September 6, 2004

Today I set up a “stamping station” in the spare bedroom. While a young friend had been staying in the room, I employed the den closet to store and use my card making supplies. Now that the small spare bedroom has been vacated it will be the perfect place for our crafts.
Seeing that I needed something to store my stamp sets in I decided on the plastic chest of drawers Steve had kept by his bedside. I grabbed it and the box of his things from the storage room and pulled them into the room that had been Steve’s childhood bedroom. Quietly pulling Steve’s things from the drawers, touching things he had touched, I shed no tears. I was even able to smile at some of the memories held within.

In the top drawer I found a stack of photos. Nic, Chris, and Annette smiled at me as they once smiled at Steve. How many times had Steve fingered these same photographs? I added them to the box.
Tucked behind the pictures were mementos from a night at Boomers where he, Nick, and Robyn spent three hours and about $100 playing games and accumulating more than 5,000 tickets. They came home that night high on fun, laughing and tripping over each other to be the first through the front door, arms full of booty. Among their treasures were two lava lamps, plastic hand held games, noise-makers, small high-bounce balls, and three small putty filled toilet-shaped containers. As soon as they burst into the living room, dumping most of their new toys onto the coffee table, they simultaneously flipped up the lids of the tiny toilets. Pressing the putty with their fingers they filled the room with disgusting, socially unacceptable sounds. In their best dramatic farce they made the facial expressions and body movements to go along with the noises. Their unabashed laughter was contagious!
I opened the lid of the toy toilet I found in Steve’s drawer. The putty had long since dried and stuck to the sides, but memories of that night brought a fresh smile to my face.

In the next drawer were things he needed to keep nearby ~ insulin syringes, alcohol and Betadine wipes, and clips to open the dialysis solution packages. Most of these I was finally able to throw out today. Their dates have expired and they only serve to remind me of the sick Steve. I’d rather have mementos of the healthy, fun Steve.

The bottom drawer was stuffed full of packages of gauze (large rolls, 4x4 squares, and 2x2 squares) and ointments. All for the daily dressing changes he needed to keep the head wound clean and protected.
That head wound seemed to be the only part of Steve that was working right. Only what was happening wasn’t exactly “right”. After the surgery to remove a tenacious infection from Steve’s scalp, his surgeon told us that the only way to repair the 4x5 inch open wound would be by stretching his scalp slowly until the edges would meet, and then to suture them together. It would be a long and painfull process. At the first post op appointment Dr. Kadesky noticed that there was new skin growing along the suture lines of Steve’s skull. He was amazed and told us that this was just didn't happen! He gave us some special ointment and covering to use every day to encourage the growth. By the time Steve died seven months after the surgery new skin covered more than three quarters of the opening. At each appointment the doctor took pictures of Steve’s progress. These pictures were tucked into the drawer with the bandages. I opened the small photo album to look at them again. For the first time my eyes remained dry as my finger traced the edges of Steve’s open scalp.

I finished carefully packing these memories into the box with Steve's few possessions, and put it on the shelf in place of the drawers. I returned to our new Craft Room without a dark cloud over me and organized the supplies, anticipating fun times with my kids and grandkids.

I’ve been meditating at least once a day. It’s still very relaxing, though I haven’t had another experience quite as profound as the first waterfall experience. I do continue to pass through the waters and feel refreshed.

September 3, 2004

As I meditated today I did what I thought was impossible. I came to the glass wall that blocks my path and stood there a moment peering into its seeming endless depth. I drew a deep breath, and in a leap of faith imagined stretching my right leg forward. Forward not into a glass wall but into water. Falling water. Cleansing, purifying, healing water, cascading over my body, taking my breath away in wonder as it washed me clean ~ heart and mind. I felt myself pass all the way through and, in my mind, opened my eyes to see more sheets of falling water spaced farther and farther apart, each becoming less thick and until finally I can see a mist that stretches out as far as a lifetime.
But it isn’t intimidating any more. I know that the water is here to aid in my healing. I feel light, like I have finally offered my pain to God, and He will not be weighed down by it. He is up to the task (His promise) to turn my sorrow into joy in His own perfect time.

