CAREGIVER DIARIES : ON THE OTHER SIDE

I was in bed reading tweets from @zionsays and was motivated by one that read: "Get up and make your way to church". 

I said "Okay" out loud as if the tweeter could hear me.

I had been listening to Youtube messages on Zion's channel for most of the previous evening, and early this morning. (Youtube and streaming worship services--not just for the sick or afflicted anymore.) 

I miss going to church--to an actual brick and mortar location. I do. It used to be a no-brainer. It was just what you did. Didn't everybody?

I was raised to go to church on Sundays. It was mandatory. 

It was a good habit. 

There was a time when there was no thought as to where I would be on any given Sunday morning, Wednesday evening, or whatever day choir rehearsal would be. I knew. 

Going to church and participating in some ministry was like breathing. 

It was normal. 

It was what I was supposed to do. 

It was what I loved to do. 

Sunday was built for church. It was God's day. 

You didn't do anything else. No matter what happened the rest of the week, or on Saturday night, I knew where I would be on Sunday morning. 

Being tired, or not feeling like it weren't options. 

You had to be deathbed sick, or kidnapped, bound, and gagged in some underground bunker to miss church. 

I marvel sometimes at how drastically that has all changed, and ponder when the change happened.

There's a lot about church life that I don't miss, and have no desire to ever experience again, but I do miss regularly being among others who love God, and have a singular desire to worship Him--period. 

No ego-driven show, 

no drama, 

no bullies, 

no committees, 

no ridiculous, manipulative, time-wasting, people-centered, God-starved obligations, activities, practices, or impositions.

Just worship. 

So, I decided this morning, as convenient as online streaming and giving is, I was going to go. I watched as the praise team sang, and as wonderfully as it was transmitting through my ailing computer, I wanted to be in the building. I reminded myself how possible that was now. "You know, you really can go. There's nothing stopping you."

While I was caring for Dad, Sunday became a true sabbath. The Thompsons or Hainsboroughs faithfully picked him up every Sunday morning, and those hours he would be away gave me a chance to regroup. 

Some Sundays, I would just sit at the kitchen table and enjoy the quiet. I needed the rest. I find that I still do, sometimes. 

In a lot of ways, I feel as if, in mind and body, I'm still recuperating from that experience. Sometimes, I give myself permission to do nothing. That, I realize can be debilitating. 

I've never been lazy. I've always had a purpose. I've always been a homebody, too. If I don't have to go, I don't. I don't mind being at home. "Home", however, is about to take on new meaning. 

Taking care of someone is, too. Now, that person is me. 

You'd think that should be easy. Why is it easier to take care of someone else? But I digress...

I got up. I gave myself enough time. I know me. I hate rushing and being rushed--always have. I know I have a tendency to dawdle, or maybe it's normal to just take time to be awake; to walk about a bit; check the house; drink a glass of water; stretch; sit; say hey to God; look out of the window; turn off the night lights; find out what happened in the world while I slept; stretch some more.

I know I can get sidetracked by something I think needs to be done before I go out. I don't know. Maybe it's my upbringing. In my Mother's house, there was no closing doors to hide stuff, or throwing things in closets, and it stuck. Mommy said, "Never leave looking better than the place you left", and "You never know how you're going to have to come back home". 

Yeah. Before I go out, I make sure my bed is ready to crawl back into it. It may not have military corners and folds, but I at least shake out the sheets and comforter and fluff the pillows. No. I don't leave dirty dishes. I make sure there's no trash to take out; no wilted leaves on plants; no unopened mail. It's not a full-out Spring cleaning, but environment matters. I just like being in, and coming back to an orderly place, so I build in time for that kind of stuff.

Yesterday, I decided to gather all of my canvases and put them in the trunk of my car. Today, I noticed there were three I'd missed. I took them upstairs and put them near the kitchen door, washed the bowl and pot I'd left soaking in the sink last night, and put a load of dark clothes in the washing machine. 

I was on a roll. I'd already emptied my dresser drawers, and hung up every article of clothing I owned. I knew there was something ready to throw on. All I had to do was shower, get dressed, and go. 

Then, for some reason, I looked at the remaining artwork I had propped against the hearth of the fireplace. I started rifling through it. There was a print I've always liked, that I'd placed in a pink, 18"x 24" metal frame about two years ago. I remembered there was a nail still in a wall of my bedroom. I don't know what possessed me to take the print to my room and hang it, but seconds after I did, it came crashing straight down to the floor--a carpeted floor--nevertheless, the glass shattered. 

I just stood there, silently staring at the mess for what seemed like a good 5 minutes. "You can't leave that there", I thought. 
I shook my head. 
I'd made work for myself.

The carpet is a bit like camouflage. It's one of those woven designs that looks splotchy; like mange; mildew-y; like a satellite image of a forest. It's good at hiding stuff. I've never liked the carpet, other than its thickness. When the rest of the basement was newly carpeted, the "good" remnant of the mange-y looking carpet was placed in the room simply to cover the cold, tiled floor. The carpet is beige, brown, greenish grey and taupe--in other words, the shattered glass just disappeared into it. 

