A mother's lament at 30,000 feet
Preface
Since my husband Chuck was given permission to work remotely, it was decided that I would leave Florida and return to Colorado to my studio and church position. Although I’d like to stay, it really doesn’t take both of us to manage the home care our son Carter requires after his Thanksgiving day accident. And, my work requires me to be on the ground.
The night before I left, Carter had a fever and a headache and was disappointed that his discharge from the hospital was delayed. Recent hospital and insurance issues had pushed all my buttons the wrong way—it wasn’t pretty. Not great circumstances to say good-bye to Carter but, that’s what I had to do as my flight left early the next morning. By the time I left Florida, I had spiraled down to another low tide.
A good portion of the following “lament” was written at 30,000 feet on my long flight home to Denver.
A stranger who sat next to me on the flight reached out to me via Facebook Messenger. He confessed that he read my post over my shoulder while I typed. As the document was labeled “Carter Blogs” he figured it was for public consumption. He then went home and googled Carter and found his Caring Bridge site and my grief blogs.
I have to credit him for being honest but, my SRDs (sh*tty rough drafts) are never for public consumption. In his lengthy message, he meant well by offering words of support. However, they came across as advice to “buck up’ rather than comforting.
In my short yet intense relationship with grief and conversations with fellow grievers, I notice that our culture rushes the grief process. Most articles I find are not written by people going through grief in real time. They’re usually written in hindsight of grief.
The dark side of life is just as prevalent as the bright side and yet, it seems that most prefer the dark side to stay in the dark. Bad things remind all of us of our fragility and that’s painful.
As you can tell, it’s impossible for me to maintain a sense of peace while my insides are shattered and my heart is torn. I’m banking on the fact that the dark side will eventually help me see the light.
After I landed in Denver, after a run and after listening to some podcasts and tunes, a little bit of light snuck into the darkness of my SRD.
It seems that I’ve exchanged my faith for fear. It’s as though I sent my faith back to the manufacturer for repair and it’s gotten lost in the mail.
How did my neatly wrapped package of faith disappear?
I’ve been scraping the bottom of the barrel looking for it and I’ve only come up with splinters under my finger nails. I can’t find a ledge to hold on to. Instead, I slide down the edges and pout about it.
The fear of the unknown, the absence of faith and this pouting is compounded by the ache of a mother’s heart for our son Carter and his present condition. His determination should inspire me and yet, my fear clamps down on my hope, my stamina to see this through. I’m not sure what we’ll see on the other end of this tunnel. The clouds have blocked my view of the horizon and the possibilities beyond it.
The medical professionals who have cared for Carter have seen patients like him come and go. They know what the horizon looks like and they’re accustomed to patiently following the road map to get there. The warning signs, sharp curves and detours never seem to phase them—the beeps and buzzers that alarm (and annoy!) the bruised nerves that keep feet from working, the unforeseen extra surgery that setbacks healing, the needles that prick and bruise, the sticky bandages that irritate oozing wounds when removed, the course of another antibiotic that delays a discharge...
The caregivers have witnessed the road blocks and yet they’ve safely arrived at the final destination over and over. Throughout Carter’s 68 day hospital stay, they occasionally attempted to lift my spirits by sharing stories of patients who now lead fulfilling and satisfying lives. At the same time, they advised to take one moment, one day at a time. I wonder if their intention is to help me zoom in on the slow-motion progress and then zoom out to the promising life yet to come so that it blurs the current brutal reality? Frankly, I found little comfort in either perspective because the present moments and a considerable amount of the 68 days have sucked—no other word fits here.
As Carter is 25, most communication for his care was directed toward him, first. From what I saw as a parent who observed and avoided interjecting more than necessary except when I just couldn’t hold my tongue and wanted to explode—it seemed they knew Carter as a patient in a room with a number first, then as a person. It’s just the way it is at a busy hospital. They are oblivious to what Carter enjoyed doing before the accident. Much of what he did is directly impacted by his injuries. How will dealing with his limitations lead to a satisfying life for him?
Carter broke free from the hospital after 68 days, two days after I returned to Denver.
