Loving Is Worth Having My Heart Broken

A while back, I wrote about June. She's our adopted grandmother and my dear friend, and she's deathly ill right now. June has a son who has disowned her, so she asked several years back if I'd be willing to make her medical decisions if she became incapacitated. I agreed. I'm finding the process so much less complicated with June than with my mother, because she's never been anything but a unmitigated blessing in my life; whereas my mom was always at odds with me, even in her final days. June trusts me. My mother didn't. People keep telling me I have a big heart, that she is lucky to have me, but she had a big heart first. She loves my children. She loves me. Unconditionally. I am lucky beyond lucky to have her in my life; blessed would be a better word.

Now, she is frightened. Her mind has suddenly begun creating terrifying scenarios, fires and guns, devils and drug lords, and thieves, so many thieves. She's still lucid and knows and loves us, but she's trembling and confused. It's heartbreaking, because it can't be fought. If a real danger existed, I could move her. If someone was truly calling her names, I could stop them. But I can't stop her mind from laying this fabric of horror over her life. June is well-educated, smart, rarely confused. I didn't anticipate dementia. But that's just life, isn't it? Full of surprises. And a wicked kind of humor.

Would I take away my years of friendship with June, so that I didn't have to see her suffer? Would I turn into the kind of person who can drop someone at a convalescent home and walk away, so that I didn't have to watch this pain? No and no. Loving has its costs. Loving is what makes life worth living. It's the source of all of my joy and most of my pain. Someone with a whole heart might disagree with me, but my mantra has been "It's worth it. Loving is worth having my heart broken." Forgive me if I have to remind myself during the hard part. 

It is. It's worth it.

Made a Video For My Mom

It's three minutes of symbolic fun! OK, it's just symbolic. Not fun. But it made me cry to make it and it made my mommy cry to watch it. The good kind of tears. She wanted her friends to be able to see it so here it is. Cut to the chase if you like by going to about 2 minutes 10 seconds.

Regret

It's been a year. Almost to the day. My mother and I share a tumultuous history, but this was the tumultuous-est, an argument that was all the more vicious because everything that was said was true.

During the nastiness my mother posted a vague something on facebook that hurt and angered me. I clicked the "remove from friends" button then gloried in my newfound freedom. I could say whatever I thought without having to worry that my mom was going to be offended or nag me endlessly about something I had posted.

Healing has been slow. We've moved on. Kinda. I wouldn't re-friend her though. Even though she had asked nicely several times. Because I was right. I was right in what said. It needed to be said. And I would say it again. And she was wrong. Wrong in her original behavior and wrong in her response. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Besides I liked my freedom of speech. No mom on facebook.

Last Monday, she had a CT that showed a large mass in her colon. Thursday, a colonoscopy showed it to be cancer. Tuesday, I sat with her as the surgeon told her that there was very likely a second tumor in a different place. They wouldn't know until they got in there, but he was fairly sure. Stage IV. The fatal stage.

And you know what? I friended my mother on facebook last Friday. Because I was wrong. Wrong in my original behavior and wrong in my response. And I'm lucky. Because I got a little notice.

Rethinking the Whole Castration Thing

Melanie requested to hear about my world view exploding, and I think I'm stable enough to write about a portion of the explosion now. If not, I can just erase the post. Unless I accidentally press publish instead then my psychotic rantings will promptly go to a few dozen blog readers. (Not that it has happened before or anything.)

"Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up."

I've got a problem with child molesters. It's a common problem. I hate them and would like them to die during an unmedicated castration. Child molesters are pure unmitigated evil and deserve pain. It's a nasty world view, but there it is.

A few years ago when my best friend's husband got caught red-handed with their mentally-challenged adopted daughter, I had a conflict. This was a man who I had known for years, a man who had offered my family shelter during a difficult homeless time. (Another long story involving the city and some building code violations.) The evidence was undeniable however. I took the girl in while my friend got her husband out. Then I watched in disbelief as law enforcement and CPS let the whole thing drop between counties.

The thing is... as much as I loved the child, I did not want her molester to die slowly. I wanted him to get treatment, I wanted him to stay away from other children, but I didn't want him dead.

Fast forward to early summer 2009. I do a Google search on a good friend from college to see what he's up to. Surprise! It's a molestation conviction. I cannot believe it. I don't mean that metaphorically—I really cannot believe it.

I email him and get the scoop. I believe the now-adult "victim" is lying, insane perhaps.

