A Mother's Struggle

Courtesy of Deviant Art

I first caught a glimpse of her sitting in her car. Her youngest was asleep in the back. As I approached, I noticed she was quietly crying. I hesitated not knowing what to do. Should I afford her her privacy and continue walking or stop and say hello?

I rapped on the window. She looked at me and laughed. She felt embarrassed having been caught. It didn’t matter what her heart had felt a moment before, all traces of anguish were now gone and she was smiling, trying to make me comfortable. I know that type of personality – the type that would do anything to make others feel at ease. I am the same.

“Hey, what's going on,” I quietly asked. I got in the passenger side of the car and kissed her hello.

“Oops! You caught me!” She wiped tears from her ruddy face and laughed. She clearly felt embarrassed. But we are friends and I knew that my gentle prodding would eventually lead to what I felt she most needed at the moment: an unburdening of a heavy heart.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, business as usual,” she shrugged as if to say, what else is new?

“The kids alright?”

She laughed that nervous laugh she uses to hide a multitude of uncomfortable things. “The kids? When are my kids alright?”

I smiled and waited for her to continue.

“I’m sorry. I just...you know, it gets to be too much sometimes, that’s all.”

“I know.”

“I usually don’t get like this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me!” Again, she apologized.

“What’s wrong,” I softly inquired.

She was quiet for a moment looking out the window. Then, “I’m tired of the criticisms, that’s all. I’m tired of people judging and telling me that nothing’s wrong with my kids and that I’m the one that might be doing something wrong.”

“I think people sometimes find the truth to be too uncomfortable to deal with. So they live in denial,” I said.

“Yeah, but it doesn’t help me or my kids. Look, the truth is that I have special needs children. And don’t think I’m complaining because I’m not. I love them with all my heart and I wouldn’t trade one single one of them for one that was normal. Well, what others think is normal. To me, my kids are normal. That’s their normal, you know what I mean? I only wish others could see them and accept them as I do.”

I knew this to be a recurring problem for her and her husband with some members of the family and some friends. They would not – could not – accept that something might be wrong and instead judged on what they felt was their lack of proper parental skills. I confess that I too at times had paused to ponder but then all I had to do was spend one afternoon with her children and it would bring home the fact that indeed they were different and their problems posed a challenge.

“They have feelings. What people don’t seem to understand is that they have feelings. And many times I have to go home and deal with the fallout of why they are treated in such a way. They get taunted at school and come home crying. They shouldn't have to feel that with family members as well, you know? I’m not saying everyone does this, just a few people. They give them looks like they're some sort of errant children and make judgments in front of them where they can hear. They notice this. They’re getting older and they notice this. And it breaks my heart.”

“Why don’t you and your husband have a sit-down with the family and speak to them truthfully about what this is doing to them? I think if you let them know, they might be receptive. They love them and I don't think they realize they're hurting them. I think if they knew what they were doing, they would stop. I don't think they mean it intentionally, you know?”

“We’re tired of talking. It doesn't do any good. So we just don’t say anything anymore. And we've cut down on the family functions too. I have to protect my kids, you know?”

“I know,” was all I could say.

I felt for her. She might have well been a modern-day Hester but instead of the scarlet letter A written across her chest she was wearing UM for unfit mother. In her world, these are the letters she wears each day in constant judgment of her primary role in life which she does to the best of her ability, but not to the best of what others believe. As a mother, in the eyes of those that don't know her or her children's history, and even some that do, she has failed. It is something that she sees and hears, but it is something she does not do anything about. “I know what people say about me and I would be lying if I tell you it didn’t bother me or I didn’t care. But what can I do? People want to believe what they want to believe, so I let them. All I care about is my kids. They want to understand, fine; they don’t, that’s fine also. C’est la vie, right?”

How sad to live in constant judgment in front of others who have had the blessings of not ever having had to walk in her shoes; others who have raised their children without the constant problems/crisis she tackles on a daily basis (and they are serious); others who in their egos believe that they are better in their parental skills than she ever could be and if they were their children they would not have those problems. These are children with clinically-diagnosed problems and they have been to a multitude of doctors and all are in agreement. So those that judge are right then? Their emotional conclusions override professional conclusions?