As much as I appreciate Carter’s dedicated caregivers and what they’ve done to save and preserve his life and limbs, the hospital system struggled to walk alongside our grieving family. It’s not a surprise considering the current state of healthcare in our nation.
To add salt to the wound—a poignant cliche—Carter continues to receive bills from the insurance company because many of the doctors who cared for him are not in our plan’s network. When Carter was rolled in from the ambulance, there was no time to check to see if the emergency surgeons, Drs. A and B, were in our network—they’re not. But, thank God they were both on call that day. Our overstay at the hospital and crazy interactions with the insurance company (and many other things) have shoved my reasoning and package of faith further down to the bottom of the barrel.
I learned from Kate Bowler’s Everything Happens podcast episode featuring BJ Miller. that my grieving correlates with the amount of love I have for Carter. This makes sense. This accident is the LAST thing I wanted for our son when he was born 25 years ago and yet, it is what it is—I despise that phrase but it’s true.
Husband Chuck continues to add extra jewels to his crown.
The grief monster has gridlocked my perspective. It’s cast a shadow on my ability to appreciate the tremendous progress Carter’s made and how pleased the doctors are. It’s also tempered my thankfulness for Carter’s resolve and resiliency to get over his physical hurdles and make an impact with his story.
Our family’s foundation was rocked on Thanksgiving 2019. It’s forced me to search for a faith that’s hiding, face a future that’s packed with uncertainties, address the fear of what Carter must yet endure as his body heals, and forge my way back to stability in a self-made career.
“Life is a series of losses.” -Kate Bowler
Our family’s list of losses is long. I’m failing at dealing with this list right now. I’m in a funk and can’t get out.
Where did my resolve go that I use to have?
Where did my ability to compartmentalize go?
Where did that glimmer of hope go that use to pull me back up and make me strong enough to face a day with determination?
It’s as though they’ve all abandoned me or have been lost in the mail.
My husband seems steady and lives with hope for the future by saying over and over:
I only want the best for Carter. I’ll do what it takes.
This is only temporary.
It’s a tour of duty.
What else but faith can we rely on?
Why can’t I plug into this mindset?
Where’s my grit?
When will I dig my heels in and take a fist to this gloom?
Every part of me wants to resist acceptance of this new chapter.
Why can’t I close the door on yesterday?
The only solace I find is when I tamp down the pain and default to numbness.
Recognizing and writing down why I’m lamenting has revealed my own disconnect. My intellect is telling me to be strong, hopeful, courageous and reminding me of all the marvelous support I’m receiving from all of you. My emotions are telling me something different.
I’ve got to get a grip and kick this grief monster in the butt as its fear-inducing power has paralyzed me.
It’s time to unlock this heavy heart and rescue my grit, determination and my faith. They haven’t been shipped to the wrong address. They’re all waiting for me to build up the strength to untangle them.
I believe the best way I’ll reunite with my faith begins with practicing a sense of hope each day even if I don’t feel like it or have any of it.
Before the accident, I took up the challenge of memorizing Brahms’s “Rhapsody in G minor.” Despite the trauma, my brain still worked enough to continue memorizing it. I practiced most nights on Carter’s Casio Privia in his one-bedroom condo in Florida. It’s memorized but not fluently—yet. All the information has been entered and now the memory will become more solid with many repetitions here in Colorado.
I’ve got to use strategies similar to my memorization tactics to override the powerful fear that floods my heart and replace it with faith and the hope that comes with it. I know that adjusting to life’s new road map will be more difficult than memorizing the Brahms. Just like my work at the piano, I won’t expect perfection from my practice but, I expect progress, little by little.
In one of her books, Anne Lamott claims there are three essential prayers to pray:
Help.
Thanks.
Wow.
I’ll start with help and assume that practicing this one first will help me say the other two prayers in time.
Unfortunately, there’s no Amazon Prime two-day shipping for the hope, resolve, strength, and determination that come with faith. They’ve been hiding in bubble wrap deep down inside. I’ve got to dig deeper, find the package and open it up. It’s going to take practice to rip the packing tape and tear up the brown paper.
Off to the practice room.
