He whisked away the debris, and last week returned with a brand-new pane of glass. After he fitted it into the cabinet’s frame and stepped back, sunlight streamed through the living room window, painting a vibrant rectangle across the wood floor and glimmering on the new, freshly cleaned mirror in the china cabinet.
Francisco and I both exchanged a smile before he packed up his things and left for the day. I wanted so much to believe that like the new pane, our lives too had the capacity for renewal. Of course, unlike the mirror, I couldn’t replace my personal cracks and chips or the inevitable wear and tear, but did the flaws erase the inherent beauty? Or did they add a layer of character, a testament to the full-life lived? Was I, I wondered, a human version of Kintsugi – the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold.
In that moment, I felt a shift. Perhaps it was the undeniable symbolism – the brokenness replaced by something whole and new – something solid like gold. Perhaps it was the inherent optimism of spring, a season that whispers promises of renewal. After the quiet slumber of winter, those first few hyacinths were already poking out from the ground in my backyard while the robins ribboned around our premises, dancing in their warm orange coats.
A surge of wishful thinking swept over me. Briefly, I donned the familiar rose-colored glasses, picturing the year ahead. Perhaps the persistent bad luck plaguing our house would finally dissipate, carried away by a spring breeze. Perhaps sunshine would outnumber the storms. But even with that hopeful vision, fragments of doubt remained. Still, the point was to hold onto faith, a force both internal and external, that could guide me through life’s uncontrollable twists and turns.
So, as I stood there, facing down another battle with depression and PTSD, I chose hope. Hope that transcends the cycle of good luck and bad, setbacks and triumphs. I chose moxie too. After all, isn’t that the spirit of spring? A belief that even after the harshest winter, new life, new beginnings, and a whole lot of sparkle await me.
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.
Finding Faith and Empowerment in the December Night Sky
No matter where you live or what traditions you hold dear, I invite you to take a special moment this Monday, December 25th, when many celebrate Christmas, to simply observe the vastness of the night sky.
Above, twinkling like diamonds scattered on black velvet, are countless stars. Each one, a testament to the incredible power and mystery of the universe. Some, long extinguished and no longer with us, yet their light continues to shine. Their existence reminds us that even in the face of death, something beautiful and enduring can remain.
As you ponder the celestial dance above, allow your mind to wander beyond the limitations of our earthly existence. Imagine the countless galaxies and planets swirling through the cosmic void, each harboring untold stories and unfathomable wonders. In this vastness, we can find not only a sense of humility, but also an exhilarating sense of possibility.
So, under the watchful gaze of the night sky, take a moment to reflect, to marvel, and to find strength and inspiration for the journey ahead.
This Monday, let the stars inspire you to believe in the impossible, to dream bigger, and to reach for the light of faith.
Even when doubt whispers and darkness looms, remember your own light within you. The smallest spark can ignite a fire like the loneliest star that can guide a ship to shore. Dim or bright, unearth your light, and let it rise. Be the beacon that guides your own journey, and in doing so, illuminates the way for others lost in a starless night.
Note: I mentioned this artificial Christmas tree experience in last week’s blog post.
The attic stairs groaned under my weight as I lugged the artificial, five-foot Christmas tree down.This year, decorating it was my mission, but it turned into a stark reminder of what had been and what was no longer.Over four years had passed since I had last touched it, the weight of tragedy replacing the joy and family healing it once symbolized.
As I set it down in the living room, I remembered way back to 2009 when the economic recession hit. Despite the hardship, our four-member family had weathered the storm. As per tradition, my then husband, two children and I had brought home a freshly cut tree that year. The next day when I had stood back to marvel at the tree I had finished decorating by myself (no one else liked decorating), the entire tree had toppled over on me! It was a strange, almost foreshadowing event, a prelude to the emotional avalanche that would engulf our lives just a year later. My sudden divorce, husband’s abandonment, the financial ruin, the loss… it all came crashing down the following year in 2010 like that heavy Douglas fir.
