Saturday, December 11, 2010
A rough, pitted, rocky, knee wretching journey begins.
Well, Garry knows now. His reactions are desperate. While I'm excited for Vincent to go home, it only means closer contact with Garry. For a year I have reflected back to see how my feelings changed only to realize how many times I fought to stay in love with Garry. The work was always on my side, everytime; he couldn't see where any fault lie with him. Now, I feel sick when I have to go home to get things. I've been told to set ground rules. If I can get it where we can talk without him trying to touch me, to kiss me. I wanted to have the money to just move out before I ever said anything; I was given no choice to the when. I was cornered when I came home to wash clothes and take care of other needs. Pleaes pray for me as I take this step forward, as I walk this road.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
I can say it clearly without feeling guilty
For the first time, I wrote the word "divorce" in my journal. Yes, I wrote the word "divorce." I kept from putting anything in my journal in fear that someone would pick it up, read it, then run off to tell the person I haven't spoken to yet. Well, that time is coming very soon. I'm figuring withing the month. I thought it would have been at the end of November, but I wanted to speak to a pastor first for some spiritual guidance as I take this step. My heart figured out long before my mind that I am no longer "in" love with Garry. I do not feel guilty. As I weighed the reasons to "not" file for a divorce, to the "do" of filing for a divorce, the do's were heavier. I also made a list of all those arguments that people would come up with in an attempt to stop me from following through. The fact about all of this is, I don't love Garry, I am not happy being with him, and I realized I have fought to stay in love with him for at least 20 years--the last 20 years that we have been married. In those 20 yeas, I went to counseling three times (without him because he wouldn't go). The focus was on "what could I change about me, and in doing so, change him." Or, "what could I do for him to get what I need in return"? Wait. Just wait. Something wrong with this picture? I'm not going back. Twice before I didn't love him and fought to regain it, all to my determent, which unhappiness most of the time, feeling empty and lonely, and doing most of the marriage as a single parent. I will no longer live this way. If I am going to be lonely, I will be lonely because there isn't someone there physically, not lonely with someone there physically with no emotional conscious of me or my feelings, my cares, my hurts, my frustrations, or not backing me without my implicit planted foot to "prove" it is good for me to do this. His actions never needed my approval. My actions always needed his. And then, when I asked for his input, he was always to busy until I made the decision "he didn't like." Argh, I do not want to write a tagent here. Anyhow, this is where I stand; so friends, now you know what my new futurre is. I know it will be hard, but it is time to step out and see the world through free eyes.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
I may have failed . . .
Love is a tricky emotions to understand with so many nuances and avenues, all the different types of love that exists--that is to say I came to love the foundation in a soul that my husband has never filled in me. No, I did not have an affair. This is a love that is friendship, a deep friendship, a friendship that shares who we are without fear of the other judging. We might question the other, but we do not judge. When I figured out this "love," I questioned myself morals, the traditions, and what it was that made this love possible. This other person fights for my emotional well-being as I fight for "Taylor's"--I use a neutral gender name for protection of self and other. There is no other attraction within this "relationship." We have agreed; we are emotionally there for each other. "Taylor" fights to remind me how strong I am; I fight to remind "Taylor" about the strength possessed within "Taylor," remind each other daily our strengths that carry us forward--Taylor has his demons, I have mind: together we fight.
Now, knowing that I no longer love my husband, and I have figured it is due to the lack of emotional support throughout our marriage and his inability to fight even with support, I pray for the guidance upon the decision I have made. Most of what will occur in the months to come will be lain at my husband's feet; his decision will decide my final decision; however, separation at this moment is needed for him to first see--I think this illness of Vincent's has started that, but he still continues in self pity and pushing others away. I doubt complete understanding will come for him--faith has always been an issue for him. I guess I'm trying to say, I want a complete man (not necessarily a man that has nothing physically wrong), a complete man that fights and supports as much as I do.
I thank you "Taylor," even if you do not make it through your turmoil for showing me how love works. I hope you read this.
Now, knowing that I no longer love my husband, and I have figured it is due to the lack of emotional support throughout our marriage and his inability to fight even with support, I pray for the guidance upon the decision I have made. Most of what will occur in the months to come will be lain at my husband's feet; his decision will decide my final decision; however, separation at this moment is needed for him to first see--I think this illness of Vincent's has started that, but he still continues in self pity and pushing others away. I doubt complete understanding will come for him--faith has always been an issue for him. I guess I'm trying to say, I want a complete man (not necessarily a man that has nothing physically wrong), a complete man that fights and supports as much as I do.
I thank you "Taylor," even if you do not make it through your turmoil for showing me how love works. I hope you read this.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Building Blocks
The dishes stay stacked (like Richter 10 buildings) on the counter
in both sides of the sink My eyes count the hour
in both sides of the sink My eyes count the hour
hand by hand into the rack (the difficulty of shaping)
empty and full at every moment just one (pulled out of place implodes) could be wasted
for . . .
