And it begins - Lent 2012 02/22/2012
 I started following a cartoon website recently - http://xkcd.com – this is number 731. I found it terribly funny and also applicable to the season of Lent. Yep – Lent starts today. Our community does a service of Han-Pu-Ri and Ashes. Han-Pu-Ri is a Korean ritual that aims at loosening the oppression that one might experience. Of course in Capitalistic America, we don't experience the same kind of "Han" or generational oppression that Koreans (and many other cultures) have experienced. Nevertheless, we can relate to things in life that entangle us and keep us from moving freely in our lives. Our church tradition is to "burn those things away" while remembering our humanness with ashes. Christianity is a very human, I'd even say body religion. At the core of our faith is the Incarnation - God becoming human. I like to say that there's something so beautiful about humanness - so lovely, so precious that God became one of us. Jesus' life - all of it: the walking around, the loving, the hurting, the crying, the laughing, the disappointments, the trying, the companionship, the dying - all of his life is incredibly meaningful to the Christian. And yet as humans we often live very much on the surface of our human lives. This cartoon mirrored that for me. What if we experience life like that guy on the island? What if we think nothing is happening because we can't see it happening? What if there's bunches of stuff happening beneath the surface of our lives... where we can't see it? For me, that's the crux of what "giving up something for Lent" means. I want to find a spiritual practice that will cause me to dive deeper into my life and by doing so I might experience and learn something of God. So... here's what I came up with for Lent 2012: I'm going to stop trying to so hard. Full disclosure: I'm part people-pleaser and part perfectionist. That means that I spend a lot of time and energy trying to make everything work out better than expected. I try to exceed expectations all the time. And so for Lent, I'm going to dial it down a notch (or two... you see, I'm already trying to exceed my expectations.) What does this mean practically? Well, I believe I'm going to learn a bit as I go but here's what I think might help kick start the experiment. I will set my schedule with specific time limits, particular in meeting with people. I will not cook extravagant meals after a full day of work. I will give up the formatting of the bulletin. (It's a lot harder than one might think!) I will post the question, "How much do I care about this and why?" at my desk and in my kitchen. I will jealously protect my sabbath - trusting that what I've done the rest of the week is "good enough." I will drop woulda, shoulda, coulda from my vocabulary. I will spend time reviewing each day to gain understanding. That's enough from me... How about you? What will be your Lenten practice? Add Comment Can I Help You? 09/28/2011
 "Pete, can I help you with that?" "Hey, you need some help there?" "Honey, what can I do?" I had started asking half dozen times a day, "Can I help you?" The idea, the possibility, the potential of me being needed to help Pete with regular, every day tasks loomed around me. Every day tasks like: getting coffee from the coffee pot to the living room, moving from the living room to the bathroom, putting clothes away, putting dishes in the dishwasher. Sometimes Pete is more shaky or less sturdy on his feet and he looks like he could use some help. So, what's the problem with asking? It wasn't just the question that posed the problem. "Pete, can I help you with that?" I wait for an answer. Nothing. I watch (not exactly like a hawk because, well... I'm not a hawk). I notice his level of shakiness or sturdiness. I take mental notes. After what seems like eternal silence in which I have logged my notation, I ask again, "Honey, it looks like you could use some help. What can I do?" "Nothing. I'm fine." I think to myself, "no you're not. you're shaky and unsteady." The silence begins to breed a whole monologue in my head that grows in its intensity. Why won't he let me help him? It looks so hard to do it his way. Why does he insist on doing everything his way? He's not fine. He's got MS. He could hurt himself. He could fall. And then my words sometimes would come out of my mouth. "You know if you fall, it's a lot harder for me to help you then." "I'm not going to fall." "Yes, but sometimes you do." Silence. I'm still watching. I've completely stopped doing whatever it was that I was doing. I left my reality to be a bystander in Pete's reality. A bystander. I watch him move. And the horrible truth here is that most of the time - 95% of the time he does just fine without my help. He gets coffee by himself. He goes to the bathroom by himself. He puts his clothes away or puts the dishes in the dishwasher... without my help. My own anxiety level was keeping me from noticing that truth. Until one day when we made a deal. I stop asking Pete if I can help if Pete promises to ask for help when he needs it. Two days into our deal, Pete comes out of the bathroom, heads to bed and falls. He likes to say that it's not falling, it's more like sinking to his knees. Sometimes, he's just too weak. His body needs a quick rest and he can start over. I maintain that it's still falling - it's involuntary. Whatever you call it, Pete was sitting on his ankles 15 feet from