Pandas are black and white, clarity
between the parts, yet both are present together
Pandemic has lessened humans charity
Stress rises, fights and a turn to war weather.
It’s hard to fight a virus way smaller than a bee
And as they change and attack birds and us anew
Frustration rises and we attack the humans that we see
We take sides, black or white, and don’t see that we’re a stew
Perspective changes, white to black and back
The pandas eat their daily bamboo pounds
Unworried which parts are white or black
I hope they are far from the crying bombing rounds
I hope every person has the charity
to give all others love and parity.
We are singing Frostiana, poems by Robert Frost, set to music by Randall Thompson, in chorus. The ending of this makes me cry: “So when at times the mob is swayed To carry praise or blame too far We may choose something like a star To stay our minds on and be staid.”
I took the photograph in Oregon this month, on a Pandasonic (ha, ha).
Even when I go through hell on earth
mother dies, marriage crumbles
sister cancer, father cries
divorce, sister dies
pneumonia, pneumonia, pneumonia
can’t breathe and still have to defend myself
when accused of crazy and reported
Bitch is not a psychiatric disorder
hypoxia is not a psychiatric disorder
my cousin helps my niece to sue me
I never thought my family would have lawsuits
never
yet my sister sets them to explode
after she dies
I don’t quite die though it is pretty rough and grief tears at my throat like a wolf, like a lion like a hyena, piranhas I have two children and I stay because they do not deserve this mess I guard and fight and stay present
And there is laughter
even in hell
I time a comment and my daughter
snorts milk out her nose
I tell my children I shouldn’t handle knives
because of a meeting at work
“Five against one?” says my son
“Yes,” I say
“Well, they didn’t have enough people, did they?”
And I laugh and we go out to dinner.
Is this my fault?
Is it something I did?
The marriage was me, yes,
I do two years of counseling
trying to understand
I can’t change it
but maybe I can understand
A sort of a friend
ok
a false friend
a liar
says he never changes.
I say I always try to learn
I want to know
I want to grow
how can he not grow?
how can he refuse to learn?
he doesn’t talk to me any more
he stops speaking to people forever
but
there is no forever
there is now and the Beloved
and the dark and the light are united
after death
will you be a proton
or an electron
or gravity?
There are hells on earth
worse than mine
prayers
I send prayers
for the innocents
everyone was newborn
and innocent
once
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt stable, because maybe love is the only stable thing in an unstable world.
The bones of the great blue heron are so light, that I think it is standing on the floating kelp beds. I’d wish my bones were that light, but that would be osteoporosis. Maybe I could come back as a heron.
It’s about shacks on a lake in Ontario. My grandparents and family built the shacks and I’ve been going there since I was under a year old.
However, my sister died of cancer in 2012 and there was a horrific family battle over my niece. My mother had already died. My father died 13 months after my sister and left the same will as my mother. Unfortunately it was written when I was a minor. I cried when I read it because I was the only person named in it who was still alive. I knew what my father wanted, or remembered what he told me. A will is a will though. I took it to an attorney and followed her interpretation.
Then I was sued by family regarding the niece.
I knew what my father wanted but he had not done it. So I decided not to fight it and handed over half the estate. Because even though my father wanted me to watch over his granddaughter, he had not left me the tools. And she did not want me.
So back to the shacks. It’s the side of the family that brought in all the lawsuits. I have not felt welcomed there nor loved since my sister died.
Part of me is furious that I am being hunted out, unwelcomed, wants our grandparents to curse them.
The other part points out that I have already been hunted out, effectively. I stopped trying to take my children there because I couldn’t tell who in the family was “neutral” (basically not talking to me) or “gossiping” — the rumors re me trying to harm my niece were incredibly painful. I had to let her go.
After my father died I dream that I am issued a huge SUV, black. I am to go pick up three children. When I arrive, two are teens: my two. The third is a toddler. My niece is really the same age as my daughter, but not in the dream. In the dream, they tell me, “You can’t take the toddler. You don’t have a car seat.”
I say, “Can I go get one and come back?”
“No.” they say.
I say, “Please, can I borrow one? I didn’t know I needed it! I was issued the SUV!”
“No.” they say. “You can only take the two teens.
So I took the two teens and left, crying.
I woke up and thought: my father’s will is not my fault. I did the best I could. I followed an attorney’s advice and I tried to do what my father wished. I did not have the tools I needed.
Now my children and I may get an offer to buy our share of the land. My children are ready to be bought out.