I see their problems and my heart breaks to see them go through this. They are trying to be the best parents they can possibly be and are being pulled in so many different directions. Four children is a full plate when three pose a challenge. I sometimes wonder why they were chosen to carry such a tremendous weight. It is a life not for the faint of heart. A person whose belief in God resides strong in her heart, she once said to me that she believed she was chosen because God knew she could handle it. And, I have to say, she can. She is always cheery, has the energy of 20 people, and has the patience of Mother Teresa. So, to see her crying was something very out of the ordinary. But, then again, no matter how strong we are, we all have days where our strengths fail us. After all, we are human.

I, in my ego, sometimes would say to myself that I would talk to them in a softer voice to calm already frayed nerves. But, then, if I step outside of my ego, what do I see? I see myself also making judgments of something I have no right to make judgment on. Can I say if I lived in her shoes each and every day that I would have the benefit of being calm when the situation called for it? Each and every time? No. So who am I to judge?

Who are we to judge? It is a murky road indeed that we walk when we rush to opine without benefit of another's disclosure. What we see is never the whole. And while we hanker for our voice to be heard because the ego intervenes and feels it is right, we should, instead, stop from ever voicing any opinions and just witness. Witness with eyes truly open.

And this brings to mind that this world would be such a better place, such a more loving and accepting place, if we all listened with our hearts instead of our egos. The heart is never wrong because the heart is the truthful voice of the soul. Ego is its nemesis yet it is the one we often side with because it carries power and we like power. But perhaps it is time for each of us to let go of the gratuitous ego when facing a person whom we are ready to judge and allow our hearts to guide us instead.

To listen with empathy, to love unconditionally, to accept without judgment...let your heart be the voice of your soul.

Lithium

Courtesy of Deviant Art

Karma. I never used to believe. But now I know...

He hates me. It is evident in the way he treats me and looks at me. I can see love has long departed the palpating chambers of his heart and he no longer considers me his own. He no longer bothers to find the emotion that currently disrupts my heart. My tears no longer hold equity.

I fell in love with him and his tender actions. I fell in love with his tender words that promised protection and eternal affection. I wallowed in the sunshine that had entered my life and rejoiced with wild abandon. I was raw and alive and wanted to experience anything and everything. I stopped sleeping and started living once again. He was my drug.

But then began the lies. Rumblings of accusations that something was awry. The lies he fed that told me I needed help. Why would he do this? Didn’t he see how happy I was and how happy I made him? Why would he want to ruin it?

I no longer believed. I no longer believed in his words and he ceased to be my reason for living and my crutch. I withdrew. Days and weeks would pass where not a word was spoken. Clouds already had made their way into my world again and had returned with that constant familiar of hopelessness and despair.

He offered words of reason and hope and love. But I no longer believed. Instead I wanted apathy. Just sweet, disconnected apathy. Leave me alone.

Slowly he began to learn my ways. Two strangers living in a house divided.

“Never stop loving me,” I would whisper tenderly in his ears late at night when he was asleep.

“Never,” my heart would respond.

And in time, he eventually left, no longer wanting to enable, no longer wanting to obey my requests, no longer standing sentry to my desire to self-destruct. With withered heart he kissed me goodbye. A tear escaped from his eye with a whisper of "I will always love you."

He hates me. He doesn't know it, but I do. Of this, I’m sure. He no longer loves me or considers me his own. He no longer cares to find what emotion fills or riles my heart. My blood-shed tears having lost their equity. Karma, manifest destiny, call it by whatever name you desire, because in the end, that which I gave I received; in the end, I am once again left alone.

A Story That Warms Your Heart

A beautiful reminder of the limitless love we have within ourselves to share....


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Blessings

Courtesy of Deviant Art

The beloved threw me for a loop this week. A simple doctor's visit on Monday quickly turned awry. The possibility of him now having some serious health issues were suddenly forced upon us and it unnerved me to my core. The armor of strength I usually wear to protect those I love, I now had to make sure would protect him most of all. Always a very healthy individual, he was unprepared for the news. So was I. How could this be? I tended to all of the preparations and questions with quick precision all the while holding his hand and offering words of encouragement and telling him that everything was going to be alright. I believed it in my heart to be true; him, not so much. It was going to take some work to get his mind in the right place. That first night I waited until he finally slept to allow myself to unravel. My nerves were taut and needed an outlet; a gush of tears later, I picked myself up and continued once again.

