SURVIVING

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In my neck of the woods, there is an organization called Stephy’s Place (https://www.stephysplace.org/sp/). It’s a support center for those who grieve. Last night they sponsored a talk by Alan Wolfert, PhD, of the Center for Loss & Life Transition  (https://www.centerforloss.com/). I attended. 

Before the talk, I picked up a couple of his books. The one I’m using for my renewed attempt to regularly write this blog, starting today, is entitled, “Healing a Parent’s Grieving Heart: 100 Practical Ideas After Your Child Dies”. My son, Joseph, died by suicide 11 years ago, July 5, 2014. He would have turned 34 this month, which is probably why I am feeling the ”urge for going”…(https://youtu.be/ZvSvTRhAJxg?si=jNr174FC02Brv7rF).

So…excerpt:

KNOW THAT YOU WILL SURVIVE 

Many newly bereaved parents also struggle with feeling they don’t want to survive. Again, those who have gone before you want you to know that while this feeling is normal, it will pass. One day in the not-too-distant future you will feel that life is worth living again. For now, think of how important you are to your remaining children, your partner, your own parents and siblings, your friends. (Wolfelt, 2005)”

I am not “newly bereaved” but I still struggle, at times, with feeling like I don’t want to survive. At those times,I don’t see my importance to anyone. Two of my surviving three children don’t speak to me. I have no partner. My last surviving parent, my mom, died in January. My siblings…we’ve never been close…although I do talk to one brother and my sisters from time to time. My closest friend died in 2020. I do have other friends, one is struggling with dementia. I have a couple of support groups I attend sporadically.

I get most of my self-worth from work. When I’m engaged in work…I am a Licensed Clinical Social Worker, by the way…I am in the flow. I love helping people. I am semi-retired now, taking assignments from time to time. I’m considering an assignment for a school-year position 10 hours from home…that “urge for going” working on me.
But…I have survived eleven years. I will continue to survive. I am hoping this exercise results in exorcise of the demons within.

Even Emperors Lose Kids to Suicide

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Tonight it will be nine years since I came home from work, at a psychiatric children’s home, to find my youngest son, then 22 years old, dead by suicide.

So far, the days leading up to today have been harder than today itself. Of course, I worked today, so I was distracted. I anticipate the coming days will also be hard as the anniversary of the aftermath, and his funeral, commence.

Usually I take this week off from work, but I don’t have that luxury this year. I did take a couple of days off to make a long holiday weekend and traveled to Slovakia, Hungary, and Austria on a bus tour. There were moments I found myself in tears as the memories popped up; and, when quite unexpectedly, while touring Schonbrunn Castle in Vienna and listening to an audio guide, I heard that Emperor Franz Joseph lost HIS only son to suicide.

What I find most overwhelming, this time, is this sense that I don’t have the RIGHT to feel such overwhelming grief – because I wasn’t enough. I didn’t love enough, didn’t do enough, that I failed him, and my other children, in so many ways. So I don’t DESERVE to grieve. The accusatory guilt rears its ugly head again and again.

I wish I could give myself just a fraction of the grace I give to others. I’m trying. I’m participating in a course, more like a retreat, dealing with healing trauma. And, I have reached out and scheduled an appointment with a new therapist here. My trauma therapist died tragically a few years ago. I have also reached out to my spiritual director, in the States, and we’re working on setting up phone sessions.

I do feel blessed to have this graced time to work on healing. I look forward to the next chapter.

Guilty Until Proven Innocent? 

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I’m reading “Rogue Lawyer” by John Grisham. A man on trial has just been exonerated by a jury that didn’t even go into deliberation. I’m crying. This has touched me deeply. Justice, all too often not reached in the US so-called “criminal justice system”, is served. But it’s not the system that has me in tears. It is my own experience and history. 

I bore and raised four children, two sons and two daughters. My youngest son died by suicide and I blamed myself. My other son hasn’t spoken to me in many years. I don’t even know why. I have ruminated about the possibilities and, again, blamed myself. I am always ready to blame myself. I’m tired. 