the bed. His teeth were brushed, his medication dispensed, he was ready for sleep. Where was I? Already in bed, book in my lap, glass of water at my bedside table. I saw this happen out of the corner of my eye. I took a deep breath. And then I did the unthinkable - I turned my head so that I could not see him. It was the only way I could keep my part of the deal. I felt callous and uncaring. I thought I was the worst partner ever to live the face of the earth. What kind of person doesn't ask if she can help? What kind of person doesn't want someone to offer help? But we made a deal. I didn't offer help. And Pete didn't ask for help. I kept reading my book and Pete made his way to bed. Without my help. Once he was settled, I looked over at him. Before I could say anything, he asked, "How was that?" "Really hard." He smiled. "Don't you think I'm callous or uncaring for not offering help?" Pause. "But you're not a callous or uncaring person." Wrinkles 07/25/2011
 A chronic illness, like multiple sclerosis, is like having a broken record. Physically, Pete's nervous system has scratches on certain tracks. It must be exhausting for his nervous system - sending the same signal over and over - and over. Eventually, the messenger calls it quits and then Pete "drops down." He doesn't like to call it falling. Falling is a loss of balance issue; dropping down is an issue of fatigue and weakness. It's not muscular, it's neurological. His nervous system only tries so many times. His body gives up way before Pete wants to give up. Most of the time, this is a source of contention for us - I want him to stop earlier, as if anticipating when his nervous system is going to stop. I want a heads up; I want some direction that will help my ability to react. But I know better to think he can read his nervous system. But it's a lesson that I'm learning over and over - and over again. I want to change something that is not changing. And my want is making my life painful. My want for something different is keeping me from living. The lesson of acceptance is perhaps best taken as a daily dose. Today's dose was taken after a lengthy battle with Pete's nervous system. We couldn't get out of the house, it was too hot outside. Pete's fatigue won. And after a teary, exhausting effort to get Pete back into the house and settled, I took a time out in my bedroom. As I was reflecting and praying, I began to iron. I like to iron. Just add a little water and heat and almost any wrinkle comes out. Not so with life. Wrinkles reveal life, right? They are a sign of age and experience. Some wrinkles show laughter; some show stress. In her book A Wrinkle in Time, Madeleine L'engle talks about tesseracts - something like the scientific concept of a wormhole. A tesseract moves something or someone from one place to another by bending the structure of the space-time continuum. I have often thought of it as a wrinkled piece of cloth. The wrinkles are raised and two adjacent wrinkles are actually closer to each than if they were ironed out. But when I find myself in a real life wrinkle, I never think of how it might be a jumping off place. I never consider - in the heat and frustration of a wrinkled moment - how this place of pain could get me to a whole other place on the fabric of life. A few weeks ago, my father tried his hand at encouraging me. He told me that the things that I am going through have made me into a different person. There are character qualities, like mercy for example, that I simply wouldn't have if my partner didn't have a chronic illness. I suppose that's useful and somewhat redemptive. I suppose in that case, a purpose of my pain is to bring me to the place of mercy in life... quicker or even more efficiently than I would've found it on my own, or in the absence of a chronic illness. But purpose for pain? A friend, Brian Merritt, expressed recently that he wished to know what the purpose of his pain was. This idea of purposed pain stops me in my tracks. Must pain have a purpose? Pain as purposed activity? On whose part? Our own? Karma? the laws of nature? the act of a deity? I don't know how purposed even my ability to be merciful feels. It feels like a finding a nugget of gold after sifting through shit. And I'm grateful (on a good day) for the experience of having to sift through the shit. It builds character. I just wonder if while I'm digging through the piles of shit, looking for a nugget of gold, I really should be looking for another wrinkle. I wonder if when I'm standing on the edge of a wrinkle, is there another wrinkle close by - one that I could jump to. I'm not talking about jumping to another life but to another plane, another way of understanding and interacting with the natural world as we know it. And then again, maybe a wrinkle is just a wrinkle. Maybe pain is just pain. Maybe sometimes nervous systems just give up. Tangled 06/15/2011
 It's been three months since I've written about being a caregiver. I know when I stopped - it was when the other parts of my life that require writing started to pick up. But that's not why I stopped - we had an experience that I couldn't figure out how to write. The more I put off writing it, the more time that passed, the more experiences started to pile up and before I knew it, I was all tangled. My life is now reminiscent of my childhood hair - long, blonde tangles, desperately in need of Johnson and Johnson's "No more tangles" shampoo.