This man is one of my oldest and most spiritual friends, one of the chastest people I've ever known. (He has faults, but they mainly lie in his unwillingness to get a real job and support his family.) Now he's falsely convicted. The justice system sucks: a guilty molester wandering free and an innocent man bound for jail. I rant and rave. Rave and rant. What's it take to get a little justice in this world?

After I calm down a bit, I contact his ex-wife, who I love and respect. Such a sane woman, taken in by lies. Her pain must be immense.

It is. Two hours later, my heart is broken, my world upside down. I claim tragedy in a friend's life to explain my tears which for some unaccountable reason roll down my face anytime anyone says, "How are you?" (Awkward.) It's not a lie: My dear friend has lost his mind. My other dear friend has had her world and her faith shattered. All of their children have lost their father. That, my friends, is tragedy.

Should he be castrated, the life slowly ebbing from him while his soul is thrust down to hell? People who harm children are pure unmitigated evil, right? But he is my dear friend, not pure unmitigated evil. How can I process the unprocessable? He's innocent. Guilty. Innocent. My mind won't leave it alone.

I reread everything he's ever written. It's a lot: emails, letters, a book, a screenplay, his appeal paperwork. I read my college journals. And I decide he is telling the truth. This man could not have committed this crime. I'd buy losing his mind and committing a bank robbery, polygamy, even murder, but not this, not molesting a child. Not him.

Every instinct in me says she's right, that he's guilty. Every instinct in me says he's innocent. Clearly I cannot trust my instincts. I cannot trust my conclusions.

These things I do know. 1. Jami plays no part in this tragedy except as a weeping audience member. 2. I cannot know. Not in this life. 3. It's OK to believe they are both right even though it defies logic. 4. We probably ought to skip castration as a form of the death penalty. 5. I will feel this pain until God heals it.

I want to be able to wrap up this whole monstrosity in a nice little package of wisdom with a bow on top and a tag that reads, "Yes, it's heinous, but there's a moral to be learned here." Alas I have no wisdom; I'm still floundering. I'm praying wisdom comes along at some point. Praying hard.

Beautiful, Heartbreaking, and a bit Pagan

Patterns

I walk down the garden paths,
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured,
And the train
Makes a pink and silver stain
On the gravel, and the thrift
Of the borders.
Just a plate of current fashion,
Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
Not a softness anywhere about me,
Only whalebone and brocade.
And I sink on a seat in the shade
Of a lime tree. For my passion
Wars against the stiff brocade.
The daffodils and squills
Flutter in the breeze
As they please.
And I weep;
For the lime-tree is in blossom
And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the plashing of waterdrops
In the marble fountain
Comes down the garden-paths.
The dripping never stops.
Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
A basin in the midst of hedges grown
So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
But she guesses he is near,
And the sliding of the water
Seems the stroking of a dear
Hand upon her.
What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
And he would stumble after,
Bewildered by my laughter.
I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes.
I would choose
To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
Till he caught me in the shade,
And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
Aching, melting, unafraid.
With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
And the plopping of the waterdrops,
All about us in the open afternoon—
I am very like to swoon
With the weight of this brocade,
For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom
In my bosom,
Is a letter I have hid.
It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
"Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
Died in action Thursday se'nnight."
As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
The letters squirmed like snakes.
"Any answer, Madam," said my footman.
"No," I told him.
"See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
No, no answer."
And I walked into the garden,
Up and down the patterned paths,
In my stiff, correct brocade.
The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
Each one.
I stood upright too,
Held rigid to the pattern
By the stiffness of my gown.
Up and down I walked,
Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.
In a month, here, underneath this lime,
We would have broke the pattern;
He for me, and I for him,
He as Colonel, I as Lady,
On this shady seat.
He had a whim
That sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."
Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
Up and down
The patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
The squills and daffodils
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go
Up and down,
In my gown.
Gorgeously arrayed,
Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
By each button, hook, and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead,
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
In a pattern called a war.
Christ! What are patterns for?

—Amy Lowell

Edward and Westley

In January, Westley disappeared. We searched the shelters, the streets, and accosted every white cat in town. We listed ads on Craig's List and in the newspaper. It was heart-rending. The lack of closure, the not knowing, was as painful as the loss of our sweety. Edward, his litter-mate, went into a funk. We cried. But about three months after he left, we accepted his loss. Even Edward accepted it.

Still we longed for closure. Be careful what you long for. We got our closure on June 13th.



