At what price pain?

I have someone who helps me–she helps me put a pain I cannot categorize into a context that I sometimes forget–because I am in such pain. She helps me find the evidence to disarm my fear.

I am insured through my employers, yet I see the therapist I have seen off and on for 15 years. I pay the full tariff even though I could retell the whole darned life thing and start over with someone I don’t know–at much less monetary expense. Even the paying is a struggle.

When my mother was ill I went a little bonkers. Alzheimer’s will make the people around you crazy too I have learned. At that moment, I could deal with the fact (for me) that I was unraveling and needed to find a bottle of clear fingernail polish (or its emotional equivalent).

I could not deal with reliving the whole “in the beginning…tell me about your childhood” thing. I went back to see Colleen because I WOULD NOT retell the whole pile-o-stuff I had already explored. She knew. She didn’t need life history 1-A and 1-B. I needed the context and the trust I have with her. One of the things Colleen helps me put into perspective is “what is enough?”

I did absolutely everything that could be done to make Lane comfortable and secure in his last months…and still in the dark of the night I wonder was there something I missed? There must have been because he is gone. My thought process takes an unexpected left turn from rational to magical. Nothing I could do would cure cancer. Cancer killed Lane. Not me. I was not even responsible for the Second World War–even though sometimes I am willing to take the blame.

I get wound around the axel over the difference between what I believe and what I know. I am learning that I can choose what I believe–what I give attention to and what I reject. It is hard work, staying rational, not going to places where there is no possibility of an answer. The grief, the pain makes rational thinking more difficult. I have to concentrate to decompose a thought or feeling from “Lane is dead; I am terrible.” To “Lane died and I was blessing to him while he lived.” All the rational evidence supports the latter.

Your life is yours. Your history is yours. I am 60 next month. I think I have at least a passing understanding of my life after high school. I have no understanding of yours. It is yours. So whenever I tell you what is working for me, it is just that…working for me (at least most of the time) and that not perfectly. “Advice is worth what you pay for it” is an old adage–I have heard it for years. I just want you to know that the advice–or more correctly–the testimonyI offer is not free. It came at a price, which I have paid. I am willing to share whatever might make your load a little lighter.

The Beat Goes On

My heart is still beating. I am surprised. It is nearing five months and my heart is still thumping away in my chest. Sometimes it pounds so hard I am sure it is trying to break out. Sometimes it barely taps out the rhythm of life–quietly–so quietly I think it might stop altogether.

There is nothing wrong with me except that Lane is gone and I cannot seem to find myself without him.

We have a concert series here on the Ranch. I have worked on the committee for more than 20 years. I have wonderful friends from the committee, from the neighborhood, from the mens’ beer and softball society. There is always a week’s supply of hugs and kisses…and I am still alone. The music is a summer tradition. I go to the concerts, I pack the picnic supper for one, and I look for his face in the crowd. Most often I leave early because it hurts to look for what is never there.

I try not to dwell on the aloneness. I try to remember the love. But even remembering the love reminds me that there is not a soul in the world today who knows me as well or really ever wanted to.

Lane’s brother is ill. Yes, cancer. His stomach will be history this time next week. Lane died on February 20th. Bob’s surgery is July 20th. It isn’t nice that mom has so many unpleasant 20s so close together. I would try to comfort her, but I remind her Lane is dead and she doesn’t like to be reminded. She is 86. She can grieve or not however she wishes. I think we could have given comfort to each other but since she didn’t want to find out, we go through whatever these steps are 20 miles apart. I wonder if she feels alone. I wonder if she wishes her heart to slow and stop or if she wonders that it beats at all.

I was surprised that mom would not participate in the memorial celebration that had rock and roll ringing from the hills and 300 people eating street tacos and drinking beer to the memory of her son. I was even more surprised that she declined attending the inurnment at the National Cemetary–family only. She acts as if he is being obstinant in not coming to visit her. Or perhaps, I am keeping him away.

It is the end of another day. The hour approaches when all working women must tuck themselves in or risk very bleary eyes in the morning. The hardest time of the day is the half hour between the shower, sleeping pill, and the 11:00 news and the blessed relief of sleep. Sleep would be more blessed if Lane even came into my dreams but I cannot even find him there.

Healing Touch

I go to the masseur just to have someone touch me. He must think I am a real whack job. He works the kinks out of my back and shoulders and I just sob. I have the same response to a manicure. If the girl doing my nails knew she was the only one to hold my hand all week I bet she’d flip completely out. Hey. I flip completely out. I work in a very high pressure environment. I am feeling completely out of my depth. I cannot sustain a cohesive thought and I am sure that everyone is wishing I would get over it already. I am not used to feeling inept. I don’t much like it. I am afraid it may become my new definition. You cannot imagine the restraint it takes not to just go off at people who are patently stupid. I have no patience. I have less than no patience for stupidity. It will be four months on the 20th. And Lane’s birthday is the 22nd. The grandgirls always have a birthday party in January for Dr. King. They are having a birthday party this weekend for their papa. Papa (Lane) is more important than Dr. King–so say the six-year-olds and the gramma says amen.