Saturday, October 14, 2006
Miracle Play
Two nights ago I flipped through my mother's Order of the Eastern Star Bible, which was given to her when she held the post of Martha on Guam in 1969. Inside the front cover I discovered notes she'd written that intrigued me, typed, here, verbatim as she wrote them:
John 10:10 [the last part of which she had underlined in the Bible]
Setting the stage for personal miracles ["personal" was written above the previous and a "^" pointed to it as an insertion]
My initial reaction was astonishment; not that she had written the above in this Bible. It has been my mother's habit, since before I can remember noticing (which was sometime when I was a child below the age of 10), to regularly read the Bible, to write discoveries and notes about what she's read on the fly leafs, other empty pages, along the margins, and as well, to underline and highlight passages she considers signficant. What astonished me was, first, that these notes appeared in a Bible that she has not used to this purpose except for what was written above, and, second, the subject about which she wrote.
I checked to see if the Bible (which is very small; the pages are 3 1/4" by 5 1/4"; the thickness is just 1") contains a mini-concordance, imagining that she might have copied this information from the concordance for further study. It does not.
I read through the notes, again, imagination fully activated. I drew my mother, at some time probably before we left Guam, deeply disturbed by or deeply yearning for something; so much that she desired a miracle. This, in itself, surprised me, as I've never thought of my mother as the type to pray for miracles; intervention, perhaps; maybe making her wishes known; but never demanding, never asking, specifically, for a miracle.
I tried to imagine for what sort of miracle she might have prayed. I remembered that not she, nor any of her children, had any health problems at the time. A couple of us kids were, between 1969 and 1973, indulging in some rebellious behavior, mostly at school, some of it at home, but my mother was always
tolerant of our teenage behavior, to her credit and to our benefit. No wonder, actually; as a teenager, she painted her bedroom black, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was to shock her parents. I also remembered that it was between 1969 and 1973 that my father's alcoholism roared away with him. Most (although not all) of his destructive behavior occurred during this time. During the last year, before he retired, being meticulous about never going to work drunk or obviously hung over, her began to come home for lunch and spend the rest of the afternoon home drinking. His seniority, luckily, allowed him this. As well, almost all his colleagues were both alcoholics and soon to retire, so this behavior was a buddy thing. It was during this time, too, that one of my sisters became increasingly incensed and upset with my father's alcoholism. His and her relationship turned volatile. Another one of my sisters absented herself from home almost constantly by becoming a dedicated, vociferant member of the Assemblies of God Church. Although I retained a peculiarly even relationship with my father for the most part, talked to him a lot, learned a lot about his life, it was during this time that I called him an "idiot" in the course of an argument; his response was to slap me, the only time he ever struck me. As well, because of the ugly relationship between one of my other sisters and my Dad, I became increasingly vocal around my mother about how his behavior was affecting the family and once demanded that she divorce him.
She responded with anger and disgust at my proposal. That ended the discussion.
Remembering all this, it occurred to me that perhaps the "miracle" for which I imagined my mother prayed was direct intervention in my father's life in order to rid him of his alcoholism and help cleanse, so to speak, the family. As I considered this, my personal portrait of my mother took on an exaggerated poignance. It was almost unbearable for me to imagine the image of the woman I've known all these years brought to her knees in fervent prayer for a miracle of any kind. I was sure it would have been a miracle for someone else, as she is a naturally a modest person and I could not imagine that she would consider that she needed a miracle for herself.
Finally, I decided, I'd show her the notes and ask her why she'd written them, expecting to lead up to a conversation about The Time She Asked for a Miracle.
She read the notes, looked up at me with a smile and said, "Well, what do you know! I wonder when I wrote that!"
Surprise number one. "So," I responded, "you don't remember when you wrote this?"
She shook her head. "Not at all."
"The subject," I ventured, "was miracles..."
"I see that," she interrupted, continuing to review the notes, shake her head and smile.
"I was wondering," I continued, "if you might have written this because, at some time, you wanted a miracle, maybe decided to pray for one and wrote these notes for coaching purposes, you know..." my voice was thinning, as was the fantasy I'd built around the notes.
She looked at me, surprise registering in her eyebrows. "No," she said. Not, "I don't think so," or "I can't remember." Just, "No."
I pressed on, confused about whether I was pleased or disappointed that I hadn't discovered a "new" aspect of her character, "Well, I was thinking," I said carefully, "that maybe, you know, around that time Dad's alcoholism was just raging, maybe you thought about praying [I was afraid, by now to intimate that she actually had prayed] for a miracle on his behalf."
She snorted, as though the suggestion was unthinkably foolish. "I'm sure not!" she insisted.
"Oh. Well, then, do you remember ever praying for a miracle?"
"Hmmm..." she mused, "no, I don't think so."
Although this is completely in line with what I know of my mother, still, I couldn't let those notes go; I mean, why else would they be there? "Not ever?"
"I haven't ever needed any miracles," she said. Flat. Straight. No doubt.
"Oh. Well, I guess these notes are in there for another reason."
I headed back to the living room (my mother was at the dinette table cheating at her crosswords), back to the drawing board. It was impossible for me to simply drop the object of my curiosity. After some minutes thought, an idea occurred to me. Maybe, I thought, the notes have something to do with an Eastern Star meeting. Back to the table.
Mom looked up at me, noticed the Bible still in my hand. "Now, what?" She wasn't perturbed, just indicating that I was becoming trying.
"Well, I was wondering, could these have something to do with you being Martha?"
She reached for the Bible, looked again at the notes. "Maybe," she said.
"Do you remember what Martha symbolized?"
"Oh, goodness, child, of course not! That was years ago! I didn't even want to be Martha! The only reason I got elected was that the order was so small that everyone else had already held an office!"
Well, that was a surprise! I decided to look up the office of "Martha" on the computer. This is what I found, at this website:
"Oh, yes," she said. "I think so. That sounds familiar."