I do not know if I am. I feel like this is the last connection with that side of my family, not only the living, but the dead. I love the land far more than the silent living and the cruel living. Why are families so cruel and why do they need enemies so badly? Gossip is a sin, truly, and hurts. Selling my share is saying goodbye to my sister, my mother, my father, my grandmother, my grandfather, my two uncles, my aunt. I don’t mind saying goodbye to the cruel living nearly as much as to my dead.
It’s time to write an ending to a story. Let go of those calling me word twister. The ending is dark, sad, devoid of glory. The one who named me twister was my sister. She has been dead a decade. I still miss her except for the calls of money gone awry. The cousins whitewash her and call me twister; past time for me to gently say goodbye. The small bird of hope has sung for ten long years. She lives even on crumbs of cruel spite. She sings in spite of no respite from tears. Quietly in day or night, in dark or light. The hope bird flutters: she’s waited years. I release her now and I drink a soup of tears.
I am watching a four part video from the UK about illness and trauma.
The first part is about how trauma memories are stored differently from regular memories. Regular memories are stored in files, like stories in a book or a library.
Trauma memories are stored in the amygdala and often are disjointed and broken up and have all of the sensory input from the worst parts, including the emotions.
The therapist is talking about healing: that our tendency is to turn away from the trauma, smooth it over and try to ignore it.
However, the amygdala will not allow this. It will keep bringing the trauma up. And that is actually its’ job, to try to warn and protect us from danger!
The therapist counsels finding a safe time and place and safe person (if you have one) and then making space for the trauma to come back up. One approach is to write out the story, going through that most traumatic part, but not stopping there. What happened next? Writing the story and then putting it aside. Writing it again the next day and doing this for four days. As the story is rewritten and has an ending, even if it is not a happy ending, the story is eventually moved from the amygdala to the regular files. People can and do heal. They may need a lot of time and help, but they can heal.
I am not saying that four days of writing stories is enough. That is one approach, but nothing works for everyone and people need different sorts of help. There are all sorts of paths to healing.
In my Family Practice clinic I would see people in distress. With some gentle prompting and offering space, they would tell me about trauma and things happening in their personal life or work life. Things that were feeling so overwhelming that they could not tell their families or friends and they just could not seem to process the feelings about it. I would keep asking what was happening and give them the space to tell the story. Many times when they reached the present they would stop. There would be a silence. Then I would say, “It seems perfectly reasonable that you feel terrible, frightened, horrified, grieved, whatever they were feeling, with that going on.” And there was often a moment where the person looked inwards, at the arc of the story, and they too felt that their feelings were reasonable.
I would offer a referral to a counselor. “Or you can come back. Do you want to come back and talk about it if you need to?”
Sometimes they would take the referral. Sometimes they would schedule to come back. But nearly half the time they would say, “Let me wait and see. I think I am ok. I will call if I need to. Let me see what happens.”
When a person goes through trauma, many people cut them off. They don’t want to hear about it. They say let it go. They may avoid you. You will find out who your true friends are, who can stand by you when you are suffering. I have trouble when someone tries to show up in my life and wants to just pretend that nothing happened. “Let’s just start from now and go forward.” A family member said that to me recently. Um, no. You do not get to pretend nothing happened or say, “I wanted to stay out of it.” and now show back up. No. No. You are not my friend and will not be. And I am completely unwilling to trade silence about my trauma for your false friendship.
Yet rather than anger, I feel grief and pity. Because this family member can’t process his own trauma and therefore can’t be present for mine. Stunted growth.
People can heal but they need help and they need to choose to do the work of healing.
This song is a darkly funny illustration: she may be trying to process past trauma, but the narrator doesn’t want anything to do with it. And he may not have the capacity to handle it. He may have his own issues that he has not dealt with. And maybe they both need professionals.
An old friend died this morning. She was a college friend of my parents and has known me since birth. I will miss her quite terribly.
She and I took a road trip in September. She had lost thirty pounds, not on purpose. I thought I had better do the road trip while we could. We went from Michigan to visit five households of old friends in Wisconsin. I lived with her and her family for a year during college in Madison, Wisconsin in the early 1980s. She is a beloved mentor.
She also introduced me to all sorts of groups. She has an amazing record collection.
I went with her to see Warren Zevon in Madison.
The painting is my photograph of one of her oil paintings. It is about 3 by 5 feet and gorgeous.
Some diagnoses take months or even years. How can that be?
A patient comes to me with right shoulder pain. His pain is “out of proportion to the exam”. His shoulder exam does not fit with a rotator cuff tear, he has good range of motion, it is weird. I hospitalize him and ask orthopedics to see him.