The tears feel like a release. I tell myself, “I was a good mother.” I worked hard at it. I don’t know that my children would agree. It was important to me. I don’t think they have any idea how much. Can I release myself from the guilt over my sons? This weight is so very heavy. 

I have a good relationship with my eldest daughter…I think. We communicate regularly. She is living in my house while I live and work in Germany for a little over a year. My other daughter, well, it’s a little rocky, but I’m hopeful it will get better. 

Today, a Saturday, I am taking it easy. I’m sitting in bed as I write this. I slept in today until almost 10:00. I’ve put a stew in the crock pot and cooked myself some eggs for breakfast. I’m feeling a little sick, cold-like symptoms. I work with little ones in a day care setting and didn’t wear my mask as regularly as I should have. I also work with middle and high school kids in a youth center and I don’t wear a mask there at all.  

There’s some melancholy that comes with not feeling well for me. I have another 10 months on this assignment. I wonder what I will do when it’s over. I really don’t know. My supervisor asked me recently if I would consider staying on. I told him no. The weather is very gray here. He tells me it’s beautiful in the spring. We’ll see. 

I have seasonal affective disorder symptoms, on top of PTSD, along with some depression and anxiety. A coworker has offered to do EMDR with me to resolve some of the PTSD stuff. I don’t know. I had a bad experience with a therapist I saw for an intake to do EMDR. She was typing on a laptop as we spoke and kept looking up and away from me. I brought it to her attention, thinking she was looking up to a window where I’d seen a man, presumably her husband, at a sink. She said that wasn’t the case, that she has a “lazy eye”. In any case, it was a turn off for me. I’d been seeing a therapist, who I continued to see, who recommended I do EMDR. It was a bust and I never followed up. 

I later saw a wonderful trauma therapist. Unfortunately, she died, tragically, shortly after the trauma group I attended with her completed. Around that time, I broke up with a man I considered the love of my life. I wonder, sometimes, if we would have made it through if I’d been able to continue working with her. He’s married now. 

I wonder, often, if I’m just not cut out for a relationship. Friends tell me I just haven’t met the right person yet. I think I need to be kinder to myself. Give myself an innocent verdict. 

Spoiled American?

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So, I’ve completed the first 3 weeks of my year-long stay in Germany. Right now what I’m missing most is my washer and dryer.

So… the instructions on the washing machine are in German, of course. I need to sign up for a class. Using Google Translate, although a useful tool – especially with the photo translate option, doesn’t help much. The posted English instructions are incomplete…but my clothes are clean. The dryer, on the other hand is not drying my clothes consistently. First week, no problem. Second week, not dry at all. I was reprimanded for hanging my clothes around the apartment. I wasn’t expecting the apartment to be cleaned that day. I’ve downloaded an English language manual for the dryer, so I’m hoping I have better luck today.

At home, in the US, we call the part of the machine that collects the lint and other stuff a “lint trap”. The manual refers to this as a “fluff filter”, appropriately so. It also has a container that collects the liquid pulled from the wet clothing, which begs the question, What happens to the water in the machines at home? The settings are a bit confusing, even in English: Cupboard Dry, Cupboard Dry Extra, Iron Dry. There’s a troubleshooting guide that suggests if the clothes don’t feel dry it may be that they are just hot and therefore feel wet; and, the suggestion is made to lay them out until they cool off. Nah. Wet is wet.

I can’t complain about my space here. I’ve got a small, cozy apartment in a hotel, with a comfortable bed. I’m sleeping better than I did at home, except for one night. The bed is quite comfortable. My refrigerator doesn’t work so well. It either freezes everything or what’s in the freezer thaws. I was told, by my employer, not to ask the landlord for anything, so I’ve opted not to use the freezer in order to keep the refrigerated stuff usable. I’ve bought some shelf-packaged food that can be heated in the microwave. Breakfast is served in the hotel dining room…bacon and eggs every day. Nice rolls. Fresh fruit. I’m eating lunch with the kids at the day care center where I work the first part of the day. The food is passable. They even had quinoa one day. I have two electric burners but haven’t been brave enough to try them yet. An electric kettle boils the water for my tea.