"So," I said, "let me ask you this. Was it common, in your order, for sermons or talks to be given about the virtues of the offices?"
Her eyebrows lifted. "What, exactly, do you mean?"
"Well, you know, like in church, a sermon about the virtues of a Christian life, did anyone ever give talks at the Eastern Star meetings?"
"Oh, yes."
"Would it be reasonable to consider that one of the talks would have been about the virtues of Martha?"
"Absolutely. The Masons were always doing that, talking about our degrees and such. Who was that man with the loud, awful singing voice? He talked a lot in the meetings."
"Don Mendenhall [who I'm sure is now looong dead, so I have no problem mentioning his name]."
"That's the one. He probably spouted off about all the offices. He was that type, you know."
"I'm sure. Would it be fair to say that the reason you wrote these notes was that he was 'spouting off' about Martha and you figured it would be wise to put down what he said, since you were Martha?"
"I'm sure that's the only reason I would have written that."
So, it seems, the woman I thought my mother was previous to discovering these notes remains unchanged. I'm relieved. Why? After our conversation, I considered what might have been bound to happen had these notes been discovered by us daughters after she died, without the ability to ask her why they existed. All my sisters and I have a much more, hmmmm...romantic, I suppose, bent than my mother [it's my father's doing]. Although we may have come up with more than one possibility, I am sure all our inventions would have twisted our imaginings of our mother toward her being a, oh, I don't know, secretly long-suffering?...poignant?...sad? person, when she actually is not.
Sometimes, my mother's personal strength of character is almost unbelievable. Sometimes, even I, after all these years of closeness to her, find myself seduced into reworking her image into one to which it is easier for me, marinating in my myriad foibles, to relate, yet still fantastic to contemplate. This is why, when I begin such a project, I am grateful that she is here and I can check my imaginings directly against the reality. I'm sure, after her death, the memory of her formidability will give all her descendants occasion to weave curious, half-true legends and myths about her, anyway. I am sure, as well, if there is any kind of an afterlife, my mother will double over in delighted laughter at the absurdity of the myths and legends we weave about her being and her life. Because I am here, though, have been here for so long, and will be here to the end of her life, maybe the absurdity factor will have a chance to be outweighed by the reality factor, which I'm sure my mother, in life and in afterlife, would prefer.
It started raining late last evening. It's been raining all night. I had to stay up well beyond my mother's retirement, open all the windows and doors, turn the lights low and revel in the thick air, the cold breeze and the sound of rainfall. It looks like the rain will continue all day, into early Sunday. Since I've yet to make the pumpkin cranberry pecan bread (it's been too warm in the evenings to contemplate using the oven), maybe mixing the batter and pouring it into muffins tins, warm and fragrant morsels for Mom's breakfast, would be a good idea.
I'll sleep on it.
Later.
John 10:10 [the last part of which she had underlined in the Bible]
Setting the stage for personal miracles ["personal" was written above the previous and a "^" pointed to it as an insertion]
- dream big dreams
(vision of the imagination) - Believe it will happen.
- Think big thoughts
"As a man thinketh in his heart - so is he."
"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."
Faith attracts miracles.
You control own thoughts. - Believe with a big faith.
Promises of God. - Put faith into action - work through faith - act as if you could never fail.
My initial reaction was astonishment; not that she had written the above in this Bible. It has been my mother's habit, since before I can remember noticing (which was sometime when I was a child below the age of 10), to regularly read the Bible, to write discoveries and notes about what she's read on the fly leafs, other empty pages, along the margins, and as well, to underline and highlight passages she considers signficant. What astonished me was, first, that these notes appeared in a Bible that she has not used to this purpose except for what was written above, and, second, the subject about which she wrote.
I checked to see if the Bible (which is very small; the pages are 3 1/4" by 5 1/4"; the thickness is just 1") contains a mini-concordance, imagining that she might have copied this information from the concordance for further study. It does not.
I read through the notes, again, imagination fully activated. I drew my mother, at some time probably before we left Guam, deeply disturbed by or deeply yearning for something; so much that she desired a miracle. This, in itself, surprised me, as I've never thought of my mother as the type to pray for miracles; intervention, perhaps; maybe making her wishes known; but never demanding, never asking, specifically, for a miracle.
I tried to imagine for what sort of miracle she might have prayed. I remembered that not she, nor any of her children, had any health problems at the time. A couple of us kids were, between 1969 and 1973, indulging in some rebellious behavior, mostly at school, some of it at home, but my mother was always
tolerant of our teenage behavior, to her credit and to our benefit. No wonder, actually; as a teenager, she painted her bedroom black, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was to shock her parents. I also remembered that it was between 1969 and 1973 that my father's alcoholism roared away with him. Most (although not all) of his destructive behavior occurred during this time. During the last year, before he retired, being meticulous about never going to work drunk or obviously hung over, her began to come home for lunch and spend the rest of the afternoon home drinking. His seniority, luckily, allowed him this. As well, almost all his colleagues were both alcoholics and soon to retire, so this behavior was a buddy thing. It was during this time, too, that one of my sisters became increasingly incensed and upset with my father's alcoholism. His and her relationship turned volatile. Another one of my sisters absented herself from home almost constantly by becoming a dedicated, vociferant member of the Assemblies of God Church. Although I retained a peculiarly even relationship with my father for the most part, talked to him a lot, learned a lot about his life, it was during this time that I called him an "idiot" in the course of an argument; his response was to slap me, the only time he ever struck me. As well, because of the ugly relationship between one of my other sisters and my Dad, I became increasingly vocal around my mother about how his behavior was affecting the family and once demanded that she divorce him.
She responded with anger and disgust at my proposal. That ended the discussion.
Remembering all this, it occurred to me that perhaps the "miracle" for which I imagined my mother prayed was direct intervention in my father's life in order to rid him of his alcoholism and help cleanse, so to speak, the family. As I considered this, my personal portrait of my mother took on an exaggerated poignance. It was almost unbearable for me to imagine the image of the woman I've known all these years brought to her knees in fervent prayer for a miracle of any kind. I was sure it would have been a miracle for someone else, as she is a naturally a modest person and I could not imagine that she would consider that she needed a miracle for herself.
