Tag Archives: My journey

Bouncing Back

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Writing has always come easy to me. It’s been a way to get my feelings out
and move on. Lately I have been frozen, not able to articulate much of
anything.

If you’ve followed my journey and the trials of living with someone with
memory loss, then you’ve known the struggles. It was probably obvious to
everyone but me I wasn’t handling it well. I was plowing through. Reacting,
reacting, reacting.

After my husband went into memory care in late November, it was followed by
both of us getting Covid, and for ten days we were both sequestered in our
separate apartments. It gave me some respite, but it wasn’t enough. I thought I
was fine, but I was pretending.

In the middle of January, I had to move out of the senior living community
where my husband was in the memory care section. It meant more packing. It felt
like all I had done during the past eight months was pack. The move went smoothly,
and I now live in a small, peaceful, cute apartment with others my age. My body
did not react well to the peace or the change. As long as things were chaotic,
I could seem to hold it together, but my mind didn’t know what to do with the
peace.

I hadn’t been eating well in a long time. I wasn’t hungry and my throat,
chest and stomach tightened when I thought of eating. The one thing I had going
for me was that I slept soundly at night until about a week after I moved.

I woke up in the middle of the night with a tight chest, feeling like I
needed to burp but couldn’t, and experiencing wanting to jump out of my skin.
Crying all the time was easy. I finally realized I needed help. I couldn’t go
on pretending I was alright, though I was probably the only one that thought
that. My daughter took me to the ER. No, I wasn’t having a heart attack; I was
having a panic attack and severe acid reflux. Basically, I was having a
meltdown.

For the past twenty years, I had been on anxiety medication and medication
for my stomach, but those medications were stopped in October. I foolishly
thought I could do without it during the most stressful period of my life.

Because of my up and down anxiety about our situation, I alienated some of
my family. They couldn’t deal with our drama and if you know me, in good times
I am a dramatic person, so multiply that when I am depressed and anxious.
Knowing this only added to my anxiety and depression. And yet, though I knew
those facts, I didn’t seek help. There was no time in the drama of my life to
do that for me.

The silence of being in a new place after my diagnosis in the ER was a
blessing. My doctor said I was exhausted. I needed rest. Some days I would just
sit on my bed, close my eyes, listen to the silence and breathe. It was all I
could do. The thought of making myself food or paying a bill, doing any cleaning,
and even going downstairs to get the mail was too much. I felt frozen.

After the first week on medication, I was slightly better, although the meds
were messing with my stomach, so I decided I needed to try to do something. My
anxiety and stomach were still yelling at me. I would tell myself: “At 1:00 I’m
going to clean the bathroom.” I’d clean the bathroom and go right back to my
bed to breathe. At 2:00 I’d complete another small task. Surprisingly, I got
quite a bit done this way. Eventually I would have shorter intervals.

Little by little and another change of medication so my stomach wasn’t so
wonky, I am improving. I can go down to coffee, visit my husband and even make
it to Menards with a friend to find curtains for my window without shaking or
feeling I want to run and hide. I’m taking it slow.

For some reason we think we can do it all. Maybe it’s the media telling us
we can do it all. Maybe it’s our stubbornness that we don’t admit we need help
to navigate the hard times in life. It could be we listen to the voices that
have never walked in our shoes and don’t understand, making that known with
their words, and we hear those voices the loudest. It could also be we were
taught to show any weakness is shameful. Growing up in the 50s many times
parents would warn us when we were crying: “You want something to cry about?
I’ll give you something to cry about.” Tears were not accepted, especially for
men.

As a result, many of us oldsters hide what is happening. Wisdom comes with
age and experiences. I absolutely was not the most understanding daughter with
my mom when my dad died. I was 20, newly married with a baby on the way and so
I didn’t understand what a loss it was to her. I was too mired in me. When she
got dementia, at first, I ignored it. I didn’t know how to deal with it.
Because of this I understand the younger generation not understanding our aging
process.

Healing from mental health and physical problems is a journey. Each person’s
timeline is different and whatever they are feeling is real to them and
shouldn’t be compared to our own journey. We need to not judge mental health
issues and embrace supporting those we know whether we understand or not. When
you are in the midst of angst it’s hard to find your way to the resources
available and then navigate the muddy road of the process of organizations.
That’s where the support of friends and family comes in, finding the resources
and gently pointing us to better health while listening and being patient.