I was dealing with the scratchy towels here, but decided to treat myself to a nice bath sheet, towel and washcloth. It’s the simple things. They came out of the dryer damp, but after cooling, they seem dry. Maybe there’s something to those instructions after all.

Well…the clothes are indeed dry; however, my slacks are wrinkled. I have no iron and ironing board, so I’ve hung them in the shower, trying to steam the wrinkles out. We’ll see. I may need to try that “Iron Dry” setting next week.

What a Long, Strange Trip It’s Been

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I’m staring at a blank page.

I’ve told my writing group I thought I’d make a commitment to post on my blog after we meet every two weeks. It’s been a while since I’ve seen them. We try.

Although, as you can see, my blog is called Be Kinder Than Necessary, the posts are hit and miss, and disjointed. When I get around to writing something, I post it.

And here I sit.

I was trying to write a memoir of a failed relationship. Gathering snippets from my journals and building a narrative around them. I haven’t gotten to that in a while either. A subsidiary of Project Write Now, an organization that runs groups for writers of all ages, is doing a book incubator over the course of a year. I have thought about applying to get that memoir done. They really want it to be a new project, so I think I don’t qualify. They ask for a writing commitment of 14 hours a week. It seems both doable and astronomical. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to do the application. The cost is an issue for me as well. They are offering scholarships, though.

I haven’t even written in a journal for quite some time. Writing is a great release for me. I recommend it to my clients all the time. I even have a new journal. I recently went on a trip out west. We did a whirlwind tour of some of the most barren and beautiful landscapes in four states! The trip was in honor of what would have been my deceased son’s 30th birthday. He’s gone 7 years now. He died by suicide. I still have so much guilt around that event.I meant to bring the journal with me, and didn’t. I was totally unplugged for the trip, having forgotten my phone at home. Although my daughter and granddaughter both had phones and laptops with them; and, I tried to log in to my FaceBook and Google accounts, I couldn’t. The devices weren’t “recognized” and, of course, texts to confirm it was indeed me, were sent to my phone, which was thousands of miles away.

Being unplugged wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. It meant I was completely off from work, out of touch with clients. I had a book with me. So I read in the quiet times, which was nice. On the other hand, being with family, day in and day out, for 8 days was a challenge. Our temperaments are different, sometimes opposed. The shared, emotional, heart-to-hearts I was hoping for didn’t happen. We hit a rough spot about 2/3 of the way through the trip, on my son’s birthday,  after which I didn’t sleep, and I asked my daughter to drop me off at the airport and I would figure out a way to change my flight. I wanted to go home. We muddled through, and the trip continued. I thought leaving would ultimately make things worse rather than better.

I was feeling invisible, the fifth wheel. Sleeping on a pull-out sofabed didn’t help, especially after a 3-hour kayaking tour. I was hurting. Closing it up and sleeping on the sofa was much more comfortable. I’m not in the best of shape – overweight and sedentary – with fibromyalgia pain. While the accommodations were beautiful for the 3 nights we spent in Las Vegas, a one-bedroom apartment, I thought we were going to have separate rooms; and, I would be sleeping in a bed. When I tried to discuss this with my daughter, it didn’t go well. It was too late to do anything about it at that point anyway. Although, I suppose they could have given me the bed.

I didn’t ask.

My Body and Me

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My body betrays me,

            with all its aches and pains.

Weariness keeps me in my recliner

            with all the to-dos left unchecked.

______________________________________

Birds sing outside my window,

            sometimes drowned out by the machinery in use to replace the old water main.

Thank you, Lord, for ears that hear,

            however imperfectly.

_____________________________________

Four beautiful red blooms

            on the hibiscus this morning.

Thank you, Lord, for eyes that see.

____________________________________

Cool water glides over my tongue and down my throat,

            quenching my thirst.

Thank you, Lord, for the sense of taste.

___________________________________

Smooth wooden board sits across my chair,

            resting on its arms, holding my laptop.

Thank you, Lord, for the sense of touch.

__________________________________

I would thank you for the sense of smell

            but nothing is coming through at the moment.

Sinuses filled from the pollen in the air,

or whatever else is causing my allergic reactions at the moment.

