Owls and Orchids

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“You can talk with someone for years, everyday, and still, it won’t mean as much as what you can have when you sit in front of someone, not saying a word, yet you feel that person with your heart, you feel like you have known the person for forever…. connections are made with the heart, not the tongue.”
― C. JoyBell C.

There are times when, irrespective of how much you want to talk to someone, the words simply will not come.  You know what you want to say. You know what you need the other person to hear. Try as you might though, it seems as though your tongue is cloven to the roof of your mouth.  Your mind seems to freeze like some small trapped animal and nothing you can think of can break that silent deadlock. The internal frustration mounts to unimaginable levels as your internal struggle continues without result and your mind begins to race in circles searching for a way to break this impasse.

The real question is, why is it so difficult to speak?  What is it that is so tortuous you tie yourself in knots trying to open your mouth to utter those simple words.  I believe one of the main reasons is that it has reached such enormous proportions in your mind that it is no longer a “simple matter” to talk about whatever is troubling you.  If you can find that crucial link, break the chain, the talking will start and then the pressure will ease.  That’s the theory at least.

image courtesy of karaokefreeonline.com  words from – Sleeping With Sirens-Stomach Tied In Knots

The irony is, it is no longer a small problem. That one small problem has been joined by others because they love company and now it has become an insurmountable problem, a veritable smorgasbord of problems.  It has become a giant, insurmountable problem and that is what you cannot begin to talk about.

I’ve tossed and turned (figuratively speaking) for days, wanting to talk and not knowing how.  I know there are no solutions to my problem. This time of year every small issue becomes huge and I get a giant ball in my throat which no words can get past.  Why should this happen every year?  Perhaps that was a small exaggeration.  Until 1997 I adored this time of year. The lead up to Christmas filled me with excitement and happiness.  The shopping for gifts for my family, the decorating of the house and tree, baking, parties,  family and friend visits, it was one gigantic festival, and I loved it.

Each year I would become even more excited than my children as Christmas started to get closer. At the six-week mark, where we are now, I would be bubbling with excitement. Christmas paper, ribbons and tags, gifts, tree and baubles, I was like a small child. It was wonderful!

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Then in 1995 my father became ill – Cancer. There were a tough couple of years after that. My mother was already quite ill herself but we had always managed to keep that special Christmas excitement in our hearts. Then, six weeks before Christmas 1997 Dad had to go into hospital, urgently.  We weren’t given a good prognosis, but then we had known that from the beginning.  There is something even harder about such news at Christmas.  Everyone is having so much fun, there is joy and laughter everywhere – the shops are playing all those Christmas carols.  Yet in 1997 each laugh, each Christmas carol was like a knife in the heart as we watched Dad painfully rush away from us.

Christmas Eve we were told he would be able to come home for Christmas Day.  He seemed to have perked up at being home and it was so difficult to take him back to the hospital that evening.  Boxing Day had always been the day when the family gathered at my home, but it was a subdued gathering knowing Dad was alone in the hospital.  At 11am they called and told us we could collect him and he could come home again. He didn’t have to go back either.  With the family and the air conditioning he was in high spirits and enjoyed himself.  Going home that evening we all felt a little hopeful.  Despite all my research I hadn’t heard of the “surge before dying”.   The week between then and New Years Eve were difficult days.  We watched Dad quickly fading away, the pain returned a hundredfold and we were powerless to do anything.

image courtesy of prodivesydney.com

New Years Day the family spent together, painfully aware that we wouldn’t have Dad with us much longer.  I took my children home early, it was hard enough for adults and even though they were teenagers, it was enough.  I heard the phone ringing as I walked in. The ambulance was just arriving to pick Dad up, he had waited until I had taken the children home.  If only I had gone earlier??  I remember little of that drive back to my parents home.  Mum was too upset and ill to go in the ambulance so my brother had gone with Dad.  After a quick chat to settle her, I sped off to the hospital.  Time is funny, I seemed to have taken an age yet I arrived there about five minutes after the ambulance.  I won’t speculate how that happened!

After seeing Dad I sent my brother home to be with Mum and began the long wait. I wish I could forget that wait but it is indelibly etched in memory.  The staff continually asked him what the date was – as if it mattered. He said the same thing over and over, January second. They thought his mind had gone but I knew what was happening.  We finally got Dad settled in the ward about 11.30pm.  The “long goodbye” began.  At exactly 12.15am on January 2nd Dad passed away.  He knew on some spiritual level when he was going home.  I was relieved, although I knew he was no longer in pain and I was enormously grateful for that, I also felt enormous guilt that I was relieved he had passed away.

We put ourselves under enormous pressure to be what we think we are meant to be.  As the eldest child I was supposed to be the “strong one”.  I’m not sure who decided that but it places an awful onus on that person.  I couldn’t afford to let myself get emotional since I had the responsibility of  making arrangements to help Mum with everything. I also had to look after my children who were devastated with their Granddad’s death.  Ten years later Mum became terminal – at Christmas 2007. She passed away  in March 2008. That’s one I still cannot talk about.

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So this time of year is filled with bittersweet memories, more bitter than sweet.  Now, a dear friend is sitting with her beloved Nan as she leaves this mortal coil and my heart aches as I understand that it is an inevitable part of life, yet it is wrenchingly painful also. The powerlessness we feel to do anything is hard to accept.  So far, it hasn’t made a dint in how I feel knowing that life goes on, they are both in a better place and are still with me in spirit.  I long for their embrace and to see the smiles on their faces.

“Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.”  Kahlil Gibran