Just When I Think.....

"Future shock is the shattering stress and disorientation that we induce in individuals by subjecting them to too much change in too short a time. "
and
"The illiterate of the future will not be the person who cannot read. It will be the person who does not know how to learn." 
~Alvin Toffler  

Typically, I would choose only one quote to launch a post, but these are not typical times. They are, in fact, the times that Alvin Toffler, the futurist, first described in 1970 in Future Shock, a future time of unprecedented change at an unprecedented acceleration. 

I was privileged to hear Toffler speak at a convention where he described the future of change not only in the United States but globally.   What I remember most vividly is the first question that was asked in the Q and A period following his presentation, and his response.  Question:  "When will this slow down?"  Response:  A smile and then, "I'm smiling because yours is the first question I always get and my reply is the one I always give, not in your lifetime."

I went back to Toffler after reading my personal journal entries from April and May and recognizing how much had changed in the outer world reported in the news and my inner world recorded in my journals in only these past two months.  After I could see how much I felt like a ping pong ball bouncing from player to player to player to player.  After seeing how I could vacillate between the throes of frustration, outrage, and self-doubt one day and the reassurance that my coping skills were more than adequate and then back again, sometimes within one day. Yup, stress and disorientation.

So, I have chosen to reflect on what I am learning, what I may have forgotten that could be helpful, and maybe most important, on evidence that I am learning from this.

• Just when I think I've recovered a modicum sense of equilibrium, something happens to throw me back into free fall.  I come across conflicting information or distressing national news, I forget or lose or break something, I learn of a friend with a serious health challenge.  Sometimes all within one day.  Change does seem to be happening at warp speed.
• Data and information are not enough.  I own the responsibility to seek out the appropriate experts and check the veracity of the information.  (Taking the medical advice of a politician is akin to asking my auto mechanic to clean my teeth!)  
• I need occasional breaks from outside information for my mental and emotional health.  I woke up yesterday to the news and images of protests springing up across the US, to some of the violence that was occurring, to the inflammatory responses being reported from people who could and should offer otherwise.  I could feel the sorrow and outrage bubbling up, so I chose to turn off the TV and clean a closet.
• Taking care of my mental and emotional health is as important as taking care of my physical health.
• An occasional escape from the harsh realities we can now see 24/7 in technicolor is respite rather than denial, healthy respite.
• I'm recognizing sooner the things I find stressful.  Too much negative news at one time.  Generalizations, attack, hatred, denial, although understandable, don't help in the long run.  Maybe at the moment, but not in the long run. Including, and especially, my own even if silently expressed.  Sharing worries and anger, frustrations, vitriol, and fears, although helpful for awhile, indulged too long only seem to exacerbate them.
• I'm also learning to recognize the signs of disorientation soon enough to reorganize - waking in the middle of the night and being unable to return to sleep, becoming clumsy or unusually forgetful, talking faster, feeling irritable or blue for no apparent reason, leaving simple tasks unfinished.  These are my signs.
• Three things help me adjust more gracefully to the next change - staying as conscious and present to the immediate moment, paying attention to what is positive and works for me (rather than worrying about what's "right" or what others think I should do) and looking for creative solutions to the problems I can control.  I'm far from mastering any of this.  I wish I were more agile, but I guess I'm a work in progress.
• It is more helpful to me to challenge my own thinking than the thinking of everyone else.  More satisfying, more possible, and more effective.
• I am more of an introvert than I ever would have suspected.  But I also need to connect with someone every day, and seeing that person, if only on Zoom or Skype, is a pleasure.  I love my little rescue dog, Rufus.  I find myself talking to him a lot, but beyond wagging his tail and rolling over on his belly to be scratched, he can't answer me.  He can't ask the question that helps me slow down my inner dialogue or evoke some laughter when I most need it.
• There is something exhilarating about solving my own problems.  You'd think I had conquered Mt. Kilamanjaro whenever I solve a computer issue on my own.
• Nevertheless, I am still learning when to ask for help.
• To quote Sheldon Kopp, "The world is not necessarily just.  Being good often does not pay off and there is no compensation for misfortune.  You have a responsibility to do your best nonetheless."
• Either/or thinking at best limits possibilities, at worst, it's creating havoc in our public life.  I am striving to remain vigilant when I fall into that trap. 
• It helps to focus on the possibilities inherent in all this change, as much as the breakdowns and problems that present themselves.  I appreciate my home more.  I relish my time with friends.  Having learned that I can weather the depths of my grief over John's passing, I know I can weather the grief of my current disappointment and disillusion in my country.  Eventually, if not now.  I have a much neater home and I'm even learning to enjoy cooking and playing around with technology.    
• The little things.  Thank heaven for a bumper crop of roses, a stranger who offers help, a breeze when it's hot and air conditioning (!), the desert sky at dusk, a friend who calls just to check in, a good piece of chocolate or a glass of homemade lemonade, a happy memory, the quote that helps me make sense of what I'm seeing or feeling or thinking, and always, my sweet little Rufus.  The little things that are always available, just waiting to be noticed and appreciated.  The little things that I am noticing and appreciating more than ever.