Finally, I decided, I'd show her the notes and ask her why she'd written them, expecting to lead up to a conversation about The Time She Asked for a Miracle.
She read the notes, looked up at me with a smile and said, "Well, what do you know! I wonder when I wrote that!"
Surprise number one. "So," I responded, "you don't remember when you wrote this?"
She shook her head. "Not at all."
"The subject," I ventured, "was miracles..."
"I see that," she interrupted, continuing to review the notes, shake her head and smile.
"I was wondering," I continued, "if you might have written this because, at some time, you wanted a miracle, maybe decided to pray for one and wrote these notes for coaching purposes, you know..." my voice was thinning, as was the fantasy I'd built around the notes.
She looked at me, surprise registering in her eyebrows. "No," she said. Not, "I don't think so," or "I can't remember." Just, "No."
I pressed on, confused about whether I was pleased or disappointed that I hadn't discovered a "new" aspect of her character, "Well, I was thinking," I said carefully, "that maybe, you know, around that time Dad's alcoholism was just raging, maybe you thought about praying [I was afraid, by now to intimate that she actually had prayed] for a miracle on his behalf."
She snorted, as though the suggestion was unthinkably foolish. "I'm sure not!" she insisted.
"Oh. Well, then, do you remember ever praying for a miracle?"
"Hmmm..." she mused, "no, I don't think so."
Although this is completely in line with what I know of my mother, still, I couldn't let those notes go; I mean, why else would they be there? "Not ever?"
"I haven't ever needed any miracles," she said. Flat. Straight. No doubt.
"Oh. Well, I guess these notes are in there for another reason."
I headed back to the living room (my mother was at the dinette table cheating at her crosswords), back to the drawing board. It was impossible for me to simply drop the object of my curiosity. After some minutes thought, an idea occurred to me. Maybe, I thought, the notes have something to do with an Eastern Star meeting. Back to the table.
Mom looked up at me, noticed the Bible still in my hand. "Now, what?" She wasn't perturbed, just indicating that I was becoming trying.
"Well, I was wondering, could these have something to do with you being Martha?"
She reached for the Bible, looked again at the notes. "Maybe," she said.
"Do you remember what Martha symbolized?"
"Oh, goodness, child, of course not! That was years ago! I didn't even want to be Martha! The only reason I got elected was that the order was so small that everyone else had already held an office!"
Well, that was a surprise! I decided to look up the office of "Martha" on the computer. This is what I found, at this website:
The fourth degree or "Sister's Degree" is based on the story of Martha whose brother Lazarus had died and was brought back to life by Jesus, found in St. John 11:1-45. According to this degree:Back, yet again, to the table. "Mom. Does the office of Martha have anything to do with faith?"
" . . The structure of Freemasonry in its obligations, emblems, and principles is so peculiar, that we, Master Masons, above all other men, are taught to respect undeviating faith [underlining mine] in the hour of trial. The great doctrines of Masonry are all borrowed from the Bible. Our devotion to Masonry is chiefly founded upon this, that we believe the Bible to be the Word of God, and therefore our principles, which are derived from the Bible. were written by the finger of God . . ." (16)
In Morris' Dictionary, Article "Christian Masonry," we read:
"The Orders of Knight Templar and Knights of Malta together with many of the degrees and orders in Scotch Masonry are intensely Christian in their doctrines, their ceremonies also embody events in the life of Christ. Some of the side and adoptive degrees have the same reference i.e.., the Cross and Crown, etc. This fact of course forfeits the claim of such degrees and orders to be styled Universal Masonry." (17)
SIGN: "Clasp hands, and kneeling, look upward in an imploring manner. The sign alludes to the appeal of Martha on first meeting Christ after the death of her brother Lazarus.
A Mason seeing this sign writes his name on one side of a card, and on the other writes, "Believest thou this?" [underlining mine] which is the pass of this degree. He then hands the lady the card.
"Oh, yes," she said. "I think so. That sounds familiar."
"So," I said, "let me ask you this. Was it common, in your order, for sermons or talks to be given about the virtues of the offices?"
Her eyebrows lifted. "What, exactly, do you mean?"
"Well, you know, like in church, a sermon about the virtues of a Christian life, did anyone ever give talks at the Eastern Star meetings?"
"Oh, yes."
"Would it be reasonable to consider that one of the talks would have been about the virtues of Martha?"
"Absolutely. The Masons were always doing that, talking about our degrees and such. Who was that man with the loud, awful singing voice? He talked a lot in the meetings."
"Don Mendenhall [who I'm sure is now looong dead, so I have no problem mentioning his name]."
"That's the one. He probably spouted off about all the offices. He was that type, you know."
"I'm sure. Would it be fair to say that the reason you wrote these notes was that he was 'spouting off' about Martha and you figured it would be wise to put down what he said, since you were Martha?"
"I'm sure that's the only reason I would have written that."
So, it seems, the woman I thought my mother was previous to discovering these notes remains unchanged. I'm relieved. Why? After our conversation, I considered what might have been bound to happen had these notes been discovered by us daughters after she died, without the ability to ask her why they existed. All my sisters and I have a much more, hmmmm...romantic, I suppose, bent than my mother [it's my father's doing]. Although we may have come up with more than one possibility, I am sure all our inventions would have twisted our imaginings of our mother toward her being a, oh, I don't know, secretly long-suffering?...poignant?...sad? person, when she actually is not.
