More ramblings
I know a lot of people. I have been a collector of friends and acquaintances for as long as I can remember. I have some very special, very important friends in my life. When one of them hurts, I do what I can to help them out of their pain. I love my people.
Right now, I can think of at least four who are going through various sorts of anguish, from the woman suffering the mental distress of being insignificant to her spouse, to the son who is losing his father in his battle with cancer. In every one of these situations, the feeling is the same: helplessness. She can't make her husband see how his indifference to her hurts; that would mean that she would have to confront the possibility of acknowledging that her situation is hopeless and she would have to decide whether to accept his passive neglect or get out. Neither one is acceptable to her in her current state. She goes on in denial, trying her best to cope with a loveless marriage. The son has to watch his parents make their decisions on treatment options, knowing full well that the extent of the good may be simply to slow the progress of the disease and give the dad a few more months in which to get his affairs in order. He has to watch from the sidelines and hope for the best, hope for a miracle.
When do we decide when it's time to let go and keep moving forward with our lives? It is different for every human on the face of the earth. My mother still waits, after 43 years, for the doctor to say he was only kidding, that my sister is not really dead, that she was part of the witness protection program and that the gangster from whom she was being protected (and his entire family) is dead and she can come out of hiding. My mother is 88 and sometimes that is all that keeps her going. She had to face my father's death (she found him) and my brother's as well. Rather than resigning her to the fact that everyone dies, it has strengthened her resolve to fight death with every ounce of vigor she has left in her frail old body. She weeps at her insufficiencies when she can't keep a cat alive who has leukemia, or the dog that is ancient and white eyed and wants to be out of his pain. She tortures herself with the "knowledge" that she is not good enough, has not tried hard enough, has let them all down. I want to scream at her that she is not God. No one is. There is no God.
There is a time and a place to let go and resign yourself to the way of fate. I am my mother's daughter in more ways than I care to acknowledge at this particular moment.
Right now, I can think of at least four who are going through various sorts of anguish, from the woman suffering the mental distress of being insignificant to her spouse, to the son who is losing his father in his battle with cancer. In every one of these situations, the feeling is the same: helplessness. She can't make her husband see how his indifference to her hurts; that would mean that she would have to confront the possibility of acknowledging that her situation is hopeless and she would have to decide whether to accept his passive neglect or get out. Neither one is acceptable to her in her current state. She goes on in denial, trying her best to cope with a loveless marriage. The son has to watch his parents make their decisions on treatment options, knowing full well that the extent of the good may be simply to slow the progress of the disease and give the dad a few more months in which to get his affairs in order. He has to watch from the sidelines and hope for the best, hope for a miracle.
When do we decide when it's time to let go and keep moving forward with our lives? It is different for every human on the face of the earth. My mother still waits, after 43 years, for the doctor to say he was only kidding, that my sister is not really dead, that she was part of the witness protection program and that the gangster from whom she was being protected (and his entire family) is dead and she can come out of hiding. My mother is 88 and sometimes that is all that keeps her going. She had to face my father's death (she found him) and my brother's as well. Rather than resigning her to the fact that everyone dies, it has strengthened her resolve to fight death with every ounce of vigor she has left in her frail old body. She weeps at her insufficiencies when she can't keep a cat alive who has leukemia, or the dog that is ancient and white eyed and wants to be out of his pain. She tortures herself with the "knowledge" that she is not good enough, has not tried hard enough, has let them all down. I want to scream at her that she is not God. No one is. There is no God.
There is a time and a place to let go and resign yourself to the way of fate. I am my mother's daughter in more ways than I care to acknowledge at this particular moment.
posted by Kalanchoe542 at
11:17 AM
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