This is a love story about a man and a woman and their daughter.
I will call him Prince Charming even though he looks nothing like the stereotype. He is short, red haired, stout and has the happiest face I've ever seen.
I will call her The Fair Maiden even though she is older now, her fair maidenish-ness has pretty much gone the way of grey hair and wrinkles, but luckily, most of the wrinkles are from smiling and laughing and loving her large family and everyone else she brushed up against in her life.
The daughter I will call The Librarian because she is the librarian for our church. She is optomistic and cheerful and knows where every picture, piece of chalk and vidoe is in the library. If you need it, she can find it.
Prince Charming and The Fair Maiden have been married a long time. The kids are grown and gone except for The Librarian, who never married--at least not yet--she stayed home and ran a preschool out of their home. In fact Her Excellency of Mousehole attended The Librarian's preschool for two years when she was a little girl.
The Fair Maiden started to forget things. Prince Charming had his own problems, he had arthritis so bad he had to wear a neck brace so he could hold his head up. The Fair Maiden became disoriented and had other problems that led them to seek medical help. She was misdiagnosed and by the time she received medication that could help slow the progress of the disease, Alzheimer's had its tenacious grip on her and it was too late.
Prince Charming and The Librarian took care of her. She got worse. Prince Charming and The Librarian needed an extra hand to take care of her needs and so another daughter came several times a day to help. The Fair Maiden forgot many things, even how to walk or to sit up in a chair without support, but she never forgot Prince Charming.
Then, one day, Prince Charming missed a step in the house and fell backwards. He was taken to the hospital. He had broken five ribs, shattered his scapula and punched a nice sized hole in his head, which led to internal bleeding. Was he concerned for himself? With every painful breath. And why? Because it meant he wasn't going to be there to take care of his Fair Maiden.
A day and a half later he was home again. His arm is was in a sling and taped to his body. A bandage was on his head. He wouldn't even talk about surgery, just grited his teeth and endued the pain. He was home to take care of His Fair Maiden.
I talked to The Librarian by phone yesterday? "Will you have to move your mom to a care facility?" I asked.
"Oh, no," she said so fast that I knew nothing would keep her and her dad from taking care of her mom. They will take care of her with their last dying breath and be happy to do it.
Will there be a happy ending for Prince Charming and The Fair Maiden? Yes, but not in this life. They have been married for time and all eternity and their eternity is going to be something to behold. They will have a glorious life together. They will walk hand and hand and dance on the grass and sing songs they learned in childhood. She will remember the names of every great-grandchild and he will hold his head up high.They will be the happiest people in God's Kingdom and the Librarian will be there too, cheering them on and laughing and dancing too, maybe with her own Prince Charming.
Showing posts with label compassion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label compassion. Show all posts
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
THE COMPLICATED LIFE
Today I did not have a personal history story written for group. This is almost the first time in two years that I have not been prepared.
The women in the group let me talk after everyone else had read and I talked about the book. The book. The book where I am exorcising my ghosts. One ghost. The loss of my birth dad.
I am beginning to realize this book cannot be about my loss alone. My sisters lost too, especially Julie--who will be referred to as the troll occasionally in the book. Poor Julie to be portrayed in such a way--she hardly resembles a troll at all. Anyway, I have a hot tempered scene in my head between me and the troll, who, I will have to call something nicer because she put up with "the brat" all those years and has never been properly thanked for it.
Mom had the biggest loss of all. Julie told me some of the details of what happened after my dad's death. Mom tried to hold the business together but the physical work was overwhelming.
I have another scene with her and Aunt Dee trying to make mattresses but their strength just wasn't enough. It will have to be a dialogue scene, painted by the speaker--haven't decided who that will be yet--who watched and participated more than I did. I just ate dirt, probably, and peed my pants.
So, the book is getting more complicated. Life is complicated. We don't know what someone else is going through while we merrily waltz Matilda--that is if we know how to waltz and we know Matilda and if she doesn't want to lead. We should always be on the lookout for subtle signs that someone else is in distress--that someone is suffering, is sad, is grieving or even is angry.