I again can laugh and see light in the future. Prayer and family and
friends, along with the medical community, are walking the steps with me. They
are proof angels still exist. I am sharing so those who feel hopeless know life
can be good again. I’m getting there. Find your angels. They are there if you
share your struggle. And you might find them where you least expect it. I did.

A Summer of Ponderings

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Since I quit my column, Something About Nothing, I have been more silent on my blog. This summer I needed a step back to see where I have been and where I am going. I am not sure I am there yet, but I thought I would share some of my thoughts with you. I have never been good at keeping things inside and yet I found there were so many feelings I was stifling because I wanted to keep friends, not cause a ruckus, and that is what I was trained to do most of my life. Don’t get angry, don’t yell, be strong.

I remember a be strong moment when I was pregnant with my first child and my dad died. I was an only child and everyone told me I had to be strong for my mom and I was until…   I remember walking down the aisle following the casket after the funeral. I heard someone sobbing loudly and realized it was me. Strong took its toll at the worst moment. This summer I found I had never properly taken the time to grieve for missing my dad, and it was 48 years ago that he died, but I held those feelings inside of me because I needed to be strong.

I like to think of myself as an authentic person but I realize I am not. I have said things are ok and fine when they really aren’t. When I felt my voice and feelings didn’t matter or they wouldn’t be heard so to avoid conflict, I would stay silent, but hurts don’t disappear that way, they may diminish, but until they are acknowledged they never go away or get resolved.

This summer seems to have awakened a journey in my heart. We have been dealing with the illness of a loved one, that is invisible to others and there is a level in which you don’t talk about it because when you don’t know how to cope, it is hard to explain it to others so you retreat or… you put on a smile and hide the heartbreak.

I also have been examining my faith journey and what I was taught to believe and what I have experienced throughout my life. I could say I have been putting together the pieces. I wouldn’t call it a faith crisis, although some would because I haven’t been to church much this summer, but it isn’t a crisis as much a faith growth. I started my life in the Catholic Church and after my marriage joined the Lutheran Church. At the time it was more about the leadership of the Priest in my church community when through conversation during our pre-nuptial counseling, he revealed himself to be racist. My husband recognized it, I didn’t, and my soon to be husband felt he could not belong to a church led by a man that felt that way about another race. Looking back I brushed it off and thought my decision with leaving the Catholic Church was more to do with going to church as a family because as my dad was of another religion, the Catholic Church at the time didn’t allow that. Examining my heart I now know that Priest’s comments were also a part of my decision, even though at the time I tried to make light of it to excuse the behavior. So right now, after 48 years I will say, “The Priests behavior was not ok.”

This summer in my faith journey that is still going on, I was fed by friends of different religions and different backgrounds. I was fed by book studies with strangers and discussions with different beliefs. I was fed because though there were basic differences we disagreed upon, we listened to one another, not always understanding and expressing that in a graceful way, but coming through it with love and kindness and a feeling of relief that we could come together with differences and leave with differences, but we were allowed to speak and be ourselves and not be judged. I learned church family doesn’t always mean those from a brick and mortar church. I learned a Pastor or a Priest make a difference depending on their leadership. I remember when I joined the Lutheran Church one of the reasons is what I saw in the leadership of Pastor John MIkkelson, a wise, kind, strong leader. He showed us who he was. He let us know where he stood. He could lead and delegate and make all feel welcome. The rest was up to us. I have heard the words “I don’t go to church because of a Pastor.” But I will say this, we need to respect the person who leads so that we can respect the message that is being taught to us. That respect does not mean they are perfect but they show us their flaws, can admit when they are wrong, and they know how to feed a flock that inspires us to go out into the world and treat each person we meet that are searching for their church family to feel accepted and welcomed. Have I done that? I don’t think so.

