Answered E-mails, Answered Prayers
Last Monday, my sister accompanied my father to an appointment where he was declared, for the moment, anyway, cancer free. "Bone cancer doesn't ever heal, not all the way," the doctor explained, "but right now the real issue is a fracture in the hip." He agreed to surgery, in a month or so, to put a pin in his hip so he would be able to walk more easily, and eventually fulfill his desire to move to Greece.
On Friday morning, my sister called to say that he had been airlifted to the hospital for emergency surgery. The radiation had caused a clot in his colon, which was dying. Twenty hours later, he was still waiting for the surgery; now, he is recovering relatively well, though he's confused and paranoid, and his heart is keeping an irregular heartbeat.
Next week, S and I will head there for about ten days to help arrange for his care because my sister has to leave. I will have to cancel some 30 work-related meetings; S will miss the second and part of the third week of classes, putting her at a disadvantage for staying on track in school at an especially bad time as she transitions from one case manager to another. To complicate matters, her college buddy J had a bad fall off a horse and is injured, though she'll be OK; she's unable to help out during this critical first week of school for S.
And so it goes; nothing is ever in our control, and if anything is a continual reminder of this, it's my father's ongoing health issues--and my daughter's recovery from (or, rather, living with) trauma.
Sometimes I think the main lesson I'm supposed to learn in life is exactly this: how little is in my control. But why this lesson? How will learning it, finally, once and for all--or, more realistically, the journey of learning and re-learning, over and over--help me, exactly?
This question haunted me to the point of throwing me into a dark night of the soul this weekend. People were so kind--my friend P came to the house and stayed up with me half the night on Friday while I awaited news; the next night, S and I had dinner and our friends' house, and then I went back to P's later for drinks and more conversation. It's not as if I had any right to feel bitter or lonely with so much love and support around me--and yet, for some reason, I did.
Partly this was due to the realization that there was no one in our town (or no one able to come to our town) who could handle caring for her for 10 days, not even any combination of people. It just wasn't feasible. I would have to take her with me, something that a two parent family would likely never have to choose. Partly I grew exhausted when, the night after my father's surgery, a friend asked me a series of questions that felt invasive about S's journey; why, I asked myself, does she need to know so many details about how S's PTSD works if she's not in a position right now to offer any tangible support--and why after so many months has she not offered anything I told her I needed?
I started to think about how, back in February, even before Honey's death, I'd sent a vulnerable, honest e-mail to a group of friends saying that S's PTSD was out of control and that I needed them; I followed up by listing exactly what I needed. Some responded honestly, explaining their limitations and offering what they could; others made concrete commitments to help; this friend in particular, and others, had never directly responded. I am, apparently, still hurt and angry by this, though I didn't realize it until now, when I am again feeling overwhelmed and afraid.
I couldn't sleep last night, thinking about these things: where are the people I can really count on? Never mind that these friends had rushed to my side, and that I hadn't been alone all weekend except for last night. Finally, I got up and decided to look up that e-mail, to see what I'd actually asked for and who had received it. It took a long time to find it, but when I did, I realized that I'd received everything I'd asked for--though in most cases, the people I'd asked were not the ones who offered the gift. I'd asked for adult company whenever I could get away or after S was in bed, and understanding when I couldn't get away; I'd asked to be invited to things even if folks were sure I couldn't make it, so I would still feel included; I'd asked for people to be willing to be flexible and open to seeing me when I could make it work; I'd asked for people to take an interest in S's talents and find a way to help her develop them; I'd asked for people to give S opportunities to develop her social skills by spending quality time with her and connecting her to other kids her age; I asked for friends to take the time to understand PTSD and not to be afraid or turn away.
What did I get? A support group of other adoptive parents--not perfect, no doubt, but helpful. Another single parent adopting S's brother with whom I've had some deep e-mail conversations. Three friends who have employed S all summer (she has more money in her savings account than I have in mine!), helping her develop her love of animals and fashion. S's college buddies, who have become friends for me as well as supporters for her. A real friendship for S, that has been slowly developing over the summer--sometimes rocky, and sometimes beautiful and deep--and some good conversations with her mother about raising a special needs child. Evening conversations with unlikely people over wine on my back deck.
I then asked myself the terrifying question: If I have so much, what am I missing? A spiritual practice--something bigger than myself and my day to day work and parenting to sustain me. A spiritual community. Impromptu get togethers at my place; the chance to share food and conversation at the spur of the moment. Time to myself, to write.
And so, today, I got up an hour before S and practiced yoga, and prayed. I felt so much more centered all day. For supper, when S's friend showed up, I asked her to invite her mother for supper, and the four of us ate and laughed about our unusual family dynamics. While S was in the bath, I read some poetry, and wrote a first draft of a poem. I am beginning to think about how I might be able to build a spiritual community when I return from visiting Ohio; it won't be easy, but I need to do what I did back in February and ask for what I need. It will likely come, just maybe not in the way I expect it to come, or from the people I expect to offer it.
