“It’s a blip on the radar,” the dean said with the high school counselor nodding in agreement. And in our brains, Dave, Josh, and I understood, but we still hadn’t made that 18-inch connection to our hearts.
Josh has been dealing with bouts of vertigo for the last three years. If you haven’t experienced it, it’s debilitating. From what he describes, it’s like the earth is shifting, spinning, the floor opening under him. The pattern seems to be trip-related, be it a flight or the bounce of a vehicle after long drives to a destination, although there've been episodes in between. We sought the help of a second neurologist who specializes in vertigo. In going through J’s history and ours, the doc came to the conclusion it might be migraine-related. So we started a daily med prescribed for migraine prevention.
Well, about a week after starting the med, Josh had a bad reaction: racing heart, dizziness, trouble breathing. In short, side effects from the med and now panic attacks at the thought of symptoms happening at school. We tried the next few weeks to get him to school, even just through first period, and he couldn’t make it. There’s no talking a person down from anxiety attacks. It’s leaving logic behind (this kid is logic-driven so this is new territory for us) and just supporting him and trying techniques that engage the senses: squeezing ice cubes, stomping plastic cups, heaving a brick (not at something, although I’m certain he considered at my head as I stumbled through this experience, but chucking it, say, in the back yard) to focus the mind on physical v. mental.
With the dean’s and counselor’s advice, we withdrew him from his beloved school, enrolled him online, which transfers credit for credit, with the hope of just that semester. This was painful for him. Not laid out in the life plan he’d created for himself – and not the one we envisioned. It took time for us to process and enable him to accept this decision, coming up with a plan he could own in order to be successful.
Guess what? This ain’t no blip. This is a life changer. Classes for second semester (he was able to return to school more confident than ever) that he would’ve signed up for, like business, were either filled or only offered first semester. He ended up in two art classes. This is the kid who was taking art just to fulfill the fine arts portion of his high school diploma. A means to an end. More science-, social studies-, math-driven.
Well, he’s in the midst of shaking up his schedule for jr./sr. years. Instead of math/science/law school focus-based classes, he’s pursuing art. This was the area in which he had little confidence in his work. The kid is changing his goal to major in business/art. What?!? He beams as he shares this news at lunch, sitting across the table from Dave and me, my hand squeezing Dave’s under the table as we witness the fire in his eyes. And that passion and drive he had before that the uncertainty of his health had sucked dry has returned and then some.
We skipped our trip over Christmas vacation, deciding to keep him stable and not risk another bout with vertigo. But he’s ready to take on the extended family vacation this summer with warrior mentality, willing to risk a recurrence of symptoms. Pray for our J as he takes on this challenge with a “bring it” attitude.
The answer to the prayer “why” at its finest.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Friday, May 9, 2014
Forgiveness at Its Finest
We were enjoying what had become our weekly talkfests, Mom in the blue vinyl recliner hooked up to the chemo cocktail, Aunt Cinda and I in the rolling stools huddled close. We were pleased to end up in the left corner spot which gave a bit of privacy in a room lined with others receiving their meds. In what turned out to be her last weekly treatment, aided by my aunt who’s a brilliant psychotherapist, Mom and I had one of the most significant breakthroughs in our rocky past.
“I just wanted you to listen. I’d yell and sling hurtful comments and you wouldn’t react, didn’t flinch. I felt you didn’t care,” I shared.
Cinda, who’d facilitated many healing conversations in the last 11 months, asked her sister, “How’d her actions make you feel? What does that stir up in you?”
Mom replied, “I wasn’t ignoring you. I felt growing up I was to be seen, not heard. I wanted you to have a voice.” Ah-ha dawning. Burden lifting. Definitive forgiveness on both sides in her final days. Eyes shining. Tender smiles shared.
We’d been on a journey toward harmony for about a decade. Seeds were planted as I witnessed my son’s full-onslaught adoration of her. She was the dream grandma. Not only would she listen intently to my son’s recounting of a half-hour show in 45 minutes, but she’d take dictation in her spiral notebook on each Pokemon character and their powers. She’d talk knowledgeably when he brought his pack of cards next time. We’d overhear little Josh complain “Oh, man” and beg for a couple more hours when we’d call saying we were on our way to pick him up from overnighters. Grandma would negotiate, “We were just fixing some mac ‘n cheese. Can you wait?” “We just started a game of Sorry. A couple more hours?”
Mom’s and my relationship grew from weary to wary to friendly to loving. The seeds turned to sprouts when she wrote me a letter as part of a 72-hour retreat. In it she shared how much I’m loved and thought of. She listed “some of the things you do that I’m especially impressed by.” And the theme I make out as I read it today, her birthday, and on the eve of Mother’s Day, is that she was listening to the details (my son inherited his sharing of details) I’d share about my life. She ended by saying, “You’re a lovely and accomplished woman and I’m very proud you’re my daughter.” Seeing her words on stationery – she could’ve said this many times before – helped me to hear.
