for me, and later my baby sister, a dress that Mom sewed.  Gifts that appeared while we were at Nonna's.  Gifts that I discovered Mom and Dad had bought when I finally noticed that Santa's name was always signed in red ink.  Gifts that were given and received with love and appreciation.

We were at our best at Christmas.  I think I'll bake cookies this year.

My Hero

"You must bear losses like a soldier, a voice told me, bravely and without complaint, and just when the day seems lost, grab your shield for another stand, another thrust forward.  That is the juncture that separates heroes from the merely strong."

~ Margaret George, The Memoirs of Cleopatra

I admit it, I'm addicted to quotes.  I can spend hours trolling quote sites whenever I get interested in a topic, but especially when preparing to blog.  And I did so when I decided to post this week on the topic of loss.  Because loss is ever present in our lives these days.  Not just the constant presence of the Ghost of Christmas Future, but the onslaught of loss that John has been experiencing of late.  

I set out to find a quote that might capture the feelings I have experienced as I watch him. My concern as I see him walk more slowly, tire more easily, require still another transfusion.  The sorrow I felt when he recently divested himself of his business, his "baby" that he nurtured for almost 30 years.  The heartbreak of watching him sell his car, accepting that the progression of his macular degeneration necessitates my chauffering.  The loss of stamina and energy, the loss of a piece of his identity, the loss of freedom and independence.  Loss upon loss.  I hate this for him.

And then I came upon the above quote and literally, in the moment, realized that this is how John thinks about loss and that the feelings I need to hold onto are my profound respect and gratitude for how he is managing his.  For he doesn't complain, doesn't even see complaining as a choice.  He takes life a day at a time, reorganizes quickly, and moves forward as best he can with amazing agility and dignity.  

I have often described my husband as resilient or persistent.  Strong.  But now, heroic.  My hero - and he will never lose that.

 

Cherish Is the Word

The word cherish is in my reading vocabulary, but not much in my speaking or writing.  Oh, I had promised it would be 15 years ago when I fought breast cancer and realized how many people cared about me.  When I noticed how much I hadn't noticed.  When I vowed I would be more present, more attentive, more grateful.  When I realized how much I had to not only be grateful for, but to cherish and cherish deeply.  For, to be grateful for a red rose or a pretty sunset, to be glad a friend called can become an intellectual exercise, a momentary acknowledgment, a good habit, but a habit nonetheless.  

My intention was confirmed and reaffirmed when, two years later, John was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins, and he received his stem cell transplant.  And survived.

I'd like to say I've lived the dozen or so years since then having kept my promise to myself, but I haven't.  I became distracted, caught up with retirement, and moving, and planning and preparing, more everyday tasks and chores.  I didn't even catch myself up short when John was diagnosed again a year ago.  After all, more tasks to get our "house in order."  More planning and preparation.

Then, last weekend a series of sweet, small events gave me pause.  Telephone calls from old and new friends to see how we are holding up.  To remind me they are here for us.  A visit with dear friends who were about to move.  And another from friends we left behind when we moved.  Hugs and words of endearment and encouragement.  And tears that flowed for days - with sadness and gratitude.  So much, so many to cherish.  How could I have forgotten?

Why does it take a crisis for some of us to remember?  To cherish what we have now.  To cherish deeply what we have now.

When You Need Somebody - Part II

It's been a few days since we've returned from  MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston.  Although we've made this trip many times, this was especially draining - physically, mentally and emotionally.  Not just because we're older or that this cancer John is fighting is currently incurable, but also because we're more sensitive to the pain and grief around us.  And as this center is the foremost of its kind in the country, perhaps in the world, the presence of pain and grief is profound and palpable. Not only do they deal with the most severe and rarest cases of cancer, but the patients they see are younger and younger.  It's not unusual to meet someone who is caring for a young son or daughter with leukemia or to turn a corner and see a toddler with a bald head, wearing a mask and pulling a tiny chemo caddy.  

But the trip was also draining emotionally because I was so much more sensitive to the small, spontaneous acts of kindness from strangers that I hadn't thought of before now as a form of support. Small moments of generosity and consideration when I least expected it -the two women who came up behind me to push John's wheelchair when they saw me pause, concerned it would get away from me down a ramp.  Women I didn't know, didn't ask.  Or the people who came out of nowhere to hold open the elevator for us or just smile when we passed.  The shuttle drivers who remembered our names, the various service people who exhibited remarkable patience and compassion as we, and others, fumbled for change, or couldn't find what we were looking for.  The nurse practitioner who double checked her answers to reassure us that she had provided the right information (even calling us at 10 p.m. with additional information to allay some of my concerns).  

