Tag Archives: feeling

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Love and grief

I got a letter from a family member, talking about happy memories of my father, mother and sister, who are all dead. How much fun they were and my mother’s influence taking them to museums, art museums and the Smithsonian.

It’s a bit difficult to answer, since my memories are much more complicated and tangled.

I wrote a poem called Butterfly Girl Comes to Visit a long time ago. It is about my sister. My mother could charm a room full of people and enthrall them with stories. Sometimes the stories were about me and my sister and actually making fun of our feelings: fear or grief. However, my mother was so good with an audience that I didn’t break the stories down until after she died. She was 61. That involved exploring a lot of really dark feelings. My sister and I even asked my father what our mother was really like: his reply was “Morose”.

I inherited my mother’s journals. My sister told me not to read them because they were “too depressing”. I don’t agree. They explain some things. My parents often fought, screaming at each other at 2 am while I was in high school. The family story was that my father was an alcoholic. As an adult, I wondered why she would fight with someone who was drunk. Her journal says “I drank too much last night,” over and over. Well, that would explain it, right? It takes two to tango. Or fight.

My sister could also charm a room. That is the sparkle in the Butterfly Girl poem. There was a period where she would tell me that I couldn’t talk about certain things, that she was fragile, that I was hurting her. This is after I gained control my feelings and had actual boundaries: I could refuse to fight with her. Before that, she could set me off like dry tinder. Her first husband called me once, saying, “I can’t not fight with her when she wants to fight. What do I do?” I replied, “I can’t either. I don’t know. I am so sorry!” I think it took until I was in my early 30s to refuse to fight with her and took a lot of conscious work. A fiance that broke up with me right after college told me I was an ogre when I was angry. I took that seriously and worked on it. My parents were not good role models for dealing with anger or grief or fear.

I am not much in contact with my maternal family. One person said that we could be in contact if we only said nice things about my mother, father and sister. I suggested we never mention them at all. We did not reach an agreement. I realize that our society wants to speak well of the dead, but to really be someone’s true friend, I think we have to accept that people may be angry at the dead as well. I gave this handout, Mourner’s Rights, to a patient on Friday. He is in the midst of grief and we talked about it. He thanked me and said, “I am grateful to talk to someone who knows about grief.”

My parents moved to Washington State in 1996. My mother was diagnosed with stage III ovarian cancer in 1997. I moved to be near them when her cancer recurred, arriving on Y2K. My mother died on May 15, 2000, four and a half months after we arrived.

My mother was only in that area of Washington for four years. She made such a charming impression that I had people tell me how wonderful and charming she was for a full decade. I was working though the complex feelings about her and tried very hard to thank people, even though I did not feel thankful.

I have not answered the letter yet. I want to return a gentle replay but I will not play the “only happy memories game”. I don’t mind my dark feelings. The family member would mind my dark feelings, I think. It is nice to be a physician and to be allowed to let patients talk about their dark feelings. Our culture wants to deny them, remove them, be positive. That is a disservice to love and to grief.

People are astoundingly complicated.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: astound.

The photograph is of my friend Maline, me, and two of her husband’s family members. Maline was one of my alternate mothers, a friend of my parents. She died within the last few years.

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Honey and the ants again

The next two times Honey feels the ants biting from the inside feeling are also on obstetrics.

Both times it is a VBAC. Vaginal birth after cesarean. The woman has has a cesarean section in the past and is trying for a vaginal birth.

Both times, Honey gets the biting ant feeling. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with the woman in labor, the nurse is relaxed, the fetal heart monitor looks ok.

With the first one it is the younger male obstetrician who is on call. He is a big man. He sits and peruses the monitor strip outside the room, taking his time. “There were some decelerations back here, but the heart rate looks fine now. Do you really want me to consult?”

Honey can’t stand still, the ants feel so bad. She tries to sound professional and calm. “Yes, this is a VBAC. I would like you to go in and meet her.” She is trying not to shoo him towards the room. He shrugs and gets up, not quite slouching towards the room, Honey trying not to jump up and down in impatience behind him.