My soon-to-be ex-husband’s breakdown also had shattered our family in that year, leaving just me and my two adolescent children to face an uncertain future together. During that sad Christmas season, in the gaudy, multi-colored artificial tree we found at Walmart, my daughter and I saw a reflection of our broken selves, along with a flicker of determination to rise again. And rise again the three us us did, against all odds. Despite its disco ball appearance, the artificial Christmas tree symbolized strength, and we had purchased it, replacing our usual fresh tree that year. When we looked at it, it filled us with faith in the future, and we enjoyed it every year until 2018.
But then came 2019, the year that shattered what remained of our world. My daughter and I spent Christmas in front of greasy cartons of Chinese take-out food, the bare house echoing with sorrow. Holiday decorations lay banished in the attic, mere ghosts of past joy. In 2020, I ordered a three-foot “pencil” tree and a few handfuls of decorations that became our new holiday tradition.
This Christmas, stroking the Walmart-bought tree, memories of 2019 washed over me, the sharp sting of grief still fresh after all this time. The idea of decorating it with its own ornaments, relics of childhood Christmases, which I had also fetched from the attic, exasperated my silent ache, a reminder of the son I’d lost too soon. The once joyous act of decorating the family tree now felt like a painful, unbearable ritual, each ornament a monument to a life that was stolen from us. I opted for the familiar comfort of the pencil tree and its decorations.
Yet, returning those old treasures to the attic felt impossible. As tears welled up, a spark of something else flickered within me. While the pain of being a survivor remained, the memories of other past Christmases reminded me that the same decorated artificial tree had weathered countless storms alongside our one-time family of three, and had become a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, even in the face of fleeting life.
And that’s when I knew what I had to do. I decided to let it go. I posted an ad online, offering the Christmas tree for free.
The first two responses led to disappointment, but then came a message that tugged at my heartstrings. A single mother, struggling to make ends meet, desperately wanted the tree for her four-year-old son. My heart softened, and I did the unthinkable. I decided to give her not only the Christmas tree, but almost all of the rest of it — the lights, the ornaments, even the memories they held.
In that moment, I knew this was more than just giving away holiday decor. It was about passing on a flicker of hope, a spark of joy that could illuminate someone else’s holiday season.
“My son would have wanted your son to have it,” I explained after informing her of my decision, her profuse thanks still ringing in my ears.
Final Letting Go …
Since I was going out that evening, I left the bundle outside my garage door for her to pick up. Before pulling out of the driveway, I took a final photo of everything. A wave of bittersweet emotions washed over me. Sadness for what I had lost, but also a sense of relief and liberation.
This Christmas, like the last four before it, my home may not be filled with the familiar sights and sounds of our pre-tragedy celebrations. But in my heart, I know that the spirit of Christmas lives on. It lives on in the kindness of strangers who lend an empathetic ear, in the joy of a child, and in the quiet strength that allows us to rise from the ashes and stand ourselves tall, like a noble fir.
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.
“Take a second mortgage on the house and get one of those … It’s a vanilla bean; they’re expensive.”
In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, Chef Jean-Pierre’s melodious French accent echoed through our house. My partner, Mark, was deeply engrossed in one of the chef’s YouTube videos, determined to master a recipe for crème brûlée, as a tribute to my late son Marshall, who loved the delicate custard dessert.
Thanksgiving Day arrived, and sweet, as well as curried, aromas blended seamlessly with the roasted turkey and simmering gravy, filling our home and mingling with the bittersweet scent of memories. As my daughter, her BF and my life partner and I gathered around the table, our hearts held a mixture of gratitude, sorrow and unwavering love.
This Thanksgiving, our fourth without Marshall and his wry humor and roll-up-your-sleeve helping attitude, was a poignant reminder of the profound impact he had on our lives for his brief 26 years on earth.
Inspired by last weekend’s conferences, I hoped to rekindle the warmth and joy that Marshall brought to our Thanksgiving gatherings by not only making one of his favorite desserts, but also his signature curry pumpkin coconut soup.