____________________________________

Just the same, I do thank you.

AS FAR AS THE EAST IS FROM THE WEST

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It’s amazing how productive a day can be when one gets up early. It’s only 10am and I have already showered, been to an appointment, eaten breakfast, and spent an hour at the beach.

If I didn’t have to arrive for an appointment at 7 this morning I might still be in bed. And now…I sit on a bench on the boardwalk, with a friend on the phone, writing together in silence. Bliss.

It’s a perfect beach day – blue sky without a hint of cloud. The tide is going out. My chair awaits my return to the waterline.

Alas! The invasion has begun. It’s hard to keep the ocean a secret.

People are pulling up by the car-load, dropping off bodies and blankets and umbrellas and coolers, before driving off in search of parking spaces. BENNYs, we locals call them. They are loud, oblivious to anyone else around them as they spread out.

I might not last here too much longer. . . unless I decide to brave the ocean. It’s getting pretty hot, and crowded, and I have no more water.

The ocean is pretty calm, but the occasional decent-sized waves are a little intimidating for me. My balance isn’t that great anymore. Getting in and out, navigating the waves and sand drop-off, can be tricky.

Being overweight doesn’t help. Although it’s great for buoyancy…it makes climbing back up the aforementioned drop-off and getting back onto dry sand, gracefully…well, let’s just say “grace” would not be an apt description… a definite challenge.

Once I fell on my way out and attracted the attention of a life guard – who came running – as it took several clumsy attempts to get back on my feet while the waves bounced me around. I managed to get upright just as she arrived. She asked if I was okay and I responded that I was, physically anyway.

Did I mention that I’m out of water? I finished drinking the bottle I brought with me at the hospital earlier this morning…before a pelvic ultrasound. That was the 7am appointment.

I thought I would refill said bottle at the water fountain on the boardwalk; however, said water fountain no longer exists. The only evidence that it was ever there is a metal plate. After writing, I will see if the refreshment window is open and I can purchase a bottle. Otherwise, I guess it’s time to head home. Got to stay hydrated!

Speaking of the ultrasound…UGH…Aging gracefully – there’s that word again. I had to drink 32 ounces of water 30 minutes before my appointment, which I did. I even considered not emptying my bladder upon waking, to ensure it was full at the appointment…but…as one who battles at times with urgency incontinence, I decided against it.

So…after drinking 32+ ounces of water, I climbed on the exam table, and…my bladder was not full. So…I was led back to the waiting room to drink more water.

True to her word, the radiology tech returned in the 20 minutes she’d promised, and, thankfully, I was ready to go – literally. As she pressed on my lower abdomen I prayed my bladder would hold. Phew! It did!

Next, I empty my bladder and remove my bathing suit bottom, because, WHOOPEE!!! It’s time for the internal portion of the exam.

I get to insert the probe myself. I am grateful for small favors, including the fact that the tech is a woman. I think about the indignity of this whole, painful process, but I can’t wallow for long in self-pity because, today, of all days, I have begun reading Victor Frankl’s “Man’s Search for Meaning”.

The indignity I CHOOSE to suffer in these moments, for the good of my health, pales in comparison to what he and others endured. The depravities and horrors to which humanity can sink go far beyond anything I could imagine. And I have absolutely no desire to imagine.

The distance between the glory of this beautiful day and the horrors of Auschwitz go way beyond the vastness of East to West, Heaven to Hell.

Father, forgive them.

Bring peace to tortured and torturer alike.

Keep me from ever having to find out just how low I can go.

And thank you for the sunshine and the ocean.

Amen

SEVEN YEARS AGO

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Seven years ago today I buried my youngest child. He was 22 and would never live to see 23. At the cemetery, I stood at the foot of his casket while Deacon Steve performed the burial rite. I held the rose I would place on top of the casket when I said my final goodbye to his body. I think it unnerved the deacon, my standing there, not taking a seat under the tent meant for mourners. I don’t know that to be true. All I knew was that I had to stand with him, until the end.