In the room, he introduces himself. Again, Honey has not told her patient. The obstetrician says, “Dr. B. asked me to stop by since you have previously had a cesarean section, but everything looks fine.” Two minutes later she and the nurse and the obstetrician all alert as the the fetal heart rate monitor chirp slows, dropping from the 120s down to 60. THERE IT IS! thinks Honey. It stays down, they have the mother roll on her side and pop oxygen on her. It comes back up, but that is that. Off to the operating room. Again, they don’t have to do a crash cesarean. This time it is not clear what was wrong, but everything comes out well.

On the third round, it is the older male obstetrician. He looks at the strip and is calm and goes right into the room. He introduces himself and everything looks fine. Honey is wanting to dance from foot to foot from the ants. Again the fetal heart rate drops, right as the obstetrician gets up to leave the room. The nurse has the woman roll to her side and adds oxygen. The calm obstetrician gives Honey a look and has the nurse get the surgical consent. The heart rate is back up and off they go.

Honey wonders. Ants? Little voices? She knows that we all pick up information from body language and information that is not conscious. That could be a scientific explanation. Information that is not quite conscious. Honey decides that she really does not care what the ants are. When those voices speak, she listens. Who cares what it is, as long as it works.

______________________

What is the word? “Fictionalized”, from fallible, friable memory.

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Honey and the ants

Honey is in her second year working. She escapes clinic because she has a labor patient. In the daytime! Not on a weekend or at 2 am! Hooray!

She has to hang out, because this is baby number five, so it could come really really fast. Everything is cool. The mom has more experience than she does, nearly. Well, Honey has done more deliveries, but has only had one baby.

Honey starts to feel itchy. Agitated. It’s not skin at all. Something is bugging her. She goes in and out of the room. The nurse seems totally unperturbed, but Honey feels like ants are attacking her, from the inside. She goes out the room and studies the rhythm strip, the baby’s heartbeat. There is a printer feeding out in the central nurses station.

Screw it, thinks Honey. I make look stupid, but I don’t care. She calls the obstetrician. It’s the woman who is on. Honey is a Family Medicine physician. They are in rival clinics. “Hi,” says Honey, identifying herself, “I need a consult on this woman.” She reels off the medical details, Gravida 5, Para 4, all vaginal deliveries, no complications. “I just feel like there is something wrong. There isn’t anything really bad on the strip. But I need you to come.”

The woman obstetrician comes. She sits and studies the heartbeat strip. Honey still feels like ants are biting from inside. The OB puts the strip down. “There is nothing on this that would get you in trouble. But you’re right: something is wrong. Come on.”

Honey has not told the patient that she’s calling the obstetrician. The patient might be annoyed. They go in the room. The obstetrician introduces herself. “Dr. B called me to consult. We have a bad feeling. We want to do a cesarean section.” Honey is sure the patient will say no. She is wrong.

“Me too,” says the patient. “Do it.”

They do the paperwork and move quickly to the operating room. Not a crash cesarean, not an emergency, so spinal anesthesia, not general. Honey assists.

They are in. There it is. The umbilical cord is wrapped four times around the infant’s neck. It has not tightened down. Honey has goosebumps as they gently unwrap the cord and do the delivery. The baby is fine, no problems, apgars of 9 and 9. They complete the surgery, mom is doing fine too. Honey still feels rattled but the ants have gone away.

The mother is relieved when she wakes, glad they did it, glad to hold her fifth child. The obstetrician is in charge of post operative and Honey is managing the baby. They don’t really talk about it, everyone acts as if it’s all routine. If the cord had tightened down, everything still could have been ok, but it would be a crash cesarean section, general anesthesia, more risky for everyone. It could also have not been ok.

Honey is relieved to go home, adrenaline draining away and leaving her very very tired.

Honey decides that she will listen to those ants, that feeling, any time it shows up.

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Based on a true story, at least, on memories, that are unreliable. Aren’t they?

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Free agent

The Agency contacted me yesterday.

“Yes?” I say.

“Are you free?” Dispatch always sounds so disinterested.

“Yes, I’m free.” I try not to sound annoyed. I am too good at my job. I’ve given up on dating. This frees me up for the Agency.

“Room two.”

Room two has a woman who looks frozen. I introduce myself, a stranger, her previous person left.

“Are you sleeping?”

“No. Well, I fall asleep but then I wake up. Nightmares and my heart beats so fast. Then I can’t go back to sleep.”

“Did something happen?”