With confidence ~ assuredness

and grace ~ a free gift from God, an ease of movement

I step boldly into ~ enter without fear

my ~ I am unique, my being and my life are uniquely mine

future ~ every moment from now on

for I am ~ God has made me what I am and I am to do my best with what I am given

a woman of ~ created for a purpose

strength. ~ to deny this strength is to deny the strength of Christ in me

I release ~ I can actively let go of pain,

the need to hold on to ~ it isn’t mine anymore

pain and grief ~ the worst we can imagine will be washed away

for I trust God’s ~ and no other, God is in all

universal ~ from the tiniest particles of matter to the vastness of all creation, God is in all, and all is...

perfection.

All is well in my world.

September 1, 2004

Yesterday and today I’ve been able to sit down for some quiet meditation time. It’s so hard to calm my busy mind but when I get into a comforting rhythm repeating the phrase in my mind, I see before me a long, path through a thick forest. The path is almost straight and it's as narrow as a deer trail. On each side evergreen trees tower over my head blocking the sun’s light.

Today as I walked along the path I came to a barrier. I couldn’t see it. I only know it’s there because I felt myself bump into it. In my mind it seems to be a clear glass wall ~ as thick and as high and as deep as forever. I cannot go around or over this wall because I can’t see the end of it in any direction. The wall is so perfectly transparent I can’t even see it as I look straight ahead. I only know it’s there because I keep bumping into it during my meditation.

But I know that I live by and in God’s grace, and it is time to give my grief to Him who, as impossible as it seems, heals ALL.

August 31, 2004 10:45 PM

I just fully realized that I haven’t felt deeply connected to people or activities like I used to. I feel superimposed onto a screen playing the movie of my life. I care, I care for, I participate, but not with the enthusiasm and joy of life that I used to feel. It’s so hard to explain. I’m not uncaring about my loved ones. I care. I hurt with them when they hurt. And I can be deeply hurt by them. But something is grossly different. I feel detached from everyone and everything around me. I don’t even feel connected to me lately.

I’m not sure when this started or how long I’ve felt this way. After Steve died there was a long time of deep intertwining with all of our family. I remember feeling connected to them at my marrow. I don’t think pinpointing the onset of this disconnection matters but I do think integrating the “two Debbies” will help solve this inconsistency. We both need to feel the same thing at the same time. I cannot fully live while depending on another entity, even though it’s just another me, to carry my difficult emotions for me. I have to do the feeling of the bad stuff myself or I may never be able to feel the good stuff either.

August 31, 2004 3:00 PM

I thought I was going in for a nice relaxing massage today as I redeemed the gift certificate I received for my birthday. Instead it turned out to be a therapeutic massage addressing my grief.
When I was all settled onto the table the therapist asked if there was anything she should be aware of. I know she meant things like aches and pains, but I told her “I’m still struggling with unresolved grief since the death of my son more than a year ago.”
She pulled a stool to the head of the table and sat down. “We can work on this if you’re ready.”
“Of course I’m ready. I’m so tired of constantly feeling like I’m drowning.”
How can I not be ready to get through this?

As she found the most painful areas on my back with her strong hands the therapist gave me a phrase to repeat. She asked me to say it aloud a few times before I started repeating it silently in my mind.
“With confidence and grace I step boldly into my future for I am a woman of strength. I release the need to hold on to pain and grief for I trust God’s universal perfection. All is well in my world.”
The first few times, the words felt hollow as they fell from my lips. Tears began to seep from my closed eyes as I forced myself to repeat the phrase because I do not feel confident and I do not feel strong.
After three repetitions I took a deep breath and said it like I meant it, bringing a moment of clarity that took my breath away.
I have not yet stepped into my future. I have simply allowed the tide of time to carry me along as I cling to the past. I have been half-heartedly trying to move forward without actually taking that step into my future.
I don’t think I can take that step until I integrate my two selves, the grieving me and the work-a-day me. I have believed that we could live side by side but now I know that only one of us can step into MY future. In order to make that step we need to become one.
Only as one, complete person can I take that bold step into my future.

I came home feeling battered and drained but with a slightly altered view of my future.....