Well, I can at least take some comfort in knowing I can't be called illiterate!

How Could I Forget?

"Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans."

~ John Lennon

Where did the summer go?  I had so many plans - plans to write, maybe travel a bit, complete reorganizing the house, lose 10 pounds (again), and of course, deal with this on-going grief as it was sure to arise.

Then, life happened.  It interrupted my plans in late May when I woke in the middle of the night with an attack of vertigo, the room spinning, my stomach churning, and the realization that should I fall, no one would know.  A realization that brought on a wave of grief and anxiety I hadn't known since the days immediately following John's death in November.

It was this event that set into motion a series of challenges and decisions that would occupy several following weeks.  First, the diagnosis of Positional Vertigo, exercises to correct it, weeks of unsteadiness and incipient nausea, and always the fear of falling.  Then, hearing testing and hearing aids.  Followed by a balance assessment and the warning that my balance was so poor that I was in danger of falling, with or without vertigo.

For a while, it seemed that each new attempt to resolve a problem only led to the identification of another problem.  It took all of my emotional energy to avoid holding a major pity party for myself.  Needless to say, I didn't travel, didn't write beyond my personal journal pages, and comfort snacking didn't do much for a diet!  So much for plans.

Ultimately, I did resolve my health challenges.  I enrolled in a balance course and made significant inroads in organizing the house.  I got an alert system which has alleviated much of my concern about being alone.  And while I haven't lost weight, I haven't gained any - a small victory considering all the stress!

So, as dawn arrives later every day and dusk settles sooner, as autumn is in the air and I anticipate the first anniversary of John's death, my second Thanksgiving and Christmas without him, I could easily descend into anxiety and trepidation.  However, the greatest accomplishment of this summer has been to remind me, not that life happens while I'm making other plans, but that I have the resiliency, the skills and support to deal with it.  I almost forgot.  

Just Not Yet

"Don't cry because it's over.  Smile because it happened."
~ Dr. Seuss

I love Dr. Seuss and I so want to believe this.   I can recognize that I am making progress, for sure.  In those first few weeks after John died, I despaired of remembering him other than from those last six months when he declined so significantly, losing weight, losing his ability to drive, losing his eyesight, eventually needing my help for even the most rudimentary tasks.  I panicked when I couldn't remember the silly little jingle he created and sang only in the shower.  I couldn't sleep in our bed, couldn't ward off the regrets.  

I turned to a multitude of grief books, hoping to find that someone else, anyone else, who felt the way I did.  Thankfully, I found the reassurance I was looking forward.  Not crazy, not unusual to feel so frantic.  

Then one morning, out of nowhere, the jingle emerged as I was waking up.  Gradually, sweet memories from those last six months returned.  How pleased he was that our little rescue dog, Rufus, and I had "found each other."  How he would sing to me, "Have I told you lately that I love you?" several times a day.  How, when I asked if he knew how much I loved him, his response was "and do you know how much that mattered?"  How he always expressed his gratitude to me, to his doctor, to the home health care and hospice nurses who cared for him.  Memories that, though they first brought tears, could also evoke a smile.  Not either/or but both.

In recent months, other memories have returned, sometimes initiated deliberately by someone sharing a common experience.  Or when I have had the courage to sit with photo albums or my basket of all the cards he sent me over the years.  When I have had the courage to go through a travel journal - our trips to Tuscany or the one to Sicily when we came upon a relative of mine sitting on a doorstep in her housecoat and flannel slippers, a scene from a Fellini movie.  Or the photos from the helicopter ride down the face of the Jurassic Falls.  How thrilled he was to sit beside the pilot.  

There are the memories that pop up unexpectedly - when it's dusk and I can hear him call to me to "come see this.  You won't believe the sky."  Or when I wake in the morning and recall how he would ask how I slept.  Hearing that Tiger Woods won the Masters and knowing he would have said, "I told you so."  Walking into the local Starbucks and ordering an iced tea the way he would have.

The intimate memories - the night we met in a "bar in Kansas City."  Well, an elegant lounge actually, but he loved telling everyone it was a bar.  Our wedding, the way he hovered when I had breast cancer, the beautiful messages he wrote on every card until he could no longer even sign his name.  

There isn't a day now when yet another memory emerges.  Bidden, unbidden.  Most of the time I can smile, well, at least smile first.  Am I at the point when I don't cry?  Not yet.  Will there come a day when I can simply smile because it happened?  Maybe, hopefully, but just not yet.

This Much I Know

"Healing in grief is a lot like the onset of spring.  It's unreliable and fickle."

~ Alan D. Wolfelt, Ph.D.

Unreliable and fickle.  Certainly my experience.  It's uncanny how this spring my inner mood so reflects the weather - or is it vice versa?   