--I must ask myself over and over
What am I doing here--
What am I doing here--
pen to hit the paper drop a word shatter a letter
(rupture) (toppling) (rubble)
(rupture) (toppling) (rubble)
--One letter, just one letter Dear Jesus
Please rescue me
find the time to take away the cancer--
find the time to take away the cancer--
This is a waste
repeating a task that repeats before I’ve finished
Anaphora
at its best
More on Polar with Mom
Dawn Luebke November 3 at 1:14pm
Okay, we have a second word becoming more visible: more. Then, with occupational therapy, she was able to get him to say, "oh yeah," which is part of the order of the vowels he has been practicing: ae, o, oo, i (long e sound), and eye (forgot the phonetics for 'i'). He even said MOM today! Ha ha, I was able to hear MOM! Yesterday the speech therapist worked on picture board, identifying yes and no, pointing to it to communicate. His grade for the test given was 75%. Have to always make sure he is looking at the board.
On the physical side, when I left this morning, he was able to roll his right hand. It took a long time to get the message from the brain to the hand, but he did it. I could see the muscles contracting, the arm wanting to obey, and I could see the rest of his body working to make it so. I hope he is stood up today, placed in a chair, and sits for an hour before radiation.
And . . . the x-ray showed pneumonia depleted.
On the physical side, when I left this morning, he was able to roll his right hand. It took a long time to get the message from the brain to the hand, but he did it. I could see the muscles contracting, the arm wanting to obey, and I could see the rest of his body working to make it so. I hope he is stood up today, placed in a chair, and sits for an hour before radiation.
And . . . the x-ray showed pneumonia depleted.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Sketch Sixteen
The Hall
In the hall of Lutheran Hospital, the hall that connects the third floor of the Orthopedics Hospital to the regular part of the hospital are windows on each side--large windows that a car can go through, windows that start two feet from the floor and stop two feet from the ceiling, windows that aren't divided by much except about every three to five, where a piece of wall jets out. The windows are situated much like window seats without a cushions. In this hall are three offices and a small boutique center, which is no longer in business. The offices and the empty boutique divide up one side of the hall, making a center nook, the place where I sleep in the evening. This is how the three offices and the empty boutique are arranged: The empty boutique and one office is placed closes to the regular hospital, the office down the hall. Some 30 feet is left for chairs and tables, the nook I mentioned, before the next two offices appear. After those offices, another open space where the windowed-wall cuts into the doors that lead to the Orthopedics Hospital. The offices, upon inspection one day, when noticing a door open, has the very same large windows as the hallway. Here, in the nook, a pocket of sorts, is my bedroom by night. The chairs and couches in this part of the hall are different from those in the other cubby hole area and the waiting are for ICU, except for the chairs used around the tables. (I must stop this observation briefly to tell you about one conversation I can hear, one of many that becomes part of this hallway: much grief finds its way to this hall. An older gentleman with a midlife women pass me to stand in front of the empty boutique. She begins to cry, he pats her back, in a hug I suspect, but I can hear the light patting; whispers and whimpers persist. There is much of this here; and still there is laughter as families meet, coming to know grief, often over an older person, not the young--the young are few here.)
Back to those windows; they intrigue me. The large windows allow vision to the construction of the main hospital, a fifth floor addition. Sometimes I imagine the crane not functioning correctly, the items upon its lift smashing through the hall. Here, it is quieter, even during the day, less traffic, even when the carts come barreling through with equipment and people walking to and from each hospital. The waiting room is always full, the elevator always busy.
As I attempt to finish this sketch, I am not in the hallway. I cannot honestly recall the wall colors. I can see the pattern in the chairs: the green and green blue colors. As vivid as I think the pattern is in my mind, as often as I have it, I'm without words to describe it because it is not in front of me. At a glance, from memory, a person can assume it is camouflage, which I say it is, but the pattern . . . I must see it, is not truly leaves and twigs--or is it. I've yet to determine if there is a genuine pattern with all the times I have stared at it. (Again grief can be heard as I sit alone in the hallway, sit on one of the couches that make up my makeshift bed late at night; a man talking to a brother, a sister, I do not know who, but someone who comes across as family by the way he speaks. His mother has been sent her from St. Joe. The situation is not good. She has been made more ill by the actions taken at St. Joe. His anger doesn't override his grief, but his voice speaks the pain of negligence, of lawsuit. The many different issues that bring us here.)