After a joyous day of kitty frolicking, Mr. Edward suddenly lost the use of his back legs. He dragged himself home in the dead of night, and our nice neighbor came to tell us he was injured. A quick trip to the vet and one euthanasia later, we knew. Both of our kittens had a heart defect which resulted in deadly blood clots.

It sucked.

But for two baby boys who were found in a field, they had a great life. Their rescuers bottle-fed them, adored them and snuggled them. When we adopted them they gained seven new adoring fans. They had snuggles, warm beds, great food. They had each other. They had such joi de vivre that passersby would stop and watch them. Their sweet lives brightened our pathway awhile.



Adieu, my kitty boys.

I Need More

I think I may need an adjustment on my anti-depressants. I'm hoping that doubling the dosage will bring the excellent mood lift that the current dosage used to bring.



We may need to move to the half-gallon, but if that doesn't work I may have to take drastic measures to restore my equilibrium.

Weeping Wednesday or Blogging is Cheaper Than Therapy

At the very reasonable request of my oldest, I have taken down my whiny post which was flattering to no one in the family. Thanks for the loves and sympathy. Now pretend you never read it. That works. Right?

And Speaking of NieNie

Go read. (By clicking on the blue words. They'll turn grey once you've gone there. And that's OK.)

Stop Looking at Me!

The baby learned to say it recently. Although when she says it, it sounds more like "stoppa-lookin'-me." Still she pulls it out at the right moments, when everyone is giggling at her cute mistakes, when the whole family has gathered around to watch her nurse. I'm pretty sure she means it. Not that she doesn't like being looked at. Just...sometimes it gets a bit uncomfortable.

Recently I had two rather large spikes in my pageloads. A little investigation revealed that Mormon Times had linked my kitty in the Christmas tree pictures and Stumble Upon had linked my guilty gratitude post. Thrilling and yet . . . I kinda had something controversial that I needed to talk about in the relative safety of my anonymity. Now I'm going to have to wait until the world goes away again and just my bloggy friends are here. A few days wait should suffice.

In the meantime, I'll post a link to a piece that speaks to anyone who has ever dealt with addiction. It needs no linky love, as BCC has an immense following, but you might have missed it. Give it a look-in when you have a bit of time to follow the half-dozen links within it. Russell's post is heart-wrenchingly honest and brave. It moved me to tears.

In Case You Were Wondering How the DSL Installation Went

Yesterday, I went to the SureWest office to pick up my modem for the DSL. We weren't on the schedule. *twitch-twitch* But the kind lady still gave me my modem and told me I should have SERVICE by 8 PM. *smile*

Home again. Home again. Jiggedy-jig. J-Teen plugged the plugs. What a good and competent child he is! *smile* We began our OC checking of the connection. (Do we have SERVICE yet? Not yet. Do we have SERVICE yet? Not yet. Do we have SERVICE yet? Not yet. *twitch-twitch*)

At nine o'clock I called tech support and was placed on hold while someone walked the portable over to the tech guy in India. *twitch* When I had difficulty with Mr. Tech's accent, he was kind enough to repeat each instruction for me two or three times. Repeatedly he had me type "ipconfig" which he would spell out for me each time. [I as in India. P as in Paul. C as in Charley. O as in ornery. N as in nightmare. F as in ... failure. I as in India. G as in getting-nowhere.] He sent me hither and yon, through various files and secret spots within my mysterious machine. Finally, he asked me to get a pencil and paper and bade me write the numbers 20358. Ah, the key, a code to unlock my dormant DSL! *smile* Alas, 'twas but a ticket number; someone would be calling me tomorrow. He thanked me for choosing SureWest and hung up. *twitch, twitch*

After my tantrum, I connected to the Internet using my dysfunctional dial-up, posted the previous post, and brushed up on my Lamaze breathing techniques. *deep, cleansing breath*

At about eleven, after a bit more OC checking ("Do we have SERVICE yet? Not yet. Do we have SERVICE yet? Not yet. Do we have SERVICE yet? Not yet.), I decided to try tech support again. I was again placed on hold while someone walked the portable over to...Fresno! OMGosh! She speaks English. Clearly. Be still, my heart! Literally, five minutes later, she had me delete the dial-up connection from my Internet options. AND IT WORKED! I had SERVICE! *smile* Ms. Tech seemed a little nervous as I pledged my undying gratitude and love, but then she remembered her lines. She thanked me for choosing SureWest, and hung up.

A Year Later, Looking Back at My Issues

During the October 2007 General Conference, Sister Beck's talk "Mothers Who Know" blindsided me. Sweet Sister Beck. I love her. I felt like a good friend had walked into my home and told me that everything I'd ever done was worthless. I flipped out. Flipped out.

