September 24, 2013
As Dr. B enters our inner sanctum wearing a smile
My spirit lifts
So far so good
Being that Dr. B is more personable than most surgeons I know, it's not surprising when he and his smile make it around the room, shaking hands with everyone while asking how each person is related to Will. I figure his joviality is a sign that all went well, and as far as he can tell at this time, that's true. Once Dr. B locks eyes with mine, we all listen, rapt, as he reveals whatever he's come to say:
We ran into no complications. As to the nerve bundle, which gave us some concern, I was able to work around it as carefully as possible. Some nerves were in the area where the cancer was most prevalent, so they could not be saved, but that was expected. Now wait until pathology determines whether the margins are clean (free of cancerous cells). Will is in recovery, and when he begins to awaken from the anesthetic, a nurse will call down, and a volunteer will alert you to come to see him. I expect Will to go home by 1:00 PM, tomorrow.
With a huge sigh of relief, tension clears from the air, and smiling, all around, everyone thanks Dr. B, at once.
When he leaves our inner sanctum, we engage in lots of smiling and hugging, and after several minutes of conversation, most minds are occupied with cell phones, iPads and lap tops, again. As I grew up with Methuselah, way before the electronic age, it's amazing to think how portable work has become.
Within an hour, our volunteer knocks at the door, and moving more swiftly than at any time during these past two weeks, I'm up in a flash, eager to accompany her to see Will …
While being led through the maze, which hospital corridors prove to be, I thank our volunteer for taking such good care of us throughout this trying day. Smiling warmly, she replies: Your family is a pleasure, and that's not always the case. You all seem very close. I respond to her smile with one of my own and reply: Yes we are, and I give thanks for that, every day ...
Upon reaching the post-op recovery room, she leaves me to approach Will's bed on my own, and though my husband's eyes are closed, my smile appears, reflecting that deep within my core a sense of positively focused hopefulness continues to feel—So far so good …
Wednesday, February 5, 2013
Here's an interesting fact:
It seems that many have lost interest in my detailed account of the weeks leading up to Will's surgery. I say that, because readership has taken a significant dive over the past week and a half. Even so, I'm not planning to deviate from this writing path, because right from the start, every post written has poured out of my mind, as though all on it's own, meaning that whatever you see on your screen comes straight from my heart …
Actually, it's been really hard to write (relive) these posts concerning the two weeks before Will's surgery. Perhaps, that's why so many have been repetitive. Struggling to break through a mental block, set in stone by subconscious fear, has been the hardest task I've ever demanded of myself—as of yet. Seriously, the reason any experiential fear is buried behind a stone wall is due to the fact that something too terrifying to remember seems to lie in wait of attacking—again—so working to crack through that mental block in hopes of extracting one detail at a time takes a whale of determination, patience—and courage …
Over the past three months, my mom has been steadily failing—
I feel constantly torn between holding Will close and flying, each month, to her side. No sooner do I leave her, than I yearn to return—until I witness Will's vulnerability, which he shows to no one but me … today, I learned that Mom has been hospitalized, again—and this time, hospice has been called …
There are times when the mind feels torn and the heart feels heavy with sadness and worry for so many who are so dear; Will here and Mom, a long distance away—and dear friends, who, in recent weeks, have been dealing with trials of their own—whether it be ovarian cancer or a heart attack or preventative stents or terrible custody battles in the aftermath of divorce—Yesterday, Steven called to say that one of his best friends, Allen, is hospitalized in a coma—though Allen was ill for a couple of days, no one has been able to figure out the severity of his body's reaction.
Thank goodness, most of our days are spent having no clue as to how vulnerable we really are. Perhaps this is why the traditional toast of my heritage is: L'Chaim—To Life!
While at the coast for Barry's birthday, my neice, Stacy and I tried to arrange a time for our families to enjoy, each other. Stacy and I have always been close. At two and a half, she was my flower girl.
Unfortunately, the weekend passed without meeting with success. As Barry's surprise party was a last minute affair, Stacy, and her family were unable to change previous plans.
