The Torn Lands

Purse, photo id, wallet, cash, boarding passes for me and Meg, check. 

Suit cases standing guard on the car port, the super shuttle scheduled for a 10am pick-up, the circular nature of my coming and going to Sky Harbor Village isn’t totally lost on me. I am leaving. 

Griff has had his porridge, I have stripped the bed, thrown the sheets in the washer, walked through the entire coach checked and double checked, closed windows, packed the snacks for Griff and Gary for their moving truck adventure, ensured the meds and Hilda’s cremated remains are in the cab and not the back of the truck, placing her next to the authentic Amish remote-controlled fireplace, tartan shot glasses and boxes of paint roller sleeves was just not a civilized option.

Standing at the sink washing,  what as god is my witness is my last sink full of dishes by hand, when it happens.

“It’s all over,” the husband whispers as he hugs me goodbye, “it’s all over…”.

The room went totally silent,  one of those moments of absolute clarity that pulls you inward, time stops, the moment freezes in your mind and you say to yourself, this is important, this is the beginning, or even,  this is the end. It is a fork, a turn,  a moment,  a change and I knew it was happening while it happened, and I knew he was absolutely dead wrong.  

all over? it is only beginning, nothing is ever going to be the same again…can’t you see it can’t you feel it?  not wanting to start, to cause, to feel,  to speak….any words which can not be retrieved… I remain silent. 

Griff  is moving in. Griff will be living with us until the end,   if we are lucky. 

If we are lucky … he will die in his sleep in our home.

If we are unlucky,  he will have to be placed somewhere only barely tolerable when his needs exceed either our physical or mental abilities  or both.  

No more moments alone, no quiet  coffee and  cardinal serenades on the patio when the youngest is off to school, no more blasting the radio all the way fill me up loud, no more singing  off-key whogivesashit while scrubbing, no more alone.

Alone time. A gift. As a young mother I remember seeking solace in a closed bathroom door, opening a tampax wrapper only to hear little mouths pressed against crack of the door, “Mom? Are you eating candy in there?” Quickly followed by twenty little fingers wiggling under the door.

 Alone time. It is a treasure that I hold dear.  I have almost made it through the gauntlet of three children. Waited through cross-country moves, leaving family, carpool and soccer, baseball, riding lessons, puberty raised to the third power, cooking and cleaning and washing and whew, almost there,  I can see the light….WHAM! gotcha. Griff can not be left alone.  

Instead  I am making porridge every morning, his tv now a constant obnoxious companion, his shows, his familiar friends. Always lunch at noon, pills  to be dispensed,  always watching, always mindful of his needs both physical and mental, I am again as a mother to a small child, carefull of tone, and sound and query,   Griff  do you need juice today?  Griff you need a shower, have you brushed your teeth? Did you use soap?   And the very important question and not even the slightest exaggeration,  Did you put on deodorant?

Call that “all over” ?  silly rabbit tricks are for kids…..we are simply changing locations.

 I am torn between saying and not.   I live there, the in-between, the torn lands,  it is  my home now…I say nothing, close my eyes. 

Like  heroine in a wuxia tale,  all this in a moment,  seconds stilled,  I draw my sword and soar. I fly away on tree tops, wild hair and silk robes floating, wind through my soul, red-cheeked fresh sea breeze clean …  freedom ……then …falling. 

The honking  grounds me instantly, my blue super shuttle chariot awaits.

I was fine until  I saw here coming in her pj’s from across the street, the neighbor, the life line, my friend, my new Canadian soul sister, Karen. She,  like I,  a daughter-in-law who stayed, watched and buried, was coming to say good-bye.  Like only those who know the journey her hug huge and heartfelt tight, she whispers, “Forget  the counting to ten, just drink the wine”.

The runny nose sniffles and tears didn’t stop until we arrived at the airport, where my daughter Meg my companion for the flight home  just smiled at me and said, “I knew you were going to cry the second I saw her coming.” My Meg is always watching.

The problems with planning is sometimes things don’t quiet go according to the plan.

My plans were to have the weekend to ready and recover, before father and son arrived, so naturally, it didn’t happen. I had a shower seat to purchase, and hand-held shower to install, a  room to ready, and my expectations were they would arrive at noon on Sunday. So when the call came at 6pm  Saturday that they were nearly here they had driven straight through because of the weather, I was stunned. Numb really. I didn’t even get a full day without dispensing medications, preparing  porridge or watching his tv programs.

Six inches of snow in March were all it took to send me completely over the edge.

The truck empty, house cluttered, piles and boxes everywhere, I seek a small space of my own.

My bathroom once my personal refuge, now has a grey plastic medical supply shower seat in it,  the big walk in shower he can use safely, his belongings moved to the top drawer by my sink, the master bedroom now his path to this the safest shower. There is no  more peace there.

The office where I write is gone, his bed and wall unit occupy the room I daydreamed in.  There is no more peace there.

In the end I roamed the house, and found a space, it has a seat and a light and most importantly a door. Oh and it has plenty of food.          I escape to the pantry, my refuge now, where I sit on the rolling stool I got at a garage sale. The old stool has wheels and can be easily pushed with a foot, but stand upon it and the wheels disappear, and it squat sturdy strong. It holds my physical and mental weight without complaint.

 Awaking to find the Amish fireplace with remote in the living room was actually the tipping point.

I escape to my secret refuge place, I sit and weep into the dish towel  that always seems to be across my shoulder.

The torn lands are so unsteady a place to live. 

When I do speak I am afraid, I hear the words, feel them spill out upon the ground and anchor my feet with their weight.

“I can not do this”

He looks pained, I can’t look directly at him. I am in the torn lands. There is pain in every direction, no answer a clear solution.

” You have to do it,  what else can we do?  I made a promise…”

I weep and kneel head bowed, a moment of surrender head buried in a flowery dish towel. I am on the floor, in the torn place, where there are no clean edges, no clear paths, I hear myself  say, “what do you want of me?”

” I want you to hold it together, you have to hold it together”

So I stand and find the rough edges, and hold them, piece them together for how long I can not say.

I am living in the torn lands, between saying, and knowing and wanting and doing, The Torn Lands.  

I am afraid because it is becoming familiar territory.

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Filed under Elder Care, Family, Griff, Life, motherhood, Multiple System Atrophy, My Husband's Parents, Sandwich generation, Shy Drager Syndrome, Story Telling, True Life, Writing

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