I listened
as she spoke of her recovery. The stroke was three months prior but she, a
friend of my father, had reached a plateau in her healing. “Oh,” she said, “I’ve
worked hard, did everything the doctors and physios told me to. I have gained
much but the gains have stopped. There is a large possibility, I am told, I can
expect no more.”
It was
difficult listening in silence to this strong and independent woman speak of
her unwanted and unexpected limitations. They are not yours, I wanted to shout,
do not accept them. But, in fact, they were hers. Although she stated she would
not stop trying—that she would keep working through the loss of balance and the
neuropasy; keep trying to regain her calm and strength; her focus—I could see
the reality setting in: this may be it. And, with that knowledge, there was
deep sadness.
I’ve seen this
sadness before and have even experienced it myself. Whether it is from the loss
of mobility, of innocence or some other aspect of self—it is that point of no
return: I will never be the same again.
I recounted
this story to a close relative. Through similar conversations I knew with
almost certain prescience what her response would be but, unlike the woman
above, I continued in my ways: I am unable to accept reality, the limitations, one
could say, of our relationship. I want and continue to want a shared response
or, at minimum, a sign that my perspective has validity. It was not to be so.
This relative,
“Mary”, is, as she has always been, a measure of stoic perseverance. “You
cannot stop,” she says, “you must never give up”. In between the lines the
message is clear: to even ponder one’s limitations is to die. She could not
hear me even as I agreed that one must keep trying but that there is a point when
one must assess the situation with open eyes. And that point, I suggested, is
one of poignancy.
Mary’s
teeth bit down on her lips and her head shook in disbelieving wonder. She
couldn’t see the tender moment, only the surrender of the good fight— the loss
of life as she knew it to be. I felt sad for myself in that I wasn’t heard and
that we didn’t connect. Later, I just felt sad for her.
This
heart-felt moment I was privileged to witness with my father’s friend is, for
me, a time of coming out of denial. It is a clarity of thought that can bring
relief, a letting go of tension; a giving, one could say, to the gods of fate
rather than those of the will. For others, however, it can be prefaced with
depression.
I saw what looked
to be the beginnings of depression in this friend of my father’s. I saw she was
low and felt she would probably go much lower. And, although I had no doubt she
will climb out—it is not only in her nature but in her ability to ask for help—I
also saw the necessity in her going into the depths, of exploring its slippery
walls, its non-existent handholds and darkened paths.
I remember
exploring my own hole, deep down near the bottom. With my fingers I transversed
the contours of walls that ever threatened to close in. At times, they felt soft
and warm like a comforting blanket; I yearned for their dark solace. Other
times these walls exuded pain—sharp and jagged—or felt hot and weighted,
burning me in their persistent pressure. I knew this hole quite well before I
finally found the handholds and climbed out. I am glad I did but I am also
appreciative of my experience. In the exploration of the shadows, my life is
richer.
Mary and I
come from the same family tree where toughness and strength were the trademarks
of successful living. Somewhere along the line, however, the branches
separated. Oh, I still like to play the role of iron woman, but I know it is
far from the truth. More and more I accept my limitations and vulnerabilities. It’s
never easy but what I have found is that there is magic in that. The more I
accept who I am and what I cannot do the more my world opens up.
I hold a light for my father’s friend that
the world will open up in ways she cannot yet imagine; that
her strength and determination will pull her through. I also pray for Mary. I hope that
one day she will read between her own lines and come to see that life is not always so
black and white.
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