I had special-ordered white ceramic dessert dishes, only to be baffled by the sudden appearance of a crystal clear one in the sink that no one could account for. (Later, it was revealed to me that the dish was my dear childhood friend, Anna’s.)
Marshall Matters
This was the first holiday that I decided to set a place at the table for my son. To my astonishment, Marshall’s photo slid out from the cutlery, as if guided by an unseen force. Immediately, I knew to place the photo from 2008 front and center on his designated chair. The place setting was a simple gesture, and it brought a sense of comfort amid our grief.
The meal was a symphony of flavors and memories. It began with the creamy, aromatic soup that evoked Marshall’s infectious laughter and his love for curry in each sip and ended with the velvety crème brûlée, nesting in its delicately caramelized crust that reminded us of his sweet tooth and his insatiable curiosity for new culinary experiences. Marshall mattered, and so did my mom, dad and brother Michael. Although they were no longer physically present, their spirits were woven into the very fabric of the gathering.
As our stomachs filled so did our hearts. In the quiet moments between laughter and tears, there was a sense of peace, a gentle acceptance of the inevitable.
This past Thanksgiving, though tinged with sadness, served as a testament to the enduring power of faith, love and the resilience of the human spirit. It was a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is always light to be found, and that love’s embrace extends beyond the confines of mortality, like the lingering aroma of a cherished spice.
1 tablespoon olive oil 1 medium onion, finely chopped 3 cloves garlic, minced 1 tablespoon ginger, grated 1 tablespoon red curry paste 1 (14-ounce) can diced tomatoes 1 (15-ounce) can pumpkin puree 1 (13.5-ounce) can coconut milk 2 cups vegetable broth 1 teaspoon salt 1/2 teaspoon black pepper 1 tablespoon lime juice, plus more to taste
Garnish(Optional):
Fresh cilantro leaves Pumpkin seeds
Shredded Coconut or Coconut milk Lime wedges
Instructions:
Heat the olive oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add the onion and cook until softened, about 5 minutes.
Add the garlic, ginger, and curry paste and cook for 1 minute more, until fragrant.
Stir in the diced tomatoes, pumpkin puree, coconut milk, vegetable broth, salt, and pepper. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Using an immersion blender or a regular blender, puree the soup until smooth.
Stir in the lime juice to taste.
Ladle the soup into bowls and garnish, if you like, with cilantro, pumpkin seeds, shredded coconut, coconut milk and/or lime wedges.
Chef Jean-Pierre’s Recipe for Crème Brûlée in Honor of Marshall
Ingredients:
4 whole eggs ½ cup granulated sugar or ¼ sugar and 2 ounces white chocolate 12 ounces whole milk 12 ounces heavy whipping cream 1 pinch salt 1 tablespoon pure Tahitian vanilla extract or imitation vanilla extract
Equipment:
4 ramekins or small baking dishes Large saucepan Mixing bowls Whisk Fine-mesh sieve Culinary torch or broiler Instructions:
Preheat the oven to 325°F (163°C). Place the ramekins in a baking dish and set aside.
In a saucepan, combine the milk, cream, white chocolate and vanilla extract. Heat over medium heat until just simmering.
In a mixing bowl, whisk together the eggs, sugar, and salt until well combined.
Gradually whisk the hot milk mixture into the egg mixture until fully incorporated.
Strain the custard through a fine-mesh sieve into a clean bowl to remove any impurities.
Divide the custard evenly among the prepared ramekins.
Carefully fill the baking pan with hot water to reach about halfway up the sides of the ramekins.
Place the baking pan in the preheated oven and bake for 45-50 minutes, or until the custards are set, but still slightly jiggly in the center.
Remove the ramekins from the water bath and let cool completely on a wire rack.
Refrigerate the crème brûlée for at least 2 hours, or preferably overnight.
Enjoy your Chef Jean-Pierre’s Crème Brûlée in honor of someone you love!
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.
