I have a journal that I write favorite
quotes in, and as I was adding to it recently, I came across this gem from a
book I read a few years ago:
“What is truth? No wonder jesting Pilate turned away. The truth, it has a thousand faces – show only one of them, and the whole truth flies away! But how to show the whole? That’s the question . . . .” - George to Fox, in Thomas Wolfe’s You Can‘t Go Home Again
Even reading it now, how do I begin to process a raw and painful year such as the last one? A year of conflict and turmoil and stress 30 feet deep, and yet – still – a year with reprieves of beauty so transcendent, my heart hurts in the best way when I remember them? I’ve been putting off writing about some of this, knowing that once I have it on paper I’ll have to make peace with myself (which is no small task). And I’ll have to own the slivers of truth as they are - slivers. The whole will remain as mystery, so no tidy answers or assurances here; just a life making its way through this world.
Maybe it will be easier to begin with the beauty. Those moments when I felt tied to something sacred, despite the pain and shock circling like a shark.
Thankfully I had the life rafts of my husband, father, brother, and sister-in-law when my mother was dying, and the life rafts of my parents’ neighbors. On one of the weekends we were in WI staying with my dad, I awoke early and walked my brother’s dog down the length of Tabot Street. On my way back, I saw Sue standing in her driveway with the morning’s mist rising from the grass, wearing a white nightgown. At first I was nervous to see her, mainly because I wanted to be alone in my grief.
You see, I had been trying to prepare myself for another day at the hospital, where I would see my mother trapped in a body she could no longer move, where I would hope to see a thumb raise or an eye blink, where I would try to tell myself to believe in miracles.
But ultimately, I spent a lot of time wondering where my mom was.
Was she still in her physical body, with her thoughts firing (but unable to pass through the thalamus because of the damage wrought by her strokes)? Basic questions, like, was she understanding what we were saying to her? Did the strokes damage the parts of her brain that most contribute to her personality? Did they also take her memories when they blocked oxygen from getting through?
These led to more complicated questions regarding her soul. Firstly, how does one even define soul? Is it the essence of someone? Is that "essence" a person's sum of memories, loves, and personality? If something beyond those, was Mom’s soul still lingering there, in her broken brain, until her lungs would expel their last breath?
I grew up with the teaching “Love the Lord your God with all of your heart, soul, and mind” (the greatest commandment!) and there I was, trying to discern if one could exist without the others. Think about it . . .in the event that Mind can no longer function due to extenuating circumstances, what are the action plans for Heart and Soul? Aren’t they interdependent on each other?
And so it was with this turmoil that I reluctantly approached Sue in her driveway. We started talking, and I started crying, as I shared all of the responsibility, guilt, and self-loathing I felt for having Mom in this mess. I had been so distracted with daycare drama, with sleep deprivation, with stuff at work, that when Mom told me about her leg hurting, I thought she might be dehydrated and I encouraged her to drink more water. Deep vein thrombosis wasn’t anywhere on my radar (though how many times had I been around those conversations when I worked in Day Surgery?).
But instead of joining in my regret and shame, Sue quietly held me as I shook with sobs, and repeated two things:
“Your mother loves you so much.”
“Your mother is so proud of you.”
With the mist rising and the day beginning, we both cried and hugged each other, sharing a holy moment bathed in love and grace.
Thank you, Sue, from the bottom of my heart/soul/mind. You were my life raft that morning, and your compassion saved me.
“What is truth? No wonder jesting Pilate turned away. The truth, it has a thousand faces – show only one of them, and the whole truth flies away! But how to show the whole? That’s the question . . . .” - George to Fox, in Thomas Wolfe’s You Can‘t Go Home Again
Even reading it now, how do I begin to process a raw and painful year such as the last one? A year of conflict and turmoil and stress 30 feet deep, and yet – still – a year with reprieves of beauty so transcendent, my heart hurts in the best way when I remember them? I’ve been putting off writing about some of this, knowing that once I have it on paper I’ll have to make peace with myself (which is no small task). And I’ll have to own the slivers of truth as they are - slivers. The whole will remain as mystery, so no tidy answers or assurances here; just a life making its way through this world.
Maybe it will be easier to begin with the beauty. Those moments when I felt tied to something sacred, despite the pain and shock circling like a shark.
Thankfully I had the life rafts of my husband, father, brother, and sister-in-law when my mother was dying, and the life rafts of my parents’ neighbors. On one of the weekends we were in WI staying with my dad, I awoke early and walked my brother’s dog down the length of Tabot Street. On my way back, I saw Sue standing in her driveway with the morning’s mist rising from the grass, wearing a white nightgown. At first I was nervous to see her, mainly because I wanted to be alone in my grief.
You see, I had been trying to prepare myself for another day at the hospital, where I would see my mother trapped in a body she could no longer move, where I would hope to see a thumb raise or an eye blink, where I would try to tell myself to believe in miracles.
But ultimately, I spent a lot of time wondering where my mom was.
Was she still in her physical body, with her thoughts firing (but unable to pass through the thalamus because of the damage wrought by her strokes)? Basic questions, like, was she understanding what we were saying to her? Did the strokes damage the parts of her brain that most contribute to her personality? Did they also take her memories when they blocked oxygen from getting through?
These led to more complicated questions regarding her soul. Firstly, how does one even define soul? Is it the essence of someone? Is that "essence" a person's sum of memories, loves, and personality? If something beyond those, was Mom’s soul still lingering there, in her broken brain, until her lungs would expel their last breath?
I grew up with the teaching “Love the Lord your God with all of your heart, soul, and mind” (the greatest commandment!) and there I was, trying to discern if one could exist without the others. Think about it . . .in the event that Mind can no longer function due to extenuating circumstances, what are the action plans for Heart and Soul? Aren’t they interdependent on each other?
And so it was with this turmoil that I reluctantly approached Sue in her driveway. We started talking, and I started crying, as I shared all of the responsibility, guilt, and self-loathing I felt for having Mom in this mess. I had been so distracted with daycare drama, with sleep deprivation, with stuff at work, that when Mom told me about her leg hurting, I thought she might be dehydrated and I encouraged her to drink more water. Deep vein thrombosis wasn’t anywhere on my radar (though how many times had I been around those conversations when I worked in Day Surgery?).
But instead of joining in my regret and shame, Sue quietly held me as I shook with sobs, and repeated two things:
“Your mother loves you so much.”
“Your mother is so proud of you.”
With the mist rising and the day beginning, we both cried and hugged each other, sharing a holy moment bathed in love and grace.
Thank you, Sue, from the bottom of my heart/soul/mind. You were my life raft that morning, and your compassion saved me.
