The light on the path
This was hard for me. When I commit to something, I follow through. I’m the follow-through person, sometimes to a fault. I committed to producing a cake a week for a year, but sometimes life happens. I’ve discovered that, good or bad, life happens for us, and there is usually a lesson to be gleaned. So, with thought and intention, I chose to forgo the cake, but not the writing.
I’m prioritizing ME this week, and writing is therapeutic. I got home Friday afternoon after a long and arduous week, put in a few futile hours to catch up on work, and then considered banging out a cake. I’d committed to it, after all. Sometimes I don’t think; I just do.
But this time Rational Elaine pumped the brakes and reigned in Chaotic Elaine. In the remaining time on Friday, I could have either added to the strain or regrouped with a walk…to get a cheeseburger and fries. Stress-eating with balance.
I’m still working on bolstering Rational Elaine, but this week she showed progress. I had also offered her a moment of peace the day before.
Thursday was possibly the worst day of my life. “Worst” is a pretty definitive descriptor, so maybe more poetically—a gathering of shadows brought on a dark day. The details are irrelevant. We’ve all suffered the heaviness of life’s darker seasons in one way or another. It was our turn.
At my parents’ farm, I managed to interrupt the rumination to encourage a walk beside the fields and pasture to the creek crossing. Here, the rushing water, nature sounds, and wildflowers never fail to bring me peace. On the return walk, I glanced up the path, skirting around the cornfield. I spotted a light beaming from one of the farm buildings ahead in the distance. It appeared as if the path was headed toward the light, and it was somehow appropriate and comforting.
As night took over, I settled into a slightly shell-shocked stupor; I found myself alone in my Mom and Dad’s house. I realized the last time I was left alone at their house was when I was a kid, and the cows were out. I distinctly remember the song playing—“Take the Long Way Home”. I recall being small and scared and pleading with the emptiness, “Take the short way home,” because I just wanted my mom. Alone was a frightening place.
As I was standing there in the kitchen, I began thinking about my mom’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis that robbed her of her mind and robbed all of us of our mom, wife, and sister. Alzheimer’s is cruel. It’s like taking the long way home every single day with no sense. They say every day is a new day, but every minute is a new day for her.
Sometimes I want my mom. My dad said he heard my mom say she wants her mom. I guess you always find yourself wanting your mom at some point. Now and then I still get a tiny glimpse of my mom, but those times are becoming increasingly rare. As the light is fading in her consciousness, sometimes the air becomes harder to breathe.
My “little brother” Bailey, a teddy-bear-like, fluffy, old Havapoo, is also confused. His Momma was stolen, too—poor little guy.
Stuff…and a photo of my grandma
My mom didn’t deserve this. My dad didn’t deserve this. We didn’t deserve this. You probably also know or love someone else with this wicked disease, and none of you deserve it either. It’s evil.
And so we are left not to make sense of it, because there is no sense, but to accept it and do what is within our control.
For me, that looks like dedication to focusing on the present. It looks like education, rewiring my mindset, and giving myself (and others) grace. It looks like communicating with my mom’s care team as best I’m able. It looks like holding her hand, caressing her leg, or following her wanderings. And it looks like intentionally offering myself a breather—an opportunity for peace and reflection.
Giving ourselves what we need in a hard season isn’t selfish, and it isn’t wasted. It’s rebuilding time. It’s promoting resilience and strength. It’s lightening the heaviness.
I can no longer call my mom to ask about a recipe, but I can appreciate that she is in me when I’m baking. I can trust that the light on my path the other night was reassurance that I’m being guided as I navigate this darkness.
I know that this too shall pass—the good and the bad. And in the meantime, I’m living through it.