The orthopedic surgeon agrees with me. It is not a musculoskeletal shoulder problem. We do xrays and labs. We do a chest xray as well as a shoulder xray because on the right side of the body, the recurrent laryngeal nerve goes down to the diaphragm and then returns to the shoulder and neck. So sometimes shoulder pain on the right is referred pain from a problem or tumor or pneumonia at the base of the lung.
His chest xray is normal.
We are having trouble controlling his pain even with morphine.
I call the general surgeon. My patient has some small lymph nodes in his supraclavicular spaces. We actually have lymph nodes all over, but many are hidden deep in muscles or under bone. We can feel them in the neck, the supraclavicular space, under each arm and in the groin.
The surgeon says there isn’t anything large enough to biopsy.
I call the oncologist in the next county. We are too small a rural hospital and do not have an oncologist at that time. I say, “I think he has cancer, but I can’t find it.” The oncologist listens to the story. He agrees. We do a chest and abdominal CT scan and some blood tests. The patient has had his colonoscopy. Nothing.
I send the patient to the oncologist’s bigger hospital. They can do some tests that I can’t. A bone scan and a PET scan.
The oncologist calls me. “I think you are right, but we can’t find it yet. Send him back when there is something to test.”
My patient goes home with pain medicine.
He then calls me every week or two. “It still hurts,” he says. “Please come in and let me do another exam,” I say. “No,” he says and hangs up. I am a Family Practice physician so his partner is also my patient. She comes in and rolls her eyes. “He complains, but he won’t come in!”
At last he shows up in the emergency room and now he has enlarged supraclavicular lymph nodes. The general surgeon biopsies them. It is an undifferentiated carcinoma. That means we don’t know where it is from. We don’t know the primary.
The oncologist says, “Send him down, so we can do the tests again.”
The patient is at home and refuses.
I call the oncologist back. “He’s refusing.”
“Oh.” says the oncologist. “Well, we can treat it with chemo blindly. We can try to figure out the primary and treat it more exactly. Or he can choose hospice.”
Ok, yes, three choices. I call and leave a message to go over the choices with him.
He comes up with a fourth choice: he refuses to talk to me at all.
I call his partner. “Yes,” she says, “He’s grumpy.”
“We are happy to help with whatever choice he makes.” I say.
“I’ll tell him.”
He continues to refuse to talk to me or the oncologist. Eventually he goes back to the emergency room and goes to hospice at the local nursing home.
I tell the oncologist. He comforts me. “Yes, sometimes we are pretty sure there is a cancer, but it has to get big enough to find.”
I am not comfortable with that but medicine is way more complex and messier than people realize. Sometimes it is really nice to have a patient with something where I know what it is AND it can be treated. Appendicitis. Gallstones. Strep throat.
But sometimes it is complicated and can take months or even years. Stay present and keep checking in.
Diagnostic quest.
_____________________
The boat is returning to the water after work in our boatyard. Healed and seaworthy.
I am at a friend’s: she doesn’t have matches.
I am at a friend’s: she doesn’t have bandaids.
“You need a tsunami kit,” I say. “Now!”
My daughter made a tsunami kit for college with a life straw, an emergency blanket, ace wraps and bandaids. A leatherwoman for tools with a knife.
Watching after the earthquake, it’s the crowbar I think of.
It is in my back yard, under the apple tree.
If we have our earthquake, I should be able to find it.
Or if I can’t, you know where it is now.
Please, take it to help someone
if I can’t.
I took this photograph with my phone yesterday before I heard the news.
The ambulance has been out for a week or so, along with the doll tent. Two doll babies, the doll doctor, various pieces of equipment. I took the photograph because the cats keep “helping” and it keeps looking a bit like a disaster. Sigh. I wish they were just doll disasters with giant cats wandering through, not real earthquakes.
I wrote Flooded after the tsunami in Japan, about PTSD and about feeling helpless watching. I think we all have a little post-Pandemic PTSD and are more hair trigger and more ready for fight or flight.
Send prayers and money and huge blessings on on the first responders that are heading there or are already there.
Discover and re-discover Mexicoβs cuisine, culture and history through the recipes, backyard stories and other interesting findings of an expatriate in Canada
Engaging in some lyrical athletics whilst painting pictures with words and pounding the pavement. I run; blog; write poetry; chase after my kids & drink coffee.
Refugees welcome - FlΓΌchtlinge willkommen I am teaching German to refugees. Ich unterrichte geflΓΌchtete Menschen in der deutschen Sprache. I am writing this blog in English and German because my friends speak English and German. Ich schreibe auf Deutsch und Englisch, weil meine Freunde Deutsch und Englisch sprechen.
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