As my emotions from this evening got more tangled up, I thought back to this video entitled "En Tus Brazos" that was a bit close to home for me. I thought maybe I'd just share the link, with the following words, "touching and beautiful, but not when it's real life." But I knew that would not get the tangles out. Truth be told, the only way I'm able to get through life's tangles is to write. Here goes. Christians Believe in Resurrection 03/12/2011
This post was written in July 2010 but is a great reminder as we walk toward Lent and Holy Week, a time I believe meant to remind us of our fragility and limitations. Lent culminates with Holy Week, a journey through death into resurrection. This is the Christian's annual ritual of letting go. Christians believe in the resurrection of the dead. My 21st century sensibilities are challenged by this. The first time I considered resurrection was when a friend, Dave died after a battle with brain cancer. A few of us were sitting around discussing the biblical story about Jesus coming back from the dead. In this story, he shows up while his friends were having a meal. They don't recognize him until he did something familiar (in this case he broke bread around the table.) Then the scriptures say that their "eyes were opened and they recognized him." (Luke 24) As we were talking about the text, someone asked, "What would we do if Dave walked in the room right now?" I've never forgotten that question. What would I do if someone I loved came back from the dead? I'd freak out. How about you? The second I considered resurrection was as a pastor while in conversation with another pastor. She was serving a very small church that was dying. A few in her congregation were clinging to the life that their farming community had in the 50's and 60's. The farms had been long sold off and now instead of fields of corn, there were fields of huge homes that housed families who commuted to work and spent their Sundays at soccer games. The folks in the pews didn't want to face the reality of their death as a community. In the last 20 years, there had tried programs hoping to resuscitate the life that they had known. There was even a suggestion that they reintroduce the spaghetti dinners to raise enough funds to pay their bills. My friend offered what I believe was a prophetic word when she said, "Christians don't believe in resuscitation; we believe in resurrection. And in order for something to resurrect, something must first die." I remember watching a group of doctors resuscitate an elderly gentleman while I was a chaplain at a hospital. Resuscitation is a gruesome act. It often involves broken bones and blood. From my perspective, the human body is so complex that the act of continuing life amidst trauma, illness, or brokenness requires objectification. The physicians were concerned about objective data (blood pressure, breathing, medication) while I was aware of subjective data (family, vulnerability, grief). As the scene unfolding the physicians were concerned with continuing life. I, on the other hand, was considering death. Before I go on, I have many physician friends and I am grateful for the gifts of medicine and for the calling to stabilize and/or provide more quality of life. We need doctors. With that said... We have a fixation with the life that we hold. We want it to continue at all costs, sometimes exposing it to gruesome acts. We want the life that we know to be stable. Our desire for stability does not stop with our physical life. We want for our mental and spiritual life to continue as we know it. We try all kinds of things to resuscitate the life that we know. We fight death; we fight loss. What does it mean then for me as a Christian person to affirm resurrection? When I see that something of my life, my dreams or expectations are dying and/or dead, do I have the courage or imagination to believe that something new will emerge from this death or loss? Or do I continue to resuscitate what I've known? When Pete and I can no longer do certain things or go certain places, can we imagine new life together? Can I see the adjustments that we have made as resurrection instead of reminders of death? Can I say to my dreams, do not resuscitate? Dream another dream. Live into a new reality? I have often thought that dealing with a chronic illness is most difficult when we do not realize that little losses are deaths. When we don't recognize death, then we won't grieve. Without a recognition of death, we continue to fixate on the life that we wanted, or had hoped for, or were planning on. We wake up each day breaking bones and cleaning up the blood from another round of resuscitation. However, if we can accept that life has forever changed, that the life that we had is no longer available to us, it has died, then we open ourselves to resurrection. Articles People Give Me 02/28/2011