Most of all, however, it was the conversations we had with other patients and their caregivers as we waited for tests and doctors' appointments. Intimate, honest conversations about diagnosis, prognosis, resources, fears, worries, frustrations.  Conversations too painful, too frightening for many folks, but for those of us in the midst of these challenges a strange relief.  We are not alone.  We are not weak because we are afraid.  We are not demanding when we fight for those we love.  It is not too much to ask for dignity and respect.

And it never ceases to take my breath away when someone who is already fighting for their life or the life of a loved one, someone we've just met offers to include us in their prayers.

So to the list I started in my previous post, I will add these lessons I am learning about support ~

~ Support comes in many different packages.  Physical help can be the easiest to find, especially if you have the financial resources, or can provide it yourself.  Intellectual support is as important, maybe more so for some people. Then there's emotional support, the people who can provide compassion and care, who know how to listen and just be there with and for you, with whom you can cry, but equally with whom you can laugh.  And -

~Support can come from the most unexpected places and in the smallest acts of kindness. 

Little Things Mean a Lot

Recently, I posted on Facebook -

"A day of simple pleasures...cutting roses in our backyard, a lovely lunch with a fine friend (and a crepe and creme brulee to boot), finding a tiny treasure for my office, an afternoon nap, and a bowl of popcorn while watching the World of Dance with John, who's had a good day too. And off to bed with a good mystery - I'm a happy camper."

I doubt I would have written something like this 20 years ago.   Is it because my world has become smaller and more confined?  Is it because our lives have become consumed by handling more important things?  Is it because the bigger issues in my life are looming as so beyond my control? So far beyond my control that to pay attention to the little things is a matter of survival? 

Or is it simply because I'm older and wiser? Which, of course, is the explanation I prefer!

No matter.  Whatever the reason or reasons, 

• having a good piece of chocolate, well anything chocolate
• seeing a movie with a friend
• watching The Voice or So You Think You Can Dance with John, critiquing the whole way through
• taking the time to enjoy spectacular coral desert sunsets
• journaling on the courtyard chaise in the morning when the only sound that interrupts my concentration is our friendly pair of mourning doves
• laughing at a sacrilegious Facebook post, well laughing in general
• cleaning out a drawer or shelf - I can hear the disbelief now - "you find that pleasurable?" I do, I do.
• watching a baby play, whether a human baby or a puppy or a kitten, a baby
• reading good writing
• hearing John laugh
• holding hands
• learning how to do something new, but especially anything on the computer - John can hear my yell of triumph anytime I figure out something for myself.
• receiving an e-mail, message or phone call from an old friend
• hearing "I love you" and knowing it's true

I can regret that I didn't learn how important or how satisfying this when I was younger, but that's a waste of time.  I'd rather pay attention to these little things.

I Hope Life Has Been Good to Her

I haven't thought about her for years.  I doubt she would remember the dinner she prepared 40 years ago as a favor for a mutual friend who was deeply concerned for me and thought she could be of help.  In the midst of debilitating panic at the prospects of living alone for the first time after a nasty divorce, I, too, was concerned, and thus, very grateful for the invitation.  Hoping she, indeed, could be of help.  

I don't remember her name.  I'll call her Sara. Our friend said Sara was ahead of me in the stream of 70's divorcees, swimming with grace and serenity.  Walking into her home, I could feel the peacefulness immediately.  After our meal, she got straight to the point. This I remember vividly.  "Mike says you are struggling with living alone and hopes I can offer some good advice.  Well, I'm no expert, but these three things work for me, a career I love, friends of the same sex, and hobbies or interests that fill the empty hours."  Simple. Straight to the point.

Well, I was teaching and loved it. I had a group of female friends from among neighbors and colleagues, who supported, and worried about me. But hobbies, interests? All my interests had been directed by my ex. So I thanked her, not adequately I'm sure, and set out to develop my own hobbies. And never saw her again. I eventually settled on needlepoint,  needle pointing a pillow for everyone I knew. Eventually, settled into a modicum of comfort in my singleness, but more importantly, gained the confidence that I could and would do so eventually with my own style of grace and serenity.

