Tag Archives: brain tumor

Soul Tired

1 Jan

I suppose I should write something profound and holiday spirited, after all this is the first day of the new year.  But I tell you the truth, my soul is exhausted which makes for a significant roadblock to meandering philosophical terrain.

I am home and gratefully receiving a time of rest.  Last night, for new year’s eve, I had the beautiful opportunity to get cozy on the couch and fall asleep at 7:30p.m. (pacific time).  Earlier in the day Brian, Esther and I had an outing along the coast–they on roller-skates and I on my Raleigh Twenty.  Today Esther, the dog Piper, and I had a long coastal walk on the sands of The Strand and Salt Creek beach while Brian surfed San Onofre.  Yesterday and today I have been busy in the kitchen enjoying the freedom to cook without a time constraint, though our pangs of hunger were slightly dictating the direction of each meal.  Both days I have been leisurely popping p-nut M&M’s in my mouth which have followed my, vegetable/whole grain rich, meals very well.  And now as I attempt to write an engaging piece of prose, my daughter sits beside me as my husband and our two dogs relax on the floor finding solace in the comforting tones of Henry Mancini’s Peter Gunn.

Aaahh, what a life…what a nice break from the running I have been doing since May of 2013 (and well before).  And though my heart and mind are thinking of a hundred different people (friends/family) I’d like to connect with, or pieces of garments I would like to sew, or sweet treats to make, I am resigned to the fact that this rest is most necessary.  In fact, so much so, that I recognize the folly that would ensue should I not completely and properly receive this gift of a respite.  For Brian, Esther and I are most definitely in agreement in regard to our current status–grief is a heavy to burden to carry, and as result we are soul tired.

Being in a ‘soul tired’ state means I don’t have much to offer right now.  Not much by way of conversation.  Not much by way of inspiration.  Not much by way of supplication.  Just not much.  I’m giving myself (ourselves) one year…

One year to indulge the weight of grief.  One year to just sit and be.  One year to receive a bit more than I give.  One year of staying at home and being quiet (in my free time of course).  And so, even though we have the celebration of a new year upon us, for me, we are mid year.  Mid grief.  Mid loss.  A “Happy New Year” will have to wait–at least the celebration of it.  Our gifts and celebratory actions are found in the solitude of the love we share with each other.  The hope and complete understanding of Heaven and the knowledge Cole has made it into Home-Base before us.  We just have to rest here a bit, and endure the weight, until our souls become more accustomed to the heavy load.

An anecdotal story:

Esther wears a “military dog-tag” necklace in honor of her brother.  They are not his U.S. Marine tags (though we have them in our possession), it is a special edition made for her in honor of him.  While in the produce section of Costco the other day, the kind-hearted employee asked, “for whom do you wear the dog tag?”  To which she replied, “my brother.”  His response was precious, “Very good!  Let us keep him in prayer and bring him home safe.”

Esther and I looked at each other and concurred, “he has indeed made it safely home.”

…now how about them oranges?!

Disney World

The Bent 3

 

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Muted Tones

2 Dec

If you have ever walked the road of grief, depression and/or oppression you will understand fully, this particular writing…

My culture and society do not recognize the black veil of mourning (yes our society once did), or the fact that black clothes represent grieving (they use to, but not now).  I’ve written about this aspect of life already and will not harp on it further, at least to the degree of reiterating my desire to have my clothes reflective of my sorrow.  No, that is not my direction today.  My direction today is to give a nod to living life in muted tones.

Muted tones?  You ask with a quizzical, half-hearted interest–if even that!  Yes muted.  Though the black veil of mourning is not covering my face, my soul is wrapped in a dark blanket of grief.  This grief mutes the colorful tones of life.  And I experience this world, currently, without the glitter and glitz of technicolor.

The translation of my predicament is this: my soul is sheltered thus my vision is fogged, or veiled.  It is akin to looking at a beautiful sunset (or sunrise) with colors bursting in multiplicity, clouds accenting the Painter’s canvas with utmost perfection so much so that the breeze takes a reverent pause.  And all who are privileged to view the masterful presentation are awestruck by the art of life.  And I, alongside the other viewers, am also aware of the beauty, though awe is not mine.  For the veil through which I look has slightly muddled the picture.

