#30, June 25, 2015, Where to Stand

For my own sanity, I have to admit that I am suffering—and not able to appreciate every day the privilege of caring for Dave. There is frustration, too—the disappointment of lost abilities and canceled plans, the contradiction of how he looks and sounds with what he says, the weariness of all that needs to be done.

I am almost always tired. I would like to say that it is not the sacrifice that wearies me, but sometimes it is. Bryan is coming home this weekend so I can go to Milwaukee and that much is good, but there is anxiety in being away, too. 

I want it to be over.

I want him back healthy.

I will not get what I want.

So what is the purpose of this place? I am in school—God’s school. I am learning empathy, obedience, patience, unselfishness. I am learning to seek pleasure in and hope for what is promised rather than what is happening. This is my training. This is my war. I did not earn it, but it is given me for my betterment by God. If I am to succeed, I must find firm purchase in Him alone.

#29, June 22, 2015, Aiming to Soar

Second day of summer. Dreamed about getting a job in the courthouse, woke with the excitement of it. But that, of course, is not possible.

Read about the holiness of subjecting ourselves to one another—how God is both training and restraining me.

Dave dreams almost every night and likes to go for drives to look at the lush countryside. It is life for him. The green hills fill him with delight.

Maybe I will start to take him to rehab. It seems like he is getting weaker—eating less and losing vitality again. Like his body sinks. Would like to see his spirit, at least, soar. I wonder if I can help him?

Image: Chapman Cultural Center

#28, June 21, 2015, Not Amused

So here we are, at the longest days of the year, and I want to taste the loveliness of life, and lean into it, and be wrapped in it. Instead, I feel beset by trouble.

The whole cat thing still bothers me and I don’t know why. Then this weekend, Bryan came home to treat Dave to two things he wanted to do—a concert and a good French dinner—and Dave was too ill to do either of them. 

Feeling trapped by unchangeable circumstance. People crowd in and I’m feeling like I need to be alone. I’ve often said that to love God is to accept what comes my way as OK. Not doing so well at that just now. 

Oddly, I do best when nothing presses—no visitors, no holidays, no outside commitments. These days, even when they bring hardship, go more smoothly. They don’t ask more than I can give. Add one more thing, one more hard or unexpected need or requirement, and I am dismantled.

So am I reacting wrong in design or implementation? In implementation, without doubt. I don’t trust after all. Circumstances still drive me over the top, steal my peace. I feel undone.

Today is Sunday and as I read my Bible and pray it, as I study a book about monastic culture, I realize a couple of things. First, that monks made no apology for seeking eternal meanings in everything they did or read. I have been mocked for this, thought too high and mighty that I couldn’t or didn’t want to enjoy a large dose of simple entertainment. 

But, and the 2^nd thing—I’m wondering whether my current unease results from reading a good but not eternally significant Stephen King book and, at the same time, passing odd chunks of time playing a computer game. This morning, as I settle into serious reading, the knot in my stomach loosens and rattled nerves soothe a bit. Maybe I am not made to be amused.

Image: PinCaption

#27, June 19, 2015, Another Dead Cat

This is the next in a series of transcripts from my journal, written during the last year of Dave's life.

I’m writing this as a matter of record because I haven’t yet worked it out—maybe I don’t want to.

 One of Dave’s cats took ill yesterday—panting and not coming upstairs. Weak looking. Reluctantly, I made an appointment at the vet, letting Dave go to PT by himself. I stopped at Robin’s on the way there and when I got to the vet, I let the cat out of its carrier and she seemed sick, but relatively normal. When the doctor walked into the room, however, the cat went stiff and stuck her tongue out, gasping. He doc applied the stethoscope. The cat was dead. Just like that. Without any preamble, right in the middle of its life, wanting to get on with other things. Alive one minute and dead the next. When I got home and buried her, I kept thinking it was a mistake. She was still warm. But her eyes, they were all cloudy.

So this is the way it goes, I keep thinking. I’d never see anything die before. It just—goes. And I wonder now, is this the way it’s going to be? Not with warning, but suddenly, with no goodbye? It could. It happened to Robin and Nick.

The odd part is all the life that surrounded it. Meeting Robin’s boyfriend and buying strawberries, talking to Bryan about today’s dinner plans. None of that changed.

The cat didn’t look dead, either, except for her eyes. And all I wanted to do was apologize for every casual brush-off I’d given her—only a cat—and one of the other 12 we still have—unwilling sharers of this life. Something I really didn’t want but didn’t want to die either.

So, I know this—I will still have massive regrets. There are no do-overs.

Oh, God, have mercy.

And He says, I AM.