Tag: parents

A New Plan

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

You know when you sit down to write your blog or finish it, and you have a plan…a perfectly good plan. Maybe even an interesting plan (you hope)…and instead of following the plan, which is what you’ve focused on, your writing takes you here….

When I was 29, I was in the middle of a divorce. My husband at the time had informed me he was gay…well, that makes it sound like we sat down and talked about it. He informed me by having affairs. Although he said a one-night stand was not an affair. I’m not sure the label really mattered. We were in a marriage counselors office, and the pastor of our church was there with us. I don’t remember why he was there, but he was a friend. The counselor began the session by asking a question, “Can we all agree that at this point (fill in name here) has not acted on his feelings?” I said yes right away. I can’t remember if my husband said yes or nothing. When she got to the pastor, he said he couldn’t answer the question. This is where you’d inject the Debbie Downer music. Seriously, where does a counseling session go after that. I don’t remember anything anyone said the rest of the hour. On the way home he confirmed that he had in fact had an affair…or one night stand or whatever the fuck you want to call it. He didn’t volunteer the information, but he did answer me honestly when asked.

Our separation began that day. I told him he had to go until he decided what he wanted. He didn’t think he wanted to be married anymore…at least not to me. Now if you’re thinking, “They’re both gay?” That’s true we are. I’ve written about it before. Look at my blog post “Gay by Design” and you’ll get your questions answered…or email me. I won’t go back through the whole story now because that’s not where I’m headed…at least I don’t think so. I’ve been surprised once already today.

So, we separated. He, thinking this was a short-term problem, started sleeping on the couch at his office. It was a family run business, and his mom was his boss…and a lovely person. I don’t know why he thought this would be a quick reconciliation, but he did. I was at home with a 4-year-old, a 2-year-old, and a 4-month-old infant. So, I was bored. Lol…that would be hysterical, right!?

All of this was taking place in Colorado. I graduated from the University of Colorado, got married, and then made my home there. I always said Chicago was a good place to be from…and I was. I went to junior high and high school in Naperville, the fastest growing suburb of Chicago at the time. Before my wedding, my parents moved back to St. Louis, where my sister and I were born and where my parents grew up. Now the scene is set….

So, I was talking to my mom one day…on the phone of course…and I was stressed. Have you ever noticed how all your children need you NOW as soon as you pick up the phone? It’s a law of nature. I don’t remember what we were talking about, but my mom wanted me to move back to St. Louis and live with them. She wanted me to move “home.” I told her that Colorado was my home now and that I wasn’t going to move. I would not take my kids away from their dad…plus it seemed like a bad idea, although I know she was offering me help. I said no and she said, “That’s okay. You won’t make it out there by yourself and you’ll end up back here.” Excuse me, what the fuck did you just say? That was what I thought but I said nothing. That moment is seared into my memory, so I feel confident that this was her exact quote. Need I say this was not the best time of my life.

I was stunned. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. In my mind I wondered if she wanted me to fail. And why would she? I got off the phone fast. I was devastated. Who says that to their daughter? Their daughter going through a divorce with 3 children under the age of 5? Why would she say that to me? My self-confidence was already at an all time low. And this wasn’t just about me. I had 3 little precious humans looking to me for security and answers to why daddy didn’t want to be married anymore. They depended on me to make everything okay for them even after their world was turned upside down. If I was okay, they knew they’d be okay. I was about as far from okay as you can be but my 3 little babies depending on me was more than enough motivation. Children take their cues from us, so I needed to fake it until I really was okay again.

So, we survived and lived happily ever after…yay. That’s not the point of the story. I’ve been reading about trauma and core language…as in what your core beliefs are that you communicate to yourself. Turns out I have a core message rumbling around in this head telling me that I won’t make it. I’ll never make it…I will always fail. At what specifically? Everything. The things that make you “successful.” In my family, a career and money were the main factors in success. A job people would ohhhh and ahhhh at and enough money to set yourself apart from others…providing a feeling of superiority. Being a “have” and not a “have not.”

Divorced with 3 babies…not a “have” for sure. A degree in psychology…but I “don’t know anything about psychology.” A master’s degree in counseling…but that wasn’t from a “real” school. A child protection worker…let someone else do that. Law degree…check. (I got one). A lawyer representing abused and neglected children…was I afraid to make money? I never even mentioned my last master’s degree. No point. Developed and ran a mindfulness program for young children…a what? So many fails. So many “not enoughs” … not even close.

I’ve heard the definition of sin as “missing the mark.” I think that may be the definition of my life according to my parents, not the sin part, but always missing the mark. Never quite got it right. Never making it…according to them.

But here’s the thing, my thoughts, my actions, my beliefs, my feelings are mine. All mine. They are my choices. No one else makes those choices for me. So, when I hear negative messages about myself, I have a choice…believe it or ignore it. Now when I was younger, it didn’t feel like much of a choice. Kids, even adults, believe what their parents tell them…because parents are supposed to know. Right? It took a long time to learn that just because they said something and they believed it didn’t make it true. It makes it their opinion. That’s all. Certainly, they’re entitled to their opinion…I wish they had not shared them so freely.

But now, now I’m a grown ass women (as my daughter loves to say) and I make my own choices. I decide what I believe about me…not my parents, not anyone else. Even though my parents are dead I still hear their voices in my head. Repeating messages of the past. The question now is how I respond to those voices, theirs and others. Everyone has an opinion. If I go along blindly with whatever the opinion of the day is about me then I abdicate my responsibility to myself. That would be failing…not making it…not succeeding. My success is not something I owe anyone, except myself. And I am the only one who knows what success looks like for me.

We become what we believe…what we think. With our thoughts we create the world. That’s why individuals can experience the same event and each interpret it differently and respond to it differently. We see differently because we think differently. We see differently because the framework through which we see the world and make sense of it is unique to each of us. We all have a story of what is real or not real, true or false, accepted or rejected. Everything we see, hear, feel, or experience goes through that story…the narration of our life…according to us.