A few years ago a very good friend and colleague dropped an article on my desk that began with the statistic, "72% of marriages dealing with chronic illness ends in divorce." The statistic was in a larger font than the rest of the article. I gulped the sentence down in one bite, put the article down and never read the rest of it. Married people who are struggling with a chronic illness don't need an article to tell them that marriages suffer when facing a chronic illness. They may, however, need someone to keep the sharp objects out of reach. About a month later, my dad gave me an article entitled, "Resilient People." Out of sheer rebellion left over from adolescence, I stuck the article in my briefcase and never read it. From time to time, my dad would quote the article in conversation though saying things like, "Well Beth, it's like the article said, resilient people take care of themselves. They eat right, exercise, or take time for themselves." It's not just resilient people that do that... healthy people do that. And I spend more energy and time taking care of myself than anyone I know. I eat slow cooked, local, fresh food. I bake my own bread. I enjoy the process of cooking and take time for it regularly. I journal. I sleep well. I exercise... fairly regularly. I go to yoga weekly. I have great friends and I talk to them regularly. I recently began taking medication (eventually that'll make its way into the blog but not today). I've gone to therapy, with and without Pete. And now, I'm writing a blog that's helping me to get my thoughts out. People who need to take care of themselves don't need an article about taking care of themselves. They need someone to a. plan something fun to do that has nothing to do with caregiving or their spouse that is ill and b. pick them up to go do that fun thing. (By the way, tomorrow I'm going to Lillith Fair with my girlfriends... who thought of the idea for me, purchased tickets for me and are driving me to the concert.) The issues of taking care of one's marriage and taking care of one's self are intertwined. I married my friend. Pete and I enjoy being together. We enjoy talking and having coffee. We enjoy watching movies. We enjoy our home and our family. When illness strikes, life changes in big ways an in small ways. The small ways are often hardest to recognize. And that makes taking care of marriage and taking care of self complicated. For example, Pete doesn't drive right now. Before his illness, I did most of the driving but now I have to do all the driving. Most of the time, it feels normal. But sometimes it backs up on me and I am reminded of this new obligation. Pete is on disability and so he's home now. I used to work from home sometimes. But now, I'm never home alone anymore. It took me a long time to realize that this was making me batty. The other day, Pete made a point of asking me out to lunch. On our way to this little sandwich dive that we've been talking about, I realized that we hadn't discussed whether it's accessible to him. I was aware that people stared at him as he went through the door with his walker. I was aware that people glanced at me too. We can't go anywhere without it being a production. I get out of the car, pop the trunk, get Pete's walker, bring it to him. I open the door. I'm not bitter, it just is our new reality. So, when people ask me how I'm doing I answer by telling them how Pete is doing. There's only one person who has mentioned it. She is also a caregiver to her spouse who suffers with a form of dementia. She said, "Isn't it interesting that in answer to how are you, we talk about how our spouse is doing?" We both agree that how our spouse is doing is intertwined with how we're doing. If Pete's having a bad day, my agenda changes. If he's having a good week, I take on more activity. 72% of marriages dealing with a chronic illness still end in divorce. And resilient people continue to take care of themselves. And truth be told, I'm glad for both of the articles that I didn't read. I don't mean to be arrogant in saying that I didn't need an article to tell me about taking care of my marriage or taking care of myself. I did however need to have people on my team who think that taking care of my marriage and taking care of myself is important. I may not have read what they gave me but I have and will continue to take their advice. Vulnerable Undersides 01/12/2011