I used to be very involved in the church when I was younger. It wasn’t something I planned but at the time our Pastors, after Pastor Mikkelson visited each and every home in their congregation. The visits only lasted five minutes but they felt it was important so they could meet their congregants where they lived. Some complained the majority of the congregation actually liked the visits. It was because of those visits and Pastors I got more involved in the Sunday School and was in church more often. They knew who we were and it was easier to go to them with problems because they took the time to get to know us.

Last Sunday in my home church it hit me what I was looking for and what I think many are looking for in a church and that is to be accepted. To be able to show others the good, the bad and the ugly. For someone to say I don’t understand, but I care about you and I will tell you if I feel you are harming yourself or others and do it with love and acceptance of the person, not the actions. I am looking for a church that follows the words of Jesus in Matthew 11:28. I think the Message Bible speaks to me the best. Matthew 11: 28-30. Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.” That is the feeling I want when I enter my church. As many of us are, I am tired. I am weary. I judge myself so much I don’t need to be judged by others. I can do it far worse than anyone else can and I need a place to go and people to be with that is a safe haven no matter how I dress, no matter what I look like. How about you?

So what have I decided about my faith crisis or faith growth? The journey will continue. The climate we are living in today pits us against each other in religion but history shows it always has. Who is right? Who is wrong? Who worships the correct way? Who believes the correct way? Whose sin is greater than the other? We point fingers. We judge. And we are weary. And I have felt myself doing the same thing because of the climate of our country today and I don’t like myself for it.  I need to stop.  I wonder how God’s love or a higher powers love can shine through any of it, but it does if we look for it.

Next week…. more of my summer musings about writing and painting and family.

 

 

I’m Catholic—-Wait, I’m Lutheran—-Wait!

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Chapter Three: I Am The Sum of My Ancestors

I grew up in a staunch Catholic family, kind of. One part of my family, my mother’s side, was Catholic. My dad was United Brethren which then merged with the Methodist Church in my community. My dad’s family had Baptist, Assembly of God and even Jehovah Witnesses on his side.

I remember the first time I met a Jehovah Witness cousin from California. I was a teen and I was a little scared from what I had been taught from my Catholic roots but she was just like me and religion didn’t stand in the way of our friendship. I couldn’t figure out why I should be scared of her because she was from another religion that was not accepted in our Southern Minnesota culture.

I was taught the Catholic Church was the one true church and we were only ones that would get into heaven. I went to a strict Catholic School and having a sensitive spirit I was terrified of the nuns except maybe one or two. Their punishments could be hurtful. And I was terrified of sin and the repercussions. Which we still should be now. Sin is not exclusive to Catholics.

Although confession I thought was interesting. We were taught me to say “Bless me father for I have sinned” and then recite how many times we lied or disobeyed etc. from our last confession and then the Priest could give us absolution. I always guessed the number of times I did something because who kept count and as a child who could remember. And I never felt any better after I left the confessional. I always worried when I went to communion that I maybe shouldn’t go because I left something out. We also had to fast before communion and it was hard to make sure I didn’t eat the specified number of time before communion and what would people think if you didn’t go to communion?

It was also a sin to not go to church on Sundays so unless I was sick, Sunday Church was a weekly occasion along with Mass every morning when I attended Catholic School. When I was young the Mass was in Latin and I didn’t understand a word. It was a mysterious ceremony and then in school, we learned to sing in Latin. Again, mysterious words to a second and third grader.

There were many strict rules. And we learned many prayers which I still say today, at least the ones I feel move me spiritually. I feel that was a good thing. We were told never to question. And…I could never go to church with my father because he was Methodist and it would be a sin.

I always felt that loss of going to church as a family. There is something that connects us when we worship together as a family.

During my teenage years, my outlook on religion made me begin to question my Catholic roots but I did so silently. In my various high school activities, I met a Pastor at another church and I liked what he stood for and how he interacted with the teenagers at his church.

We used to have what was called Release Time on Wednesdays where we would leave school for an hour for religious instruction. The Lutheran Church had some good discussion topics pertaining to what as teenagers we were going through. Some of us skipped our Catholic instruction from time to time to go to Release Time at the Lutheran Church with our friends because they were giving us answers and help with our teenage angst. It was a little sign of my first rebellion. And I might add in those days you had to have a note to stay in school and not go. Times have changed.

Next Blog: My Lutheran Journey