"Do not tell anyone what's going on," he warned the following day.

"Of course not," I replied. But, then again, when was the last time I listened to him? I told my family. I have a large family. I have a large, loving, supportive family that loves him as much as they love me. Did he really think I would not utter a word? Sorry, love, you need me, and I need them. It's the only way I can be strong for you and get through this. This time we are not doing it your family's way; this time, we are doing it my family's way. In my tribe, we become stronger in numbers. They came for him and for me; they called him and made him laugh; they gave me words of encouragement and love and told me to be strong. They know he is my Achilles Heel.

A few days and one single important procedure/operation later, he was given a clean bill of health. We all sighed a big sigh of relief and were now overwhelmed with joy. Having heard the good news, he was his old self again joshing around with the medical personnel and being charismatic and charming as is his norm. This is not an effort on his part, it is a trait that comes naturally to him. It is his mother's way.

This was my week. A week that began with dark clouds looming overhead ended with the Sun shining brightly through the panes. I admit I was scared. I prayed that God would had chosen me instead because I can take it. I am strong in this area; he is not. His weaknesses are my strengths and vice versa and that is why we depend so much on each other. I can take a personal hit but have to really fight to find the strength to see a loved one take it. But he has always been there for me and has taken good care of me and now it was my turn even though I was scared inside. Now I know how he has felt and what he has gone through and it is unnerving. It was a momentary peek inside each other's life. And it was just one more thing that melded these two hearts ever closer. This was a week filled with fears but it was lived with gratitude, blessings and faith. And like many times in the past, I again did not falter in my belief in him nor in Him. And my beloved is well and all is good with the world once again.

*sigh*

Courtesy of Deviant Art

So last week in class the POD decides to channel a Russian. Don't know why, but in a Russian accent he taught all the way. He was quite good and entertaining and perhaps he's training for some undercover operation that I don't know about.

MKIA decided to dye her hair red. It wasn't working. Thank goodness for her the Fashion Police wasn't around because they would've arrested her on the spot. It was criminal I tell you. With her red hair, ruddy complexion and red outfit she looked like a Twizzler. 'Nuf said.

Dr. Phil was sick and left during break but by then it was too late because he already had spread his lovely germs around... inside an enclosed classroom.... with no open windows. *sigh*

Meanwhile, a student who had been absent for a couple of sessions resurrected and she, too, had been very sick with the flu though she informed us it was not of the swinish variety. She decided to sit next to me. Obviously, the dress code for the day was to wear one's Hazmat suit but I didn't get the memo. *double sigh*

I had a nice conversation with our resident published writer and found he idolizes Sherlock Holmes a bit more than what I would consider normal but I suppose that's par for the course for creative writers. Loopy or not, I like him a lot. He's very sweet.

Big Dude was present of course and sitting in the corner like he usually does ignoring the rest of the human race. I actually saw a hint of a smile touch his face last week and deducted he had human genes after all. I think. The jury's still out on this.

And tonight's class again. Didn't read one single word for today's assignment but being that last week I was so exhausted from work that I could barely masticate without the help of an assistant who moved my mouth around and ordered me to chew and swallow, I think that's okay. I'm still exhausted and wonder if I will actually be able to absorb any of the words that will come out of the POD's mouth tonight and hope I don't manage to frustrate him because he will undoubtedly fail to understand my mumbling, lethargic language and take it as a sign that I'm either uninterested or having a stroke. If he only knew that the last thing I want is to be in class tonight and instead want to be home on my couch with some cushy pillows and comfy blanket, eating some junk food in the form of sugar and fat, and having complete control of the remote control with the beloved silent and reading and not saying a word. I can't process. I can't talk. I can barely think. I've hung my cape and put my superpowers on a break. Actually, I'm so tired right now that if I had someone standing next to me talking smack about me or saying something indecent, I would fail to pick it up. And that's just too bad and too sad because it would've made for some terrific interactions.