I have made time to write while in the hallway. My makeshift bed all tore down, I sit looking about me. The walls are a dirty cream, not quite a tan with a peach tint. Those chairs--let me get to them in a moment. The floor is carpeted: green mainly, a dark green, probably a hunter green with a cream and barn red in a splattered patterns highlighting the greens. This carpet comes in a darker type pattern as well, which creates a square outline in some areas of the hall--well this one is rectangle. Now for the chairs and couches: a person can witness leaves and twigs, but the lay out of the pattern is very deceptive because squares come in--some squares have tattered edges. There are a few vines with leaves at the tips, but don't stand out. The colors of this pattern also throws a person off: slate gray, off-dirty white, three to four tones of green with a blue hint in them. The couch pattern I've stared at mostly develops its own character, an entity, as if it shifts shapes, moves as if uncomfortable with its being: an eye within a jaw, the jaw jetting out sharply like that of a broken skull where the jaw protrudes. This same pattern repeats, but because of its position on this couch it stands alone.
There are two coffee tables in here; all the tables are alike among the three areas. The top is bordered by light colored wood, the same wood used for the legs (and beneath most likely). It feels like polished compressed wood. The top itself might be formica, a tan, brown mixture of colors in a splattered-marbled pattern.
Oh, those chairs have wood along the back and the cushions are divided by the same wood, making the couches look like individual seats, three side by side. The couches and chairs are wood framed benches of sort.
On one wall hangs a TV--LG; a light switch at the edge of this wall (this is the wall against the centered offices). Across from it, on the other wall, hangs a picture. Until now, I have not noticed it, I have not paid attention to it, nor looked at it.
I will not be finishing this sketch unless my son is placed back into ICU. He has moved to the regular part of the hospital, meaning he is better. There is much more to sketch.
In the hall of Lutheran Hospital, the hall that connects the third floor of the Orthopedics Hospital to the regular part of the hospital are windows on each side--large windows that a car can go through, windows that start two feet from the floor and stop two feet from the ceiling, windows that aren't divided by much except about every three to five, where a piece of wall jets out. The windows are situated much like window seats without a cushions. In this hall are three offices and a small boutique center, which is no longer in business. The offices and the empty boutique divide up one side of the hall, making a center nook, the place where I sleep in the evening. This is how the three offices and the empty boutique are arranged: The empty boutique and one office is placed closes to the regular hospital, the office down the hall. Some 30 feet is left for chairs and tables, the nook I mentioned, before the next two offices appear. After those offices, another open space where the windowed-wall cuts into the doors that lead to the Orthopedics Hospital. The offices, upon inspection one day, when noticing a door open, has the very same large windows as the hallway. Here, in the nook, a pocket of sorts, is my bedroom by night. The chairs and couches in this part of the hall are different from those in the other cubby hole area and the waiting are for ICU, except for the chairs used around the tables. (I must stop this observation briefly to tell you about one conversation I can hear, one of many that becomes part of this hallway: much grief finds its way to this hall. An older gentleman with a midlife women pass me to stand in front of the empty boutique. She begins to cry, he pats her back, in a hug I suspect, but I can hear the light patting; whispers and whimpers persist. There is much of this here; and still there is laughter as families meet, coming to know grief, often over an older person, not the young--the young are few here.)
Back to those windows; they intrigue me. The large windows allow vision to the construction of the main hospital, a fifth floor addition. Sometimes I imagine the crane not functioning correctly, the items upon its lift smashing through the hall. Here, it is quieter, even during the day, less traffic, even when the carts come barreling through with equipment and people walking to and from each hospital. The waiting room is always full, the elevator always busy.
As I attempt to finish this sketch, I am not in the hallway. I cannot honestly recall the wall colors. I can see the pattern in the chairs: the green and green blue colors. As vivid as I think the pattern is in my mind, as often as I have it, I'm without words to describe it because it is not in front of me. At a glance, from memory, a person can assume it is camouflage, which I say it is, but the pattern . . . I must see it, is not truly leaves and twigs--or is it. I've yet to determine if there is a genuine pattern with all the times I have stared at it. (Again grief can be heard as I sit alone in the hallway, sit on one of the couches that make up my makeshift bed late at night; a man talking to a brother, a sister, I do not know who, but someone who comes across as family by the way he speaks. His mother has been sent her from St. Joe. The situation is not good. She has been made more ill by the actions taken at St. Joe. His anger doesn't override his grief, but his voice speaks the pain of negligence, of lawsuit. The many different issues that bring us here.)
I have made time to write while in the hallway. My makeshift bed all tore down, I sit looking about me. The walls are a dirty cream, not quite a tan with a peach tint. Those chairs--let me get to them in a moment. The floor is carpeted: green mainly, a dark green, probably a hunter green with a cream and barn red in a splattered patterns highlighting the greens. This carpet comes in a darker type pattern as well, which creates a square outline in some areas of the hall--well this one is rectangle. Now for the chairs and couches: a person can witness leaves and twigs, but the lay out of the pattern is very deceptive because squares come in--some squares have tattered edges. There are a few vines with leaves at the tips, but don't stand out. The colors of this pattern also throws a person off: slate gray, off-dirty white, three to four tones of green with a blue hint in them. The couch pattern I've stared at mostly develops its own character, an entity, as if it shifts shapes, moves as if uncomfortable with its being: an eye within a jaw, the jaw jetting out sharply like that of a broken skull where the jaw protrudes. This same pattern repeats, but because of its position on this couch it stands alone.