What is the tangibility of the reported “awe?”  The tangibility equates to happiness.  Happiness for something, anything.  It is a weird place to live, this world of mine without happiness.  Oh I do have joyful moments, for my soul has enough experience to not cloud that perspective.  But happiness, she has sailed away at the moment.  And while she is tarrying, I am somewhat paralyzed.  Not in physical movement but in actions of the heart.  …I want to shop for holiday gifts, but I get into a store and cannot think beyond the reality of my loss and the ‘whom I’m not shopping for’.  I leave the store empty handed, or worse yet, with a purchase that doesn’t make much practical or sentimental sense. I know I have a tradition of baking for our neighbors and friends, but for the life of me I can’t get my soul excited enough to think up a good plan.  I want to bless others, but as my mind tries desperately to focus on what that means, I draw a blank.  I want to make phone calls, but can’t find my voice.  I want to visit with friends, but can’t remember how to converse.  I want to be normal–well “normal” was never mine to begin with! 😉

Thankfully my sister was in town for Thanksgiving and she (and her husband) did everything to ensure our holiday tradition was observed.  For if left up to me, we would have ended up enjoying a warm bowl of pre-made ramen noodles courtesy a pot of boiling water.  I could hardly think one tangible thought past the need to stare into space and not speak one word.  Yes, I was surrounded by family whose children are a complete joy to interact with.  But the enjoyment of them is experienced through my veil.  I have weird and unique miracles all around me, reminding me that our G-d reigns and is watching over us (me).  It is just that the lack of happiness scares me a bit.  It keeps me muted.  And sometimes I worry I won’t recognize an emergency situation because the impact of seeing through my veil disables my reflexes–whether the emergency is physical, emotional, or spiritual.

Even writing is elusive.  I have considered writing quite a few times since my previous entry, but when I sit down to express myself the paralyzation sets in and I stare.  I am quite boring at this particular stage of grief.  How droll am I.  To paraphrase Mr. T, “I pity the fool who has to spend time with me!”

Person: How are you? Me:  I’m ok, thank you.  How are you?  Person: Fine.  So what’s new?  Me:  Nothing, and you?  Person: How’s your new job?  Me: It’s going well, thank you.  Person:  Do you like San Diego?  Me: Yes, but it’s not my home.  Me:  Well I’m glad you are well.  Thank you for checking in, perhaps I’ll see you again soon.  Take care.

And then I bolt before the conversation turns to my children, my family, my heart.  Which is probably why I am in a place of muted tones.  For I am constantly running away from the same wall that keeps appearing before me.  I turn and run right…the wall appears.  I turn faster to the left and run like hell…the wall appears.  I move backwards with grace and ease, running like a pro…the wall appears.  I run straight, steady and poised; the wall, the grief, the loss…appears.

I spend minutes in futile wonderment…what is the difference between happiness and joy?  Are they synonymous?  When the bible speaks of the “joy of the Lord” what does that mean?  Does it translate to peace, this ‘joy of the Lord’?  If so, I have that–peace that is.  Not to be confused with reconciliation.  Reconciled to this life I am not.  But I do have peace in knowing my reconciled state is irrelevant to the cycle of life, thus in a quasi manner, I live a peaceful life.  …futility at its finest (and that is just a glimpse).  It is here I see the blessing of my job.  For focusing on work keeps me from loosing myself in the wreckage of my thoughts.

I breathe deeply here at the end of a long and sorrow-filled note.  I breathe deeply for I am sitting at the wall, its color is gray, though the sunset this evening was magnificent!

Thank you for allowing me this moment of grief sharing.

 

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Going Straight

2 Nov

Bottm line, I am not ready for my son to be gone.  Now that I’ve got that out, let us move up from there.