Sometimes, my mother's personal strength of character is almost unbelievable. Sometimes, even I, after all these years of closeness to her, find myself seduced into reworking her image into one to which it is easier for me, marinating in my myriad foibles, to relate, yet still fantastic to contemplate. This is why, when I begin such a project, I am grateful that she is here and I can check my imaginings directly against the reality. I'm sure, after her death, the memory of her formidability will give all her descendants occasion to weave curious, half-true legends and myths about her, anyway. I am sure, as well, if there is any kind of an afterlife, my mother will double over in delighted laughter at the absurdity of the myths and legends we weave about her being and her life. Because I am here, though, have been here for so long, and will be here to the end of her life, maybe the absurdity factor will have a chance to be outweighed by the reality factor, which I'm sure my mother, in life and in afterlife, would prefer.
It started raining late last evening. It's been raining all night. I had to stay up well beyond my mother's retirement, open all the windows and doors, turn the lights low and revel in the thick air, the cold breeze and the sound of rainfall. It looks like the rain will continue all day, into early Sunday. Since I've yet to make the pumpkin cranberry pecan bread (it's been too warm in the evenings to contemplate using the oven), maybe mixing the batter and pouring it into muffins tins, warm and fragrant morsels for Mom's breakfast, would be a good idea.
I'll sleep on it.
Later.
Friday, October 13, 2006
This is one of those "reminder to myself" posts.
Intellectually, I suspect there is a connection between the episode of which I am about to write and my current, continuing Care Free existence, but I haven't determined this to my satisfaction. Thus, for my personal edification and continued consideration, I want to record the following:
My intention, today, was to awaken my mother at 1400; exactly 12 hours after she retired. I'd been expecting her to rise earlier, actually, because she had such a good day yesterday and was energized right up to the point of retirement, 15 minutes before her light went at at 0200 this morning. I was neither, though, surprised nor disappointed that she took her full 12 hours.
Right at 1400 I turned off the computer and exited the living room to head down the hall toward her bedroom. I was unexpectedly overwhelmed, though, by an intense wave of what I can only refer to as "longing". I use this word because I've been trying out other words since I experienced the wave and none of them seems to fit quite as well as this one, although this one also isn't an exact fit. "Despair" isn't even in the ballpark. "Angst" is too agonizing and, although the experience was so intense that certain aspects of "agony" might apply and, as well, I remain, for instance, internally tender in its aftermath, I can't really say it was emotionally or physically "painful". As well, I am sure it was not a bout of anxiety. I know what my anxiety profile is. This was nothing like that.
I was so surprised and overwhelmed by it that I, literally "clutched my chest", clenched my fist and faltered a bit in the hall, although I registered it as much more of an emotional than a physical sensation. I remember, as well, uttering, "Uh!" when it hit me; as though it had taken away my breath. I stood in the hall for some moments, expecting the feeling to pass quickly so I could gather myself and awaken my mother. It was intent, though, on continuing, throbbing away at me, now a series of determined, powerful waves. I realized that my eyes were stinging with tears. I thought, Oh, well, this is not a good time to awaken her. I'll go back to the living room, sit down and wait for this to pass. How long could it take, a few more minutes?
It was an hour, though, before I felt sufficiently free of it to awaken my mother.
After about 15 minutes of reeling, shaking, and a bit of weeping, I began to try to figure out what was causing this. Although it could have been a hormone surge, despite the fact that I've pretty much left the worst of those behind, after a few minutes of not completely clearheaded thinking I decided to attach the word "longing" to it, although the sensation was much stronger and definitely different than any experience of longing I can remember, even as a teenager when "strong longing" seems to be the basis of much of one's emotional life. I constructed a catalog of items that I may or may not have a reason for which to long, divided them into small provocations and large provocations, then, summarily crossed them off the list for a variety of reasons. A few of the more potent and impotent possibilities follow:
Small Longings:
I am feeling very comfortable with this Care Free mode in which I've discovered myself. But, you know, it's very unusual for me. Previous to this, I cannot remember being even slightly removed in my spontaneous reactions to people, circumstances, even objects and arrangements of objects and natural phenomena. Thus, my recent remove is a surprise to me; not at all unpleasant but constantly, well, forgive the repetition, surprising. As well, it feels good. But, beneath my conscious view of myself and my ability to adapt to this, I may be feeling some discomfort, maybe even guilt, which I haven't yet consciously registered. I don't know. Then again, it's entirely possible that this longing applies to something of which I haven't yet considered because it is out my perception of my character.
One thing is certain; the initial experience was so unexpected, foreign and encompassing that I can still feel its effects in my solar plexus; and my fascination with it continues. I'm prepared for any discoveries it may catalyze, as well as the possibility that it may be an isolated, neurological reaction that will never be explained.
We'll see. Or, at least, I'll see.
Later.
My intention, today, was to awaken my mother at 1400; exactly 12 hours after she retired. I'd been expecting her to rise earlier, actually, because she had such a good day yesterday and was energized right up to the point of retirement, 15 minutes before her light went at at 0200 this morning. I was neither, though, surprised nor disappointed that she took her full 12 hours.
Right at 1400 I turned off the computer and exited the living room to head down the hall toward her bedroom. I was unexpectedly overwhelmed, though, by an intense wave of what I can only refer to as "longing". I use this word because I've been trying out other words since I experienced the wave and none of them seems to fit quite as well as this one, although this one also isn't an exact fit. "Despair" isn't even in the ballpark. "Angst" is too agonizing and, although the experience was so intense that certain aspects of "agony" might apply and, as well, I remain, for instance, internally tender in its aftermath, I can't really say it was emotionally or physically "painful". As well, I am sure it was not a bout of anxiety. I know what my anxiety profile is. This was nothing like that.
I was so surprised and overwhelmed by it that I, literally "clutched my chest", clenched my fist and faltered a bit in the hall, although I registered it as much more of an emotional than a physical sensation. I remember, as well, uttering, "Uh!" when it hit me; as though it had taken away my breath. I stood in the hall for some moments, expecting the feeling to pass quickly so I could gather myself and awaken my mother. It was intent, though, on continuing, throbbing away at me, now a series of determined, powerful waves. I realized that my eyes were stinging with tears. I thought, Oh, well, this is not a good time to awaken her. I'll go back to the living room, sit down and wait for this to pass. How long could it take, a few more minutes?
