I am feeling the usual out of control Sunday night anxiety. Although it’s Monday night coming off a holiday.
Went camping with Dad and that “side ” of the family- as I am a product of divorce. Sunday we got some terrible news at the campsite. My Grandma, was having a stroke.
My Grandma, is 72 and still drives a semi truck. She’s a tough lady and a feminist by default- as one of the first single mothers of her time. She raised four kids. That takes a whole lot of TOUGH.
She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “I was supposed to be in my truck today.”
Her truck- , Jung or some would say- is the symbol of independence- but for my Grandma- it IS her independence.
In the hospital, her words would get jumbled here and there. “Not like Tourette’s” my Dad said, it’s different than that. He looked stressed, his muscles were tense and serious-looking as his eyes stared far beyond the fire.
He only narrowly escaped his own untimely death recently. His own cancer doctor admitted, once in remission, he never thought he would make it.
I recalled, silently, as Grandma tried to tell me about decorations she had made for her semi. She got four skunks that were playing in the grass. She put the name of each one of her children under each one with the saying, “Little stinkers”.
Because not all of her words would come out quite right, I think it is on her grill but I do not know for sure. It came out “grass” or “glass” as she tried several times to think it through. Happy and proud, she was.
On the way to her room, I realized the way there was too familiar. I had spent days, weeks, months, putting my feet- one in front of the other- to that same place.
My sister in law, had recently spent her last months right across the hall. Sure, she got shuffled, toward the end. But most of her time- was there.
She was 24 years old and my Grandma donated her own burial plot for Tasha just months ago.
24 years old.
And not much age difference from the son my Grandma had buried right next to the plot she’d given Tasha. One of her “little stinkers”.
If you read my blog, you would know that we had another young death in the family within the year before Tasha.
The level of grief is hard to explain.
The depth. The way it penetrates your identity as a person.
The sadness, the anger. The wound that festers.
How do I explain how angry one can be at politicians, at the church, at a world that seems so against humanity, damn it?
How your own flesh and blood can one minute feel like your only resting place and the next minute seem like your sworn enemy.
How your best friend suddenly never calls, stops by…. never sends an email. Disappears.
How people say they worry…. about you.
And you are not sure why because today feels better than yesterday. Anger feels better than depression. Losing religion feels better than having religion.
Unfortunately, most of the people in my close world- my coworkers, have only known me in this state. My own husband has spent much of our marriage a dealing with a woman in a state of grieving.
Trying to come out of that state is not easy. First, there is a whole lot of anger. Second is realizing you’ve been living life on auto pilot.
Then there is the impatience to change.
The desire to be happy, to be light- enlightened.
The desire to live, really live, while being chained to a body that needs food, shelter, clothes. The thought that never stops moving around in my brain- what do you love to do? How can you do it? The thought that is shot down like a balloon from the sky as soon as I look at the “want ads” or job postings.
I remember thinking as a child that any adult should be able to do whatever they want for a job and that should allow them to have whatever groceries or necessities they needed.
If I dare say that as a grown up, I would be accused of being a communist.
Hate being a grown up.
Hate watching people I love leave the earth in a painful crash.
Hate watching people I love suffer at the hands of their body.
In fact, my own failure to tend to my body is causing me my own set of problems.
I want to wake up excited. I want to truly help and serve others with my talents uniquely gifted me by an intelligent universal source of life. I JUST DON’T KNOW HOW. And so many people are fond of telling me what gifts I have and how they don’t understand why I don’t use them. Please….TELL ME MORE.
So, with all this stuff finally off of my chest- one very special thought came to my mind. It is a quote that Wayne Dyer is fond of quoting.
“And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” Anais Nin