What Coping Strategies Can You Share?

In the essence of my world, this story is worth telling.  For those of you who read just about anything I write, you know that my writing is a coping mechanism for some of the things that are surfacing in my psyche since I was orphaned this May.  I am 53.

I am the survivor of violence and sexual abuse.  I am a visible minority in a community that has a way to go before I will ever be totally accepted.  My daughters accuse me in subjecting them to a life of racial ignorance.

In the year before my Mom died, she asked me to help her move back to the building in Scarborough, Ontario, where she still had many friends.  She felt that they had made a bigger effort to stay in touch than some of the people who lived much closer to her. 

When Mom moved to Fenelon Falls, she had wanted to be closer to my daughters.  My cousin also had a small deli on the corner of the block where Mom resided.  It was a good place to drop in and visit the locals.

My cousin moved back to Toronto to help her mother while my uncle was declining in 2005.  When my uncle died in November, Val stayed on in Toronto to help my aunt (my Mom’s only living sister of 4 girls). 

Mom was growing lonely in her apartment.  We couldn’t keep up with her need for companionship.  Talking on the phone for prolonged chunks of time was proving inadequate.  Keeping her satisfied was normally a difficult task.  The more time we physically spent in each other’s presence, the more she would attack me and we would part on bad terms.  My daughters would resent some of the nitpicking that she did if they visited her on their own.

We also had outside assistance from community care.  Several meetings with a social worker provided 25 hours each week of things she could have help with—even to make sure she had eaten.  This activity alternated between a nurse that checked in at least once or twice per week; and a various personal support workers who cleaned, did laundry or prepared some of her meals. 

 When they were not in attendance, my God sister Jane spent time with Mom preparing other meals or bringing supplies.

Mom also had someone to drive her to the acupuncturist office every so many days.  Did I mention that she attended some exercises whenever someone could manage to drive her?  If my son came to take for lunch, he was the elected attendant.  I encouraged Mom to grab at any activity and anyone who was game to help her get there.

We also worked with the forewarning for each event that any day that she felt sick, we would not be offended if she changed plans (even) as we pulled up to the door as to how the day unfolded.  I am very big on writing flexibility into the equation.

I was already stretched other issues closer to my home.   We lived almost an hour apart.

It might have helped if she would come visit.  Visiting my house was not something Mom did, however.   The rolling terrain dominant in my neck of the woods posed problems for her Menieres condition. To get down the road into my drive, she would cling for dear life to the door handles in the car.  In my role as foolish daughter, I would also offer to let her walk down and pick her up at the bottom of the hill.  It never happened.

I did not want her to leave Fenelon Falls to move back to Scarborough or Toronto (a 3-hour drive for us).  I figured if I only saw her sometimes was better than never seeing her at all.  My son had made the same comment.  It is the same driving time for him (about 2 hours—he just does not like Toronto traffic).  Nor would Mom be likely to ever see the girls.  Again, it is that Toronto traffic.

The thing that did help was that I fully support an individual’s right to make decisions for what right feels best.  After a lot of conversation, I could see that she had thought out her arguments extremely well.

So I took to writing to various government offices.  I wrote to her former doctor to ask for his help.  He supplied the necessary documentation to support that her health would be better served back in the building where he made personal calls.  The housing commission asked if Mom were dying.  That would have facilitated immediate priority.  She told me and I wrote to them explaining that while she was not sitting and moping about her plight, she really believed that she would die within the year if she had to endure another winter in her building.  She was that lonely.

I wrote letters to every official and office that I could think of to assist in her efforts.  It hurts to think that the week after she was admitted to hospital, they did accept her for re-location.  She did die within the year of our efforts.

But I actually wrote this to talk of something that happened just prior to Mom being hospitalized.  She had become quite fragile.  I had not realized yet how weak she was becoming as the cancer stole upon her resources.

Here is an example of how I came by my sense of determination. 

Mom called me one day to tell me, “I am singing.”  “Oh?” My obvious and tentative response to the tone in her voice.  “O.K. So tell me why you are singing, Dear.”

This was her story…

“I took some carrot juice out of the fridge and set it on the edge of the counter,” she started.  I prompted in return, “And then?”