I can be taught to believe certain things. I can be told all sorts of stories. And I can experience a lifetime of challenges or successes. Ultimately, the only thing that’s real and true for me is what I tell myself. What I believe is what I make real. That is what is true for me. I am the only person with the power to change the story that I have created about my life. Only me. I created it. I can change it. It is a tremendous act of self love to tell myself the truth…to tell yourself the truth. It requires awareness on my part. To know myself well enough to know what’s true. And the wisdom to know that what’s true today may not be true tomorrow…because I am always changing. You are always changing.

I want to be more…more kind, compassionate, loving, understanding, flexible, open, present, aware. I want that for me. I want that for you. Because in the end all that matters is how we love people. Love yourself enough to know yourself. Love other people enough for them to feel safe in sharing who they are. And believe them when they show you. Whatever the question is, love is the answer…always.

Off The Edge

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

It took me a long time to recognize this low-level anxiety that lives inside me. I feel like I am always on edge. Always expecting the next bad thing…the next person to hurt me or leave me without explanation. The next person to blow up at me, blame me, or take their anger out on me. The next crisis I need to be ready for. Being mentally and physically on edge contributes to me being on edge emotionally. All the time. It is exhausting.

I have been trying to create a way to mourn the loss of my mother. I am not sure how to do that when I feel angry at her. I’m hurt that she was so mean to me. I don’t know if I miss her because I haven’t been able to get past the other feelings. I feel guilty because I am relieved not to deal with her explosive outburst anymore. I don’t miss her hanging up on me multiple times a day. The years I spent away from her I wondered why she didn’t try to work things out with me or love me enough to fight for me. The years I lived with her in Florida, I understood that she hated me. That’s what she told me. That’s how she acted. She didn’t fight for me because she didn’t want me.

Now she’s gone and I am not sure what to do with all of that. I need to find a place where I can accept the situation as it was and accept her as she was…flaws, bitterness, cruelty and all. She wasn’t one thing. She wasn’t just mean. She wasn’t just angry. She wasn’t just cruel. She could be kind. She could be generous. She could be loving.

I am not one thing either. I am not just a person on edge. I am not just someone with anxiety. I can be kind. I can be generous. I can be loving. I’m a mix of all those things and more. Just like her. Sara Bareilles has a song called, “She Used to Be Mine” and she talks about this…sings about it. This song could be about me…or my mom. I’m not perfect but I try. I’m hard on myself and struggle with asking for help. I’m messy and I’m kind. I’m all those things smooshed together to make me.

The song goes on to talk about things coming into our lives that we don’t ask for and they shape us into who we are today…even if it’s not what we asked for…or not who we expected to be. I want to be willing to take risks. To be hurt but not destroyed. I want to be tough enough that when I get bruised, I can use that to grow stronger and more sure of myself. And when I feel stuck, for example now, I can rekindle a fire inside of myself to keep moving forward toward the person I am and the person I am meant to be.

I have been trying to create a ritual for myself to let her go. To let the experiences I had with her go. And to let the things she said to me go. I have felt heavy under the weight of her thoughts and feelings about me. I recently wrote about changing my name from Karen to Kai. Needing to move away from Karen because that’s the name she yelled at me and the name of the person she hated. This week I decided to change my name legally. The new name felt like a game of make believe. And I’m not playing a game. I’m creating the path to reclaim myself as myself…not who she said I was. I’m not trying to disown her or my family. I am taking steps to own myself and my identity. That’s mine to create, not hers to impose.

I had not planned to change my name legally. I surprised myself. I filled out the paperwork and I filed the petition. It’ll take a few months for the change to be ordered. I may have to attend a hearing to tell a Judge why I want to change my name. I’m not sure it’s really anyone else’s business why…of course that will not be my answer if the Judge asks. An attitude will get me thrown in jail…this is Florida after all. There was a ton of paperwork to fill out and get notarized before I could file the petition. I guess they’re making sure I’m not changing my name because I am on the run from law enforcement. I’m not. I promise.

I was not sure how I would feel after I filed the paperwork. I felt relief. I felt like a giant chain that weighed me down, with other people’s opinions fell away. I was standing up for myself. I felt like I was claiming my own identity without the input of my mom. This is me regardless of what she thinks or what she might have said. She would have been angry about the change. She would have taken it as a rejection of her. It is not about her at all. It is about me…claiming my own power and not allowing anyone else to tell me who I am or how I should be myself. The change is because of me not her. This is who I am. This is who I continue to become.

The acceptance I want to find for myself, I want to find for her too. I do not think my mom’s life turned out how she imagined, and she was bitter. I had no control over that. I did not ruin her life, regardless of what she thought. I loved my mom. We had a challenging relationship. In the end I was working to change it…make it better. That didn’t happen but it doesn’t mean I didn’t love her or that I didn’t try.

Loving is hard. I try my best, but I am not always great at it. I hope my love can be a solid ground for someone else. I always say that in the end all that matters is how we love people. So regardless of what happens I move forward and remind myself that I did not give up on love today.

Do not give up on love today. Never give up on love. Love always wins.

Hurricane Milton…Or A Tiny Little Rose?

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

While my parents were alive and living with my wife and I, we occasionally talked about their deaths and their last wishes. Neither of them wanted any kind of service or memorial. No wake. No funeral. No casket. They wanted to be cremated. I asked them what they wanted done with their ashes. My dad said, “Just throw them away.” And my mom, as only she could, said, “Just throw them on the ground and walk all over me like everyone has my whole life.” So, I told them both “I’m not doing that” and suggested that we put them in the Gulf. They agreed or gave me their version of “whatever.” I was happy to take that as a yes.