It was an hour, though, before I felt sufficiently free of it to awaken my mother.
After about 15 minutes of reeling, shaking, and a bit of weeping, I began to try to figure out what was causing this. Although it could have been a hormone surge, despite the fact that I've pretty much left the worst of those behind, after a few minutes of not completely clearheaded thinking I decided to attach the word "longing" to it, although the sensation was much stronger and definitely different than any experience of longing I can remember, even as a teenager when "strong longing" seems to be the basis of much of one's emotional life. I constructed a catalog of items that I may or may not have a reason for which to long, divided them into small provocations and large provocations, then, summarily crossed them off the list for a variety of reasons. A few of the more potent and impotent possibilities follow:
Small Longings:
- Longing for my mother's bowel movements to no longer be of the quality where I need to clean her and need to fish some of them out of the toilet before it's flushed: Although I'm occasionally annoyed by this, it doesn't bother me. Crossed off.
- Longing for cold weather, rain and snow: These will be coming up shortly. I know this. Even if I am longing for their return, certainly my longing would not be of this intensity. Crossed off.
- Longing for the possibility that my mother may finally say, "Yes. Let's do it. Let's get rid of a lot of this stuff.": This would be nice, especially when we go through boxes and she decides to keep everything, but I can't say that the existence of this stuff bothers me. I'm good at ignoring it and complacent in my notice of it. Crossed off.
- Longing for an end to any of the many chores associated with taking care of her, as they occasionally distract me from something else I'm doing "just for me": I'm good at accepting the distraction, I think. Although I have an ever expanding "list" of Things to Do When My Mother Dies, nothing goes on the list that I feel I must do "right now". If I feel that way, I find some way to "do it right now", regardless. Crossed off.
- Longing for my mother to die: No, I'm sure this doesn't apply. I enjoy her life too much. I'm not afraid of the possibility of her death, but I can't remember resenting her life as it affects mine since I've become her companion, either. Crossed off.
- Longing for my once and future lived-alone-life: I've come to terms with this, in part because my mother is very familiar with and very accepting of my isolationism. Although I have my moments, I've never been so entrenched in them that I can't pull myself out. Crossed off.
- Some sort of spiritual longing, rather like longing for God: Although certainly not set in stone, my spiritual life is neither a problem nor a worry. I think "spiritually" a lot, but spiritual agony ended for me a long, long time ago. Crossed off.
- Longing for a child: This, and the next consideration, were both test possibilities that I threw at myself to see if maybe, although they've never applied to me, they now apply. Nope to this one. Crossed off.
- Longing for a "soul mate" or partner: This one didn't click either. Aside from the fact that I can't even imagine what a soul mate is, I am decidedly not the partnering type, have been a miserable but expected failure at "sharing lives" with lovers, which I've attempted, and don't miss romantic involvement when I'm not doing it. Crossed off.
- Longing for less tension and more contact between my sisters and me: For some reason, although I suppose I "should" be upset about the tension I've caused within the family, I'm not. My love for my sisters, which is deep, has not diminished, but I can't say I miss contact with them, nor am I in any hurry to renew overt bonds, explain myself any more than I have, nor do I feel as though I need to apologize, ask for forgiveness, etc. It would be fine with me if bonds were renewed, but I'm okay with "things the way they are", at the moment, too. I have an abiding faith that our bonds remain, beneath the tension, will not fail us and that, eventually, the tension will work itself out and we will be overtly reunited. Crossed off.
- Longing for something more within my relationship with my mother: Nope. Aside from the fact that I am continually awed by the fullness of our relationship, I am always aware of and grateful for its dynamism. Crossed off.
- Sexual Longing: I doubt it. I don't go without sex; I just go without social sex. I suppose the reason I don't miss having a sexual partner or indulging in casual sex with others is twofold: Too many complications that simply don't fit in with my relationship with my mother (believe me, I've tried, doesn't work) and the fact that menopause has significantly cooled the desperation of sexual need, thank the gods. It was a problem for me when sexual need was desperately primary but my desire to have a husband and/or kids was not; worrying about the effectiveness of birth control, worrying about the man's wanting a mate versus me wanting, well, a relationship, yes, but not a mate; or, me not wanting even a relationship when the man did; putting up with other women who were constantly trying to "mate" me with others; I'll tell you, I'm glad all that's over. Crossed off.
I am feeling very comfortable with this Care Free mode in which I've discovered myself. But, you know, it's very unusual for me. Previous to this, I cannot remember being even slightly removed in my spontaneous reactions to people, circumstances, even objects and arrangements of objects and natural phenomena. Thus, my recent remove is a surprise to me; not at all unpleasant but constantly, well, forgive the repetition, surprising. As well, it feels good. But, beneath my conscious view of myself and my ability to adapt to this, I may be feeling some discomfort, maybe even guilt, which I haven't yet consciously registered. I don't know. Then again, it's entirely possible that this longing applies to something of which I haven't yet considered because it is out my perception of my character.
One thing is certain; the initial experience was so unexpected, foreign and encompassing that I can still feel its effects in my solar plexus; and my fascination with it continues. I'm prepared for any discoveries it may catalyze, as well as the possibility that it may be an isolated, neurological reaction that will never be explained.
We'll see. Or, at least, I'll see.
Later.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
My Own Private Dementidaho
Since I was a child I've had a knack for juggling so many mental toys at once that early in my life I devised a method for tracking the next activity I'd planned, in case I should lose sight of it. I noticed that planned activity always correlates with something in my environment: One of my parents telling me to do something; being reminded of a task by seeing an item that I wanted to manipulate during the task; noticing one of my sisters doing something that I decided I also wanted to do; being in a room wherein I realized there was a task I intended to perform in that room (not necessarily, in fact, not usually, cleaning part or all of the room); having looked upon something that gave me an idea for doing something else with a seemingly unrelated item. So, when I lost track, I'd back track to where I was "last" until something in an environment sparkled with the glitter of my most recently desired task.