Only the light above revealed the path of the destruction. 

I knew not to walk barefoot towards the twinkling pieces of glass. 

I also knew the cleanup was a job for the Shop Vac. 

I went upstairs to get it from the laundry room, and grabbed the bucket, too. I put on a pair of thick-soled flip flops. I picked up all of the large pieces of glass and put them into the bucket. Then, I picked up all of the smaller pieces I could see. There were tiny pieces of glass still stuck to the frame, so I plucked those out, and removed the print. 

Underneath the print, there was an old watercolor of my grandmother I'd given to Mommy as a gift. I'd painted my grandmother standing in her yard in front of her house--waiting for her ride to church. 

I shook my head at the irony. 

I knew I shouldn't stop to wax nostalgic, or figure out what I could do to brighten the colors, or grab my cell phone to snap a picture of it and edit it, or call my cousin to see if she wanted it. 

All of those things came to mind, but I put the print, the painting, and the frame aside, then turned on the Shop Vac. 

I went back and forth, up and down, side to side, crisscross, and vertically with that hose until I could no longer hear pieces of glass being sucked into the canister. I vacuumed under and beside the dresser, under the bed, near the closet--all in places where there was no glass, but I wanted to cover all bases. 

When I turned off the Shop Vac, I was sure I'd covered every inch of that carpet, but something told me to get the old Kirby upright vacuum. It's heavy, but I figured I needed to run the "good" vacuum cleaner. 

I lowered the brush so there would be greater suction. It was hard pushing the vacuum with it so close to the floor, but I wanted to make sure there was no more glass embedded in the carpet. I stood back and could see tiny reflections of light, so I ran the vacuum again. 

I found a bag, broke up the large pieces of glass, then placed the bag inside another one. Then I emptied the Shop Vac, and cleaned the bucket to make sure there were no more pieces of glass inside either.
The whole enterprise took a little over an hour--an hour I could have been getting ready to go to church. 

There I was, sweating, tired, and hungry, and no longer motivated to go anywhere. "The devil" I thought. 

"No, ma'am", said the Voice of Reason and Truth. "Nobody told you to hang that picture. You didn't have that to do. What did you do that for? Just couldn't stand seeing those empty walls, huh?"

I went to the bathroom, washed my face and hands, then remembered the eggs I'd boiled yesterday.
"This was not how you were supposed to spend today", I thought as I was making tuna salad. 

I went back downstairs and looked at the thumbtack that also fell when the picture frame fell. It had been strong enough to hold the lightweight canvas that had been on the wall, but not the framed, glass-covered print. Something told me it wasn't going to hold it. It didn't want to. It was as if the wall and the thumbtack yelled "No!" and rebelled and rejected having anything else placed upon them--at least by me anyway. 

That print had been hanging on the wall behind the sofa for a time, and then over the mantle for as long as I've been here, and it had never fallen. It had never been hung professionally, but its weight had never been an issue. 

Today, as soon as I stepped back to admire it, and see if it was crooked, it hit the floor.  

As clear as I bell I heard, "Stop doing home-making type things. Just stop! Yes, you're still here until everything is finalized, so there are things you can, and should do every day just because you're here--and you should care about your surroundings--but you're leaving, remember? Stop hanging stuff as if you're staying. Stop looking for places where you think something will look nice. Stop beautifying. Take down. Take out. Resume packing. It's time to go. If you're gonna make work for yourself, work toward moving out of here."

The picture falling and the glass breaking--even the sound of it breaking, and the silence afterward-- wasn't just Physics for me, it was a sign. There have been other signs. 

In my dream a few nights ago, Mommy was still alive, but she was sick in bed. Several adults invited a group of children to visit, and the children were screaming and running all over the place. I was crying and asking the adults whether they cared if Mommy was sick and needed rest, but they were enjoying a feast at the kitchen table; completely ignoring my pleas and the children's behavior. 

I realized that my purpose for being here has ended. The things I cared about don't matter any more here. 

The people I cared about--my parents--are gone. 

These walls, this house, will soon belong to someone else. 

Someone else will be attending to, maintaining, and decorating them. 

Change can be daunting, but it's time for me to start over, start new, start fresh. The hope of finding and enjoying somewhere else, the community, contentment, comfort, peace, safety, strength, voice, and security that I'd finally found here, is at the forefront of my thoughts, but I remembered what I heard in one of the Youtube messages: "Do it scared".

I didn't like the work I made for myself, or not getting to Zion, but I tried to find some good in it: The service was streaming, the tuna was delicious (even though I didn't have any celery), the carpet is clean, and there's a 3, 5, and 9 PM service I can get to if I want to go--and if I don't dawdle...or try to hang something else. 

#herestolife
#startingover 
#selfcare