Joe had two cats, brothers that he found in the woods. He treated them like people, loved them as part of our family, spoiled them like children. As a result, they were trusting. How do I know that? They didn't protect their bellies. Instead, even in front of strangers, they would stretch out, revealing their vulnerable underside. Only a well-loved animal trusts enough to expose his or her vulnerable underside. So it is with cats... so it is with people. We don't let just anybody touch our bellies. And the inverse is true - we don't touch just anybody's bellies. We're either intimately involved with them or they are pregnant. Other than that, bellies are mostly off limits. In yoga, I've learned that my middle section is somewhat sacred. Our gut is important. We feel things where? In our gut. We know things how? by our gut. Our quickest responses come from where? Our gut. In Hebrew, the seat our emotions resides in our gut not our heart. Heart is the same as mind in Hebrew... we know things with our heart and mind but we feel them with our gut. This sacred middle is the place where we were once connected to another living being. Our life was sustained by nutrients delivered to us by a cord through our Bee Bo! Yep, that's what we call the belly button in our family - a Bee Bo! And yes, it always has an exclamation point after it. One of Julia's favorite books is the Belly Button Book by Sandra Boynton. "You might not know what BEE BO! means. Or maybe you've forgotten. It's just the tiny hippo way of saying... BELLY BUTTON!... BEE BO!" This has changed a bit of our natural tendency to hide our Bee Bo!'s. Julia likes them and if she catches a glimpse, she giggles and points and tries to muster the word "Bee Bo!" She's discovering that everyone has one. I know it seems so simple... but everyone has one. Everyone has a gut. Everyone has a vulnerable middle, protecting its insides, interpreting our emotions. Everyone's got a belly - and yet we're so quick to protect and even hide it from others. Of course now I'm not really talking about our literal belly, the skin and soft tissue that covers our internal organs. I'm speaking about our "vulnerable underside." We're so quick to protect and even hide it from others. When you're chronically ill, you often don't have a choice but to reveal your vulnerable underside. Physicians poke and prod you; friends and strangers ask questions about your health. Conversations occur around you, about you, and because of your vulnerable underside. And sometimes we overt our eyes, actually ignoring or overlooking those whose undersides are exposed. The week between Christmas and New Year's was filled with fun and friends and family and stress and food and wine. By January 2, as we were leaving church, Pete needed help moving his legs into the car. I asked Dan to meet us at the house where we carried Pete from the kitchen to the couch, hoping that after a little rest, he could make the trip upstairs to bed. As Dan was leaving to go home, he cried. I tried to "catch" him as he apologized for his vulnerability. I held him tightly as his arms were lodged between my belly and his as if protecting us both. Our plan didn't work out the way we hoped - Pete wasn't able to make the trip upstairs and so both Dan and Joe came home. Together, they carried their father upstairs, taking a rest at the top. Pete lay in Joe's lap; Joe's arms wrapped around his father. Dan rested his dad's legs and reached to adjust his dad's shirt that was exposing his vulnerable underside. It was then that Pete touched his middle and said, "Bee Bo!" Comic relief? Yes. Poignant? You bet. As we chuckled, I was captivated by the long history of love that these three men share. While Pete's illness is awkward and frightening at times, they show their vulnerable undersides to one another with more ease than most. As we stood around Pete's exposed Bee Bo! I was enamored with three men who deeply trust one another. How do I know that? Only well loved people expose their vulnerable underside. The gift of confession 12/31/2010
My great aunt died the day after Christmas. She was 89 years old. She spoke 5 languages, taught each of us to play the piano and was an avid reader and thinker. She was my grandmother's best friend and so not really my aunt. Although we spent every holiday with her. She used to give me gift certificates to McDonald's for Christmas. This Christmas, she gave me the gift of "confession." On Christmas morning, my mother called to say that Aunt Lea had been rushed to the hospital and the doctor didn't think she would live through the hour. I found my aunt barely looking alive. She had fallen the night before (news shared with me after the candlelight service was finished.) She was anemic and her coumadin levels were dangerously high. The fall had set off a series of events that were unrecoverable. Her physician explained our options with tremendous skill, caring for her body and soul. The decision to stop treatment was not difficult and yet it felt like the largest choice I had ever been part of. She was in and out of consciousness and therefore aware of the decision before us - we even believe she understood the options that she/we had. She would wake and look to my mom or me for information. We would say again, "Aunt Lea, you're very sick. There are some