Last night I caught myself in the frequent act of trying to remember, among the many items on my mind, what I had intended to "do next". My backtracking involved only one area, the laundry closet, at which I realized the task I'd next set for myself was rinsing the gunk out of the softener receptacle. As I sponged it out over the sink, I had a vision of my future backtracing self "when I get older, losing my [mind]" [thank you Paul McCartney]. I realized that instead of finding remembrance of the next task I'd set for myself, I'd probably notice memory glitter all over everything I encountered as I backtracked. My demented mind would successively focus on all suggested tasks, regardless of status. It would lead me through a series of areas, both inside and outside my home, as I wandered through what I no longer delineated as imminent, finished or discarded tasks, in the meantime continually reminding me of more tasks, until I'd be wandering in what I failed to recognize as unfamiliar territory, noticing other people's glitter, interpreting it as my own... Within hours, someone would notice me, loose on a street, unconcerned with who or where I am in their reality. Upon being approached I'd attempt, unsuccessfully, to explain the trail of mental glitter that had led to this point. I'd ask the concerned stranger for help in locating yet the next task reminder. My request would be, from the stranger's perspective, gibberish. The police would be called. I would be gathered into a comfortable holding cell reserved for mislaid children and dolts. My picture would appear on the evening news. It would be labeled that of a "A Probable Alzheimer's Sufferer". A plea would be broadcast: "Does anyone know this person? Will anyone claim this person?" Being, as I have my entire life, a determined loner, and being, as well, disheveled from the requirements of my quest, no one would recognize or claim me. I'd be transferred to the mental ward in a charity hospital. I would know I was in the wrong place. I would know I yet had a task to which to apply myself. I would spend the rest of my days wandering the ward looking for (and possibly identifying) familiar, glitter bedecked objects which would provoke from me strange, mimed behaviors, would spend my nights struggling against restraints, placed on me for the nurses' convenience, then be let loose during the day to continue my determined quest for my many holy grails.
This scenario so delighted me that I couldn't help continuing to riff on the possibilities.
Maybe I would be identified and returned to my home within a community of residents now cautious for my (and their) safety and comfort. To what other aberrant adventures might my unraveling, yet determined mind lead me?
Last night I caught myself in the frequent act of trying to remember, among the many items on my mind, what I had intended to "do next". My backtracking involved only one area, the laundry closet, at which I realized the task I'd next set for myself was rinsing the gunk out of the softener receptacle. As I sponged it out over the sink, I had a vision of my future backtracing self "when I get older, losing my [mind]" [thank you Paul McCartney]. I realized that instead of finding remembrance of the next task I'd set for myself, I'd probably notice memory glitter all over everything I encountered as I backtracked. My demented mind would successively focus on all suggested tasks, regardless of status. It would lead me through a series of areas, both inside and outside my home, as I wandered through what I no longer delineated as imminent, finished or discarded tasks, in the meantime continually reminding me of more tasks, until I'd be wandering in what I failed to recognize as unfamiliar territory, noticing other people's glitter, interpreting it as my own... Within hours, someone would notice me, loose on a street, unconcerned with who or where I am in their reality. Upon being approached I'd attempt, unsuccessfully, to explain the trail of mental glitter that had led to this point. I'd ask the concerned stranger for help in locating yet the next task reminder. My request would be, from the stranger's perspective, gibberish. The police would be called. I would be gathered into a comfortable holding cell reserved for mislaid children and dolts. My picture would appear on the evening news. It would be labeled that of a "A Probable Alzheimer's Sufferer". A plea would be broadcast: "Does anyone know this person? Will anyone claim this person?" Being, as I have my entire life, a determined loner, and being, as well, disheveled from the requirements of my quest, no one would recognize or claim me. I'd be transferred to the mental ward in a charity hospital. I would know I was in the wrong place. I would know I yet had a task to which to apply myself. I would spend the rest of my days wandering the ward looking for (and possibly identifying) familiar, glitter bedecked objects which would provoke from me strange, mimed behaviors, would spend my nights struggling against restraints, placed on me for the nurses' convenience, then be let loose during the day to continue my determined quest for my many holy grails.
This scenario so delighted me that I couldn't help continuing to riff on the possibilities.
Maybe I would be identified and returned to my home within a community of residents now cautious for my (and their) safety and comfort. To what other aberrant adventures might my unraveling, yet determined mind lead me?
- I've always had a penchant for playing pieces of music (sometimes just sections of a piece), either recorded or on musical instruments, over and over and over, pursuing the simple delight of leading myself through the ever metamorphic country of notes and sounds. My demented self, I imagined, will probably become so entranced by one particular piece (I can't imagine what it will be) that I will spend years obsessed with playing one section of one piece. Those who stumble across me when I am so enchanted will, first, try to put me off the piece, switching it to another. I will notice the switch and do what I must, amidst the interlopers, to return to the preferred section. People will wonder what significance this piece has in my life, imagining a variety of emotionally charged scenarios which my demented perspective on my past life will be able to neither confirm nor deny. Curious gossip will circulate the neighborhood about who I "probably was" versus who I now appear to be. People will shake their heads in pity for me and shudder with fear for their future selves. And, yet, I will be lost in the simple appreciation of an oboe here, a french horn there, the intrigue of a suggestive piano, the stopwatch intrusion of a tympani, or, if playing an instrument, the mystery of evocation in an amalgamation of notes... I will be labeled The Old Woman Tragically Lost in Her Past, when, in fact, I will be not be indulging in nostalgia but in-the-moment aural adventure, an activity perfectly appropriate to my undivulged personal history.