A Boy, A Ball and a Lesson

Courtesy of Deviant Art

The day had gone well. I went into my home office and turned on the music that would accompany the thing I hate to do most: exercise. I boarded the treadmill and adjusted the settings to the right speed and incline and hit go. The treadmill is positioned by the window so when I exercise I can see what's going on in the world outside. Something - anything - to make this dreaded thing seem a bit more interesting.

Ten minutes in I notice something that brings a truth home and automatically changes my view of exercise. I see this boy. I see this boy in the driveway of a house across the street. He is playing soccer with another boy - perhaps a brother, a cousin or a friend. I gauge them to be ten, maybe eleven. I don’t see anything unusual at first, but then I see it. His arms are fine; his legs are not. One leg is shorter than the other and he walks with a limp. He is having a bit of trouble handling the ball with his legs. At times, when the ball is kicked gently to him, he misses it. Yet, those failed attempts do not seem to deter him. I no longer hear the music as I am now transfixed, watching this brave boy play. I silently applaud his victories when he kicks the ball and feel a heaviness of heart when he misses it. I begin to wonder what is going on in his mind as he is playing ball with this other boy and find that I do not have the emotional strength to go there and imagine. As a mother, it is too heartbreaking to think about although the boy appears healthy otherwise. The other boy at times takes the ball and bounces it from one knee to the other. All the while this boy patiently waits and watches as his brother/cousin/friend does things that he cannot do. My heart breaks and I want to go outside and tell this healthy boy not to do that. That doing that is mean. But I do not. A vocal person by nature, I do not concern myself with matters that are none of my business. It is not my place. My eyes begin to water at the injustices of life and I begin to wonder how his mother handles this. I claim to be strong yet have no emotional strength in this area.

I begin imagining him as a teenager, a time that is difficult enough for teens when they are finding their way in this world and are busy trying on different suits and characters in an effort to find the one that fits them best. I imagine for a disabled child, this cross must be heavier. I wonder what he will be like as a teenager. Will he turn to drugs or liquor to numb his difference? Will he begin to mock himself in front of friends and peers as a means to fit in and show that it’s no biggie and that if he can make fun then, hey, so can they? I pray not. I think of him falling in love and wonder if he will get his heart broken which is part and parcel of this rite of passage? I begin to pray that he is spared that much and, instead, meets a girl that sees his tender heart and promises to love it and protect it.

Or, maybe...

I am wrong altogether. Maybe he has found a way to handle this and doesn’t see himself as having a disability at all but sees himself as one who is just different. Maybe he will be one of the many who will not allow his aspirations to lie fallow and will persevere and become very successful. The trials he has gone through and will continue to endure prepares him well in life. It takes courage and unbending determination to walk in his shoes and to be successful is in his destiny if he so desires. There will be no limit to what he can do. I know a few disabled individuals who are extremely successful and know they do not like labels. I think they find this an insult. I can understand this. Yet my heart still says a silent prayer for them whenever I pass or meet one and wish them much love and strength in their lives.

My mind then wanders to this sweet and friendly student we have on campus who is also disabled. He knows everyone and everyone knows him. Whenever I see him, a smile lights up my face. He is so tender in heart and always so happy. I see how students interact with him and welcome him with open arms at their tables during lunch. In an environment where different cliques reign, he belongs to all. I most especially enjoy watching the tough guys and cocky jocks let down their guards and show their hearts to him when they are always so careful not to show it to anyone else. They all protect him and love him as one of their own. He is loved in this school. The community of students and staff and professors are and consider themselves to be his family. And, as his family, they are there for him. This is what I wish for this boy. To find a family of friends who will value, love and protect him.