As Thanksgiving week unfolds, once again I am filled with a sense of Ubuntu, a profound understanding of our shared humanity. I stand in solidarity with my indigenous brothers and sisters and all those who have been stripped bare by life’s pain, left to confront the raw vulnerability of their existence.
My fiancé accompanied me, describing the experience as “brutal” in its raw honesty. Despite the smaller group size compared to last year, the support and camaraderie among the attendees were palpable.
On the following day, marking the four-year anniversary of my son Marshall’s passing, I attended a virtual New England Survivor Day event.
Before these two events, I had been grappling with debilitating pain that brought me to my knees. Nevertheless, I found the strength to attend the first in-person conference, knowing from last year’s experience that the people involved were nothing short of extraordinary. The next day, the participants at the virtual event proved to be equally remarkable. Overall, both events provided a sense of being enveloped in loving care from start to finish. Social workers were readily available, and the fellow survivors made the extra effort to attend, making the experience all the more worthwhile.
Amidst the pain, a sense of Ubuntu and solidarity prevailed, reminding me of how an artist can convert discarded materials into something extraordinary. Deniz Sağdıç’s “Ready-ReMade” project, launched in 2015, exemplifies this concept, reimagining everyday objects and waste materials as works of art.
Similarly, during these two days, unwanted fragments of heartbreak and human wreckage were revealed in these safe and supportive zones until the grief became malleable and reshaped into something miraculously magnificent. I came to understand that it is the harsh judgment of grief, particularly in relation to suicide, that twists and distorts it, making it all the more agonizing. In its raw, unfiltered form, grief, though undeniably crippling, holds a profound divinity when allowed to flow freely, without judgment or restraint. Just as a sky without periodic clouds would be incomplete, loss and grief are an integral part of the human experience.
While the reasons behind individual tragedies lie beyond my comprehension, the weekend’s reflection has brought me a profound realization: the depths of anguish that can bring one to their knees also harbor the power of unconditional love. It is this transformative force that shatters the barriers of prejudice and guides us towards our true siblings, the kindred spirits who offer empathy, compassion and unwavering support in the face of hardship and tragedy.
One of the ultimate goals of the twelve-step program is selflessness. However, this stage of development can only be reached when an individual attains a deep-rooted faith and spirituality — a remarkable transformation that was exemplified throughout the weekend’s events.
In his book “Think Like a Monk,” Jay Shetty shares a poignant story that illustrates expanding our heart and perspective:
An old, wise woman met a young man who expressed his longing to experience the joy and beauty he observed around him from afar, while his own life was consumed by pain.
The wise woman silently poured a cup of water for the young man and handed it to him. Then, she held out a bowl of salt.
“Pour some in the water,” she instructed.
The young man hesitated, then added a small pinch of salt.
“More. A handful,” the old woman urged.
Skeptically, the young man added a scoop of salt to his cup.
The old woman gestured with her head, prompting the young man to drink. He took a sip, grimaced, and spat the water onto the dirt floor.
“How was it?” the old woman inquired.
“Not my cup of tea,” the young man replied glumly.
The old woman smiled knowingly and led the young man to a nearby lake. “Now put a handful of salt in the lake,” she instructed.
The young man complied, and the salt dissolved into the vastness of the water. “Have a drink,” the old woman said.
The young man knelt at the water’s edge and drank from his hands.
When he looked up, the old woman again asked, “How was it?”
“Refreshing,” he responded.
“Could you taste the salt?” the wise woman inquired.
The young man smiled sheepishly. “Not at all,” he confessed.
The old woman knelt beside the man, drank from the lake, and said, “The salt represents the pain of life. It is ever-present, but if you contain it in a small glass, it becomes bitter. If you disperse it into a lake, it becomes imperceptible. Expand your senses, expand your world, and the pain will diminish. Don’t be the glass. Become the lake.”
This profound analogy resonates deeply within me. We are not alone in our suffering. Pain, a universal human thread, holds the potential for transformation. With the resilience of mental capacity and the summoning of courage, we can stitch its raw essence into a profound and meaningful tapestry of transmuted art that embodies the essence of Ubuntu: “I am because you are.”
