Monday, January 25, 2010

Monday, January 25, 2010

Tonight's picture was taken in March of 2003, when Mattie was 11 months old. He was visiting my parents, and in their living room I snapped this picture of him. Mattie was all about movement and was a bundle of energy. Taking his picture was the ultimate challenge. I always liked this picture because it captured Mattie in motion, trying to lunge forward and grab the camera away from me.

Poem of the day: Grief

Grief is a companion

That pushes others away.
Grief is a blanket
That smothers my ambition.
Grief is a thief
Stealing energy, light and joy.
Grief is all pervasive
Like a starless night.
Grief is blinding
Like thick morning fog.
Grief is an unrumpled bed
Legos untouched in a tub
A small shirt, colored red
A too quiet house
With deafening silence
That breaks my heart

I would like to say I wrote tonight's poem, but I did not. Though I did not write it, I am unfortunately living it and identify with it in a very real manner. I agree wholeheartedly that grief is indeed a companion that pushes others away, it smothers ambition, and it steals energy and joy. On any given day, I feel all three of these descriptions. There are times I just can't participate in social interactions, and I still shy away from group events. I do notice that I question my goals or ambitions I had in the past, and wonder if I still have these same interests and priorities now. Though these things are taxing, the hardest for me is the physical toll of grief. The constant state of tiredness and feeling lethargic, is something I almost fight each day. I wake up in the morning with the intense desire to want to stay in bed. I want to stay there because I am just physically drained, and moving seems to require great effort.

Today I had the opportunity to have lunch with Honey. Honey is faculty member at The George Washington University, and I have worked with her for 10 years. I have been away from the University for a year now, and it was nice to meet with Honey and get caught up about things happening on campus. Honey and I have a lot in common and I appreciate all the support she has given me and Team Mattie throughout Mattie's illness, and now as we grieve his loss.

Later today, I went back to the hospital to visit with Mary, Ann's mom. I sat with Mary while she underwent an echocardiogram. It can be very disorienting to be transferred to a stretcher and placed on an elevator to head to another floor in order to sit for a test. After it was over, Mary held my hand and thanked me for being with her today through this. She said she was actually scared. I don't think the test itself scared her, but the whole relocation and transportation process was daunting. The irony is Ann has been telling me that hospitals are not a good place for older adults. She has been warning me that I would see a change in Mary after her hospital admission. Well I am afraid she is right. Mary entered the hospital alert, talking, and engaged, and now on day four of her hospital admission, she spends most of her days in bed, sleeping, in a hospital gown, and disengaged. This stark transformation is actually frightening, since I can see Mary becomes more lethargic with each day she remains in the hospital. So this screams out two things to me. The first is the environment we live in impacts us tremendously. Mary has been isolated and laying in bed, with a hospital gown on, and as a result she is almost reflecting the "sick" role that she is forced to live. Second, because of convenience sake, I notice that the hospital staff would prefer to keep Mary in her bed. Since Mary is not ambulatory, and needs major assistance or lifting from one place to the other, it saves the staff time and energy to keep her confined to her bed. I certainly understand their dilemma, but the physical and psychological impact of isolating someone to a bed is profound. So profound that in just four days, I see a major decline in Mary. 

Tomorrow morning, I head back to the hospital, which Mary is in, to take a medical test. Should be a fun procedure without sedation. I appreciate all your good thoughts and as always I thank you for continuing to read our blog and supporting us.

I would like to end tonight's posting with a message from my friend, Charlie. Charlie wrote, "The people who come to Haven tell us that grief is very much as you described it, always there in the background of everything and then sometimes with no apparent reason totally overwhelming almost to the point of despair. I do hear that it gets better, that those really intense moments become fewer and farther between and that laughter comes more frequently and with less guilt but it takes time. You never forget, you never stop missing your baby but you do find an equilibrium that holds up most days. Be patient with yourself as you heal and seek a balance in your life. I think what you are doing for Mary is lovely. Your visits help insure that she will get good care. While none of us do it consciously, we do pay more attention to those who clearly are cared about by others; somehow it says to our unconscious that this person is worth paying attention to. And a simple thank you to the nurse or person who is responsible goes a long way too; one can do that as a job or as a labor of love and all of us would prefer it be the latter. As I practice today I will keep you in my thoughts and send the serenity I find to you."