When my sister came for a visit, the topic came up again. That must be super annoying for people in their 80’s and 90’s, everyone always bringing up your death and pushing you to plan for it. I was thinking my plan is to avoid it as long as possible…as if it is up to me. My sister said that we could send the ashes to Switzerland and have them made into blue diamonds. And why you may wonder? So, we could have a crown and put the blue diamonds in it. And then as each person dies another stone gets added to the crown. I said, “Who’s gonna wear all the dead relatives on their head?” I don’t remember her response. Mine was, “It’s sure as shit isn’t gonna be me.” Then she said we could have them compressed and made into frisbees and send them flying out into the Gulf. I’ve got to admit that one sounded fun…probably only because I wouldn’t be one of the frisbees. We had some good laughs with my parents over both of those ideas. I know you can find all kinds of stuff on the internet but who searches for what to do with someone’s ashes…besides my sister, I’m not sure. My sister is super funny and a great storyteller…she had both covered here.

In the end, of course, it was up to us. We decided that Kathy, Rick (sister and brother-in-law), Gayle and I would go out on a boat together and spread their ashes into the Gulf of Mexico. We found a place in Dunedin that has daily boat trips called “Burial at Sea” that are specifically designed for spreading ashes. I guess “burial at sea” is hard to remember because my brother-in-law referred to it as “the death boat.” Naturally that’s the name that stuck.

Of course, as soon as we had a simple plan our adult children chimed in and wanted a seat on the boat…they were their grandparents after all. And since they all have children, all the great grandkids would be here too. So, we arranged for the death boat October 14th at 1:00. Fortunately, it’s a big boat because we went from 4 people to about 20. We finalized plans for places to stay and food for a meal together after the death boat. And then there was Milton.

One of the reasons we picked Clearwater for retirement is because Tampa hasn’t been hit by a major hurricane in 100 years…and we’re about 15 minutes from Tampa. Now Milton was threatening to end that streak. WTF?! Hurricane Helene had just devastated the big bend area of Florida. We waited and hoped that Milton would decide to go somewhere else. Although, you can’t really hope that the hurricane hits someone else. I was hoping it would just evaporate…. that would have been the most convenient outcome. Clearly, I missed my calling as a scientist.

If you saw any news at all you are aware that Milton did not just go away. It became a category 5 hurricane. It did shift south and so Tampa, and Clearwater were spared a direct hit, but it was crazy. We were on the outer edge of the eye of the hurricane. We didn’t get raindrops, not even big ones. We had walls of water falling…wall after wall of rain for hours. All the while, the wind raged. We had wind speeds up to 129 mph. Milton was a category 3 storm when it hit the Florida gulf coast.

I had panicked calls and texts from family and friends worried for my safety. My wife wanted me to go to Atlanta. It was not that simple. First, I was not under an evacuation order. More importantly, I had less than a quarter tank of gas. “90 miles,” said my car. Now I’m not good with geography but even I know you cannot get to Atlanta with 90 miles worth of gas. And in case you’re thinking, “Why would she not have filled the tank sooner?” “Poor planning.” That’s a little judgy of you. I did not fill my tank because there was no gas…as in none, nada, zip, zero. I went to numerous gas stations, and they all had the little yellow bags on the pumps, like they do when they’re broken, with the addition of plastic wrap. All the pumps were prepared for Milton…and all the gas was gone. That was Tuesday. I couldn’t get gas until Monday. By that time my car was finding a gas station for me.

That was the beginning of Milton. The serious warnings began Monday. They were amped up on Tuesday and included evacuation orders for zones A, B, C, and all mobile homes. We live in zone D. The airports closed Tuesday morning. Everything else closed Tuesday afternoon. So, the death boat plans were quickly sinking. We didn’t even know if the boat place would still exist on Sunday. Our outing seemed incredibly unlikely…even more so after the airport closed, and all the flights were cancelled. I’m pretty good at recognizing the obvious. No ashes were leaving my house that weekend.

When I was talking to my wife, during the hurricane, and sending her videos, I told her that I thought my mom was fucking with the weather. She said, “Your mom has no control over the weather.” I told her I wasn’t so sure. The next day I was talking to my sister, and she mentioned that Rick thought my mom was causing the hurricane because she doesn’t want to be in the water. My mother was afraid of water her whole life. I wonder why she agreed to a burial at sea. I’ll never know. I was texting my nephew, to give him an update on the death boat and Milton. He told me that he wondered if maybe Roro (that’s what all the grandkids called her) brought the hurricane. And finally, I was talking to my daughter, and she told me she thought the same thing. I don’t know if my mom can influence the weather, but me and the family believe she can and she did.

So, there will be no burial at sea. Florida can’t take another round of the “wrath of Rose.” We have an alternative plan. Their ashes will be spread in New York somewhere my parents loved. They spent a lot of time at my sisters. They’d visit for 3 or 4 weeks at a time. That’s where their final resting place should be. They were happy there, surrounded by the love of their grandkids and great grandkids…and of course Kathy and Rick.

I hope in the spring my side of the family can travel to New York and give my parents their final resting place…at last. A lot of love and planning went into our decisions for my parent’s ashes. I hope they could feel that. Because in the end all that matters is how we love people. And they were loved…still are.

When I’m 64

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

So, I had a weird thing happen this week. First, it’s my birthday week. I currently have a line from a Beatles song in my head, “Will she still need me, will she still feed me when I’m 64.” And I’m about to find out…although she doesn’t usually feed me because she hates to cook. Anyway, my wife had to go back to Colorado for work. So, I am here in Florida, and she is far away in Colorado.

In case you want to feel sorry for me, don’t. I’m not here alone. My stepson, Justin, is here with me. He just moved here about 10 days ago…and of course we have the Bulldog sisters too. That’s our dog, Abby, and her sister, Presley. Presley is Justin’s dog. They are sisters but from different litters. They are so much alike it’s crazy. They are both so fucking stubborn. And they even sleep the same. It reminds me of the theme song of The Patty Duke Show…”they walk alike, they talk alike, what a crazy pair….” Yep, I’m 64 alright…and that show was in black and white. Anyway….