“I am not alone.”
This mantra echoed throughout the past weekend. Having participated in a twelve-step program for nearly four decades, I have heard this phrase countless times. Now, entering my fifth year after our family tragedy, I understand these words more than ever. I am not alone.
Through these two events last weekend, I have met new individuals who have become integral members of my superhero tribe of brothers and sisters that also encompasses each of you in my cherished blogging community. The extraordinary courage I have been presented with has inspired me to speak up, to acknowledge that it is okay to not be okay, to say Marshall’s name, and for the first time, year five, set him a place at the Thanksgiving table.
Marshall Matters
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I am grateful for the support of my family, close friends,Anna, Michelle, Camille and Godmother Pat, and the blogging community. As we move forward, let us remember that we are not alone in our struggles. We are connected by our shared humanity, and we have the power to overcome adversity and find beauty in the midst of pain.
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.
Disclaimer: This blog post contains sensitive content that may be a trigger for some readers. Please read at your own discretion.
Orange and brown leaves danced and twirled across the brittle grass, driven by a gust of cool air outside my window. Inside, the warm and safe air was filled with the scent of my pumpkin spice candle. Last week when Halloween finally arrived, I rejoiced in the ghost town appearance of our cul-de-sac, where not a single trick-or-treater dared to venture.
It brought to mind a member of our suicide loss survivors support group on Facebook who had posted how young kids ran in front of her house and screamed, “Hanging! Hanging! That’s where the hanging was! Bad luck! Bad luck! The house is bad luck!”
The recipient of this horror was a mom whose adolescent son died by suicide in his bedroom. Surprisingly, the mom paid little attention to the comments. She told the group that the bullies were simply kids who didn’t know any better and were doing their best to process the information that adults had presented to them.
Remembering this vulnerable mom in our facebook group brought a chill that ran down my spine. Was that what the local families thought? Was that why no one had come to our door?
I realized that I wasn’t going crazy. I was crazy. The emotional rollercoaster was relentless, a ticket to the unthinkable place that became my everyday endurance. I summoned my rational mind and washed away the wave of trepidation that engulfed me, leaving me empty. Past Halloweens with my young children filled the blankness. I envisioned my ex-husband’s expert pumpkin carvings, smiley symbols of hope and abundance for the future.
Remembering only propelled me into the vastness of despair. Again, I reined in my emotions, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of emptiness. I hadn’t bought any candy to give out, which was what I had wanted, but now I felt a pang of regret.
At that moment, my phone rang and I answered it. It was my dear friend, another bereaved mom.
“Anybody on your street? Did you get any trick-or-treaters?”
“Nope. Did you?”
“Seems quiet.”
We started talking about our plans for the upcoming week and other trivial things, but then about 10 minutes later, she suddenly remarked, “It sucks.”
My heart sank. We paused for a moment, our silence speaking volumes. I felt my friend’s grief through the phone line, and it mirrored my own.
But then something unexpected happened. I sensed a surge of love for my friend. It was a deep, intimate love, born of shared pain and understanding. It was the kind of love that helps us get through and paints a sign of five letters: FAITH.
“It does suck,” I said, my voice breaking.
We didn’t need to say anything else. We simply sat there on the phone, holding each other close in spirit. It was a moment of profound connection, and it was exactly what I needed to wind down and get back to breathing a bit.
After I got off the phone, I crept to my bedroom and collapsed into bed, grateful for the fresh, clean sheets, the warm heat, my good friends, and the infinite book selection on my Kindle that stretched before me like a starlit night sky.
All at once I realized that I had forgotten to extinguish the candle. I bolted out of bed and into the hallway, and as I blew out the candle on the mantle, I felt a warm glow in my heart.
For a moment, I was transported back to pumpkin patches and hay rides from long ago, when nutmeg pierced the air and squirrels zipped through carpets of fallen leaves, stashing their acorns for the upcoming winter. I heard the laughter once again of our young family, the joy on their faces as we picked out their perfect pumpkin to be carved.