My son’s working on his driving time, and he’s a cautious kid. I’ve had so few moments of fear on the road with him; a couple incidents of pressing an imaginary brake, mind you, but otherwise a calm experience. I shared with him the couple times Mom took me out driving before my license. I’d back out of the driveway in her brown ‘70s Chevy Impala with the V8 engine, shift to drive, and gun down the road. I’d accelerate through turns, my periphery catching Mom’s petite frame slide across the bench, press against the door, seize the handle. She never said a word. My aunt asked, when I relayed this to her the other day, “Did that settle your urge for her to react?” I reflected, “No, just spurred me on more, took those turns a little faster.” My son’s eyes widened, and he chuckled. “I told you, Josh, I could be a pistol,” I said.
I redirected my energy, after receiving her letter, to search for the positive memories. I see examples of unconditional love, grace, forgiveness. She wasn’t perfect, but she loved me the best she knew how. And she is my earthly example – Lordy, she’s set the bar high – for how Jesus loves, how He wants us to love.
Christmas 2011 was our last trip together, her stage IV cancer diagnosed the previous July. We relished our moments, aware this would be our last time at the beach. We walked slowly, her still-present sashay as we meandered down the beach. Learning to catch with Josh and me, she’d curtsy as she picked up the ball. Ah, her dainty nature. Dave, who adored her, and I chuckle at the recall.
We spent our last 11 months together crying, laughing, loving. Crazy in love with her. May 25 she died in my arms, her back against my chest, my legs along hers, my hand stroking her downy short hair, as I whispered, “I love you, Mommy, I love you.”
Dave, Josh and I crazy miss you, Mom. You are one of God’s finest.
“I just wanted you to listen. I’d yell and sling hurtful comments and you wouldn’t react, didn’t flinch. I felt you didn’t care,” I shared.
Cinda, who’d facilitated many healing conversations in the last 11 months, asked her sister, “How’d her actions make you feel? What does that stir up in you?”
Mom replied, “I wasn’t ignoring you. I felt growing up I was to be seen, not heard. I wanted you to have a voice.” Ah-ha dawning. Burden lifting. Definitive forgiveness on both sides in her final days. Eyes shining. Tender smiles shared.
We’d been on a journey toward harmony for about a decade. Seeds were planted as I witnessed my son’s full-onslaught adoration of her. She was the dream grandma. Not only would she listen intently to my son’s recounting of a half-hour show in 45 minutes, but she’d take dictation in her spiral notebook on each Pokemon character and their powers. She’d talk knowledgeably when he brought his pack of cards next time. We’d overhear little Josh complain “Oh, man” and beg for a couple more hours when we’d call saying we were on our way to pick him up from overnighters. Grandma would negotiate, “We were just fixing some mac ‘n cheese. Can you wait?” “We just started a game of Sorry. A couple more hours?”
Mom’s and my relationship grew from weary to wary to friendly to loving. The seeds turned to sprouts when she wrote me a letter as part of a 72-hour retreat. In it she shared how much I’m loved and thought of. She listed “some of the things you do that I’m especially impressed by.” And the theme I make out as I read it today, her birthday, and on the eve of Mother’s Day, is that she was listening to the details (my son inherited his sharing of details) I’d share about my life. She ended by saying, “You’re a lovely and accomplished woman and I’m very proud you’re my daughter.” Seeing her words on stationery – she could’ve said this many times before – helped me to hear.
My son’s working on his driving time, and he’s a cautious kid. I’ve had so few moments of fear on the road with him; a couple incidents of pressing an imaginary brake, mind you, but otherwise a calm experience. I shared with him the couple times Mom took me out driving before my license. I’d back out of the driveway in her brown ‘70s Chevy Impala with the V8 engine, shift to drive, and gun down the road. I’d accelerate through turns, my periphery catching Mom’s petite frame slide across the bench, press against the door, seize the handle. She never said a word. My aunt asked, when I relayed this to her the other day, “Did that settle your urge for her to react?” I reflected, “No, just spurred me on more, took those turns a little faster.” My son’s eyes widened, and he chuckled. “I told you, Josh, I could be a pistol,” I said.
I redirected my energy, after receiving her letter, to search for the positive memories. I see examples of unconditional love, grace, forgiveness. She wasn’t perfect, but she loved me the best she knew how. And she is my earthly example – Lordy, she’s set the bar high – for how Jesus loves, how He wants us to love.
Christmas 2011 was our last trip together, her stage IV cancer diagnosed the previous July. We relished our moments, aware this would be our last time at the beach. We walked slowly, her still-present sashay as we meandered down the beach. Learning to catch with Josh and me, she’d curtsy as she picked up the ball. Ah, her dainty nature. Dave, who adored her, and I chuckle at the recall.
We spent our last 11 months together crying, laughing, loving. Crazy in love with her. May 25 she died in my arms, her back against my chest, my legs along hers, my hand stroking her downy short hair, as I whispered, “I love you, Mommy, I love you.”
Dave, Josh and I crazy miss you, Mom. You are one of God’s finest.
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