A few days ago, I noticed a package sitting on the table by our front door. It seemed like it just appeared there. I asked Justin about it, and he told me he brought it in the night before. I hadn’t noticed it until the morning. I thought it was strange that the package was addressed to my dad. My dad died almost a year ago…so he didn’t order it.

Being quite brave, I decided to open the package…the next day. Inside the package was a book called Walking the Himalayas. That was weird. I had wanted to read that book for a couple years. It was in my Amazon cart. There was no note in the box and no return address. It was really strange.

I puzzled over the package for a bit and then I came to the only reasonable conclusion…my dearly departed dad sent it to me. That had to be it! This makes sense for so many reasons…my dad died so no one is sending him gifts anymore. Also, there wasn’t a note with the book. And no one would send my dad a book because he couldn’t read anymore because of his macular degeneration. And finally, it’s a book I wanted and it’s my birthday. It was definitely from my dad. I told Justin all of that and he appropriately responded with, “Whoa.” Ya whoa!

I was pretty excited to share this news with my wife when we talked that night. I told her the story and all my well thought out reasons why the book was from my dad. She did not say whoa…she said something to the effect of, “oh, crap.” Not her exact words but the emotion was there. She then told me that my sister had texted her and asked what I’d like for my birthday. Gayle told her to look at my list on Amazon…I know you’re following me here. Then my sister told her she was sending a book, Walking the Himalayas, and it would be addressed to our dad but that it was for me…and I should not open it until my birthday.

Well, my sister thought the story was funny and she jokingly asked me to thank Gayle for her. When I shared that with Gayle, we both had a good laugh. I’m grateful for the gift from my sister…even though I opened it before my birthday. I’m sure my dad would have wanted me to.

So happy birthday to me and go Rays! I’m off to a baseball game today where I can be my geeky self and keep my scorecard. I appreciate all the love for my birthday…and it turns out she will still need me when I’m 64…I can feed myself. Remember that in the end all that matters is how we love people. So, let’s love enthusiastically.

Difficult Teachers

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

I was catching up on the tv show “The Good Doctor” earlier this week. This is the final season so I guess it’ll be extra dramatic…as if a drama needs more drama. Anyway, a main character was murdered. He was killed in an anti-Semitic, anti-gay hate crime. Being a card-carrying member of the LGBTQ+ community that was difficult to watch…even when it’s not real…probably because it is real. So, Asher died and there was very sad funeral. All the people were crying, and I started crying. Pretty soon I was sobbing…and sobbing.

Have I mentioned that I’ve been having a hard time grieving for my parents? I guess mostly for my mom. I have such mixed-up feelings about her. I’ve been pretty shut down…sad but shut down. I feel confused about grieving for someone I loved so much but was angry at and deeply hurt by. I have unresolved feelings about her and I’m not sure how to resolve them or come to terms with them…or even just how to not allow her to hurt me anymore. I realize she’s gone but I have an excellent memory…and she was a powerful figure in my life.

I read a story about Buddha where he talked about a personal attendant of his who aggravated him and made him angry. His attendant was difficult to deal with. Buddha had the choice to send him away, but he didn’t. He said that it’s the difficult people in our lives who are our best teachers. Those are the people who challenge us to really look at ourselves honestly. My mom was definitely one of those people for me.

Growing up I didn’t want to be like her. I was afraid of her. I think I developed my personality in reaction to her…or reaction against her. I am who I am in large part because of her. I had an idea of who I thought she was, or how I thought she was, and I was determined not to be like her at all.

I never thought I was much like my dad either until my parents lived with us. I have some the the same quirky habits he had. My wife would say annoying not quirky. If he wanted something to eat, he’d tell you, but he’d also tell you exactly how he wanted it. For example, chicken noodle soup in a cup, not a bowl, with a chicken leg in the cup so the soup would warm it up. Or 3 crackers with a small spoon of cheese spread, and 3 olives. My mom got so mad at him for that. I got mad at him for mansplaining to me how to clean up my dogs’ vomit…so I understand the frustration. When my wife offers to make me a sandwich, I give instructions too…very specific instructions. That is why she doesn’t make me sandwiches anymore. I get that.

In a song from the musical, “Wicked” called “For Good.” It’s Elphaba and Glenda singing about their friendship. When they first met, they hated each other…there’s a song called “What Is This Feeling” and what they feel for each other is loathing. But I digress…the change song talks about people coming into our lives for a reason, which we may or may not understand. They come to teach us something. We are led to people who will help us to grow. The women say that because of their friendship they’ve been changed for good…as in permanently. They question whether they’ve been changed for the better but definitely for good. At the end of the song, they say that because they knew each other, they have been changed for the better…and for good.

I became who I am because of my parents. I was definitely changed for good…and I think for the better. There’s an ebb and flow in relationships…all relationships. There are times we’re closer to someone and times we feel more distant. Sometimes we need the proximity and sometimes we need the space. Relationships are constantly changing and constantly in motion. That continuous flow changes us. Rocks are shaped by the movement of water. Water wore through rock over millions of years and as a result we have the Grand Canyon.

People are shaped by movement as well. The movement of negotiating relationships…all of them. Personalities rub against each other and the rough edges of who we are, the things we cling to smooth out over time. They change us for good. We are not the same person we were at the beginning of the relationship. They also change us for the better if we are intentional about our relationships and our interactions. We become more of who we were meant to be…we become more truly who we are.

Some people believe that we chose the life and family we’re born into long before we are ever born. Maybe I did. Maybe I chose all the pain and challenges I was born into. I know that because I knew my parents, as my parents, I was changed for good, and I was changed for the better. I am a better person because of them.

Let’s be real…we are shaped and sculpted by all the relationships we have in our lives. And we are a force that shapes others as well. Let’s lead with love in all of our interactions. Let’s be aware of what we’re doing and how we are impacting the people we come into contact with each day. Let’s love to change people for good, and because they knew us, for better. Because in the end all that matters is how we love people…let’s love them well.