And in that moment, I realized that even in all the sorrow and all the sewage, the love you once had for the season can still reawaken. Even if it was only for a second, it was love, still.
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.
Disclaimer: This blog post contains sensitive content that may be a trigger for some readers. Please read at your own discretion.
Halloween can be a time for celebration, but it can also be a difficult holiday for trauma survivors who are sensitive to images of death and violence. As a World War II survivor, Fourth of July was the most triggering holiday for my mom. Whenever fireworks exploded, she would shield her head with her arms, transported back to her youth and the war she had to live through. She felt safer during Halloween, when the night skies were filled with the laughter and scurrying feet of children, and when gory images were less common.
After experiencing our own family tragedy, I can now look back with empathy at the memory of my mother trembling, huddled under her arms during our backyard firework shows, amidst our laughter and glee. I have come to terms with many harsh realities. The result is a sense of solidarity with trauma survivors.
With trauma victims in mind, I worry about the increasing popularity of gory Halloween decorations that promote violence and death. I’ll never again have the boundless glee of yesteryear, when I was naive and removed from personal horror. Tragedy, grief, and loss stretch you to a breaking point, like the very difficult Tripod Headstand with Lotus Pose in yoga.
To protect my mental health, I am learning to avoid areas with heavily concentrated Halloween decorations that trigger painful memories and images. If you have ever had to sever the rope of a hanging loved one, seeing decorations of hung skeletons and witches can be anything but funny. Imagine also a grieving mother facing the just-for-fun skeletons, coping with the image of her young child’s skeleton buried in the grave—a child who, perhaps, once dressed up in a skeleton costume for Halloween.
Some of our neighbors have even roped off parts of their yards with crime scene tape that says “DO NOT CROSS.” I can imagine that for anyone who has had to come home and find their family members murdered, this is not a fun reminder.
If you are part of the minority who finds Halloween difficult, please know that you are not alone. I hope you have a therapist, empathetic friend, faith-based community or support group to help you cope. Remember, too, that you don’t have to force yourself to participate in the festivities if you’re not feeling up to it. It’s okay to tell people you’re not feeling well. I, for one, plan to start my morning as I do every morning, keeping in mind those who have to sever the cord of their loved one on this day. Later, I will keep my house dark and won’t give out candy tonight. I think my mom would understand; she stopped accepting trick-or-treaters in her later years, and now I have age on my side and a perfect excuse to do the same.
To my mom: I know you really got a hoot seeing the joy in your grandchildren in Halloween costumes. I wish we could go back 30 or so years and experience just five minutes of that bliss, and oh, those delicious sugar highs!
I’m so grateful for your strength and resilience, and I love you more than words can say.
To all who celebrate, Happy Halloween! May your holiday be safe and enjoyable. To those who don’t celebrate, I wish you a peaceful and restful evening with a beautiful eruption of crisp stars in a quiet, dark night sky.
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.
To recap, I learned that the doctor had faced serious sexual assault charges, including allegations involving a minor in 2020. I was unable to find out the final verdict, and it appeared that the records had been sealed.
As I said in my previous blog post, “On the one hand, I’ve never had any personal experience with him that would make me think he’s guilty of any criminal acts. On the other hand, I’m a half person, and, as already mentioned, I guard myself fiercely and certainly don’t intend to invite any more stress than necessary into my life.”
The incident left me shaken, and my mind began to wander down dark paths. I felt angry and self-righteous, wondering how people who did commit such heinous acts could get away with it. This was the final straw that broke the camel’s back when it came to my faith in people.
To backtrack, I started seeing the doctor in question two years ago after receiving a postcard advertising his services. Prior to that, I had been going to an optometrist for routine eye exams for over a decade. Optometrists are not medical doctors and cannot perform surgery, unlike ophthalmologists, who specialize in the diagnosis and treatment of eye diseases and vision problems.