Seems a redunt statement, the one I wrote above.  Actually, it is redundant.  Of course I’m not ready.  Is anyone ever ready to say goodbye to their child?  Brian’s grandmother wasn’t ready when her daughter, his mom, left this earth at 59 years of age back in 2007.  Even with all of her suffering from disease, she had been an integral part of her family unit.  She lived with her mother the last several years of her life and was again melded into the routine of her parents household (sans her father who had departed previously, answering Heaven’s call in 1981).  Brian’s grandmother, Granny as we called her, had aclimated once again to having her daughter around, in and out and there.  So even her daughters suffering, though painful as it was to witness, became a part of their life.  And loosing that influence, that continual option for relationship, had profound significance for Granny.

Same too is our loss of Cole.  He was reintegrated into our daily lives after taking his brief two year stint away from us while serving as a United States Marine.  We had bid him adieu the day he reported to his new family, the military, and the Bent 3 learned how to operate sans his presence.  But when he came home after his brain tumor surgery, we reaclimated as a family unit of 4.  The Bent Four—daily.

There is no easy way to face having Cole’s life not with us.  For even as I turned the calendar from October to November (just this morning), the calendar my beautiful cousin made for me with custom photos of family events the year prior, it reminds me of what we were doing, Cole included, this month last year.  I flipped the calendar as I waited for my coffee to reheat in the microwave and there the story unfolded.  Crystal Cove, Laguna Beach, last year with the family.  And I had to face that Cole is not here.  Brian caught wind of something inside of me and said, “what’s wrong?”  I tearfully could only answer, “he’s not here!”  So Brian went to look at the calendar, “but there are no photos of Cole on this page?”  “I know.  But he was there.”

The most difficult task within this journey of mourning is…I honestly cannot finish this thought, for I cannot pinpoint what is most difficult.  But flipping the calendar and remembering our times together is hard.  Next year, when I flip the calendar I will remember my sorrow in rememberence, but this year I remember the tangibility of him.

It is a strange new reality for us Bents.  Living as three, especially as our lives were so encompassed on being four.  Even Cole’s service dog is a reminder for me of the void present without my son, as now after five months of not seeing her rightful owner, she has attached herself  fully to me.  I don’t want her attached to me (though I am now equally fond of her), I want her attached to Cole!  Esther, who has been holding down the fort of our home during the week while Brian and I work in San Diego, is out of sorts.  Though she, in her fast approaching 18years, doesn’t necessarily need her brother every minute of every day, hates that he isn’t here and feels the silence of our new life too profoundly.  The silence overwhelms.

It is as if our life is confused.  Unsure and a bit wayward.  Which actually brings me to my title, Going Straight.

After 43 years of being a naturally, very curly haired individual, my hair has gone straight!  What the heck?  Rivka with straight hair?  Seems impossible!  Yet it is true.  I get out of the shower and my hair air dries without so much as a curly root.  As weird as this phenomenon is, it really pays tribute to the strange new life we are grappling with daily.  A nod to the function within the non-functioning.  What? Does that even make sense?  No, it doesn’t.  Functioning doesn’t even make sense to any of us right now, yet functioning we are.  Differently, confused, and even chaotic though not as chaos would normally present itself.  It isn’t cacaphony, it is melody within tumult.  We are functioning and moving forward in many ways, yet life is not quite right.  And my hair reflects the phenomena of the effects of this disruption to our family unit.

Don’t take my presentation the wrong way, having straight hair is a dream come true for me.  I have always felt my Creator mistakingly bestowed the wrong coif to me at the onset.  But having it now, and only in this last month (as I painstainkingly dealt with unruly hair the entire time in Europe and Japan this past summer thanks to forgetting my voltage converter), is strangely odd.  Yet the oddity I embrace as all of my life, our life, our Bent 3 life, is out of place, strange, and unfamiliar.

So let’s just called it what it is, unnaturally natural, and raise a glass to going straight.  Cheers!

straight hair

Walking the straight and narrow…

Trust in the Lord with all of your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him and He will make your paths straight.   Proverbs 3:5-6

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