Life goes in cycles and today is a classic example of that.
After an absolutely horrible 18 months or so my son is finally moving to his new placement today. Those of you who have followed my blog for a while might remember how unbelievably difficult it has been with his eviction from a previous assisted living environment, followed by hospitalisation after a short spell of his grandmother trying to care for him alone, then temporary accommodation with a care agency to date. He was supposed to move last November but the moving date has been put back and back due to the lack of availability of building materials as well as other reasons.
He is finally moving to hopefully start a new life in a long term placement. I’m hopeful but scared for him because he won’t understand why he’s suddenly being uprooted from the environment he has lived in for so long, and the carers who have cared for him so wonderfully. It was never a sustainable option but I feel deeply sad that it’s ending and he has no say in the matter.
Also on this day, my mother has had a CT scan to discover what is causing her rapid decline and we are waiting for news. I suspect it won’t be good although my mother being my mother may continue to surprise me. It feels very poignant that my son is starting his new life on the same day that my mum may be finding out that hers is ending. Maybe that is assumptive of me, but I don’t have to be a doctor to see her health is failing.
It is a time of remembering to let go and trust in life.
I don’t even have the words except to say that everything going on with my mum is leading me to a greater understanding of what it means to suffer as a human being. I used to read articles in magazines about medical neglect and the deep emotional pain of relatives, but I couldn’t relate on a deep level. Even watching my father die of cancer at home was a world away from this. Finally things are improving but only after a relative refused to leave until my mum was given the specialist care she so badly needs. She was left in a horrible condition by nurses who didn’t understand that she simply can’t take care of her basic care needs anymore and thought she was somehow taking pleasure in wanting things done for her. Knowing my mum how I do, it would be laughable if it wasn’t so utterly devastating.
Regardless, my heart is breaking. My mum is getting the care she needs now but it still looks likely she’s in her final months. Grief is a spiritual journey. Following a spiritual path is not all roses and butterflies. It requires honesty, integrity and a willingness to feel deep emotional pain. It demands that we see the best and the very worst of humanity. It draws us to our knees. It brings us to the edge of our tolerance. Until we fall off.
Then we realise we’re not alone. We find that Spirit is always there even when no one else is. We are brought to the edge of what we can cope with because that’s the only way we learn that the ego is not in charge. It is our safety net, even when we feel that we are dying.
We have to be open and ask for help. It’s easy to look for it in the wrong places. In a bottle, for example. To seek comfort. But Spirit is the only true comfort to be found. It’s just hard, sometimes, to let go and have faith. In doing so we find what truly sustains us.
The situation continues for us. My mum caught norovirus a week and a half ago, and after a steady decline in her breathing an X Ray of her chest was taken and it turns out she has a secondary lung infection. She remains in hospital, now bedbound, not really eating and looking very grey. That said, she looks better than she did a few days ago and the doctor reports that her infection markers are going down. Despite this my mum is still very breathless and is finding that issue in particular very difficult to live with. She’s desperate to leave hospital but that doesn’t look likely any time soon.
I visited on Tuesday and seriously wondered if it would be the last. Hopefully not, as I intend to return on Monday. She’s talkative, albeit not easy for her to hold long conversations, and gets very fatigued. I’m not even sure whether to keep asking how she is because I think it just upsets her, especially knowing that it upsets me that she’s no better. We are similar in the sense of not wanting to cause the other pain. That’s how so many emotions get buried under a pretence of ‘I’m fine.’ I remember my nan, her mother, insisting to us she was getting better before she died the following day in hospital of heart failure. I can well imagine my mum saying the same thing just to save face for herself and everyone else. Avoiding emotions may be the familiar ‘comfortable’ thing to do, but it’s a lonely way to be.
My days now consist of as much of a routine as possible, integrating the care of Matilda, my mum’s cat, who is a joy to have. I am trying to take each day at a time, condensing any future plans into the next few days, and taking pleasure in the little moments. My dog, too, is frail, and I know it won’t be too long into the future when I have to face that loss, but all I can do is appreciate what I have with her now, and know she will always be part of me. We are all part of each other, past and present, interconnected in this infinite web of life.
Here is my mother’s cat Matilda, who I have acquired while my mother remains in hospital, and in all probability for the rest of her years.
She is a very timid and gentle cat with a history of trauma, but since being with my mother she has flourished and is much less nervous than she used to be.
She has made the bottom of my wardrobe her base camp. For the first few days she only emerged for food but now she spends more time sprawled on my bedroom rug or looking out of the window. When the bad weather we’re currently getting improves she’ll be able to explore outside. She has taken a couple of tentative steps past the front door, encouraged by me, but quickly ran back in. I have total trust that she won’t run off. She knows me from the regular visits to my mother’s house and she also knows my dog who isn’t bothered by her in the slightest.
It is a joy having her to focus on amidst such a challenging time. My mother is very unwell. She is struggling to breathe and has had to ask for a commode as even visiting the toilet was making her feel unwell. She is not resting properly at hospital as it’s too noisy at night, so while being there was necessary and a relief initially, she now longs to be home. I admit, it’s scary to think of her at home even with the support of carers now, but it’s also worrying that she’s suffering where she is. There’s no medication or oxygen given in hospital that she can’t have at home. I am visiting her on Tuesday and if she’s still in hospital I will have some strong words to say. I know they believe they are doing their best for her, but care has been slow and haphazard and not always helpful. Some of the steroids they have proposed can actually cause sudden death. I appreciate they are throwing all they can at her symptoms, but she needs to be fully informed of the risks.