Mind you, I had NO eye problems, but I switched to an ophthalmologist last year thinking that a doctor with more credentials would be better. To make matters worse, the new doctor found that my eye pressure was elevated during my routine eye exam this year. I didn’t learn about the incriminating information about him until after my appointment, when I had a month to wait for my follow-up visit.
So, my imagination ran even more wild. I obsessed about going blind without a doctor “in sight.”
I called my old optometrist, Dr. S., with my tail between my legs. She held no resentments against me and scheduled an appointment for me within the week.
Upon entering her office, she did not inquire about the reasons for my sudden departure or my return, nor did she probe me about my “personal reasons” for not going back to the other doctor. Instead, she focused on running a battery of tests on me.
I sat in a chair that felt as if it were getting harder by the minute, waiting for the final results. I thought about all the people in the universe who were at that very moment waiting, waiting in a doctor’s office or hospital, waiting to receive some catastrophic medical results that could potentially turn their neatly made worlds into a tsunami that would leave nothing unharmed and shaken.
I had spent so much time in the past “learning to breathe,” but now I had totally forgotten how.
On the verge of passing out from lack of oxygen, I inhaled sharply at the sight of a white cat with gray patches poking its head into the examination room. The cat was so pudgy that I wondered how it could fit inside a litter box. Its face was slightly askew, and when I got off the chair and reached for it, it darted away, only to return out of curiosity.
“Kitty! Kitty!” I called.
“I guess you met Marlon.”
“Yes.” My reply was followed by my long pause of anticipation.
Without further ado, Dr. S. explained everything I ever wanted to know about eye pressure, including the fact that eye pressure ranges could change in a course of a day. In the end, she told me that there was nothing wrong with my eyes.
“Really?” I asked in total relief.
I had been sickened by all the bad in the world as of late, but I knew that I would rather see it than be blind to it. I needed to be aware of the world’s problems in order to make a difference. Now, I was breathing with a familiar comfort again, relieved to know that there were still some good eggs out there.
Marlon jumped onto Dr. S’s floral skirt at this point, his gaze fixed on her soft-featured face and brown hair. It came as no surprise that she had rescued him, as she had rescued so many other cats over the many years I knew her.
Marlon was different, though. He was a sweet and loving feral cat that she had rescued after an animal rescue organization said he would never be domesticated. But she did it!
Soon after, Marla became Marlon and was nursed back to health, neutered, and domesticated against all odds by Dr. S.
Marlon’s safe home for the last few years has been Dr. S’s office, since three other rescues live at her home. Marlon is locked inside at night and comes and goes as he pleases during the day.
On a couple of different occasions, the sweet and loving cat has brought a few kitten rescues to the good doctor.
“Kittens are always easy to place,” she told me as she explained the wonderful world of Marlon.
World? At least on this territory. Marlon and the good doctor helped me to remember that there are still good people in the world. I’m just grateful to SEE them and to SEE the not-so-good and the awful lot of awful too.
After hitting some of my lowest points recently, following nearly four years as a halved person, I left the doctor’s office clicking my heels, my renewed sense of faith purring throughout my body.
My therapist Louis has taught me that when you take something out of your life, you need to replace it. In my case, I had to give up my 12-step support group due to PTSD, but I found a new support system in my blog community.
I’ve been blogging for over 10 years, and it’s become a lifeline for me. When I’m feeling down, I can always count on my readers to offer words of encouragement and support. They’ve helped me to feel less alone and more connected, and they’ve given me the courage to share my story in a safe space.
My birthday last week was a tough one, but your messages (& Judy — thanks for your email!) really helped me get through it. I’m so grateful for your kindness and support. Thank you for filling in the colors of faith into the empty lines. You make it possible.
For years, my mom and I had a daily telephone ritual. When she called, her words, “How are you?” would slam me right through the phone like a bowling ball hitting a strike.
“Fine!” I would reply.
Things were never fine with my mom. Never. And, sooner or later, she’d push, and I’d be cornered into telling her the truth about what was really going on in our household, whether it involved the car breaking down or my kids losing their lunch money. Interestingly, I felt better after unloading the daily grievances.
