ElementalMom

I don’t even know where to begin.

How about Gratitude? I’ll start there.

Thanks to God(s). I spent so much time, and still am, handing stuff uphill because it’s too big for me to carry by myself. I questioned God a lot in my youth; who knew that’s because I’d get older, and really need to know who I was dealing with? I would never have guessed, back then, that I would become such a theist, but there you go.

Thanks to Jason. Never was woman so blessed. He held it all together, and never once implied I was imposing. Thanks to Rowan for asking when I was coming home every time I talked to him. Thanks to Kestrel, for adapting so beautifully. And thanks to Marc, for enabling so smoothly.

Thanks to my redoubtable little Honda, who despite hating altitude, managed 0-60 in front of insane truckers. Thanks to the Nevada Highway Patrol, who pulled up, saw me crying, and didn’t pull me over despite the fact that I was breaking the hell out of the speed limit in their Silver State. Thanks to the jacks and cottontails, for being an interlude of cuteness in the desert. Thanks to the Harrier, who reminded me that death swoops in when it pleases, no matter how cute we may be.

Thanks to the people and books, over the years, who taught me to breathe. And to attend to my posture, because posture controls your attitude. Thanks to the people who’ve encouraged me to keep up with Yoga, so that I could do asana in hospital waiting rooms everywhere, and keep my calm from being damaged. Thanks to those who’ve taught me Compassion. Because when you have waited and paced and breathed and stood up straight and done Warrior II until your legs shake and you can’t do anything else, you can hold the space, and fill it with compassion. Compassion is a verb.

Thanks to Mom, for being the living epitome of Grace Under Fire.

Thanks to Bear, for giving me the opportunity, yet again, to expose all my fine ideals to the abrasion of the real world, so as to polish them up a bit.

When I was young, my stepfather “The Bear” (who I have posted about before in this blog) was an alcoholic. Drunken giddiness gave way to drunken rage, and I spent many, many nights listening to the chaos on the other side of my bedroom door.

Ever practical, even as a child, I had a backpack ready, in case that door ever got opened. Clothes, books, the few trinkets I owned that really mattered to me, were all in the backpack, which was placed just outside my bedroom window, on the ground, to be grabbed on my way out. That way, I was totally prepared, no matter what.

I never had to use the backpack, and eventually it was brought in and retired for good. The Bear went through rehab, and has been sober now for a very, very long time. We’ve come to a mutual understanding about many things, including pain, insanity, and forgiveness. The further I progress into Buddhism, the more I recognize the whole thing as Someone Else’s Karma, and not My Wounded Childhood at all.

Last night, Mom called. The Bear has been fighting kidney failure for a long time. He’s lasted far longer than the doctors told him he would, way back when he was in the hospital, almost a year ago. But finally, it’s catching up, and his every-Monday bloodwork yesterday came back terrible.

He’s dying. Not that that isn’t different than every one of us drawing breath on this earth right now anyway, but he knows the face of it now. And it’s terrifying. Last night, he was deciding whether to head to the hospital for dialysis or… not.

Art Buchwald passed away last week. After refusing dialysis. The news hit The Bear hard. I called him as soon as I heard the posthumous interviews done with Buchwald, where he explained his thoughts about death, and about dignity. The Bear had heard them too. And they resonated.

So last night, The Bear was pacing the floor, making one of the hardest decisions a human being can make.

The doctors had said it might be quick. I’m five hours, in good weather, away from them. No need to come out now, Mom said, because he might go into the hospital, in which case it’s just a matter of pacing the floor. Or he might not.

So I spent last night packing a backpack, just in case Mom called me. Because again in our lives, The Bear is outside the door, again he’s in pain, and again, I’m listening, to figure out what my part in all this might be. I know it’s not my karma, it’s not about me. And this time, I’m older, I’m wiser, and I understand that the right response to pain is compassion. Course, it’s much easier to be in that place now, as an adult, than it was as a kid, where there was a lot more personal fear involved.

Course, even that is kinda specious. There’s personal fear involved here too. I’m trying hard to hold it together, and to be some kind of strength, because they both need me to. I’m trying to keep an eye towards the practical, and assist Mom in the little ways I can, long-distance.

And I’m looking at the backpack, hoping again that I’m not too late, that I can make it out the door in time, if I really need to.