So what triggered this memory?  No single comment or event, but rather a series of events that took place this week.  A week of daily contact with friends, old and new. A week of sharing memories, tears, laughter, good food, serious conversation, fears and hopes and even a few interesting possibilities for the future.  A week that has culminated with suddenly remembering Sara and thinking of how, 40 years later, I would respond to her advice.

Some of the contacts this week were extemporaneous - e-mails, Facebook posts, a telephone call - from friends acquired along my career path, some friendships over 25 years old. Others - the newer St. George friendships - had been planned for some time.  My monthly luncheon date with a friend in her 80's, who shared her dream of seeing Alaska some day, and opened the possibility that we might do that together.  The next day, lunch at a local spa with a friend in her 50's, Grasshopper to my Sensei. Discussing my plans for the future, she sparked an idea for a  project I could become passionate about.  Asked how she might be of personal support in the days ahead, we committed to a monthly luncheon, at the spa, of course.

Then, there were the gatherings.  A monthly meeting of a group that has been meeting for two years now, pulled together in the hopes that these women would be a bastion of support in the inevitable life crises that, indeed, have begun to emerge.  Aging from 65 to 82, with a fount of knowledge and expertise and a bottomless well of compassion, they have become the haven we hoped for two years ago. For me, for sure. Then, today, lunch with friends to discuss Hillbilly Elegy, four "senior citizens" who share a love of reading and learning, 

So, how would I respond to Sara's advice today? At 76, retired, with perhaps too many hobbies, I would say friendship has become the most important, enduring element for me in living a satisfying life, whether alone or with a mate.  I would add, that especially as I have aged, I value a web of friends of different generations and different interests.  That though it is tempting, especially in today's divisive, hostile environment, to surround myself only with people who think and believe as I do, the diversity of age, interests, and viewpoints keeps me engaged and invigorated. That I need friends to cry with, and friends to laugh with, too. That I need friends who share a piece of my history, friends who nurture me in the present, and friends who help me face the future.

I take comfort in knowing I have created just such an elaborate web of friendships over the years, largely by remarkable good fortune, surely not by conscious design.  I don't know how Sara has fared.  If she would amend her advice as I have.  I hope life has been good to her. I hope she is surrounded by a web of loving, nurturing, diverse friendships.

Help Wanted

I went to a support group for the caregivers of cancer patients yesterday - the first support group of its kind that I've ever attended.  I almost didn't go.  Used all the reasons I've used historically. "I'm not a group person. I'm strong enough, smart enough, I ought to be able to handle this on my own. I don't know these people.  We've done this before, my own cancer, John's non-Hodgkins lymphoma, his skin cancers."  Reasons I've used to avoid asking for other kinds of help.  Reasons I've used to deflect help when it's offered.  

I had the postcard inviting me to attend in my purse, just in case I would decide to check it out. But first, brunch with a friend, herself in the throes of cancer.  As we chatted, I heard myself sigh a sigh of relief when she told me that she was getting the counseling support I'd been encouraging for months.  I heard myself say, "in such extraordinary times, even the strongest, most capable of us need extraordinary help."  And in that moment, I decided.

Now, I need to admit that I still questioned myself the entire way there, almost backing out when I saw the door to the meeting room had been closed.  And I can't share what happened there, other than to say that the topic was emotions, the support was great, the group leader skillful as well as compassionate, and I will be returning next month.  Most important for me, however, was coming home to reflect on how I think about asking for help and the possible consequences for both John and me.

To help me clarify my thoughts last night, I turned to David Whyte's Consolations, the extraordinary volume of his reflections on the underlying meaning of everyday words, and there was the essay, 'Help', underlined and tagged.

• "Help is, strangely, something we want to do without, as if the very idea disturbs and blurs the boundaries of our individual endeavors, as if we cannot face how much we need to go on."  
• "Not only does the need for help never leave us alone; we must apprentice ourselves to its different necessary forms, at each particular threshhold of our lives.  At every stage we are dependent on our ability to ask for specific forms of help at very specific times and in very specific ways."
• "Every transformation has at its heart the need to ask for the right kind of generosity."
• "It may be that the ability to know the necessity for help; to know how to look for that help and then most importantly, how to ask for it, is one of the primary transformative dynamics that allows us to emancipate ourselves into each new epoch of our lives."