Then my mom would often complain about the behavior of a few people — sometimes including me. She had her favorite targets, and I would sometimes find her complaints humorous, while other times I found them downright mean. But I always listened, because it would eventually turn out that she was right. At least 99% of the time.
It was as if she had a special lens that detected everyone’s flaws. She didn’t hold back; she was always honest, even if it was painful to hear. Admittedly, I spent years trying to hush her up, soften and polish her, but she continued to speak her mind. Period.
Finally, after I had children of my own, I eased up on my mom and gave her the space she needed to be herself. In fact, I owe a great debt to my children, because they were the ones who taught me just how endearing my mom was despite all her imperfections. Once I could step back from my own expectations and give her the space, I saw her humor, her creativity, and her incredible insights and sparks — many, many sparks! I was able to change my behavior toward her by asking myself the question, “Who was I to kill her spirit?”
Over the years, as I experienced betrayal and deception from others in my life, I appreciated my mom even more. She was my anchor, because I always knew where I stood with her.
As I backed off and eased up on my judgments of her, she learned the importance of tact and discretion on her own. She learned that sometimes, it’s better to say nothing at all. And this resulted from my not intervening and trying to mold her character in my image!
What I appreciate most about my mom is that she taught me the importance of having a voice by her own example. She was who she was, flaws and all.
I reflected a lot on my mom last week after I heard that Sinéad O’Connor had passed away. You wouldn’t think that the two women had much in common, but they shared a solidarity of pain and a few other things that connected them.
Anyway, I heard the news on the radio while I was driving in the car. “We have some sad news. The great Irish singer, Sinéad O’Connor, has passed away,” the news anchor announced. “She was 56 years old.”
My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as I listened to the report. A wave of shock and sadness washed over me. I pulled over to the side of the road and started crying. As much as I couldn’t believe it, it was something I had worried about after the talented woman’s son, Shane, had died by suicide a year ago.
I felt as if I had lost yet another partner in our solidarity in pain. I sat there for a few minutes, just crying and listening to her music that the station started to play in a tribute to the late singer. No denying, she was a spitfire, but she was so much more.
Often when people hurt and grieve, they fall deeply inward. What never ceased to amaze me was how during her grief journey, Sinéad did not forget about other mothers who were in her position. She may have suffered from grief and mental illnesses, but she made room to remember others who hurt.
If you could look past her infamous moments, many of which were misunderstood and none of which she regretted, Sinéad O’Connor was a lifelong advocate for the vulnerable and, in essence, gave so many people faith and hope. In fact, during one of her interviews, she said she wanted her concerts to represent a church for some audience members, a place where they could find faith and hope.
I thought about how many people she had helped over the years. She had given them a voice, a platform, and a sense of community. She had shown them that they were not alone, and that they were worthy of love and respect.
Our society often encourages people to have diverse voices, stands and opinions. However, it is also true that people who speak out against the status quo, especially against the principles of the norm, often face backlash. Sinéad, like my mom, spoke their truth, even in the face of opposition. My dear friend Kit always reminded me that it’s easy to blend in with the crowd, but it takes real courage to be the lone voice of dissent.
Taking a deep breath, I started the car. I would go home and listen to Sinéad’s music some more. I would cry some more, but I would also remember the times when I was young and single, feeling as if I were the only person on Earth. But when I turned on the radio and heard Sinéad’s voice, I found the strength to not only keep moving, but to even kick up my heels and dance.
I imagined Sinéad, hopefully, finally at peace alongside her beloved son. I saw her calling it the way she saw it, in the company of my mom, their spitfire spirits floating around, sparking their own brand of music, driving everybody batty but never backing down.
I knew that the two spitfire figures would continue to inspire me, even in death. They had taught me the importance of speaking my truth, even when it was difficult. They taught me that it was okay to be different and that it was possible to find strength in your pain.
WTF? (Where's the faith?) 