Her face tightens all over. She wants to tell me but not let the emotions out. “A scam!” Now the dam is cracking and falling apart. The story comes out bit by bit. “They opened an account in my name! Took out a loan! I am so scared. And ashamed. We could lose the house.” Not many tears. She won’t let them.

“Ok, I think this is a PTSD reaction. The not sleeping is really common. Can you talk to your husband?”

“I’ve snapped at him! We never fight! Forty two years!”

The monsters are visible now. Clinging to her, but some are coming to cling to me. Fear, shame, grief, anxiety, fatigue. They aren’t really that big, because she has been a careful person, a wise person. But this has cracked her open because she never expected it.

“Have you contacted the authorities?” We talk about what she has done, the practical bits. She has already made wise moves. It’s the feelings that are upsetting her.

We pick something for sleep, a low dose, not one of the newer addictive ones. An antidepressant that will hopefully make her sleepy. Close follow up is even more important, to be sure that she is starting to comfort the monsters. Many of the monsters are crying for her. I think they will be ok.

She is more comfortable before she leaves. She brought the feelings out and I was not horrified and I did not shame her. They weren’t so bad after all, when she brought them out in the light of day. It’s when they are fighting to be felt and heard that they feel so dark and dangerous and frightening.

I leave the room. She will be back in a week, sooner if she needs to. One of her monsters smiles at me tremulously as it clings to her. I smile back and nod. I think they will be ok.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: agency.

I write this and then start humming. Yes, this is the right song.


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Flooded

Trigger warning: trauma and feelings.

I cry because
the laundry overflowed
the sewer blocked again
we might have to pull up the floor
and lay it down a third time
I hate the laundromat
water runs across the floor
as fast as the tsunami
crossing the fields
crushing the houses
catching the trucks
in Japan

I cry because
I have to ask for help again
Help comes
but the memories of asking
when it didn’t
help didn’t come
and I was abandoned or humiliated
rise up and overwhelm me
I am flooded
I am helpless
someone help those people
The shaking earth is bad enough
But the ocean rolling inland
Over all
Breaking all
Beams to toothpicks
Those are the memories that rise up
And flood me
I think of the soldiers
and victims of wars and disasters
and PTSD
tsunami
of memory

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Written before 5/2011. I have posted before, but couldn’t find it on a search. Posted today at a friend’s request.

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child

some people say
they just want their children to be happy

not me
I don’t understand that
to want a child to be happy
fixed in amber
with one emotion

I want my children
to feel what they feel
to feel happy, unhappy, sad, angry
gloomy, ecstatic, joyous, jealous
snarky, sarcastic, silly, relaxed
to feel the full gamut
the full rainbow
of emotions

In my mother’s family
they pack their sorrows in their saddlebags
and ride forth singing

the trouble is
the saddlebags get heavier over time
weighted with grief and fear and anger
or whatever is unacceptable
to the family
until the horse staggers under the weight
falls over
dead

then they must try to drag the saddlebags
too heavy for the horse
through their lives

I am gifted my mother’s letters
when my mother is in the hospital
the tuberculosis sanatorium
the first letter a month
after I am born

My mother is cheerful in the letters
a little snarky about her roommate
a little lonely

But what stands out is what’s missing
She barely mentions me
in some letters not at all
her first baby
who misses her
and who she can only see outside
through a window

And what was in her saddlebags?
When she coughed blood 22 years old
and eight months pregnant
she thinks she has lung cancer
and will die

She says this without emotion
lightly
almost as a joke
a relief when it was tuberculosis
even though that meant six months
in the sanatorium
separate from her young husband
and baby
at least she was not dying

She doesn’t get to hold me again
until I am nine months
and I have no idea who she is.

The worst thing anyone can tell me
is that I should not feel the way I feel.

I shut down.
I don’t stop feeling how I feel
but that person is locked out.
I will not trust them with my feelings
for a long time
I am an expert at hiding my feelings
raised in an emotionally dangerous
household
and physician training as well.

Once on the boat
my daughter says, “Mom, I’m scared.”
My father says, “Don’t be scared or go below.”
“No.” I say, “Come here. What are you scared about?”
We have run aground.
Too impatient to wait for the tide
we are trying to winch ourselves off.
“I am scared we are trapped.” says my daughter.
“How far is shore?” I say.
We are in the marina.
“Not far.” she says.
“Could we get to shore?”
“Yes.”
“Are you still scared?”
“No.”
Soon a rowboat comes and takes the kids
to shore to play.