During the weekend, I was on the go more than usual. By Sunday, sciatica spiked, and I was down (Have you any idea how hard it is for a passionate spirit to spend life sitting on a couch?), and Stacy's busy family life kept her running here and there. While coping with elevated pain on Monday, I forgot to call my neice, who was at work. On Tuesday we flew home, and after texting an apology, I've had to work at easing up on myself for leaving without hugging her hello or good bye. Why text? Why not call? I have this 'thing' about the phone. And this 'thing', which I don't yet understand, gets worse when my heart feels heavy, because my mind is carrying such a sad load. When saddness hits hard, it's become my habit to turn in and grow quiet.
Though empathy is a highly valued trait, too much of any trait is not healthy, and ever since my baby sister's sudden death, I've had trouble differentiating between the pain of others and my own. My habit of tucking pain behind my smile is the primary reason why intuition signaled me to seek professional help, which continues to guide me toward recognizing those times when this pattern, which has been in need of adjustment since I was three, is distorting my sense of clarity, again. You see, just as with personal habits, mind sets and comfort zones, character traits are hard to change—for the better.
I'm sure you'll agree that there are times when pain, whether physical, emotional or both, interferes with a perfectly sound mind's ability to function in a well balanced fashion, and then, there are times when, one sadness is piled upon so many others that the most enthusiastic spirit's natural enjoyment of life can't help but take a dive down a slippery slope … and at those times, the safety net of compassionate support is needed most of all.
Even so, experience has taught me that during life's most stressful times, we can depend upon the daily support of loved ones for only so long before intuition suggests it's best to set the minds of those who love us free, because it's healthy for each person's path to differ in many ways from our own … and actually, when working to achieve inner peace, I believe it's harder by far to free one's own mind of inner conflict when trying times extend, over long.
Will arrived home from the coast with a sore throat and cold. In addition to feeling unwell, his second PSA test is coming up. As for me, I feel the need to stick close to Will, tending to his quiet need of me—rest my leg—and hold my mom close to my heart—all at once. And though common sense suggests that my body can't be here and there, my heart is doing exactly that … and so is my mind … So, if I ask: What must one do to create a sense of inner peace when clarity into the vulnerability of the human condition runs as true as true can be, what might you suggest? Perhaps some would suggest this while others suggest that—in truth, all I can do is offer my love here and there and hope, upon reflection, to be as kind to myself as I'd be to my best friend …
As Dr. B enters our inner sanctum wearing a smile
My spirit lifts
So far so good
Being that Dr. B is more personable than most surgeons I know, it's not surprising when he and his smile make it around the room, shaking hands with everyone while asking how each person is related to Will. I figure his joviality is a sign that all went well, and as far as he can tell at this time, that's true. Once Dr. B locks eyes with mine, we all listen, rapt, as he reveals whatever he's come to say:
We ran into no complications. As to the nerve bundle, which gave us some concern, I was able to work around it as carefully as possible. Some nerves were in the area where the cancer was most prevalent, so they could not be saved, but that was expected. Now wait until pathology determines whether the margins are clean (free of cancerous cells). Will is in recovery, and when he begins to awaken from the anesthetic, a nurse will call down, and a volunteer will alert you to come to see him. I expect Will to go home by 1:00 PM, tomorrow.
With a huge sigh of relief, tension clears from the air, and smiling, all around, everyone thanks Dr. B, at once.
When he leaves our inner sanctum, we engage in lots of smiling and hugging, and after several minutes of conversation, most minds are occupied with cell phones, iPads and lap tops, again. As I grew up with Methuselah, way before the electronic age, it's amazing to think how portable work has become.
Within an hour, our volunteer knocks at the door, and moving more swiftly than at any time during these past two weeks, I'm up in a flash, eager to accompany her to see Will …
While being led through the maze, which hospital corridors prove to be, I thank our volunteer for taking such good care of us throughout this trying day. Smiling warmly, she replies: Your family is a pleasure, and that's not always the case. You all seem very close. I respond to her smile with one of my own and reply: Yes we are, and I give thanks for that, every day ...