It’s unnatural, burying one’s child. He’s frozen in time, forever 22. This year he would turn 30. What would he be doing now? Would he still be in his room, upstairs, creating computer programs/games? Apps? Beats? Those delightful cartoons? Would he be on his own? Perhaps with a family? Might I have more grandchildren to cherish? Would his jet-black hair be tinged with grey? Would he be clean-shaven or have a mustache and/or beard?

I sit in his room now, most nights, to watch TV. Last night, after watching a film on Netflix, I turned on my back and put my legs up the wall. I don’t remember now what triggered it, but I bawled my eyes out. It hits me like that now and again. Seven years ago yesterday, we held his wake. People poured through and I embraced each and cried in their arms, except for one. I still can’t believe she had the nerve to show up, but that’s a story for another time. It has nothing to do with Joseph. Maybe there were others I didn’t fall into, but she’s the one I remember most clearly. Anger replaced grief, momentarily. Even my therapist showed up and one of the members of my psychodrama group. Honestly, I have no idea who all came, or who didn’t. I have a copy of the sign-in book somewhere…but some of the pages are missing.

To all who showed, to all who sent flowers or food or cards, or thought of us at that time, great love and gratitude. If I didn’t send you a thank you, please forgive me. I tried, but I couldn’t get through them all.

“WILD AND JOYFUL TIME”

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 (A writing prompt at “Get Unstuck” –  Project Write Now

with gratitude to Gay Edelman)

  • Floating
  • in
  • the
  • ocean

  • Sun
  • shining
  • brightly
  • on
  • my
  • face
  • Weightless
  • Content
  • In
  • the
  • hands
  • of
  • God
  • Sun
  • sparkling
  • on
  • the
  • water
  • And
  • I know
  • suddenly
  • How
  • impressionists
  • view
  • the
  • world
  • Not
  • one
  • great
  • whole
  • But
  • in
  • pieces
  • put
  • together
  • Completely
  • at ease
  • am
  • I
  • Weightless
  • Full
  • of
  • Wonder
  • Suspended
  • in
  • Space
  • and
  • Time
  • Empty
  • of all
  • that
  • usually
  • fills my mind
  • and
  • overflows
  • falling out
  • about me
  • keeping me stuck
  • in my own
  • unfiltered
  • Chaos
  • At peace
  • at last
  • Filled
  • with
  • Awe
  • and
  • Wonder
  • and
  • Gratitude
  • Resting
  • safely
  • In
  • the
  • hands
  • of
  • God
  • No worries
  • No drama
  • Nothing
  • holding
  • me
  • down
  • The ocean
  • the sun
  • and
  • me

HOW MY BROKEN TOILET BECAME A POLITICAL ISSUE or THE RICH GET RICHER

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Yesterday a plumber came to my house to fix my broken toilet. It cost me about $135 and a lot of aggravation. It was not the plumber’s fault. He was a very nice young man, who very patiently tried to explain to me why the repair was not covered by my protection plan. Understand that I pay almost as much for protection plans, for my external water and sewer lines and internal plumbing, as I do for my water usage. Sometimes more. Oh, and I donate $1 a month to assist others who might not be able to afford to pay for their water.

Like many, I have been working from home during this COVID-19 crisis. My hours have been reduced and I am not making as much money as I was pre-COVID, so I have to be careful about my spending. My toilet has been “misfiring”, so to speak, for quite some time now. For a while, I would catch it running. The usual handle jiggle would solve the problem. After a while, I noticed not everything was going down. Holding the handle down until it flushed completely seemed to resolve that problem. Then came the day when it would continue running and no jiggle would stop it. So…I turned off the water after flushing. Turned it back on after use. Repeat. Finally, it would run and run but not fill the tank, and thus, not flush the bowl. So…I turned off the water and kept a bucket handy to flush the solids, following the green philosophy of: “If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down.” Obviously, this was only a temporary fix.

Not long ago, sometime during the winter, I had discovered a leak in the waste line from my washing machine. This discovery came while I was in my crawl space replacing smoke and carbon monoxide detectors after a visit from police and fire fighters when one of my CO detectors’ alarm went off at 2am. False alarm by the way. Batteries were corroded onto the circuit board.