Where She Go?

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

When our soon to be 13-year-old grandson, Anthony, was a toddler, and he couldn’t find something, he’d say, “Where she go?” It was funny and adorable and not usually about a person…just something missing. He’d put his arms out with his palms up and turn his head side to side, and look around quizzically as he said, “Where she go?” I’m not sure why it was all “she.” It might have been as simple as him having a lot of women in his life. His two grandmas took care of him every day, and he had two other grandmothers, as well as, two sisters, and of course his mom. There were a lot of “she” in his life.

Yesterday I was sending out letters telling banks and creditors that my mom died. I was looking at the death certificates for both of my parents and I felt panic…where she go? How can she be gone? It’s the panic a child feels when they wander away from their mom in a store and when they turn around, they don’t see her. Where she go? Where the fuck are my parents asks the lost child and the panicked adult? Now I’m not wondering if they’re in heaven or hell…I don’t actually believe in either. I mean how could they possibly have death certificates? Only dead people have those. Why can’t I find her? She’s definitely missing. 

I packed up my mom’s clothes and have them loaded up for a donation today. All that’s left is pictures and memories. I just typed that sentence and remembered Jim Croce had a song in the 70’s called “Photographs and Memories.” My sister always said I liked sad music. She might be right…I did like his music…and it is kind of sad. Pictures and memories are what I have left of my parents. They are what remains for me to remember them. It doesn’t feel like enough…at least not today.

I feel untethered. Set adrift to…I have no fucking idea where. That feels a little risky…not knowing where I’m going. I’m 63 years old. I have plans and goals. I have a family. We moved to Florida to retire. I know where I’m going. I don’t know where I’m going with my parents…or my mom. There were years that I did not see my parents or talk to them, from 50 to 61, although I’m not sure why. I’m sure they had their reasons; I just don’t know what they were. I guess it doesn’t matter now. It seems that feeling untethered is a familiar feeling after all.

There were other times my parents and I didn’t communicate for a period of years, but the 50 to 61 period started on my 50th birthday. My mom remembered birthdays and she always called. Sometimes she’d send a card, but she always called…but on that day she didn’t call. No call and no card…I was in trouble. Why? No clue. I called my mom a week or two later, but she didn’t answer and didn’t return my call. That went on for several weeks…calling, no answer, leaving a message, no return call. And then I stopped calling. All I was doing was hurting myself by hoping she’d answer the phone…but she never did. And I quit trying. 

Maybe I should have persisted with my calls. I don’t know. I didn’t want to beg to be their daughter…and that’s how it felt. Like when your child comes up to you, usually while you’re on the phone, and pokes you repeatedly in the leg saying, “Mom! Mom! Mom!” Because all urgent matters take place while you’re on the phone. All my unanswered calls felt like me jumping around and poking her leg, and still getting nothing from her. I felt unwanted, or worse…like I didn’t exist. That’s when I felt like an orphan. From 50 to 61 I was an orphan. I was an abandoned child…although not exactly a child…not understanding where my parents went. They disappeared from my life.

For a long time, I thought there must really be something wrong with me because my own mom didn’t want me…didn’t love me. I felt like I must be defective somehow. Living on the island of misfit toys, or misfit daughters. What was so wrong with me that she didn’t want me? 

The difficulty with my mom was that I never knew where I stood with her. I would think things were fine and then she’d be mad at me and stop answering my calls. So, I’d call and call and call until finally she would answer the phone. She’d be cold as I ice, and I’d have to apologize and apologize some more until she’d finally let it go…but it was never gone. My mom remembered every detail of every time someone hurt her. She was easily angered or offended. And she kept score. The difficulty was I frequently didn’t know what I had done wrong. So, my mom would be mad until she wasn’t and then expect everything to go back to normal. If she was okay about something, I was expected to be okay too. Her feelings ruled.

The crazy thing in all of this is that if she had just told me that there was problem, we could have talked about it and hopefully resolved whatever the issue was. Instead, I tried to figure it out and when I couldn’t I stopped trying. It took me many years and lots of dollars in therapy to reach a place where I could see that I was not the cause of all of the problems in her life. She was the only one who could have changed anything…and she didn’t. I don’t know if she didn’t want to or if she didn’t know how…maybe she didn’t care enough to try. I don’t know and I’ll never know.

Now, let’s be real…what is my fucking point? I wish I knew. I still feel shocked that both of my parents are gone. All the years that I didn’t see them, I felt rejected. Like I didn’t matter enough for them to try. Try to see me or talk to me and tell me what was on their mind. Sometimes what I think I missed most about my parents during my 50’s was the “idea” of them. Perhaps more accurately, the “ideal” of them. Maybe that’s what I miss now too. The ideal of a mom…where she would love me just for being me. I felt the most loved when I graduated from law school. They both liked that for sure. I wanted to be loved just for being their daughter, not for an achievement. 

It’s easy to look back and question or wonder…second guess myself and my parents. I’m not sure how helpful that is. I don’t need to analyze my mom as much as I need to understand myself in relationship to her. Who was I with her and who am I without her? What habits or patterns did I develop in reaction to her? I frequently felt the need to protect myself when I was with her. How did that impact my relationship with her? How did it affect my relationships with other people? Does it still affect them? It all feels confusing right now. There’s a mountain of feelings and experiences to sort through. 

What I do know is that I can always love better. I’m guessing that my parents were hurt and I’m not sure how well I responded with love. And love isn’t all kisses and butterflies…it’s having hard conversations and being completely honest. It’s seriously clearing the air. Not allowing a lifetime of grievances to stack up so that even small things become a bigger deal than they need to be. 