Some days, the skies are gunmetal gray and the temperatures have dropped by ten degrees.  It's all I can do to get out of my nightgown and accomplish anything.  A song, a telephone conversation, an unexpected request related to John's death and I'm weeping.  A grief burst to rival the cloudbursts that have been all too common this spring.  

Some days, I wake to sunshine and the expectation of a good day, but by noon, banks of gray clouds roll in and the threat of yet another cloudburst increases by the hour.  On these days, it takes so little to unleash my own cloudburst of tears.  For how could those grief experts who warn you to prepare for the first anniversary or birthday or holiday know how easily I can fall apart at the sight of the first tulip, remembering the delight he took in planting them.  Or the sight of the first hummingbird, reminding me that he is not here to fill the feeder.  Or how even anticipating the first roses brings tears as I know he will never again bring in a fresh rose in the morning to greet my day,  How could they know?

Lately, however, there are days when I think I'm making progress through the forest of my grief.  The sun shines.  It's warm and a breeze whispers the shrubbery.   I have energy, look forward to the day and getting out and among folks.  The memories are sweet.  I barely shed a tear.  I even laugh.  On these days, I can believe there will be more such days, hopefully, many more.

So, this much I have come to know about this path I'm walking - the journey is, at best, unreliable and fickle.  Grief bursts are to be expected at the most unexpected times.  They are a part of the journey, but they, like spring showers, eventually pass.  So, I do best when I take it a day at a time, some days an hour at a time.  

I know that quotes like the above help me to make sense of my experience.  I know that the good days, and there are good days, are cause for celebration. The good days, and there are more good days, are cause for optimism.  I know that somehow, someday, the firsts will not overwhelm me.  I know that I will survive, and maybe, just maybe, even thrive again.  Even if, today, the clouds roll in again.

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.

Illegitimi Non Carborundum

It has been almost eleven months since John was diagnosed with Therapy Related MDS, a relatively new and currently incurable cancer of the blood.  Our initial prognosis with six months extended, thanks to a second opinion, to two years.  These months have flown by, but looking back, I am proud of how we have settled into a "new normal" - a daily way of living with this new challenge.  A new normal marked by grace, partnership, support and a quality I've come to recognize as resiliency.

Resiliency - elasticity, malleability, flexibility, plasticity, buoyancy - I've long recognized this in John.  With a history of non-Hodgkins that required the stem cell transplant that is the cause of his current illness, five hernia operations, three bouts of skin cancer, and macular degeneration, one might expect him to rail against the heavens or to just give up or give in. But he endures.  He keeps getting up.  He takes a day at a time and never relinquishes the fight.  He stays remarkably present and positive. He remains optimistic and reminds me that he's not a statistic.  He reminds me, too, that he beat the odds once, and he can do it again. That he can endure until there is a breakthrough that will extend his life with me.

What I haven't recognized is that his resilience has rubbed off on me.  I've thought of myself as tenacious, strong, and determined; and those are not bad qualities. But I like resilient better.  It's more fluid, less easily bent or broken.  Definitely an asset during these tenuous days.

And these days are tenuous.  There are the ordinary breakdowns of everyday life.  The breakdowns we all experience. We lose our TV picture. It's so hot that our potted plants all wither and die.  We keep receiving those calls that our computer is infected or someone can help us with college loans we never took out 50 years ago.  A light on my dashboard lights up for the 4th time, still not fixed after three trips to the dealer. The bombardment of news gets more frightening with each passing hour.  I'm not sleeping well.

What's a resilient soul to do?  Well, work patiently with the disembodied voice in technical support to recover the TV picture and be grateful we got a living breathing soul.  Remove the dead plants and wait till it cools off before replacing.  Stop answering calls from locations we don't recognize.  Take the car to the dealer and tell them the car will be returned if they cannot fix it properly once and for all - they did.  And limit the news, which also cured the sleeping problem.

Then, there are the bigger breakdowns.  The medical assistant that we have come to rely on for information and support suddenly leaves the clinic to move to another city.  A few days later, a dear friend who has been a key member of my personal support system lets me know she is moving, a wise decision for her, another loss for us.  A shot that we have hoped would make transfusions needed less often has had no measurable effect.  

What's a resilient soul to do?  Well, learn to access and interpret John's blood test results on the computer.  (Actually, doing so makes this resilient soul feel just a little proud of herself). Get to know more of the clinic staff. Plan a trip to see our friends after they are settled in, giving us something to look forward to.  Work with our doctor to design changes to John's treatment plan.

This is our new normal.  To take in new information and adjust, as quickly as we can, as patiently and gracefully as we can.  To work with each other and our network of support. To seek solutions rather than rail against the problems.  To focus on what is within our control. A day at a time, some days an hour at a time.

I do like resilient better.  It's more fluid, less easily bent or broken.  Definitely an asset during these tenuous days.  Definitely, a valuable asset for an unknown future.