My thoughts wander back. I see the boy. He is no longer playing ball. He has grown tired. He stops playing and goes inside the house. Meanwhile, I am still on the treadmill walking, doing something so natural that it does not require my undivided attention. Unlike this boy. Unlike this boy with the short leg. And suddenly I feel ashamed for taking for granted the blessings I have. But I also note that disabilities come in different forms - emotional, learning, physical (some which are not seen) - and, if one's disability is not a visible one, then another never needs to know. And in this respect some have the advantage and are spared the uncomfortableness that sometimes comes with being treated differently. A disabled person always gets treated differently (although in a good and well-meaning way), but I wonder if sometimes they wish for this not to be so. If one is disabled, but not in a visible way, then another is none the wiser and then the disabled person is treated 'normal.' So why should this be any different for them? They have a right to this. They have a right to be treated just like everybody else, but yet are not. And I wonder if they at times resent this. I don't know. All I know is that we become better people when we are in their presence. They open our hearts and show us what true strength, perseverance, and courage is all about. They shine a light at us and we see the better part of ourselves - our love, compassion and caring - reflected in the mirror. So then perhaps it's not so much the disability that we see but the strength and courage and love and compassion and caring that fills us and takes us to a better place; a place that shows us that humanity still reigns. Silently, we all wish them the best and pray for them and send them our blessings; yet it is us who have been blessed by them. That is power. That is love. That is our humanity in its purest form.

The Final Goodbye

Courtesy of Deviant Art

Morning comes. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee filters through underneath her bedroom door. She closes her eyes and inhales the aroma of strong and black as it cloaks the stench of Death that has arrived. All of her life she wondered how people knew when their end was near and it was time to cross over to that ethereal world that promised happiness and peace. And now she knew. And it was not what she, or anyone else, thought it would be. No family member long gone came to greet you to guide you into this new world; no benevolent light shone; no peace of mind and heart were to be found. Instead, Death came to visit. And it was ugly. Death came to visit with its rotting smell of carcass to stand vigil at your bedside, silently watching and waiting for that last gasp of breath. It waits for you to die as it tries to contain its ambitious desire of claiming you before your time. Its cold, fetid breath enclosing your world even more.

Each day she has been held prisoner inside the same four walls - four telling walls that could write the story of her life. Walls that once bore witness to the moans of slow, rhythmic pleasures that happened within; walls that now, instead, bear witness to the moans of pain that is slowly leaching her of life.

What kind of God would allow Death to visit and mock her pain? Was there a God? She had prayed to him for guidance and strength, yet Death had come. She guessed He must’ve been busy.

She hears her door crack ajar. A young face, ruddy with life, peeks inside, "Are you awake?"

"Yes. I smelled the coffee." She attempts to sit up in bed even though she knows she is unable; atrophied and frail arms no longer able to aid in moving her fragile weight. She gasps at the sudden unbearable pain that overtakes and tries to control her breathing. A tear escapes the corner of her eye.

The young woman enters the room and quickly places the cup of coffee on top of the bedside table, "Mom, please, let me help you." The young woman knows that this loving and thoughtful act of assistance only serves to sadden this once strong and vibrant woman even more. A daughter that precariously walks a line between helping or allowing a mother some room for independence. It is a fine line that causes both of them much pain. She notices her Mother’s labored breathing and paler-than-usual look. She is clammy to the touch.

"I'm going to call the doctor. You don’t look well."

"Please don’t." She could barely speak. "There’s nothing else he can do....no more hospitals...please, no more hospitals." She looks up at her daughter and beseeches, "I don’t want to die there."

The young woman's eyes begin to water, "Mom, please..." She doesn't know how much more she could take watching this incredible woman deteriorate who, not too long ago, was healthy with life. She feels ashamed for her lack of emotional strength.

But the Mother has stopped listening. Death no longer waits. He is impatient and hungry and his rapacious appetite needs to be fed. The pestilent vigil has come to an end.

She closes her eyes, "Please, baby, I'm just a little tired. Just let me rest a bit."

The young woman covers her Mother with a blanket and kisses her cold, clammy forehead, "Let me go make you some breakfast. I’ll be back in a few, ok?" But the Mother knows exactly what she is going to do. It no longer matters, however; by the time they arrive, it would already be too late.

"Ok." The Mother looks lovingly at her daughter's eyes one last time; eyes that resembled hers in spirit and kindness, eyes that have cried much these past few months and for which she was to blame. She grabs her daughter’s hand and squeezes it with all her might. This was their final goodbye. She knows when she returns, she will most likely be gone. She lets go of her daughter's hand and the young woman leaves the room.

She closes her eyes in final submission to Death that stands near. He acknowledges his victory and, at last, approaches to enshroud his due, finally claiming what he is owed.