What I know is that I tried. I did my best. I’m guessing they did too. What I’m left pondering is how I could have loved better? How could I have loved more honestly? More authentically and with more vulnerability? How could I have loved with less judgment? How can I stay grounded so that I can be my best most loving self all the time? 

I am grateful for the last couple weeks with my mom. While she was happy and relaxed, we loved each other. I know she loved me the best she could, and I loved her too. She knew I loved her. And in the end, all that matters is how we love people. So, we need to get busy loving people. Because love wins…every time.

I’m An Orphan…Right?

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

Can you be an orphan at 63? Well, 63 and ¾’s to be accurate. Personally, I’m not sure but my sister says that we’re orphans now. My mother died March 17th. St. Patrick’s Day. My sister and I think she did that on purpose. Now no one will ever forget the day she died and it’s a national holiday for us Irish folks. What more could you ask for…green beer and toasts to you all night…toasts lengthening with each Guinness consumed. Omg! She would be so pleased. I’m happy for her about that. We did many toasts Sunday. My favorite was, “May heaven know you’re dead a full half hour before the devil finds out.” She wouldn’t like that one for herself, but my dad was probably laughing his ass off. Hopefully I didn’t create a conflict there…I wouldn’t want them to fight on her first day in heaven.

My mother died peacefully in her sleep Sunday morning. The rehab center called to tell me. It was a call I had been expecting at any time, but I was still surprised when it came. My mother wanted to die. She was ready. In her good weeks, she told me she had a great life but that she had lived longer than she wanted to. She missed my dad. She had stopped eating and drinking. She curled up in bed and went to sleep. She stayed asleep several days before she died. My dad passed away exactly the same way. I’m sure after 70 years it was hard to be apart. 

My first phone call was to my sister. I told her and then we just stared at each other silently for a minute or two on FaceTime, and then she said, “Well we’re orphans now.” I would have been surprised by that except she had been practicing this idea on me with “We’re gonna be orphans soon” or “We’re gonna be orphans when mom dies” and “We’ll be orphans. That’s what it’s called when both of your parents are dead.” That’s what it’s called alright…kind of.

An orphan is defined as, “A child under the age of 18.” This definition made my sister super sad, so I told her I’ll adopt her, and then she won’t be an orphan. I can be her “sister mother” kind of like “sister wife” only legal…at least I think it would be legal…super creepy but legal. And I won’t make her wear a long dress and braids…well maybe braids. I’m thinking Pippi Longstocking’ish. I need some red hair dye.

When I hear the word “orphan” I think of “Little Orphan Annie” the title of which became “Annie” probably because you don’t address a child as a “little orphan” or any kind of orphan. It’s not a title. The movie “Annie” reminds me of, “It’s a hard knock life for us” and “Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you tomorrow….” And of course, Carol Burnett as Ms. Hannigan. She was some bitch.

For my sister’s sake, I also read that adults who have lost their parents can (and do) identify themselves as orphans. Merriam-Webster says, “A child whose parents have died, are unknown or have permanently abandoned them” are orphans. By that definition my mom was an orphan from a young age. Her father left my grandmother when my mom was 6, I believe. She told me that he was crazy about her and loved to take her places with him. She said that he loved her so much, but he still left, and she never saw him again. And she doesn’t know why. My mom was devastated by the loss of her dad. She had a double loss, her dad and being left with her mother, who she told us, never loved her. My grandmother’s brother, my Mom’s Uncle Mike, lived in the apartment with them. I’ve heard horror stories of how my grandma and great uncle would scare my mom and how they were mean to her. She was traumatized as a child. And I guess no one really cared. I know she felt abandoned and unloved.

It’s no surprise my mom had a lot of phobias…claustrophobia, acrophobia, and hydrophobia are the ones I remember. Not understanding why she was treated so harshly she came to believe that she was “bad” somehow and everything that happened was her fault. When children don’t understand what’s happening around them, they make up a story that solves the riddle for them. Our brains cannot manage the stress of not knowing or understanding what happened, so our brain creates a solution…even if the solution is hurtful to us…or untrue.

I was also an orphan, way before this St. Patrick’s Day. I was abandoned by my mother almost from birth. Not technically, not physically, but emotionally. My mom and I had a complicated relationship. I’m not sure exactly why.  I think many of our issues stemmed from her own childhood. They were hers but projected onto me, so what was hers became mine. Her mother favored her brother, 4 years younger than her, I believe. My mom used to say, as if she was joking, that her brother was “the sun, moon, and stars” to her mom and that “he could do no wrong.” She felt unloved and unwanted. I felt the same way. My mom and I had years that we were estranged from each other and that led to my estrangement from my dad, my sister, and all my extended family. I’m sorry for the lost years, at the time I was doing what I thought was best for me, and my own mental health. Would I do it differently now? I honestly don’t know.

I’ve used this blog to write about my mom and I will continue to write about her, probably a lot. I’m going to write about her because she was my mom. She was a very influential person in my life. The ways she loved and hated, was pleased or disappointed, what she accepted and what was just tolerated shaped who she was and who I am. Now with awareness, I want to choose my shape…I will shape who I will become…or am becoming. We are always becoming.

My mom had mental health issues. My primary caretaker had mental health issues. Issues that were never fully addressed and definitely not talked about. It was perhaps the biggest elephant in the room growing up…and there was a small herd. I’m going to free the poor elephant, actually, all the elephants. They’ve been chained up for too fucking long. I’m going to write about, and talk about, the issues in my family, with my mom, my dad, my parents (because they were different together than individually), maybe my sister, extended family…I’m gonna talk about patterns and habitual behaviors, familial and personal. I’m going to talk about the legacy of abuse, mental illness (in different forms), abandonment, grudges, withholding, and I’m going to talk about forgiveness, mental health, insight and change…I hope lots of change, for myself. I’ll leave other people to determine their own path through whatever life brings to them. Life brings a lot…a hell of a lot. 