There are two coffee tables in here; all the tables are alike among the three areas. The top is bordered by light colored wood, the same wood used for the legs (and beneath most likely). It feels like polished compressed wood. The top itself might be formica, a tan, brown mixture of colors in a splattered-marbled pattern.
Oh, those chairs have wood along the back and the cushions are divided by the same wood, making the couches look like individual seats, three side by side. The couches and chairs are wood framed benches of sort.
On one wall hangs a TV--LG; a light switch at the edge of this wall (this is the wall against the centered offices). Across from it, on the other wall, hangs a picture. Until now, I have not noticed it, I have not paid attention to it, nor looked at it.
I will not be finishing this sketch unless my son is placed back into ICU. He has moved to the regular part of the hospital, meaning he is better. There is much more to sketch.
Friday, October 29, 2010
I find myself writing . . .
in my head, but I have no pen, no paper, no laptop, and when I do, I am often too tired, wishing there was a recorder attached to my brain to record the words that come through. I should be sleeping. I said goodnight to my friends, to my family, finished the movie, but find myself here. The one night I can be in bed early. Multiple visions bombard me as each turn of events happen; it is like life projected through a movie camera. Some of you will find this statement odd, bizarre, scary, creepy, while saying, she is nuts: the spirit world will not leave me alone, and I'm not talking dreams alone. I only get peace at night by making sure I say a prayer not only for Vince and the family, but for myself, then fall asleep praying (I must--this is the only relief). For those of you who do not believe, there is no light I can share on this; if you have not experienced it, you will not understand. Many years ago I closed this door. The door is no longer shut. I do not believe I am to shut it, now, or ever again. I ask for continual prayers as I learn to adjust to this life, both dealing with what the family is dealing with and what has returned to me.
Most of my time is now spent in the hospital. If I am not on campus, I am here, with the exception of being home on occasion. Vincent is dictating some my decisions right now. I have managed four nights away since the beginning of this ordeal, only because Vincent has said he felt comfortable with me leaving or because necessity said I had to. If any of you want to help in another way, other than prayers, send up some home cooked meals, plus a gas card or two--if possible (I do not fear begging right now).
As soon as I can, I have a sketch to put up: the hospital hallway I spent most of my nights in. I have many more sketches planned out. Time mostly consists of listening to information, learning the therapies Vincent must do, understanding treatments, grading students' work and planning for classes, making phone calls and texts--texts keeping attached to the outside world, dealing with home issues from the hospital, and working on getting Vincent's paperwork down (with the help of my daughter, who is handling most of that end). If you say you can't imagine this, you are right, you can't. I still can't, but I am doing it. While I am becoming more accustomed to the new lifestyle, it is still surreal (the word that sums it up best). Out of all I have watched done, there is still one aspect I cannot take--the secretions that Vincent must clear from his chest everyday via the trachea. I guess that's my biggest weakest.
If you wish to follow what is happening more closely, my oldest daughter does well keeping Vinny's Journey page posted on FaceBook. If you don't find it with those two words, add PNET, the short term for the type of cancer he has.
I will attempt more journeys here. I need to.
Most of my time is now spent in the hospital. If I am not on campus, I am here, with the exception of being home on occasion. Vincent is dictating some my decisions right now. I have managed four nights away since the beginning of this ordeal, only because Vincent has said he felt comfortable with me leaving or because necessity said I had to. If any of you want to help in another way, other than prayers, send up some home cooked meals, plus a gas card or two--if possible (I do not fear begging right now).
As soon as I can, I have a sketch to put up: the hospital hallway I spent most of my nights in. I have many more sketches planned out. Time mostly consists of listening to information, learning the therapies Vincent must do, understanding treatments, grading students' work and planning for classes, making phone calls and texts--texts keeping attached to the outside world, dealing with home issues from the hospital, and working on getting Vincent's paperwork down (with the help of my daughter, who is handling most of that end). If you say you can't imagine this, you are right, you can't. I still can't, but I am doing it. While I am becoming more accustomed to the new lifestyle, it is still surreal (the word that sums it up best). Out of all I have watched done, there is still one aspect I cannot take--the secretions that Vincent must clear from his chest everyday via the trachea. I guess that's my biggest weakest.
If you wish to follow what is happening more closely, my oldest daughter does well keeping Vinny's Journey page posted on FaceBook. If you don't find it with those two words, add PNET, the short term for the type of cancer he has.
I will attempt more journeys here. I need to.
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