Healing Hearts

My friend and coworker is learning first hand what it’s like to help heal a heart. Death, I’m afraid, touches us all at one point or another and how we deal with grief is unique to each of us. Psychologists like to classify grief in a group of stages.

SHOCK & DENIAL
PAIN & GUILT
ANGER & BARGAINING
DEPRESSION, REFLECTION, LONELINESS
THE UPWARD TURN
RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH
ACCEPTANCE & HOPE

Many of us have heard of these stages, but if you haven’t been through it yourself, you can’t begin to imagine how difficult it can be.

I lost my mother-in-law a few years back to a rather unusual accident.

During the September 2004 flood in my town, we lived in a war zone of destruction. Neighbors’ roofs were lying in yard three houses away. The fence that once surrounded my home was swept away by the raging waters. This left the six-foot drop-off into the creek accessible to anyone not paying attention to where you were walking.

We, Kevin and I, received a phone call that horrific morning at 3:00 am. My nephew had driven by the house and noticed Mary Catherine’s car parked in the street, still running, lights still on and the door locked. He tried getting into her house but the doors to the house were locked. That’s when we got the call. Kevin called his brothers and they all met at the house looking for their mother. Luckily, or unluckily they found her. She had walked off the six-foot drop off at the rear of the house. She was conscience for the short term but dropped into a coma when she was taken to the hospital only waking up shortly stating she was ready to see her mother before passing away.

I can’t even begin to imagine the grief that rocked this family -- my daughter was completely knocked off her axis by the trauma. I loved Mary, but I wasn’t attached to her like my husband and daughter were. This was my first time, as an adult, dealing with grief on this scale. I was besides myself trying to help a five year old little girl come to terms with her grandmother dying. We made it through. It has taken 5 years for her to come to terms with that loss.

While I worked through this trying time with my daughter I tried to remember what it was like loosing my grandmother. I was close to the same age as my own daughter, but I didn’t have the kind of relationship with my grandmother that she had with hers. Mary was like her second mother -- I only saw my grandmother occasionally. Mary spent every second of her day with my daughter -- it was something she loved. Man she loved her grandchildren. My grandmother was suffering with cancer (something I wasn’t aware of at the time). I loved my grandmother, but I didn’t depend on her for a portion of my everyday happiness. My daughter was tightly bonded to her grandmother -- those two were like Frick and Frack -- one wasn’t far away from the other.

This one episode in my life showed me how little I had entrusted my happiness to someone else. While I watched, helpless to do anything about it, my daughter suffered because she was so amazingly close to someone else.

Her heart is healed now and she will go on to bond her happiness with others in her life. This is a good thing. Time does heal wounds -- just remember the stronger the bond the deeper the wound and the longer it takes to heal.

Practiced at the Art of Procrastination

The road to hell isn’t paved with good intentions; it’s paved with the bodies of procrastinators. Those who don’t procrastinate are driving the steamrollers.

My to-do list has become quite extensive this past week. The holidays tend to do this to women. The house needs a holiday cleaning, cookie recipes need baked, and I don’t even want to figure out what box I packed the Christmas decorations in last year. We were flooded twice in the past few years so much of what I once had is now floating somewhere in the Atlantic. If you notice a fake Christmas tree, it’s probably mine.

So with the never ending list of my own, we add to that -- Halloween parties at work and school (plus the opportunity to TP the local haunted tree up the street from my house -- not to worry, it’s a yearly event graciously accepted by the owners of said tree), Thanksgiving, a music recital (thrown in for good measure), Christmas parties at work and school, New Years Eve parties (amateur night, I tend to stay in for those), and then the Monster’s Birthday. Three months crammed full of stuff to do. I’m starting to feel my age and the ever-present devil sitting on my shoulder whispering into my ear, “Procrastinate.”

To be honest, I don’t know how some women do it because I sure as hell can’t keep up with the PTA, wannabe Martha Stewart, school moms. I’m quite happy just being able to get out of bed in the morning, have enough energy to shower and head off to work. (Mind you, my work starts when most of you all go to bed. I sleep during the day, which is a whole other set of problems that lends itself to procrastination.)

Of course, the older I get, the faster time essentially flies by, so that being said -- those same three months will fill all of about 50 minutes in age related time. “And what does that mean?” you ask. Well that means, I will run around like a chicken with its head cut off for several weeks during which the prospective D’days will arrive and I will possibly be able to enjoy a combined total of 50 minutes of the festivities. So instead of being a crazed lunatic this year I decided to prioritize those things that needed to be done thinking I would have more time to enjoy the holidays.