If you’re reading this and you loved my mom, you might be offended when I talk about her…so this blog may not be for you. Remember though, I loved her too. I loved her and she was my model for motherhood and womanhood. I was sculpted out of my responses and reactions to her. In order to understand me I need to understand her. I need to develop my compassion for her. She was just a woman doing the best she could. It didn’t always feel that way. I’m sure it doesn’t always seem like I’m doing my best either. I’m gonna do my best with this. I’m gonna do my best for my wife, kids, and family. I’m gonna do my best for her and for me…so I keep moving forward.

Let’s be real…losing a parent is hard. Losing both in less than a year feels like a lot. That’s my official assessment of myself…it’s a lot. Sorting through baggage, that we’ve carried for years is hard work. The starting point is to put it down. Set the baggage down. It may feel like you can’t because it’s such a part of you and after all it’s part of a matched set. Do it anyway. Set it down and look around it. Finding a new perspective can get you started on a new path, and intentional path…a path for you and your health, both emotional and physical. I am choosing an intentional path. I am choosing my path. No one is making me do anything. I’m taking the path that leads me through all the shit I’ve been avoiding for such a long time. No more serpentining…constantly running in a zigzag line because I’m afraid of what will happen if I stop. What happens if I stop? If I stop and set down the baggage…I guess it’s time to find out.

So I’m headed on to a path of transformation. My transformation. I am way the fuck too old to be blaming my mom for anything. It’s time I take charge of my own life. My own life and my own behavior. In order to love someone, you have to know them. And to know them you have to listen, deeply. Its time for me to know, listen to, and understand myself. To give myself the same consideration I’d give a friend. And of course, it all starts with love. Love is the greatest gift we can give someone, including ourselves. I’m going to lead with love, in the world and with myself. I’m gonna try some tenderness. In the end, all that matters is how we love people, and that includes ourselves. I want love to win in my life, and in yours. Let’s be love warriors…starting now. I’ll go first….

Does Absence Really Make the Heart Grow Fonder?

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder” is a well-known saying. We say it when we’re going to be away from someone, and it feels difficult. It’s going to be hard to be apart. It’s going to be scary. We say it to comfort ourselves and convince ourselves that everything will be fine. This past year, my wife has had to live between Colorado and Florida because she still has a job in Colorado. So, half of the year she was there and half of the year she was here in Florida with me. During that time, I thought a lot about absence and whether it makes the heart grow fonder. I’ve decided absence on its own doesn’t really do anything, except maybe, make us forget.

Just being absent doesn’t automatically expand our heart or deepen our connection. While my wife was gone, six to eight weeks at a time, I did things to remind her what she means to me. We FaceTimed every day, at least once, and sent texts throughout the day. I sent her cards, flowers, cinnamon bears, words of love songs, and I wrote her a love poem. I wanted her to know she was always on my mind. It occurs to me that what I did was make myself present…instead of absent. My heart grew fonder but not because of absence. My heart grew fonder because of effort and intention. I intended to remain as present as possible in her life while she was away. I made the effort to make that happen. So maybe, absence met with intention and effort makes the heart grow fonder.

On its own, I think absence, rather than making the heart grow fonder, makes us forget. Someone who has hurt you is no longer in your life, a difficult situation has ended, an abusive situation you’ve been removed from for years – years without contact with certain people or situations and we think we’re healed…the wounded part of us is all better. But is it? Not confronting something doesn’t make it healed. It makes it repressed or buried, possibly festering from lack of attention. Sometimes the absence of something doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, even though we think it does.

I have had a challenging relationship with my parents, mostly my mom, throughout my life – I sometimes think just the sight of me or the mention of my name pisses her off. It’s scary, at least to me. There was a period of time that I didn’t have contact with my family…about twelve years. I missed them. I thought of them often, especially on special occasions. I spent holidays with my own family – my wife, all of our children and grandchildren. Some holidays we went to Texas to celebrate with my wife’s extended family. And I missed mine.

After twelve years, I saw a picture of my parents on Facebook. I was startled by how much they had changed. They looked so much older and more fragile than I remembered them. I started thinking about their eventual passing. I didn’t want to have regrets about our relationship. Regrets that I hadn’t seen them at least one more time. So, I wrote a letter to my parents. I told them that Gayle and I had taken two of our grandkids to see The Harlem Globetrotters for a birthday gift and they loved it. I remembered them taking me to see them and I was thrilled…Meadowlark Lemon and Curly Neal. It was the best. I thanked them for that memory. I thanked them for taking me to see The Carpenters and John Denver. As an adult I realize that may not have been their first choice of things to do, but they did it anyway. I told them I appreciated that. That letter was the catalyst for reconnecting. 

I sent the letter when I felt like I didn’t need or expect any response. I didn’t want my letter to have an agenda. I also knew if I had expectations, I could end up hurt. My mom called me a week or so after receiving my letter. We had a nice conversation and I caught her up on my kids and grandkids. A couple months later, I drove with my daughter and her two kids to see my parents. We were in town for a few days and while we were there, we stayed in a hotel so everyone would have space for quiet and relaxation. It had been twelve years after all. Our visit went great. We talked and laughed and spent time looking at old photo albums. Remember when those were a thing? We left on great terms, and I continued contact with my parents through daily FaceTime calls.

Things with my parents were great, so great in fact that we invited them to move to Florida with us so they could be with family. We have wonderful extended family in St. Louis, and they have their own parents and families to care for. We wanted my parents with us so that we could take care of them. My hope was that they would never need a nursing home because we would have them with us, in our home. It was so perfect…in my head. My mom really wanted to be with us in Florida and convinced my dad, who acquiesced. My sister lives in New York and I had been in Colorado and my parents needed more contact than either of us could manage long distance. So, look out Florida here we come…turns out, right back where we started from.