My friend who needed to know exactly how S's flashbacks worked, who wanted to understand some kind of formula for responding to them, probably annoyed me because, like me, she is afraid of what she doesn't understand--she wants to quantify it, to make sense of it, rather than to embrace its messiness and mystery. By getting the details, she will be able to push aside her fear, and also to erase her culpability--all of our culpability, really--when people like S suffer from trauma--as well as her responsibility to determine how and what she could do to respond to what she now knew. I remember feeling this way multiple times--when I had to face my own racism, my own ableism, other privileges, when I'd faced rude awakenings that maybe I wasn't quite the noble person I'd thought I was, maybe I was a little too careless about my own responsibilities to others. It was much easier to learn whatever facts I could about whatever the situation (another person's suffering, racism, whatever) than to look inside and understand the ways I was limiting my own growth by not fully feeling and responding to the new insight or information.
Of course, we are always most annoyed by people who share our own faults. Like me, my friend is struggling with control issues; it would be easy for me to say, "And I am further along in understanding and contending with mine," but of course, I don't know that.
Why is embracing the reality that we have so little control so important, then? Because to do so is to laugh in the face of fear. Fear comes from a desire to control, to understand, when control or understanding are impossible. So does self-pity, and selfishness in general, and guilt, for that matter. But if we take the time to look beyond the things we want to understand or control, beyond the way we expected things to go when we first uttered our desperate prayer, we're going to see so much abundance--and also going to recognize the ways we have been healed and the places where healing is needed, both within ourselves and in the world, and the ways we're called to act.
Tonight, after S went to bed, I realized the bitterness and exhaustion were gone. I'd taken the time to pay attention to what I had. I'd asked for it, and received it--just not from the people I'd expected to be the ones to offer their help. I no longer felt angry about the people I'd helped in the past who hadn't been there for me; I could see the bigger karmic picture, how the healing I'd offered was coming back to me from the universe, and how the precise source didn't matter so much anymore.
I will have to continue to wrestle, I think, with disappointments; I will have to accept people for who they are, where they are in their journey, and what they do and do not want to face, what they can and cannot (or will and will not) offer in terms of healing. And, now that I've identified my needs, I will begin again to practice yoga, prayer, and sacred reading every day--no doubt I'll fail at this, but it's worth beginning again. And I will continue to pray for a spiritual community that can embrace ambiguity and mystery, that can really help me grow as a healer of this world, challenging and comforting me. And, I will continue to pray my gratitude for the mysterious and beautiful ways my February e-mail has been answered by the universe.
On Friday morning, my sister called to say that he had been airlifted to the hospital for emergency surgery. The radiation had caused a clot in his colon, which was dying. Twenty hours later, he was still waiting for the surgery; now, he is recovering relatively well, though he's confused and paranoid, and his heart is keeping an irregular heartbeat.
Next week, S and I will head there for about ten days to help arrange for his care because my sister has to leave. I will have to cancel some 30 work-related meetings; S will miss the second and part of the third week of classes, putting her at a disadvantage for staying on track in school at an especially bad time as she transitions from one case manager to another. To complicate matters, her college buddy J had a bad fall off a horse and is injured, though she'll be OK; she's unable to help out during this critical first week of school for S.
And so it goes; nothing is ever in our control, and if anything is a continual reminder of this, it's my father's ongoing health issues--and my daughter's recovery from (or, rather, living with) trauma.
Sometimes I think the main lesson I'm supposed to learn in life is exactly this: how little is in my control. But why this lesson? How will learning it, finally, once and for all--or, more realistically, the journey of learning and re-learning, over and over--help me, exactly?
This question haunted me to the point of throwing me into a dark night of the soul this weekend. People were so kind--my friend P came to the house and stayed up with me half the night on Friday while I awaited news; the next night, S and I had dinner and our friends' house, and then I went back to P's later for drinks and more conversation. It's not as if I had any right to feel bitter or lonely with so much love and support around me--and yet, for some reason, I did.
Partly this was due to the realization that there was no one in our town (or no one able to come to our town) who could handle caring for her for 10 days, not even any combination of people. It just wasn't feasible. I would have to take her with me, something that a two parent family would likely never have to choose. Partly I grew exhausted when, the night after my father's surgery, a friend asked me a series of questions that felt invasive about S's journey; why, I asked myself, does she need to know so many details about how S's PTSD works if she's not in a position right now to offer any tangible support--and why after so many months has she not offered anything I told her I needed?
I started to think about how, back in February, even before Honey's death, I'd sent a vulnerable, honest e-mail to a group of friends saying that S's PTSD was out of control and that I needed them; I followed up by listing exactly what I needed. Some responded honestly, explaining their limitations and offering what they could; others made concrete commitments to help; this friend in particular, and others, had never directly responded. I am, apparently, still hurt and angry by this, though I didn't realize it until now, when I am again feeling overwhelmed and afraid.