Underlined and tagged, read and reread.  But understood this time more deeply, more profoundly.  For this is an extraordinary time -  we have other friends who need our help even if only to listen, even as we are pressed to help each other, and every day and virtually every hour we receive phone calls and e-mails requesting support in some form - surveys, petitions, more money.  Every day and virtually every hour a message appears on the TV or computer of someone, some group in need.  

And we are older, we have less energy, we have decisions to make with less information than we want or need, less assurance that our decisions can make a difference.  

So, duh!, (ok, not very literate), although I may be strong, and I may be intelligent, and I may have faced other challenges well, this is a new challenge in a new environment, at a different time and place, at a new threshhold.  So, I want to go back to the drawing board and determine the very specific forms of help I/we need, not just physically and logistically, not just intellectually but also emotionally.  I want to determine who can best provide that help for me and for us - a friend or a professional?   And I need to gather my courage and, yes, humility and ask.  

For I believe that most people are willing to help, but they need to be asked and asked specifically. They are not mind readers.  And most people will be honored to be asked, especially if you have helped them.  And most people will feel acknowledged for their competence and caring, just as we are when we are asked for help that we can provide.  At least most of the people I know.

I have placed Consolations on my bedside table, beneath the tablet on which I've begun my list of specific requests for help.  I've blocked out some time to work on this project, accepting that I will need to revisit it in the weeks, the months and, hopefully, the years ahead of us.  For, "even in the end, the dignity of our going depends on others' willingness to help us die well; the sincerity of their help often commensurate to the help we extended to them in our own life."

And, yes, I will be going to the next support group meeting.

Looking for the Silver Lining

For as long as I can remember, song lyrics have popped into my head at the strangest times - a chance remark, a memory, someone's story, or even for no apparent reason.  I'm used to it.  Have come to just let it be when it happens, and trust that if there is a meaning or reason for its appearance, eventually I will make the connection.

Given both the current political climate and our personal challenges, it hasn't surprised me, therefore, that "Look for the Silver Lining" would be echoing in my head for days now.  "Look for the Silver Lining", for folks who haven't heard of the song, was introduced to the world in 1920, made popular by Judy Garland in 1945 and revisited most recently by Tony Bennett in 2015. And though many people may not know the tune or lyrics (which I include later in this post), the exhortation to "look for the silver lining" has become a common phrase used to support people through trying times. 


So, I've taken time to look for the silver lining in John's illness.  Clearly, we would much prefer not to be fighting cancer yet one more time, not to be facing something currently incurable, hoping that a breakthrough will occur, will be offered the next time we see the doctor.  We would much prefer that John have the energy and stamina he used to have. We would prefer he not need regular blood transfusions and chemo.  But having said that, there are other very real, very special side effects that we might never experience without this challenge, and that's the silver lining.  

Of course, there is the obvious - we are more present in the moment, more conscious of how we speak to each other, how we spend our time, the choices we are making and need to make.  As we have been through other crises, yet seem to forget once the crisis is past. We are also more affectionate, more intimate.  More so than we have ever been.  With little gestures, and at odd little moments.  More appreciative of the life we have had together, the homes, the friends, the memories.  We enjoy the little things, the simplest things, like laughing at Paul Harvey's antics on Family Feud, or deciding which judge a contestant should choose on The Voice, and are conscious, in the moment, of our enjoyment.  Then there are the everyday things too easily taken for granted, like the desert sunset or a glass of B and B after supper, the call or e-mail asking how we are doing, the thoughtfulness of the service people who have taken up the slack for us, a favor we do for each other without being asked.

I'm sure there are others who have learned to live their lives this way without incurring a disease or experiencing a disaster.  I'd like to think we might have evolved this level of consciousness and appreciation over time, but I'm not sure that we might just as well drifted along, most days only semi-conscious.  I also am aware that some people never see the silver lining, never look.  For us, this is the paradox, the contradiction, the both/and.  We are fighting for John's life and we are blessed.

Look for the Silver Lining

                            

Look for the silver lining

Whenever a cloud appears in the blue

Remember somewhere the sun is shining

And so the right thing to do is make it shine for you

A heart full of joy and gladness

Will always banish sadness and strife

So always look for the silver lining

And try to find the sunny side of life