After so much anguish, pain and self doubt, I never imagined such deep, enduring and unconditional joy was possible: joy at who I am; joy at what I am privileged to see and do in this life; joy in knowing I am safe, no matter what, even in the face of major loss including death.
Whilst experiences such as death and sudden poverty can be painful, there is still joy to be had from the experience and the understanding, the connection with others who have faced the same and the opportunities such experiences produce for those willing to look for the elusive silver lining to every apparent misfortune.
My access to this joy? It’s simple: the constant looking for that silver lining coupled with profound gratitude for everything.
Saturday, 19 February 2011
All Dignity Lost
As my mother fell deeper into the clutches of the dreaded Alzheimer's all I could do was be there for her, observing, loving, helping...
Picture this: a bright, vivacious, elegant and immaculate woman who makes friends of everyone she encounters; she charms the world and makes them feel important; she is special and she doesn’t see it for herself.
Then picture this: that once lively soul, sat staring into space, all clothing removed except a T-shirt; the blinds half open, all this for the world to see; she look up and asks who I am; I help her find underwear and put it on; I reach for her trousers wrapped in tights that have her sandals stuck inside them, clearly taken off in haste and hanging on the back of a chair, sodden.
It is painful to behold, all sense of dignity lost; bewildered, she doesn’t even know where she is. It seems so cruel, yet really it is we who now suffer as she slips deeper by the day into her illness. Amidst thoughts of blesséd release, I also recall the better days when, confused, afraid and vulnerable, she hugs me, clinging on to me for dear life and tells me over and over that I’ll never know how much she loves me and I reassure her that I really do and that I feel the same.
God, how I cherish those moments and they remind me how they would not be possible if she were dead and to value every moment of life we are blessed with.
Picture this: a bright, vivacious, elegant and immaculate woman who makes friends of everyone she encounters; she charms the world and makes them feel important; she is special and she doesn’t see it for herself.
Then picture this: that once lively soul, sat staring into space, all clothing removed except a T-shirt; the blinds half open, all this for the world to see; she look up and asks who I am; I help her find underwear and put it on; I reach for her trousers wrapped in tights that have her sandals stuck inside them, clearly taken off in haste and hanging on the back of a chair, sodden.
It is painful to behold, all sense of dignity lost; bewildered, she doesn’t even know where she is. It seems so cruel, yet really it is we who now suffer as she slips deeper by the day into her illness. Amidst thoughts of blesséd release, I also recall the better days when, confused, afraid and vulnerable, she hugs me, clinging on to me for dear life and tells me over and over that I’ll never know how much she loves me and I reassure her that I really do and that I feel the same.
God, how I cherish those moments and they remind me how they would not be possible if she were dead and to value every moment of life we are blessed with.
Friday, 18 February 2011
A World of Me
“Imagine for just one day that everyone you see around you is simply you with a different set of life experiences”, says a messenger with a challenge. Suspending disbelief and truly imagining that it is so, I can hardly bear it for a few seconds as I look around and see all the faces, noticing my subtle criticisms and other thoughts that distance each and every one. Undertaking this exercise with integrity is very hard as I look deep into each person and see that their being “me” with different life experiences allows me to love and accept everyone, feeling compassion for their deep suffering that has them be other than the same way. Suddenly there is a world of “me” everywhere, me’s just doing the best we know how, to greater and lesser effect. It is sad this world of me where I don’t know myself, love myself as I would like to be known and loved. I can but pray and dream…… one day at a time.
A Walk Along The Canal
I wrote the following as I made my way to work on foot a short time after my mother passed away:
It’s a bright, frosty morning as I turn onto the canal footpath and I call to her to join me. “Isn’t it beautiful?”, I start as we walk along. “Look at all the ducks and geese”. “I’d like to eat them” she says mischievously. We carry on for a while in silence and then I ask, “Is that you dear, or is it my imagination? It sounded like you, but how can I be sure? I know you’re there but I wish you really were here, in the flesh, in person, yet I know you are happier where you are, at peace and limitless in form and potential. It’s been nice talking dear. Now I have to get to work”.
It’s a bright, frosty morning as I turn onto the canal footpath and I call to her to join me. “Isn’t it beautiful?”, I start as we walk along. “Look at all the ducks and geese”. “I’d like to eat them” she says mischievously. We carry on for a while in silence and then I ask, “Is that you dear, or is it my imagination? It sounded like you, but how can I be sure? I know you’re there but I wish you really were here, in the flesh, in person, yet I know you are happier where you are, at peace and limitless in form and potential. It’s been nice talking dear. Now I have to get to work”.