- Another habit of mine is underlining words in books and writing notes in the margins to myself about my reactions as I read...thus, I keep most of the books I've bought. It's not uncommon for me, now, undemented, to be reminded by an incident in life of just such a highlighted passage in a book that evoked similar reactions and search for the book and the passage. I am usually successful. When I am demented my success will take a different route. I will periodically be found on the floor (I expect my habit of preferring the floor to chairs will continue, since it's been a life-long behavior) surrounded by books, methodically turning obviously unread pages, looking for notes and highlights. Upon discovering one, my dementia will prompt me to look for another and another... The person who discovers me will notice that I have been "there" so long that I am beginning to dehydrate, have wet and perhaps soiled myself, appear to be malnourished. He/she will gently "help me up" and begin the process of cleaning, hydrating and feeding me, while making a mental note to look through scattered papers close to my phone in order to find a relative or friend who they feel should be notified about my personal neglect. In the meantime, not yet satisfied in my search through past book notations, I will be driven to continually try to turn back to what I was doing. The person who has elected him/her-self my personal savior will interpret this behavior as demented combativeness and will finally, reluctantly, call the "Dangerous Demented People Catchers" to secure me until a responsible party can be located. Although never prone to agitation, I will, having been thus secured, focus on trying to return to my interrupted quest, inventing the books from which I've been separated, unwittingly ensuring that I will never be allowed to return, in reality, to my home and my quest.
- Undemented, my mind prefers an off-the-cuff organization that typically turns my immediate environment into carefully noted stacks of this and that, through which curious but personally appropriate paths are laid. Since, when I live alone, I generally don't own much except papers and books, cooking/eating utensils (which are usually well stowed), bedding, linen and clothes (also usually well stowed), when I am old and still only lightly demented, perhaps considered marginally self-sufficient, these paths will be significantly narrower and the stacks of books and papers will appear personally threatening to visitors. Eventually, someone will call the local fire department. My environment will be pronounced a fire hazard. Concerned relatives will be called in to clean-up the "mess". I will be thrown into an inconsolable grief at losing the markers of my immediate environment and my life. As well, I will no longer recognize my immediate environment as mine. Within days of the clean-up, someone will notice the parameters of my grief and pronounce that my dementia has "inexplicably" progressed, beyond the point of reasonable self-care. I will be divested of the dregs of what used to be a familiar environment, the liquidity of which will support my move to an even more unfamiliar environment, loaded with people whose presence I will be unable to appreciate because of their unfamiliarity and because my preference for being alone has continued, even into my dementia. I will be considered an uncooperative, sometimes combative resident and will spend most of the last of my days under restriction and restraint, both physical and chemical. This will, of course, be for my own good.
- Although not what would be considered an obsessive masturbator, I have always, since childhood, recognized the peculiar pleasures of masturbation, distinct from the pleasures of social sex, and indulge in both whenever I please without super-egotistical restriction. When I am old and demented, partners for social sex will doubtless be so few and so far between as to effectively be absent. Thus, when I am visited by those concerned about my welfare, who, as those concerned with the welfare of the demented old living alone often do, will find ways to let themselves in unannounced or force their way in if I refuse to answer the door, assuming that my refusal to answer is demented, there will be a fifty/fifty chance that I will be caught in the act of masturbation. After a few of these discoveries, I will be pronounced obsessively concerned with masturbation. My welfare providers will further posit that if I am not stopped I might so lose myself in masturbation that I will no longer notice whether I am in public or in private. Institutionalization and sedation will be necessary to save me from a possible morals charge and to save society from my depravity.
I updated...
...the movie roster tonight. I mention it only because I notice, when I'm mailed my visits from Sitemeter, a fair number of people visit that site. I don't know if they're crossover visits from here, if they are people searching for movies and pulling the site independently or if visitors here occasionally click in out of curiosity but, just in case, I thought I'd post the update here.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Today's Dead Zone Lesson
Conversation in Bathroom Today at 1210 MST [AZ does not observe DST] While Bathing Mom:
Mom: "Where's Dad?"Today's Dead Zone Study Questions:
Me: "Your dad or my dad?"
Mom: "My dad."
Me: "He's dead, Mom. He died in 1980. He's been dead for twenty-six and a half years, now."
Mom: "Where's your dad?"
Me: "He's dead. He died in 1985, twenty-one and a half years ago."
Mom: "Oh."
Pause.
Mom [comic tone]: "Where are you?"
Me [serious tone]: "I'm dead. I'm not sure when I died, but I think I've been dead for, oh, twenty, thirty years, give or take."
Mom [mock surprise]: "Why didn't you tell me?!?"
Me [serious tone]: "Didn't seem like it would make a difference."
Mom: "You've got a point. It hasn't made a difference."
- Is Mom dead?
- How do we know?
Care Free
Something curious has been happening to me over the last two weeks, building in intensity. I suppose it's a form of caregiver burnout, although it doesn't feel quite the same. It doesn't include the usual agitation and despair. It, rather, involves feeling removed, as though I am existing, for the moment, as the player of a virtual reality video game, the theme of which is The Inability to Care.
I noticed it a couple of days ago. I've been avoiding a couple of friend obligations, lately. The first is returning a call to an excellent friend who wants to visit this week, in part to catch-up, I'm sure; in part to introduce a new member of the family (which I expect is a dog) to my mother. The second is acknowledging an unusual and superb gift-for-no-reason from another excellent friend that I received about a week and a half ago, perhaps longer; I'm not sure, now. This is unusual behavior for me, in light of the last couple of years.
I finally decided, over the last week or so, to pay attention to these lapses, which, oddly, are not plaguing me with guilt. I've noticed, for instance, that my recent lags in correspondence on this site, although I've finally almost caught up with them, also haven't plagued me with the usual guilt and have been executed, for the most part, easily and breezily. I've also backed off from manipulating my mother's schedule in order to decrease her sleeping and increase her movement; I've been extremely and thoughtfully negligent about taking stats; for the last three days, up until this evening, I have not wanted to rub down her legs at night, so I haven't. None of these lapses has seemed to make any difference in her health and well-being. Could be that I don't care to notice, but, then, I don't care about that, either.