“How’s it going?” you ask. Well, I’m getting to it…

“M” Kind of Day

Monday, an expletive to most, madness for me on the Full “M”oon “M”adness “M”onday. It was my “M” kind of day. Do you ever have those? Days that seem to stick out in your memory better then some, more abstract then others.

I have those kinds of days.

Numbers do that to me also.

I am a 222 person, that number does something to me every time I see it.

Just a reflection on something -- I am a counter, a bit of OCPD embedded in my psyche. It isn’t a bad thing. I believe a small amount of Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder is a good thing for some people. My OCPD has become less noticeable in my life. After having children, it’s difficult to keep up with the routines we demand from ourselves. I try to repress mine as much as possible. I still find myself wanting to yank the towels out of my husband’s hands when he isn’t folding them correctly, but I suppress it -- realizing that it doesn’t really matter.

I have a friend who is another member of the OCPD Family. I used to watch him with wonder as he worked. Everything in its place, the same way each time, everyday. I asked him about it one day, years ago. He said that, “I do this so I know where things are without worry of finding them. Just one less thing on my list to deal with. I have much more important things to do with my time.” I have to agree with him. I tend to put things in the same place each day so I have no worries about where they will be when I need them, but I didn’t realize I did it until someone else cleaned my house.

That day, it was many years ago, the women who cleaned my house decided that symmetrical alignment of objects was her preference. So she put everything symmetrically on the shelves, the mantel, and the bookcases. When I walked in the door, I was suddenly struck with horror. Things weren’t as I left them. My house had changed and it made me profoundly uneasy. This was when I realized I had OCPD. I immediately went through the house putting everything to rights. It wasn’t until it was finished that I could sit down. There was a flash of insight in that moment; this wasn’t the first time I had felt disturbed by things being out of place. I remembered as a child that I used to line the insides of my drawers where my clothes went. I had taken a ruler and marked out the insides so that each thing had its place. It was order in my chaos, and it started when I was very young.

Mine (My OCPD) isn’t as profound as others are. I know how debilitating this disorder can become. For many they are unable to finish tasks because they believe, “Their idea of perfection,” isn’t being met. I still catch myself in the same situations, taking over tasks from others because they aren’t doing what I would consider a, “Good Job.” I try not to do this often; it makes working with others difficult. I seriously try not to do it with my children. They have enough to deal with now a day without their mother trying to turn them into little perfectionists.

They (my children) have taught me a lot about the need for less perfection. Go ahead, toss your clothes on the floor, don’t wear matching clothes, forks and spoons can go on any side of the plates.

They are great teachers.

Getting Organized

I write in long hand -- something, I guess, that's unusual for writers in general, I don't know.

In today’s technologically abstract world, if you don't have a computer screen blinking a cursor at you on its digital page, you are extinct. I feel extinct some days. I have lost touch with technology.

I guess I write long hand because paper and pen are so much more available than to lay ones hands on a laptop. I don't own a laptop. I do own a computer, which takes up nearly 50% of the desk it occupies. I write there too.

I am working on a novel, which should be finished shortly -- Christmas by my estimations. The story is done in my head; many of the pages are typed and unedited. I am a poor writer, both monetarily and grammatically.

I filed that experience away in the apothecary chest of endless drawers in my mind, along with most of the other experiences. Some easier to find then others. (Because I remembered to label some of the drawers, but alas not all of them.)

What I’m All About

This phrase is interesting -- “What I’m all about.” I saw this on my Facebook page relating to a person (who is my friend) tagged in a set of pictures. These pictures referenced a person's (who isn’t my friend) culmination of existence. Houses they want to live in, cars they want to drive, people they like, but don’t know, and people they love and do know -- the list is extensive, but not all encompassing.

Are we (the royal ‘we’) the sum of a quantifiable list of material items?

That is hard to answer, so I am on a quest to see if it’s possible. I started to put together a photo collection of my own list. The “What I’m all about” list.

Sure, I found, just as the person before me, items that I wanted. I mean who doesn’t like Italian shoes, or Coco Channel’s exquisite taste. Oh and the shiny, shiny cars… ooooh sparkly. I can find images of authors, actors, directors, sports teams -- all of which I enjoy, covet and love. I can put in family photos (these I love much more). But, how do you find images that reference feelings… I love a certain time of the year that isn’t easy to find in photographs. It is the time right before the leaves turn bright orange and red outside the doors of my house. It is a time just before autumn arrives. There are usually only one or two days just like this. The air is a bit snappy; you can almost taste autumn beating on the door. I can’t find a picture of this.