That afternoon I went to a cub scout planning meeting and mentioned how upset I felt. My sweet beautiful friends looked at me as if I'd just spoken in Russian. They wanted to be there for me, but they couldn't. They didn't understand what I found so heartbreaking. They'd loved the talk. A lot.

So a year ago, the Monday after conference, I went searching online for women who understood. I found Kristine Haglund's very comforting post at By Common Consent. I found the Bloggernacle where smart and faithful LDS people discuss ideas that range from the petty to the profound.

Here is my first (extremely long) blog comment:

Thanks for a couple of laughs on the subject. I needed them. It sure beat the two cries I’d had on the subject. Although "Our Refined Heavenly Home" wins the most uninspiring depressing talk of the decade, this one came close.

This is a hard subject for me. Six kids, small house, homeschooling. We’re all here, all the time. And I’m trying. I really am. But if a clean house and neat children are required for exaltation, I’m out. Even trying my hardest, it’s a disaster around here.

IF I could fulfill the ideal she taught, my family and I would be happier. I like clean. I like organized. I like neat, reverent children. I like peace. I dream of these things. I despair of these things.

So Sunday, I’d stayed home, listening to conference, hoping to hear “the pleasing word of God, yea the word which healeth the wounded soul.”

Sabbath-breaker that I am, I needed to clean the “playroom.” So housework was exactly what I was doing when Sister Beck was talking. I stopped cleaning. I couldn't
decide if I wanted to send in my motherhood resignation, burn the house down, or ask to have my name removed from the records of the church. Love, civil duty and a testimony prevented me from following any of those knee-jerk reactions. Instead I just cried because one more fellow mom was judging her fellow moms one more time. I don’t know–maybe that’s the in the job description for GRS Presidents.

The points that stabbed most deeply:

(My memory of) Her definition of nurture. By “nurture” we mean housework, the physical upkeep of the family. (My dictionary says “Nurturing: 1. To nourish, feed. 2. To educate, train 3. To help grow or develop; cultivate.”)

And did she really say that it didn’t really matter how much education you have if you can’t keep your home properly? I must have misheard.

I’ve pondered “the wicked taketh the truth to be hard." Am I wicked? ‘Cause that seemed pretty hard.

Well, enough killing time. I need to go clean something, cook something and cancel some of my children’s outside activities.

I live to serve. Jami

Bitter? Me? OK, maybe a little. I'm better now. This year has been one of the most difficult of my life, spiritually and intellectually. Exciting. Invigorating. But hard. A good portion of my angst has come from my exploration of LDS issues, profound and petty, from participating in the Bloggernacle.

In spite of these growing pains, I celebrate this anniversary and my freedom to think and to write about those things which interest and concern me. I celebrate my pain because it has led to increased knowledge, to increased faith and to healing. Thank you, Kristine, for the post that started it all. As it turns out, I mostly like Sister Beck's talk too. That, however, is a subject for a different post.

On Edward's Rescue

During my blog-cation in late August, one of our kittens went missing. Edward disappeared on a Friday night. The first thing we noticed was Westley meowing inconsolably Saturday morning. It was so unlike them to be separated that we were immediately worried.

The kids and I began knocking doors in the neighborhood by Saturday afternoon. I posted pictures on Craig's List (a shot in the dark since we live in a computer-challenged neighborhood). At the SPCA, we examined all the found cats, the squished cat reports, and filed a lost report.

We drove slowly through the streets after dark, shaking the cat food bag and here-kitty-kitty-ing out the windows of our van. By Sunday, we'd hit the entire neighborhood twice. We attracted much feline and human attention but no Edward.

Tears. Prayers. More here-kitty-kitty-ing. More prayers.

To be honest, by Sunday night, I was really thinking someone had fallen in love with our boy and we would never see him again. I forced the words "thy will be done" out of my unwilling lips and cried again.

Monday morning we got a joyous call from the SPCA. We rushed to the shelter with Westley in tow. Our reunion was celebrated with a quick and inexpensive micro-chipping ceremony, so our boys would have a ticket home should they ever roam again.

Edward had been found five miles from our house, and they immediately recognized him from Craig's List. Apparently, a young skateboarder found him and skateboarded two miles to the SPCA with our kitty in his jacket. We shed more tears and and offered much happier prayers of gratitude for a boy who literally went the extra mile, for the dedicated SPCA staff, and for our God who keeps track of stray kitties.