“Don’t be scared or go below.”
That was my childhood.
Emotions as monsters.
I went below.
I chose to make friends with the monsters.
I feel what I feel.
One friend says, “Of anyone I know,
you process your feelings in real time.”
and I laugh, but am honored,
because it took years
to reach this.

Don’t share your feelings with fools.
Don’t share your feelings with people
who want you a certain way,
or who try to control you.
You have a right to your feelings
as they are.

And this is what I want for my children.

The photograph is my mother and me in March 1963. I do not know who took it, perhaps my father. I would have been right around 2 years old and my mother was 24. I did not see these photographs from when I was first back with my parents until after they both died.

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Meeting

I took pictures of this cutie out my back window. I got my Canon and cracked the back door. Sol Duc ran right out! But, mother deer is paying close attention.

Mother is nearly on my back porch and Sol Duc reverses direction very quickly and climbs.

An interaction between four sentient beings, though I stay in the house. I am photographing through a grubby window so as not to spook anyone else. Sol Duc immediately pretends nonchalance.

Mother deer is satisfied.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: sentient.

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Theme for April: Daily Evil

I have been thinking in a desultory manner or perhaps not really thinking about the A to Z April Challenge. I want to have a whole month of my mother’s fabulous art, but what is my theme? Mothers? No. Women artists? No. Discrimination against women artists? Sigh, no. Oh! I read an article yesterday about how the negative and nasty headlines get the major clicks. Today I read another very nice kind blog post about putting something nice into the world. So that gives me my theme! My mother’s art and daily evil impulses.

Impulses, not actions. Don’t we all feel those nasty impulses? Now I am interested in my own theme: how does that tie into my mother’s art? You don’t know? I don’t know either, but I know that many of us have complex feelings about our mothers. You might too. What does her art reveal or what does it trigger in me? And you get to enjoy her art, while you react with prim or gleeful horror at the Daily Evil Art Impulse.

Happy April!

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The first photograph is of one of Helen Burling Ottaway’s watercolors. It is signed, matted and shrink wrapped. Date: 1996. She died of cancer in 2000. I do not know the title, but this is Lake Matinenda, in Ontario, Canada. My maternal family has land there and I have gone there since age 5 months.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: placid. Heh.

Ooooo and later:

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Chaos

I wrote this poem a long time ago. I was thinking about how being a physician and taking care of other people let me avoid my own feelings. Doctors are trained to hide their feelings. When I was an intern, a patient died on my day off. I came back to find the person gone. No one on the team said anything. I was afraid I’d done something wrong. Was it my fault? Finally I screwed up my courage and spoke the the attending physician. “Oh!” he said, “I meant to talk to you about that patient. They had a lethal pulmonary embolus from the clot in their leg. They were appropriately anticoagulated. You did nothing wrong. This happens.”

I think the war is more of the same. Chaos, to avoid feeling. Let’s not do that. Let us grieve as a world. Let us not melt down in a conflagration. That is my prayer.

Chaos

So familiar

If there’s a mess And chaos
Home that’s home
Busy busy
Run around
Fire fire
Fix it
Crisis
Now what
Deal with it

No time for feelings

No no

No time

I don’t want chaos
Liar liar

Chaos is so safe

Hero hero
Put out the fire
Catch the baby
Confront
Not a hero really
Scared
Hiding

If I stop the chaos
I will have to feel



Maybe it’s ok
To feel a little

I forgive myself
I understand the chaos
I can let go of it      by degrees

I feel so vulnerable
In the quiet clean
     safe place
Take your time
sweet self

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For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: WAR.

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One must go through the water.

One must go through the water.

One might choose not
avoid
there are ways to avoid feelings

Another one might choose not

I let go
and fall
and the water closes over my head
and I let myself sink
all the way down

even
if I am over
a deep trench

once down
once deep

I open my eyes
and let my breath out
and let the deep rush in

I don’t know why
people avoid this place
it is dangerous
but so beautiful
the darkness
with beings that glow

some attack
of course

but I too am a monster
bare my fangs
and receive respect
or fear

or friendship

I am very safe here
it is so familiar
in the deep