toss & ripple: The face of God...

I've cried, some days wailed, every day for the past week or so.

As I reread Endurance, certain passages ring true for me in living with a disability that demands attention every waking hour. And even non-waking, as I move my body carefully and slowly to change positions during sleep-rest.

Endurance is written by Alfred Lansing and has been praised as the best recounting of Shackleton and crew stranded in Antarctica. Their ship got crushed by the ice; my body has at times felt similar. The crew camped on an ice flow slowly inching its way in the direction toward land hundreds of miles away. The monotony of day-in, day-out, like the movie Ground Hog Day, the same routine over and over...

And for what? What progress?

...Each day blurred anonymously into the one before. Though they invariably tried to see the good side of things, they were unable to fight off a growing sense of disappointment...

~Part Two, Chapter Five

There are other passages that state similar describing how they made it from day to day...

Of course, I am not stranded on an ice floe in the Antarctic. So yes, I know, my situation is not so dire. But metaphorically these passages speak to me. I am stranded in a body that requires diligent, detailed care day in and day out. It gets monotonous. I am the caregiver, and I am the patient. It gets lonely. And I am making 'progress,' but it is incremental and slow-going, like the movement of the Endurance crew's floe camp. But I do my best to "see the good side of things."

Last week I sat with a new doctor, a neuropsychologist whom I've seen three times. So far, I like him. I was referred to him for help with the insomnia that has plagued me since May 2022.

I sat crying and he stated (my paraphrase), "I want you to know that your response is normal. Many a person has sat crying, like you, over the same circumstance. It's understandable."

It helped to hear that. I knew in my head the same, that I'm not alone in this particular suffering. But still my heart felt broken. Maybe broken isn't the right word. But something like that.

I knew that I would not be able to care for our grandbaby once she arrived. I thought I was prepared emotionally. I would think about the fact of the limitations of my arms and hands, that I would not be able to pick her up, carry her, or change a diaper. I would think of my dad; Hubby's and my children came into this world when Dad was a quadriplegic. Our children spent countless hours with my dad and mom. When they became toddlers, Dad took them for short rides in his lap on his wheelchair. This was "normal" for our children. They would also help with Dad's care; Mom used to say the kids were her legs. That is, they helped her retrieve things in the care of "Poppy Albert."

So yes, I felt great joy upon our granddaughter's arrival. And underneath the joy was a sadness, and for a few days the joy overrode any sadness. I was able to hold her. Son placed her in my arms as I leaned back in the recliner, my right arm supported by the arm rest. She slept there for about 30 minutes.

As I beheld this little miracle of life in my arms, there were/are no words to sufficiently describe the beauty and witness of this bundle of life with her tiny ears and fingers and toes. Words from a song ran through my mind, You are the face of God. I hold you in my heart. You are a part of me. You are the face of God.

Later that night I thought, I don't recall ever seeing a sight so beautiful... But what about my own children as newborns? Hmmm, all I recall is how exhausted I was... I'm sure I'm not alone in this experience... So, God/Life provides, in our elder years when we may not recall the details of our own children's newborn hours, this miracle of renewal... Wow...

Hubby and I were able to visit and hold her two different days before Son and family left their South Carolina home. Son dropped off Daughter and Wife at the in-laws in Alabama. Son took off from there to Alaska for work, which he does every year from mid-April through mid-August. Wife and Daughter will join Son in Alaska in July for the rest of the summer.

It was after they left that I began to grieve so deeply. And it wasn't because they left, I don't think, as much as the fact that I cannot do what I used to be able to do.

It was another reminder of my losses...

And it hit me hard...

And it affected my confidence...

Which I'm sure is also normal...

The things I know I can do well -- caring for animals and children -- I can no longer do. I used to feel I could write half-way decent, but that too has dwindled as my fatigued brain has trouble putting words together. Biking really helped my confidence after I had to give up hiking, but I currently can't bike outside. Hiking is limited to one mile or so.

So, the sadness of being unable to help with my granddaughter catalyzed a grief storm. To any readers, please know I am also overjoyed that she is healthy and has wonderful loving parents and grandparents. And I know, if I'm still here in this earthly body when Granddaughter is a bit older, I will be able to care for her then.

But for now, I must acknowledge the losses and grief...

And at the same time, I feel gratitude...

Thank you, Spirit, for keeping me around to witness this wonderful passage of life...

May gratitude and awe be present and alive...

And may I embrace this time of growth and abundance...