Sunday, 1 August 2010
All There Is To Do
This piece is about my attempt to comes to terms with my mother's illness, Alzheimer's Disease, but has often been of great comfort to people coming to terms with other things including death, offering comfort and the realisation that alongside the pain, it also offers us a gift in the form of an opportunity for reappraising our priorities in life.
All There Is To Do
As her illness prevents much further participation in life, I realise my mother has done all she came here to do; nothing more; nothing less. For me, the expectation of this or that fulfilment leaves me empty, looking for what shouldn’t be and ignoring all that is and was; failing to acknowledge the contribution she has been to me and so many others.
Seeing that all there is to do in life is what we do in life and that there is peace without expectation gives us the freedom to get on with life with a sense of urgency and not to take for granted that there’ll be another tomorrow.
There will always be things that we do not have time to do and we can either fight it or accept it. Then all there is to do is to be unreasonable and not put off till tomorrow what we can do today: how exciting and dynamic: even if tomorrow doesn’t come, we know we savoured every moment of life and squeezed every last drop there was to get. And then there is peace.
Tears of Fading Possibility
As I walked to work one day in Islington, London, I passed an infant school and suddenly the sadness of being childless that lay buried beneath the surface erupted into tears and I chose instead to head for a coffee shop and write these words to ease the pain:
Tears of Fading Possibility
I cry for the child I will never have; for the gentle gurgling of a baby I will never hear; for the innocent, questioning eyes that will never bestow their love; for the little hand that I will never hold, walking to school for the first time; for the Christmases I will not host as Santa; for the grazed knees I will never soothe as the easy tears flow; for the parental wisdom I will never impart to the encyclopaedic sponge; for the teenage growing pains I will never curse and endure yet secretly cherish; for the trials and tribulations we will never share and overcome together; for the aching heart with pent up love never to be spent; for the deep and understated social belonging through parenthood; for a life pregnant with fading possibility.
And yet I wipe my tears for the life ahead, for what I may enjoy, that I may no longer mourn and instead make my life rich by my own unique gift.
Tears of Fading Possibility
I cry for the child I will never have; for the gentle gurgling of a baby I will never hear; for the innocent, questioning eyes that will never bestow their love; for the little hand that I will never hold, walking to school for the first time; for the Christmases I will not host as Santa; for the grazed knees I will never soothe as the easy tears flow; for the parental wisdom I will never impart to the encyclopaedic sponge; for the teenage growing pains I will never curse and endure yet secretly cherish; for the trials and tribulations we will never share and overcome together; for the aching heart with pent up love never to be spent; for the deep and understated social belonging through parenthood; for a life pregnant with fading possibility.
And yet I wipe my tears for the life ahead, for what I may enjoy, that I may no longer mourn and instead make my life rich by my own unique gift.
Little Windows of Hell
In the following piece I share with readers what I saw as I peered deeply into my mother's eyes when she was struggling with Alzheimer's Disease. The unspoken fear could not hide the intense feelings through the "windows to the soul":
Little Windows of Hell
As I penetrate the confused mind of my mother through her frightened eyes, I see beyond the lies and nonsense that flow from her lips and experience her naked fear and desperate loneliness.
Those eyes that once were pure, fearless innocence as her own mother bore her are now well worn conduits of vulnerability and sadness. What started out a free unboundedness, full of life, now conveys hopelessness and the prospect of impending death.
She covers her plight and desolation by a contrasting mixture of fawning niceness and vile anger and bitterness as her powerlessness drains the last life blood of her fading personality.
Rare glimpses of her real self are a delight for her and all of us who adore her, a relief from the seemingly never-ending suffering and a joy to witness. Her hunger for human intercourse and the temporary transformation when she finds someone to listen to her are testimony to her love of people and her last remaining hope, maybe her only reason to live.
Little Windows of Hell
As I penetrate the confused mind of my mother through her frightened eyes, I see beyond the lies and nonsense that flow from her lips and experience her naked fear and desperate loneliness.
Those eyes that once were pure, fearless innocence as her own mother bore her are now well worn conduits of vulnerability and sadness. What started out a free unboundedness, full of life, now conveys hopelessness and the prospect of impending death.
She covers her plight and desolation by a contrasting mixture of fawning niceness and vile anger and bitterness as her powerlessness drains the last life blood of her fading personality.
Rare glimpses of her real self are a delight for her and all of us who adore her, a relief from the seemingly never-ending suffering and a joy to witness. Her hunger for human intercourse and the temporary transformation when she finds someone to listen to her are testimony to her love of people and her last remaining hope, maybe her only reason to live.
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