things that they can do but no one believes they will help. There is bleeding... Do you understand?" She would nod. "We don't believe that there is anything that they can do." A nod. "That means that you're dying." This time, she spoke, "Everyone must die." "Yes, Aunt Lea. You're right." I chuckled a little. And then I looked her in the face and said, "I love you Aunt Lea." She said she loved me too. And then I did it - I confessed. "Aunt Lea, I'm sorry that I didn't practice the piano more." What??? I laughed out loud at myself, there in the ER. What is wrong with me? Why does it matter that I didn't practice the piano? What did that mean for me to confess in her last moments of consciousness here on earth. For starters... it didn't mean anything to her. It meant something to me. And I've been thinking of that meaning for the past several days. I'll only speak for myself but I've been wondering whether as a human, fragile and broken, do I think that I am simply not enough? Is it poor theology creeping up in me, always sinful, haven't been "good" since God declared it so very long ago? Have I (again thinking theologically) seriously forgotten my Christian roots that believe that Jesus' life has miraculously, mysteriously, mystically made us right? Yes and no. In that moment with Aunt Lea, I wanted to make amends for anything that might have kept me from being right with her. In what way, if any, have I failed her? How had I not lived up to her expectations of me? Again, I chuckle. I don't wish that I hadn't said it. Instead I wish that I had said it before that day. I wish that we, broken, fragile humans, would speak our peace to one another while the day is young. Wait, I said I would only speak for myself. I wish I, as a broken and fragile human, would speak my peace to others while the day is young. I wish that I could and would face my brokenness and fragility in the light - speaking my truth to another. I wonder then what would the response be to my truths. I wish that I practiced the piano more. -- be honest Beth... you aren't that good at it. Stick to singing. I wish that I remembered people's birthdays. -- let's try again this year. I wish that I listened to stories or asked more questions of those I love. -- Again, today is a new day. And that there is the gift of confession... the realization that with each moment's passing, another is presented. A new opportunity, a new day, a new year. Qualifying Events 12/04/2010
Be very quiet... I'm hunting for God. Don't worry - it's not a discouraging search like one of those times where you're sure you've made the wrong choice in believing that there is a God. I'm in no danger with this search. It's not as if my faith is damaged beyond repair. It's that my faith has changed and probably is still changing - just like I am still changing. Therefore, hunting for God is a different exercise than it has been in the past. My sister in law says that we all experience "qualifying events." A qualifying event happens when you walk through a life experience and find yourself changed at the end of it. You have learned, changed, grown, adjusted, and now you must get used to the world in your new clothes, with your new tools. As always one of my occupational hazards is that I travel through life with a lot of folks who are constantly walking through qualifying events. And in the midst of their qualifying events, they too are "hunting for God." For example, this summer a member of my church was in a very serious car accident in which he walked away without a scratch. Another member asks this question while shaking my hand after worship one Sunday, "Why is it that God saved him but doesn't save others? I'm having a hard time understanding where God is and where God isn't." Another member makes an appointment a week later to talk about yet another loss, "my girlfriend has cancer - it looks like they'll be able to take care of it with surgery but why this? I've buried three husbands and two best friends to cancer. What role does God play in this, if any?" There are other stories with similar questions. Perhaps you have stories and questions too. What is the role of God in this, if any? For the theologians out there, we're dabbling in the doctrine of the sovereignty of God. For the rest of us, we're trying to answer the age old question, "where is God when it hurts?" However you walk into these stories and questions, the answer is not simple. If it is to you - and I don't mean this to be hurtful - you haven't considered it from its many angles yet. God is not a simple concept. God is bigger than we can imagine, stranger than we think and cosmically more creative than the human mind and/or heart can conceive. And so trying to wrap our heads around where God is - or isn't - can't be consolidated into an answer that fits on a bumper sticker... but oh how folks have tried. And