While recently commiserating with a colleague who also was lamenting, and enduring the long
death of Alzheimer's in a loved one, I remembered the old idiom, "Misery
loves company."
The concept has been around as long as human suffering,
though it usually is credited to the 16th century play "Doctor Faustus."
Mephistropheles tries to discourage Fautus from visiting hell
(which he ignores), by reciting the Latin phrase, "Solamen miseris
socios habuisse doloris."
(Literally, that translates "to the unhappy it is a comfort
to have had company in misery." But typically, we humans have truncated that
over the centuries to "misery loves company."
But, as I admittedly love to do, I digress.
In the referenced conversation above, it is NOT comfort taken from the
pain of others . . . but understanding of those others, a selfish
desire for compassion and, yes, affirmation. . . .
. . . To not only receive
those emotional drinks of cool water in a desert wilderness of
Alzheimer's hell, but to offer them as well.
We need each other. No one should walk alone through the sloughs of despair.
A blog about writing, faith, and epiphanies born of the heart, and on the road
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
On a melancholy day, Jupiter provides perspective -- and a cure for the blues
Some
days, you just feel like you flop out of bed in the predawn darkness
only to painfully crawl into the day.
It's
"Hump Day." That mid-week marker of futility that reminds
you that Life has settled into a routine of work that, thank God,
pays the bills, but has long since ceased to challenge.
There
was a time when in-depth reporting, well-crafted writing and meaning
imbued your job -- but with the decline of the long-form narrative in
newspapers in favor of the quick-hit, short digital briefs posted to
the Web, those days are pretty much gone.
And,
occasionally, on days like this one, you mourn the meaningful past
and lament the shadow your journalistic career has become.
You
reach out, freelancing editing and writing. For a while, that works.
An up-and-coming media company gives you three years of steady work;
it's fun and it pays well.
But
success leads to larger staff. The need for freelancers disappears
with more full-timers on board. Progress for them; back to the
drawing board for you.
And
on this morning, trudging through the dark and cold and snow to the
train, you realize that THIS has become the "now." And, it
sucks.
Yes,
you have a job when many do not. Gratitude is expressed to the
heavens. And yet . . . melancholy.
Suddenly,
the mist puffing from his scarf-wrapped mouth, a fellow smiles and
asks: "Do you know what that star is, just to the right of the
moon?"
You
look up. The moon is nearly full. Next to it is a sparkling,
aqua-to-bluish light twinkling. It is cold, distance and . . .
amazing.
"Actually,
that's not a start at all," the man continues. He points to the
light. "That's Jupiter!"
He
continues, his enthusiasm infectious. Jupiter has 40 moons, and
counting. Jupiter has two and a half times the mass of all the other
planets of the solar system, combined.
Jupiter
is . . . huge. You could fit, roughly, 1,400 Earths within the gas
giant's mass.
"You
can tell I'm an astronomy buff," he finally says.
I
look up and smile. The moon is a shimmering silver orb, Jupiter
hanging off its shoulder like a cosmic broach.
No
only are we on this planet not at the center of the Universe, but
our lives are both infinitesimally small and uniquely precious and
fragile, all at the same time.
Perspective.
Life.
Not
so bad, after all.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
A lesson in grace: Alzheimer's a sorrow for caregivers, a horror for spouses
I
am one of those Baby-Boomers trying to oversee the care of my elderly
parents.
In
my 91-year-old father's case, it is a matter of a still sharp, though
unchallenged mind trapped inside a frail, failing body.
The
opposite is true of my 86-year-old mother. Her physical health is
fairly good; it is her mind, rapidly being destroyed by Alzheimer's
disease, that is the biggest challenge.
And,
it is a challenge beyond resolution.
My
epiphany this week is NOT those realizations, however.
Rather,
I have learned that the grief, helplessness and frustration I feel
over their not-so-golden years pales when I allow imagination to let
me live for a second or two in their minds, their spirits
.
Inside
a small room, my father is more than just trapped in a body too weak
to move more than a dozen steps at a time. He is trapped 24/7 with
the shell of the woman he married 65 years ago, a remarkable woman
once vivacious and mentally sharp, but now unable to speak a coherent
sentence or remember what she did five minutes before.
That
does not, however, stop her from babbling, stringing words together,
all day long -- and in her sleep -- that apparently only she knows
the meaning of.
And
that, I realize, would drive me mad. Quickly.
Finally,
it has driven my always stoic, generally positive father into
depression.
Dad
had endured for the past year and a half as Mom's Alzheimer's ravaged
her mind and memories. Last night, it was just too much.
"I'm
just tired of opposing," he said when I made one of my bi-weekly
calls.
In
the code language we have adopted (since Mom has, occasionally, flown
into a rage at any perceived criticism overheard) he was telling me
he's exhausted by the losing battle to find some emotional
equilibrium for Mom and himself.
Then,
unable to speak any longer as he choked up, he put down the phone.
Mom picked it up.
"Er,
Mom, how are you?"
"Mom?" Confused.
"Yes.
You are my Mom. I'm your son, Bob Jr."
"What?
That's funny. Who?"
And
so it goes.
She
hung up.
At
least, in forgetting her children, she doesn't have the pain of
missing them. So, there's that.
But
I mourn her. So much of her has died, even as what little remains
continues to fade within a body that has outlived its owner.
You
do what you can.
In
this case, it was calling the medical provider for my father and
asking he be evaluated for anti-depressants.
Then,
I prayed.
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