Therefore, I guess I can’t make an all-inclusive list of “What I’m all about.” Well, at least not until they find a way to download my brain into the computer and upload that information to my Facebook page.

Go have fun. See if you can find pictures of “What you’re about.”

Characters Becoming Part of the Family

The girl I am writing about, ‘Trees’ an assassin, which is her birthright, is a lot like me -- compartmentalizing many of the more traumatic episodes in her life along with those that are genuinely good. They share the same storage box, only divided by balsa wood separations, the grooves cut in irregular intervals of the drawers allowing more then one memory to be contained. Think, apothecary cabinet. I still can’t figure out my own filing system until I need to retieve something.

The Grand Canyon is today’s memory and the drawer slides out; cross sections of other memories relating to that surreal place are contained in here. I want to use the Grand Canyon analogously in my book.

(excerpt from book)
The Grand Canyon had looked so surreal, like a backdrop painting in a Western being filmed. As I stood there on the rim, I wanted to reach out my hand and touch the canvas to see if the paint was still wet. Actually, I wanted to drag my fingers across the canvas smearing at it, because I knew in my mind that it couldn’t be real.

That memory now retrieved from its cedar drawer has texture in my mind. I can recall it with clarity, just as I saw it, standing there those many years ago. I didn’t get to close, I still had, as I do now, fears of falling -- vertigo --which my character has also inherited. And with that memory -- another slot in the drawer opened up -- reminding me that a friend of mine Patrick had been with me on that trip. I hadn’t thought about him in… I don’t know how long, that drawer wasn’t opened at the moment.

But I believe that Trees sees things the same way I do at times, a little of the surreal leaking into her imagination -- watching from the sidelines.

(excerpt from book)
“Life is like Billboards racing past at 70mph. They are large enough to make an impression, but pass quickly by, with acknowledgement to the designer -- sometimes -- for their creative insight, if they leave a lasting impression.”

Trees watched the man die -- commit suicide right in front of her eyes with the same fascination she had when seeing the Grand Canyon. The artist had been talented, it looked almost real to her eyes, and her hand lifted to the canvas wanting to test the paint, seeing if it was still wet.

I think that’s what watching someone die would be like, that’s how my mind would interpret it. Life on film or a master’s oil painting hung in the Louvre. Real, but wet with paint.

This reminded me of the first hospital rotation I did while working on the ambulance. I was in the emergency room of Allegheny General Hospital. A gun shot victim was wheeled into trauma and I watched with detached interest, like watching a movie. I didn’t smell it, I didn’t feel it, I was sitting there on the leather seat at the Metropolitan Museum admiring the painting, and how realistically God paints. Could I get close enough to see the brush strokes? Or a stray hair from the sable brush still embedded in the medium?

That was how I viewed trauma, that was how my brain kept me sane in those instances, that is how I kept my psyche in tact and I know that is how Trees does it too.

(excerpt from book)
Her mind shields her from the reality, making it beautiful to watch, and she smiles a secret smile, something no one else would notice or understand as they passed by her in that moment as she looks at the painting. Most people would just flinch and pass on by. But she sees the genius in the brush strokes, the attention to detail. The way the light falls just right, turning what should be bright red into muddy brown and she smiles because she knows the artist personally, intimately, and in the right hand corner of the canvas she sees her name.

Facebook Family

Facebook, I am not sure just how ingenious an application this is, but I am happy to have it available to me. I live nearly 2000 miles away from family and friends I grew up with -- this is how I stay in touch with their everyday lives. Personally, I love it.

I popped on the site this morning after I woke up just to check in on the cousins. My beautiful cousin Holly is getting married in a couple months so I like to keep abreast of the latest happenings -- of course, it is just another family gathering that I won’t be able to attend, which pisses me off. I have missed many of these family events because of work or the general lack of funds. Oh, that demon which is money. My second cousin posted some wonderful photographs of my grandparents (Anna May and Fritz) and my aunt and uncles (Judy, Ronnie, and Wayne -- George (Freddie as I remember him, was away at school or in Germany when this photo was taken) which I dearly love. I had to copy them off the computer so I could print them out and hang them on the wall at my house. I want to be able to pass on the knowledge of my grandparents to my daughter -- she will never get to meet them, they died when I was

pretty young.

Trying to keep family and friends close in this global world is tougher then people would guess and I am glad there are some applications out there trying to make it a little more simple. Still the cost of a stamp still outweighs the price of internet connections. I think I will start writing letters again just so people get something in their mail besides the regularly occurring bills.