so here's where I am with the stories and questions... I've decided to hunt for awhile. I've decided to look with intent, squint my eyes and imagine things a little distorted, turn my head to the side and wonder. I've even decided to say, "I don't know" and be ok with it. I'm on a hunt - and I'm not alone. There are others (and maybe you're one) who find you ourselves with different clothes and different tools this side of a qualifying event and we're simply not used to our new selves quite yet. And so hunting for God isn't like it used to be. Hunting for God has more colors and more wild animals and less places to hide in last year's dogma. Jeremiah says that we will find God when we seek God with our whole heart. My sisters recently told me a story about their childhood. Our parents live in NJ and TX and so we spent a lot of time on planes visiting for the summer. My youngest sisters played a game in the airport so that they could find one another. One would yell, "Marco" while they other responded, "Polo" until they found each other in the crowded airport. At the time they were probably 3 1/2 feet tall. They couldn't see over the crowds of people and they apparently weren't relying on the adults with them... they were going to search for themselves using their best idea - Marco/Polo. I love the image of two tiny creatures ducking in and out of a sea of legs and luggage yelling, "Marco!" I can hear the silence amidst the loud crowd as one listens intently for the magic word, "Polo!" I can feel the joy as the Marcos got louder and the Polos met the Marcos. Searching with all of their heart. Hunting with the clothes and tools that they've got. I'm getting used to my new clothes and tools and I'm hunting for God. Be very quiet... I'm hunting for God. Falling Down Used To Be Funny 11/17/2010
Pete fell down a couple days ago as he was climbing the steps to a friend's party. Generally speaking, falling down is funny. You don't even have to like the Marx brothers to think so. Physically, something in us relates, then we get embarrassed. We feel awkward and then we laugh - almost instinctively - whenever we see someone fall. No one really knows what to say to Pete after he falls but whatever they say, he usually responds with something like, "But I'm getting so good at falling." This time, I saw it happen from a distance. I had dropped him off at the curb to park the car. As I was walking up, I heard a few guys trying to help him up the steps. They took his walker before he had gotten close enough to reach the railing. So he stood there with nothing to hold onto, with very little balance and with this plan... I'll lean and reach for the railing. Something about Pete's nervous system is sticky. His brain's instructions to his legs travel through what seems to be elmer's glue. He reached and his legs didn't move, as if glued to the pavement. He reached probably five feet and began his descent, straight as a board. The message to his hands to reach out and break his fall also didn't make it through the glue and he landed. On his face. On a cement step. He rolled to the right... arm, elbow, hip, butt. His reaction - "well, let's see if we've got blood." My reaction - I used the F-word as both an adverb and an adjective (it's really a useful curse word if you think about it.) We happened to be going to a children's birthday party (enter my shame of using the F-word) and the oldest child heard that Pete had hurt himself - it looked like a bloody nose. She began to follow him around saying things like, "I had a bloody nose once; it hurts." or "You need to put peroxide on it. But that will burn. I don't like peroxide." adding "If it burns, you know that there's a cut there." and then repeat, "I had a bloody nose once; it hurts." This may sound irritating but it was the only words of sanity to be found. She lovingly stayed with us while we used up a box of tissues to find out what exactly was bleeding. She smiled and asked us if we would play Parcheesi when we were better. I don't remember the last time I played Parcheesi. Certainly, I wasn't married yet. I wasn't a mom yet. I wasn't a caregiver yet. I also think the last time I played Parcheesi, I didn't think that falling down was funny yet. Falling down hurt and my reaction to it was not to laugh but to cry. Sometime between then and now, the appropriate response of hurting and crying and disliking peroxide has turned into laughing. Instead of compassion and empathy, we awkwardly hide that we too have a propensity to fall down. Don't get me wrong... I have no judgment for others (and me still) who laugh at falling down. But after having been cared for by a child who clearly understood that falling down hurt, I'm beginning to question whether falling down is funny anymore. My apologies to the Marx brothers. |
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