“Well I should have known better, but I guess I got distracted and left it there,” again she hesitated.  I prompted some more, “And so?”

“The phone rang and I forgot the jug was there, and knocked it over.  There is carrot juice everywhere,” Mom lamented.  I waited, and then asked, “So what are you going to do?”

“Well.  I looked at the mess and it is too much for me to clean up by myself.  So that is why I am singing.  I had to decide what to do next.  I could cry.  So I thought I had better sing instead.”

I don’t jump to conclusions for anybody.  “My next question is and so what are you going to do now that you are singing?”  “I am still thinking about that,” came her reply.

The conclusion to that little excerpt of conversation was that she called in community care to take care of the mess.  Probably after she got over the shock of the moment.  In retrospect, the cancer was already taking over her body.  That was a good moment for her to work through unexpected drama. 

That mishap could have happened to anyone.  It was how Mom handled the moment that will continue to lift me over some of the hurdles on the days when I am triggered by some memory where her suffering in the final moments was more than I felt I could handle.

I also mentioned that I do not have a “real” job.  My greatest passion is probably the work I have been doing.  However, to do this work, sometimes it seems I live in a vacuum.

It is similar to a discussion I had with the man who cremated my Mom.  We spent hours talking about our professions.  He told me how he came to be in his job.  He was a construction worker and fell from a building.  During the recovery of his injuries, he made some life altering decisions.  As he commenced to implement his decisions, his wife felt sufficiently challenged to decide to leave him while he was away studying. She was not comfortable with his chosen path.

In his commitment to his career path, he had to become more creative to the needs of his family to prevent the break-up of his family. 

He also found resistance from the funeral community in the way he went about developing his business.  The industry fought his uniqueness.  He had to develop creative strategies to stay in business.  They blocked his ability to purchase supplies.  Again he could not fix anyone or anything but his own position.  The nice thing that I witnessed is that he has become their standard point of reference in the industry.

Some years ago, at a retreat, we were discussing things we keep as secret.  Someone shared the secret with us that she never tells people of her profession as a funeral director.

“How Do You Know That This Comes From God?” she asked me…

When I started helping people, my Mom asked if I would sit down with her pastor.  The things of which I spoke went against her ideals of organized religion.  She wanted to know if I was certain I had God and not some kind of impostor at my back.

I had to answer her that Satan and others should not be given such credit.  I have never heard of Satan wanting to “help” people by healing them.  Satan did not offer calm or love or feelings of self-sufficiency.  Satan’s presence from my experience has always seemed to be rather disruptive.

The more you come to know me; the one constant is that I “talk” almost non-stop.  You might not actually hear words, but my brain gets very busy and it is visible.  Those who heal by my presence, find that talk comforting and get quite calm the longer I go on.  Those who will hit a wall before they reach that stage, sometimes become irritable and combative.  They are eager to shut me up.  Healing is based on intent.  When you pray, what is your intent?

I was reading about some people who were struggling with the issues around being financially impoverished.  What came to me was the story of how I came to have some many renovations tools.

As a single parent with limited means, it was difficult to find reliable and trustworthy contractors who are also affordable.  But I see myself as a survivor.  I can do things.  What I cannot do, I figure I can learn.

 why do you write?

In the essence of the my world, prayer is not about going to church or asking God to “fix” what appears broken in life.  It goes a bit deeper than that.

Since I started online writing, I have come across people who struggle with various issues.  Sometimes, it seems to me that my life is one huge struggle.  I even wonder why I would want to live to be a hundred (as used to be my dream).  One day, I looked around and wondered, “Seriously.  What is so great about reaching such an age, if one’s life is in pieces?”

Since then I have had to reflect.  A lot.

The more I talk about me, the more I wonder about you.  I share with you aspects of my history.  My stories may talk about me; but they are based on the need to touch somebody and share.  I need to understand.  After all, I ask lots of questions.  Yes.  I did say that, now, didn’t I?

In the last so many days, I have done little but read and comment on the stories submitted by others  (at least in the Gather.com format).  When I closed up one night for bed, I realized that the more I commented on the work of others, the more invitations I had to join up with others here.  I am blessed.