I couldn't sleep last night, thinking about these things: where are the people I can really count on? Never mind that these friends had rushed to my side, and that I hadn't been alone all weekend except for last night. Finally, I got up and decided to look up that e-mail, to see what I'd actually asked for and who had received it. It took a long time to find it, but when I did, I realized that I'd received everything I'd asked for--though in most cases, the people I'd asked were not the ones who offered the gift. I'd asked for adult company whenever I could get away or after S was in bed, and understanding when I couldn't get away; I'd asked to be invited to things even if folks were sure I couldn't make it, so I would still feel included; I'd asked for people to be willing to be flexible and open to seeing me when I could make it work; I'd asked for people to take an interest in S's talents and find a way to help her develop them; I'd asked for people to give S opportunities to develop her social skills by spending quality time with her and connecting her to other kids her age; I asked for friends to take the time to understand PTSD and not to be afraid or turn away.
What did I get? A support group of other adoptive parents--not perfect, no doubt, but helpful. Another single parent adopting S's brother with whom I've had some deep e-mail conversations. Three friends who have employed S all summer (she has more money in her savings account than I have in mine!), helping her develop her love of animals and fashion. S's college buddies, who have become friends for me as well as supporters for her. A real friendship for S, that has been slowly developing over the summer--sometimes rocky, and sometimes beautiful and deep--and some good conversations with her mother about raising a special needs child. Evening conversations with unlikely people over wine on my back deck.
I then asked myself the terrifying question: If I have so much, what am I missing? A spiritual practice--something bigger than myself and my day to day work and parenting to sustain me. A spiritual community. Impromptu get togethers at my place; the chance to share food and conversation at the spur of the moment. Time to myself, to write.
And so, today, I got up an hour before S and practiced yoga, and prayed. I felt so much more centered all day. For supper, when S's friend showed up, I asked her to invite her mother for supper, and the four of us ate and laughed about our unusual family dynamics. While S was in the bath, I read some poetry, and wrote a first draft of a poem. I am beginning to think about how I might be able to build a spiritual community when I return from visiting Ohio; it won't be easy, but I need to do what I did back in February and ask for what I need. It will likely come, just maybe not in the way I expect it to come, or from the people I expect to offer it.
My friend who needed to know exactly how S's flashbacks worked, who wanted to understand some kind of formula for responding to them, probably annoyed me because, like me, she is afraid of what she doesn't understand--she wants to quantify it, to make sense of it, rather than to embrace its messiness and mystery. By getting the details, she will be able to push aside her fear, and also to erase her culpability--all of our culpability, really--when people like S suffer from trauma--as well as her responsibility to determine how and what she could do to respond to what she now knew. I remember feeling this way multiple times--when I had to face my own racism, my own ableism, other privileges, when I'd faced rude awakenings that maybe I wasn't quite the noble person I'd thought I was, maybe I was a little too careless about my own responsibilities to others. It was much easier to learn whatever facts I could about whatever the situation (another person's suffering, racism, whatever) than to look inside and understand the ways I was limiting my own growth by not fully feeling and responding to the new insight or information.
Of course, we are always most annoyed by people who share our own faults. Like me, my friend is struggling with control issues; it would be easy for me to say, "And I am further along in understanding and contending with mine," but of course, I don't know that.
Why is embracing the reality that we have so little control so important, then? Because to do so is to laugh in the face of fear. Fear comes from a desire to control, to understand, when control or understanding are impossible. So does self-pity, and selfishness in general, and guilt, for that matter. But if we take the time to look beyond the things we want to understand or control, beyond the way we expected things to go when we first uttered our desperate prayer, we're going to see so much abundance--and also going to recognize the ways we have been healed and the places where healing is needed, both within ourselves and in the world, and the ways we're called to act.
Tonight, after S went to bed, I realized the bitterness and exhaustion were gone. I'd taken the time to pay attention to what I had. I'd asked for it, and received it--just not from the people I'd expected to be the ones to offer their help. I no longer felt angry about the people I'd helped in the past who hadn't been there for me; I could see the bigger karmic picture, how the healing I'd offered was coming back to me from the universe, and how the precise source didn't matter so much anymore.
I will have to continue to wrestle, I think, with disappointments; I will have to accept people for who they are, where they are in their journey, and what they do and do not want to face, what they can and cannot (or will and will not) offer in terms of healing. And, now that I've identified my needs, I will begin again to practice yoga, prayer, and sacred reading every day--no doubt I'll fail at this, but it's worth beginning again. And I will continue to pray for a spiritual community that can embrace ambiguity and mystery, that can really help me grow as a healer of this world, challenging and comforting me. And, I will continue to pray my gratitude for the mysterious and beautiful ways my February e-mail has been answered by the universe.
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