So, I called a plumber, the company with which I have my heating system protection plan, and had it repaired to the tune of over $350. AFTER which I remembered having the water protection plans. I had been paying for them for so long without incident that I forgot I had them.

When I called New Jersey American Water Company, I was referred to American Water Resources to file a claim. The helpful attendant explained to me that I might not get anything back, but if I did, it would take some time. I was, therefore, happily surprised when I received notification that they would reimburse me for $150 of the expense. After all, I did not follow procedure and call them to initiate the repair.

So…this time I remembered I had a plan and followed procedure. I describe the problem, in detail, to the claims attendant. I am told that I have to pay a $50 service charge and she can collect that. I am annoyed, but I figure okay, it’s a copay, deductible, whatever. I ask if it can be charged to my water bill. No. I ask if she can take a credit card. No. She then tells me it will be collected by the contractor. I am a little confused but okay. I am told I will receive a call from the plumbing company shortly.

Four hours later, I have not heard anything, so I call back. I get a different attendant. I am told the plumber reports calling and leaving a message for the homeowner. Nope. So, we determine that the attendant I spoke with earlier gave them the wrong number. This is corrected. Not too terribly long later, I hear from the plumber. Someone is on the way. A nice young man shows up. We both wear our masks. He goes up and looks at the toilet, comes back down, and tells me the problem is the flap in the tank. That, he says, is not covered by my plan. I am annoyed. He kindly offers to tell me what part to buy so I can fix it myself. This option had occurred to me. I figured it was probably a simple procedure. I could have pulled out my Reader’s Digest home repair manual, or asked the Google, but I had an INDOOR PLUMBING PROTECTION PLAN!!!!

So, now I not only have to pay the $50, but it is going to cost me 70 some dollars plus tax for the repair. I am pissed and begin to rant. I realize it is not his fault, and I tell him this, but I was specific about the problem when I called in my claim. He, very patiently, explains how it could have been misconstrued as being a clog, which would have been covered. I am not buying it. I call the claims number back and get yet another attendant. I explain the situation. she insists that, yes, I have to pay the $50 whether or not I decide to go ahead with the repair, in addition to the cost of the repair, should I decide to go ahead with it. In fact, she says, the plumber should have collected the $50 service charge before he even looked at the toilet.

Now, the way I see it, I am paying a $50 referral fee. Had the attendant told me it was not a covered service, I would have been annoyed, but I would then have had the option of repairing it myself or calling the plumber I used before, without paying a $50 service fee! At this point, I just want the damn toilet fixed. I tell the attendant that I want to cancel the inside protection plan. She cannot help me with this. I have to speak with customer service. While I am on hold waiting to be transferred to customer service, I pay the $50, and sign an agreement for the repair. I speak to the customer service representative and cancel the service plan, which I am told will be effective today but may take two billings cycles before they stop charging me. The plumber fixes the toilet. I pay for the repair, and he is gone before I am off the phone.

I tell the customer service rep that I would like to be credited for the $50 charge because, as I see it, I explained very clearly what the problem was and the claims attendant should have told me that it was not covered. Unfortunately, she tells me, customer service cannot help me with that, and she must transfer me back to claims. She asks if there is anything else she can help me with; and, I tell her my remaining issues are political in nature. I complain that this is a case of the haves getting and the have-nots paying. She kindly humors me.  Why is water, I ask her, which is a basic human need and right traded as a commodity? While I am waiting to be transferred back to claims, I am disconnected.

I call the claims number back and get another very nice attendant who tells me she believes I will be able to get my $50 back but “it’s a process”. I ask if I will get an email; and, she assures me I will hear directly via telephone. No call yet.

I call the company with which I have my heating system protection plan and ask the operator if they offer a home plumbing protection plan. I am told they do not. I tell her the water company has some racket going. They, the water company, also offer electrical protection service. Water and electricity?

So, just for the hell of it, I look up the price of a flap for a toilet. It costs about $7. American Water Resources is trading on the NYSE for $124 a share. Yep, what is that old adage? The rich get richer and the poor have babies? Time to buy a lottery ticket.