I've discovered a hole in my spirit where my ability to care and tend usually resides. It's quite large. It encompasses everyone I know, whether in person or online. My heart-memory (comparable to finger memory when playing a musical instrument) remains. I'm pleased about this; it has allowed me to continue, for instance, commenting on sites I usually visit; even though I'm finding it impossible to fundamentally care about what I'm reading or the author. It allows me to react as though I do care. I've been able to depend on this heart memory to keep up the appearance of caring, which seems wise, in case I begin, again, at a later date (oddly, I don't care if it's sooner or later) to care. But, I, frankly, have nothing else to give; anything I appear to be giving at this time is merely a repetition of a past gift. As well, I cannot tolerate the idea of being visited, as I feel as though I will be put on the care spot and I have nothing to give. I am lagging in responding to the receipt of the gift because, although my appreciation for it is high, I seem to be unable to give out this appreciation; it's as though all that's there is an echo of appreciation, not the real thing. My internal care package is completely empty.
It's occurred to me, objectively, that I am in dire need of care nourishment. I cannot think, though, of what form effective, adequate nourishment would take. Gratitude, acknowledgement have fallen flat: I can't care enough about other people's expressions of these, including my mother's, to work up enough energy to appreciate them. I already know that help which would relieve me of my duties, including the duties of caring, and loving, is not available unless I do something to make sure the relief is adequate enough to keep me from having to monitor the help to insure that my mother receives the level of care to which she has become accustomed and which has served her superbly. I don't care to do this. It may seem that my feelings about alternate care for my mother, alone, indicate that I do have some dregs of caring ability down there in the bottom of that hole in my soul, but, you know, that's not it. It's more like, well, here I am, literally, without a care. I don't even care to change where I am.
What is truly strange about this episode is that I have, in the past, never been completely out of the ability to care, thus, one way or another, I've always been able to reinspire myself, renourish myself. This time, though, I'm completely empty. So empty that I truly don't care. Everything I say, everything I do, assuming that I say or do anything, is simply following a previous caring pattern. This isn't bothering me because, well, I just don't care.
There have been moments, in the last few weeks, when, suddenly, something has sparked more than a vague reaction from me. Those moments fade fast, though, and I find, afterwards, the hole remains, as empty as before. I continue undisturbed by this. It has occurred to me in passing, too, that after a while of this I will collapse in on myself, because there is nothing in that hole to support me, heart-memory will no longer serve me, and I will be of no use to anyone else or myself. I find the possibility not at all alarming. Perhaps this will happen. I don't really care.
I noticed it a couple of days ago. I've been avoiding a couple of friend obligations, lately. The first is returning a call to an excellent friend who wants to visit this week, in part to catch-up, I'm sure; in part to introduce a new member of the family (which I expect is a dog) to my mother. The second is acknowledging an unusual and superb gift-for-no-reason from another excellent friend that I received about a week and a half ago, perhaps longer; I'm not sure, now. This is unusual behavior for me, in light of the last couple of years.
I finally decided, over the last week or so, to pay attention to these lapses, which, oddly, are not plaguing me with guilt. I've noticed, for instance, that my recent lags in correspondence on this site, although I've finally almost caught up with them, also haven't plagued me with the usual guilt and have been executed, for the most part, easily and breezily. I've also backed off from manipulating my mother's schedule in order to decrease her sleeping and increase her movement; I've been extremely and thoughtfully negligent about taking stats; for the last three days, up until this evening, I have not wanted to rub down her legs at night, so I haven't. None of these lapses has seemed to make any difference in her health and well-being. Could be that I don't care to notice, but, then, I don't care about that, either.
I've discovered a hole in my spirit where my ability to care and tend usually resides. It's quite large. It encompasses everyone I know, whether in person or online. My heart-memory (comparable to finger memory when playing a musical instrument) remains. I'm pleased about this; it has allowed me to continue, for instance, commenting on sites I usually visit; even though I'm finding it impossible to fundamentally care about what I'm reading or the author. It allows me to react as though I do care. I've been able to depend on this heart memory to keep up the appearance of caring, which seems wise, in case I begin, again, at a later date (oddly, I don't care if it's sooner or later) to care. But, I, frankly, have nothing else to give; anything I appear to be giving at this time is merely a repetition of a past gift. As well, I cannot tolerate the idea of being visited, as I feel as though I will be put on the care spot and I have nothing to give. I am lagging in responding to the receipt of the gift because, although my appreciation for it is high, I seem to be unable to give out this appreciation; it's as though all that's there is an echo of appreciation, not the real thing. My internal care package is completely empty.
It's occurred to me, objectively, that I am in dire need of care nourishment. I cannot think, though, of what form effective, adequate nourishment would take. Gratitude, acknowledgement have fallen flat: I can't care enough about other people's expressions of these, including my mother's, to work up enough energy to appreciate them. I already know that help which would relieve me of my duties, including the duties of caring, and loving, is not available unless I do something to make sure the relief is adequate enough to keep me from having to monitor the help to insure that my mother receives the level of care to which she has become accustomed and which has served her superbly. I don't care to do this. It may seem that my feelings about alternate care for my mother, alone, indicate that I do have some dregs of caring ability down there in the bottom of that hole in my soul, but, you know, that's not it. It's more like, well, here I am, literally, without a care. I don't even care to change where I am.
What is truly strange about this episode is that I have, in the past, never been completely out of the ability to care, thus, one way or another, I've always been able to reinspire myself, renourish myself. This time, though, I'm completely empty. So empty that I truly don't care. Everything I say, everything I do, assuming that I say or do anything, is simply following a previous caring pattern. This isn't bothering me because, well, I just don't care.
There have been moments, in the last few weeks, when, suddenly, something has sparked more than a vague reaction from me. Those moments fade fast, though, and I find, afterwards, the hole remains, as empty as before. I continue undisturbed by this. It has occurred to me in passing, too, that after a while of this I will collapse in on myself, because there is nothing in that hole to support me, heart-memory will no longer serve me, and I will be of no use to anyone else or myself. I find the possibility not at all alarming. Perhaps this will happen. I don't really care.