I told one of my son's once to, "Watch for the signs." (This was after he teased Gilmore Girl to the edge of insanity and she broke down and cried.) He said, "What signs?" He honestly didn't know. Some of us are more in tune that others but it's a skill that can be taught. Sadly, sufferers aren't likely to say, "Hey listen. I'm having a crappy life. Could you cut me a little slack here?" So we go on our merry way, not helping, not loving or being compassionate. Judging. Often judging.
Life is complicated. We don't know what someone else is dealing with. I wonder if we could be a little more careful. Watch for the subtleties. The sighs. The forced laughter. The silences. The countenance that is devoid of joy. The heavy hands that hang down.
I wonder if a word of kindness would help. A hand on the shoulder. An "I'm sorry." Hardly ever can we change things, but we can listen. We can let the other know, maybe even just by a look, that we might understand, maybe only 10% but that's better than nothing. Maybe even if they see us eat some dirt and pee our pants they could say to themselves, "Well, at least I'm not that bad." Maybe it would help.
I don't think it helped my Mom or my sisters. I was just one more detail that had to be taken care of but maybe it did help. Maybe it gave them something to take their mind off their loss. There is nothing so delightful as a two year old and maybe I was there, at that time for a reason, more than I know.
Anyway, life is complicated, isn't it? I wish we could have a visual image that shows how we are all connected and then a visual image that shows how we have helped one another. I'll bet we would even be connected to Kevin Bacon somehow. Maybe in as little as four steps.
The women in the group let me talk after everyone else had read and I talked about the book. The book. The book where I am exorcising my ghosts. One ghost. The loss of my birth dad.
I am beginning to realize this book cannot be about my loss alone. My sisters lost too, especially Julie--who will be referred to as the troll occasionally in the book. Poor Julie to be portrayed in such a way--she hardly resembles a troll at all. Anyway, I have a hot tempered scene in my head between me and the troll, who, I will have to call something nicer because she put up with "the brat" all those years and has never been properly thanked for it.
Mom had the biggest loss of all. Julie told me some of the details of what happened after my dad's death. Mom tried to hold the business together but the physical work was overwhelming.
I have another scene with her and Aunt Dee trying to make mattresses but their strength just wasn't enough. It will have to be a dialogue scene, painted by the speaker--haven't decided who that will be yet--who watched and participated more than I did. I just ate dirt, probably, and peed my pants.
So, the book is getting more complicated. Life is complicated. We don't know what someone else is going through while we merrily waltz Matilda--that is if we know how to waltz and we know Matilda and if she doesn't want to lead. We should always be on the lookout for subtle signs that someone else is in distress--that someone is suffering, is sad, is grieving or even is angry.
I told one of my son's once to, "Watch for the signs." (This was after he teased Gilmore Girl to the edge of insanity and she broke down and cried.) He said, "What signs?" He honestly didn't know. Some of us are more in tune that others but it's a skill that can be taught. Sadly, sufferers aren't likely to say, "Hey listen. I'm having a crappy life. Could you cut me a little slack here?" So we go on our merry way, not helping, not loving or being compassionate. Judging. Often judging.
Life is complicated. We don't know what someone else is dealing with. I wonder if we could be a little more careful. Watch for the subtleties. The sighs. The forced laughter. The silences. The countenance that is devoid of joy. The heavy hands that hang down.
I wonder if a word of kindness would help. A hand on the shoulder. An "I'm sorry." Hardly ever can we change things, but we can listen. We can let the other know, maybe even just by a look, that we might understand, maybe only 10% but that's better than nothing. Maybe even if they see us eat some dirt and pee our pants they could say to themselves, "Well, at least I'm not that bad." Maybe it would help.
I don't think it helped my Mom or my sisters. I was just one more detail that had to be taken care of but maybe it did help. Maybe it gave them something to take their mind off their loss. There is nothing so delightful as a two year old and maybe I was there, at that time for a reason, more than I know.
Anyway, life is complicated, isn't it? I wish we could have a visual image that shows how we are all connected and then a visual image that shows how we have helped one another. I'll bet we would even be connected to Kevin Bacon somehow. Maybe in as little as four steps.
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