It is now precious just speaking to her on Facetime and letting her see Matilda as well as my dog and hamster. It is so true….it’s the little moments that count and fulfil you in the end. Seeing her face light up when she saw my hamster Tinkerbell take a bit of lettuce from my hand was just lovely. She speaks to Matilda who pricks up her feline ears and takes it in. I know these are the moments that are making her life worthwhile now and I will appreciate the opportunity forever.
I know in my heart my mother does not have long. I’m not writing her off because she’s a very strong and determined woman, but I just know. At the end of May I had a very upsetting dream whereby my mum was in hospital struggling to breathe (this was before she deteriorated and was still walking my dog and getting the bus into town) and the hospital called me to say she didn’t have long and I needed to say my goodbyes. The pain I felt was beyond words as I rang my sister to give her the news. This was all a dream! Just a few short weeks ago the dream was horrifying, unthinkable. Now it is the reality. I believe my subconscious was preparing me for what was to come, knowing that without that experience I couldn’t live it for real.
We are now living every moment because it could be her last, and that is not even a cliche anymore, it is life.
It is said that taking a day at a time is all we can ever do and that truth is being realised in a very tangible way.
My mother remains very ill in hospital. She is awake and talkative but tired and breathless, and any little movement really takes it out of her now. This is miles apart from the independent, active woman she was just a fortnight ago when she pushed herself to get the bus to the local town to do some shopping before collapsing into a taxi home. It was to be her last trip. She doesn’t look likely to recover anywhere near close to how she was before. Today she tried to have a shower at hospital but had to admit she probably wouldn’t manage that again.
I spent a few nights at her house last week and the emptiness hit me very hard. I had a TV to watch and books to read but I couldn’t focus on anything. Her absence seeped through the very pores of the building. Instead I drank some Baileys from her fridge and thought to myself that this is truly a process of letting go. From the moment my train pulled into her station on Monday afternoon and I knew she wouldn’t be on the platform to meet me like she always was until quite recently, it was time to accept that my one and only mum, who I have such a complex and intense relationship with, is nearing the end of her time on Earth.
Abandonment by her was something always feared as a child and even in early adulthood, but now I know that in her own stilted, troubled and imperfect way, she has always loved me, and that love exists whether she is physically here or not. The love always remains. But the loss of the moments that captured it hits so terribly hard. And yet we often forget that each day that passes is an ending; we never live the same one again.
Right now it’s a day at a time. We know my mum’s time is limited – she may have a year, 6 months, weeks or even days. Each moment is precious because it could be the last. This is always the case but it’s easy to forget in the humdrum of ‘ordinary’ life that it’s a miracle we are even here.
I have given myself the gift of remembering that life is a precious series of moments. They can’t all be perfect, but they can be felt, owned and appreciated for that they are.
On the way to my mother’s on the train for a prearranged trip to support her at home for a few days, I received news that she had been taken into hospital. She had seen her doctor this morning and by all accounts he took one look at her and sent for an ambulance. I should say I was surprised but I really wasn’t. My mum is the most stubborn, independent, proud woman you could meet, and she openly admitted to me that she is ill. That’s cause for alarm in itself as I can guess how awful she actually feels.
I continued my journey to her house to feed the cat, knowing my sister and niece were already at the hospital. My route took me through the wood where I planned to say hello to the tree spirit, which gave me great comfort before. But as I approached the centre of the wood something weird happened. It took me ages to find the tree: I thought for a few moments that the spirit had actually gone! Then I did but a second later I heard a rustling noise. I stood still, wondering if it was a bird or animal. Then there was creaking and groaning. I looked up and had a shock…. part of the oak tree next to the tree spirit was splitting at the trunk! I was genuinely freaked out and rushed away as fast as I could in case it fell on me.
Once I recovered I felt so shaken by the weirdness of what had just occurred. Was this some sort of sign, an omen? A reflection of how unstable everything feels right now that my mum is so ill? It’s like the ground is literally falling away -my mother, who offered me security of sorts, is now in hospital awaiting news of her condition, and the tree, which provided a nurturing presence last time I was here, has suddenly taken on an air of malevolence. Or maybe it’s just the wind and not significant at all, other than a reminder that life is all about change, nothing stays the same, apart from the eternal consciousness that I am…
And that’s key isn’t it. When everything else collapses, be sure to find your centre, which is always within you. It’s solid, stable, present. Nothing else is.
Life is a journey of faith. We don’t know where it will take us until we make the tentative first few steps along the way. We may let others guide us and/or rely on our own intuition. Either way, we can only see so far. We have to put our faith in the path along which we travel, until a new route opens up to us.
The human mind is incredible. It has achieved the miraculous – the aeroplane and IPhone 11, put people in space, developed advanced in medicine beyond what could even be conceived of 40 years ago. There is a world of knowledge available to assist us. We can extend life where it was previously impossible. We can plan our route to almost any place on Earth.
And yet, faith goes far beyond these worldly achievements, wonderful though they are. We can keep people alive longer, but we cannot, ultimately, hold onto them. The mind wants to forget the transitionary nature of life, instead revelling in its own power and status. But true power lies in knowing its limitations and having faith in what we can’t see. It involves letting go and surrendering to a higher power when we’ve reached the very end of our earthly capabilities.
That’s when we realise that we are not in control of life, but we have never been alone, and that the achievements of the mind were always Divinely guided.
Every awakening soul moves through the journey of life with its power tools – mind, body and personality- learning with each step that it’s always changing, always moving, but carrying the faith that sustains us as we embrace the unknown ahead.
My Inner Light 