Upon reaching the post-op recovery room, she leaves me to approach Will's bed on my own, and though my husband's eyes are closed, my smile appears, reflecting that deep within my core a sense of positively focused hopefulness continues to feel—So far so good …
Wednesday, February 5, 2013
Here's an interesting fact:
It seems that many have lost interest in my detailed account of the weeks leading up to Will's surgery. I say that, because readership has taken a significant dive over the past week and a half. Even so, I'm not planning to deviate from this writing path, because right from the start, every post written has poured out of my mind, as though all on it's own, meaning that whatever you see on your screen comes straight from my heart …
Actually, it's been really hard to write (relive) these posts concerning the two weeks before Will's surgery. Perhaps, that's why so many have been repetitive. Struggling to break through a mental block, set in stone by subconscious fear, has been the hardest task I've ever demanded of myself—as of yet. Seriously, the reason any experiential fear is buried behind a stone wall is due to the fact that something too terrifying to remember seems to lie in wait of attacking—again—so working to crack through that mental block in hopes of extracting one detail at a time takes a whale of determination, patience—and courage …
Over the past three months, my mom has been steadily failing—
I feel constantly torn between holding Will close and flying, each month, to her side. No sooner do I leave her, than I yearn to return—until I witness Will's vulnerability, which he shows to no one but me … today, I learned that Mom has been hospitalized, again—and this time, hospice has been called …
There are times when the mind feels torn and the heart feels heavy with sadness and worry for so many who are so dear; Will here and Mom, a long distance away—and dear friends, who, in recent weeks, have been dealing with trials of their own—whether it be ovarian cancer or a heart attack or preventative stents or terrible custody battles in the aftermath of divorce—Yesterday, Steven called to say that one of his best friends, Allen, is hospitalized in a coma—though Allen was ill for a couple of days, no one has been able to figure out the severity of his body's reaction.
Thank goodness, most of our days are spent having no clue as to how vulnerable we really are. Perhaps this is why the traditional toast of my heritage is: L'Chaim—To Life!
While at the coast for Barry's birthday, my neice, Stacy and I tried to arrange a time for our families to enjoy, each other. Stacy and I have always been close. At two and a half, she was my flower girl.
Unfortunately, the weekend passed without meeting with success. As Barry's surprise party was a last minute affair, Stacy, and her family were unable to change previous plans.
During the weekend, I was on the go more than usual. By Sunday, sciatica spiked, and I was down (Have you any idea how hard it is for a passionate spirit to spend life sitting on a couch?), and Stacy's busy family life kept her running here and there. While coping with elevated pain on Monday, I forgot to call my neice, who was at work. On Tuesday we flew home, and after texting an apology, I've had to work at easing up on myself for leaving without hugging her hello or good bye. Why text? Why not call? I have this 'thing' about the phone. And this 'thing', which I don't yet understand, gets worse when my heart feels heavy, because my mind is carrying such a sad load. When saddness hits hard, it's become my habit to turn in and grow quiet.
Though empathy is a highly valued trait, too much of any trait is not healthy, and ever since my baby sister's sudden death, I've had trouble differentiating between the pain of others and my own. My habit of tucking pain behind my smile is the primary reason why intuition signaled me to seek professional help, which continues to guide me toward recognizing those times when this pattern, which has been in need of adjustment since I was three, is distorting my sense of clarity, again. You see, just as with personal habits, mind sets and comfort zones, character traits are hard to change—for the better.
I'm sure you'll agree that there are times when pain, whether physical, emotional or both, interferes with a perfectly sound mind's ability to function in a well balanced fashion, and then, there are times when, one sadness is piled upon so many others that the most enthusiastic spirit's natural enjoyment of life can't help but take a dive down a slippery slope … and at those times, the safety net of compassionate support is needed most of all.
Even so, experience has taught me that during life's most stressful times, we can depend upon the daily support of loved ones for only so long before intuition suggests it's best to set the minds of those who love us free, because it's healthy for each person's path to differ in many ways from our own … and actually, when working to achieve inner peace, I believe it's harder by far to free one's own mind of inner conflict when trying times extend, over long.
Will arrived home from the coast with a sore throat and cold. In addition to feeling unwell, his second PSA test is coming up. As for me, I feel the need to stick close to Will, tending to his quiet need of me—rest my leg—and hold my mom close to my heart—all at once. And though common sense suggests that my body can't be here and there, my heart is doing exactly that … and so is my mind … So, if I ask: What must one do to create a sense of inner peace when clarity into the vulnerability of the human condition runs as true as true can be, what might you suggest? Perhaps some would suggest this while others suggest that—in truth, all I can do is offer my love here and there and hope, upon reflection, to be as kind to myself as I'd be to my best friend …
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