Yesterday, we decided to take a small road trip to visit my husband's brother and sister-in-law, just for the day. It's only 85 miles away, so it wasn't a major expedition with luggage and all that. Blessedly, there was very little traffic, and there weren't any crazy drivers. That includes the one in our car, me. My husband gets edgy in traffic (who doesn't?), and it can be a challenge to manage edgy and traffic at the same time. So, it was a pleasant drive in mild weather with no fog.
We enjoyed a really nice visit, went out for a delicious dinner, and went back to their place to watch a little television, all with no issues, no outbursts, and no confusion to speak of. It was absolutely fabulous.
In the late evening, we left to return home. It was dark, of course. Traffic was minimal, again with no crazies. We were both relaxed, and there was no music playing. It was just the two of us with no distractions. And suddenly I noticed something.
We were talking. We were having an actual conversation. You know, one person says something, then the other person responds to that and maybe adds another thought, then the first person responds, and so on. I started to cry when I realized what was happening. I don't know how long it's been since we've been able to talk without going off in weird directions that have nothing to do with the subject at hand and make no sense. We chatted relatively lucidly like this all the way home. All 85 miles. Really, it felt like a supernatural, miraculous blessing. And it gave me hope.
In this season of hope and renewal, I wish you many supernatural, miraculous blessings. Happy New Year. Keep your hope on.
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Sunday, January 3, 2016
Thursday, April 19, 2012
The Diary
"Keep a diary," the fact sheet says. It's supposed to relieve stress and keep things in perspective. The only problem is, I find myself simply incapable of sitting down here at my trusty computer and reliving the anxieties of my day. To put them "on paper" is to acknowledge them. To acknowledge them is to surrender to the diagnosis. Oh, I know that isn't truth, but it doesn't matter. It feels true right now. And that's why you're not hearing much from me.
I suppose this means I am still in the "denial" phase of my mourning. But I'm not. Not really. The fact is, I am about 1/4 inch from tears at any given moment as I try to wrap my head around what tomorrow might be like. And the day after that. I suppose it isn't good to dwell on the future, but how else am I supposed to plan? And the fact sheet says I'm supposed to plan.
So, I've told my kids that the study center wants his brain when he's done with it, so it can be studied. And I think of Henrietta Lacks and the HeLa cancer cell research. They've assured me that it's just going to be an autopsy, and they don't plan to do any ongoing research with the brain cells. But what if they do? Will his brain still be around long after I'm gone? I hope the research they are doing will help someone. I really do. Because answering the questionnaires on Tuesday was just about all I could do. I admit it: I broke down.
You would, too, if they asked you to compare your loved one's capabilities now with his or her capabilities ten years ago. Ten years ago, everything was just fine. Ten years ago, the future was bright and shiny. Ten years ago, he was working as a middle manager for a huge corporation and directing the work of others. Ten years ago, he was...himself. Maybe the future questionnaires will be easier to handle, because they'll compare last month to this month, and the changes will be incremental rather than dramatic. I hope so.
Oh! I used that word. Hope. Yes, I do still hope. And I hope I can continue to do so. For all our sakes.
I suppose this means I am still in the "denial" phase of my mourning. But I'm not. Not really. The fact is, I am about 1/4 inch from tears at any given moment as I try to wrap my head around what tomorrow might be like. And the day after that. I suppose it isn't good to dwell on the future, but how else am I supposed to plan? And the fact sheet says I'm supposed to plan.
So, I've told my kids that the study center wants his brain when he's done with it, so it can be studied. And I think of Henrietta Lacks and the HeLa cancer cell research. They've assured me that it's just going to be an autopsy, and they don't plan to do any ongoing research with the brain cells. But what if they do? Will his brain still be around long after I'm gone? I hope the research they are doing will help someone. I really do. Because answering the questionnaires on Tuesday was just about all I could do. I admit it: I broke down.
You would, too, if they asked you to compare your loved one's capabilities now with his or her capabilities ten years ago. Ten years ago, everything was just fine. Ten years ago, the future was bright and shiny. Ten years ago, he was working as a middle manager for a huge corporation and directing the work of others. Ten years ago, he was...himself. Maybe the future questionnaires will be easier to handle, because they'll compare last month to this month, and the changes will be incremental rather than dramatic. I hope so.
Oh! I used that word. Hope. Yes, I do still hope. And I hope I can continue to do so. For all our sakes.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
The Blues
The Blues
Caregivers all over the world: Unite! Okay, whatever. Some days, the best you can do is try really hard to not think about how things could have been "if only." And this is one of those days. Bittersweet memories. Dreams dashed. A bleak outlook. The blues. So very close to despair.
Which reminds me of my favorite line from "Anne of Green Gables": Says Anne (who has a flair for the dramatic), "I'm in the depths of despair. Don't you ever despair, Marilla?" Replies Marilla as she hurries up the stairs, "No, I do not. To despair is to turn your back on God."
Today, the pastor spoke about how God does not distance Himself from us; rather, our deception leads to performance that is never good enough, which leaves us trying to hide ourselves from God (good luck with that). We turn our backs on God; He never turns his backs on us. And so, I will not despair. I choose to hope. He has always been there for me, and He always will be.
Which reminds me of my favorite line from "Anne of Green Gables": Says Anne (who has a flair for the dramatic), "I'm in the depths of despair. Don't you ever despair, Marilla?" Replies Marilla as she hurries up the stairs, "No, I do not. To despair is to turn your back on God."
Today, the pastor spoke about how God does not distance Himself from us; rather, our deception leads to performance that is never good enough, which leaves us trying to hide ourselves from God (good luck with that). We turn our backs on God; He never turns his backs on us. And so, I will not despair. I choose to hope. He has always been there for me, and He always will be.
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