We had so much fun when we first got here. We tried new restaurants and took drives along the Gulf. We laughed all the time. Then the honeymoon ended. Fuck. My mom was depressed and mean. We moved May first and by Mother’s Day I was sure I had asked someone who hates me to move in with me. She was verbally abusive to my dad and me. She said hateful things to both of us. I felt like she had stored up every negative thought she ever had about me, and once we were in Florida, felt like she needed to vomit all of it at me…usually while yelling it at me. I found out things she thought about me that really crushed me. I wish I could un-hear them but no such luck.

We forget. So, is this the forgive and forget type of forgiveness? I don’t think so. This is the I want the ideal in my head so much that I choose not to remember the past. I ignore what I know to be true. I ignore my perceptions and people’s warnings. This is the choice to ignore what’s real until reality smacks you with a two by four and knocks you flat on your ass…my ass. It didn’t feel like a choice. It felt real. I wanted it to be real. I wanted to belong to my parents, especially my mom. I wanted her to want me…to love me…to like me…me the person. But that’s not real. It’s not the experience of my life, especially here in Florida.

I came to realize that what I missed was the idea of my family, my mom. The mom who’s there after school with homemade cookies and milk. The mom who wants to hear all about your day. The mom who loves you as a daughter but also really likes you as a person. The mom who is proud of you just because of who you are, not because you went to law school. I had built up an ideal family in my mind and that’s what I was looking for. That’s what I thought I had gotten after a twelve-year separation. I thought I had achieved the “just moving forward” with my mom. 

Let me be real…it’s time for more therapy. I have personally assisted in the successful career of several therapists in my life. Doesn’t seem like therapy could hurt me. I’m already hurt. It’s time for me to separate myself from my mom, not physically, but emotionally. Everything she says hurts me and so I feel raw most of the time. I have to find a way to keep her messages out of me. Just because she says it doesn’t make it true. How long before I know that at my core?

I was so seduced by how well things went before we moved that I doubted myself and my memory of life with my parents. I wanted the seduction to be the truth, even though I should have known it wasn’t. I wanted to be able to just move forward. I forgot that my mom lives in the past. I forgot that she’s moody and depressed and won’t acknowledge it, let alone talk about it. I also let myself forget how volatile my parent’s relationship was…the fighting, screaming, throwing and breaking things, and name calling. My mom remembers every grievance she ever had against my dad. We lived in her reality of two or three stories that were supposed to show me that my dad was an ass. These incidences were from fifty years ago.

And here’s some reality, I didn’t really forget. I was in denial. Fuck. I didn’t want my memories and experiences to be real. I wanted to be wrong. It was easier to just blame myself. And so, I did. I blamed myself for every problem in my home. I rearranged the past to make it more comfortable for myself. It was so much easier for everything to me my fault. Simpler if I was the problem. If I was the problem before, and now I wasn’t, then everything would be good, right? Not so much. Just because it’s easier doesn’t make it true. I was thinking all sunshine and rainbows and instead got a hurricane of reality. The good news is the hurricane woke me up. The bad news is that I ignored everything I knew from my childhood and put myself right back in the center of the storm.

Absence didn’t make my heart grow fonder. It made my heart forget. I forgot. I tried to undo the past in my mind by blaming myself for all the problems. I allowed myself to be naïve about my parents, especially my mom. I wanted things to be good between us so fucking bad that I became blind and a bit deaf. I saw things as either/or instead of both/and. My mother can be kind and she can be mean. I can love my mom and still see who she is. Conflicting things can exist at the same time. It’s called cognitive dissonance. It’s holding two conflicting thoughts in your mind at the same time. Personally, I call it a mind fuck, but I’ll go with the official term. 

My thoughts about my mom are almost always conflicting. I remind myself that no one is one thing. No one is bad or good. We are all both. We are all shades of gray, and we change all the time. My history is to discount information that I don’t like and cling to what do. It’s time for me to do some rethinking and unlearning. I need to unlearn what I grew up believing was acceptable and rethink responsibility. I am not responsible for what went on in my house. My parents were the parents. And regardless of what someone else believes about me, it’s what I believe that matters. I decide who I am. I decide who I become.

Absence, on its own, is neutral. What we tell ourselves about absence is the story we create and the story we live. Instead of absence, I focus on presence. I need to remain present in my own life and in the lives of the people around me. I can be present even when I am physically absent. I can remain present in moments of cognitive dissonance. I can manage conflicting ideas and thoughts. And I can love imperfection…in others and myself. I can love humanness. I can love boundaries that allow me to be loving and safe. 

I live a life of intention and effort. I am thoughtful in my words and actions. I choose presence. I choose honesty and vulnerability. I choose moving forward. I choose love. In the end all that matters is how we love people…so I choose to love well.

A Lesson in Letting Go

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

When I think of what makes up who I am, a large portion of that is my memories. My memories prove that I existed…I walked in this world. And hopefully I had an impact. We often think our mind is really who we are. Our ability to think, reason, remember, hold memories, have rational conversations, communicate our feelings or ideas, or just having ideas at all. Now my Buddhist studies teach me that there is no solid, permanent self…that’s a conversation for another day.

Memories give life meaning. Memories help us to feel like we’ve lived a good life…or maybe a tragic life. Memories stitch together the fabric of our lives…the up and downs, joys and sorrows, pain and trauma. Memories, in large part, tell us who we are. I know who I was born to, where I was raised, schools I went to, friends I made, people I’ve loved, marriages, divorces. We remember the births of our own children and watching them grow and mature into adulthood, maybe even have their own children. The framework of my life holds the people and events that I possess as memories. 

And why is this on my mind, you wonder? Because there is a tremendous growth in all forms of dementia in this country. We hear about Alzheimer’s most frequently but that is only one form of dementia. Dementia scares me. Losing my memory scares me. I have told my children (they are all adults…most of the time 😏) that as I age, if I reach a time when I don’t remember them then I want them to help me die. I can’t imagine anything sadder than not remembering them, or my wife, my grandchildren, friends…all the associations that create my life as I know it. Maybe I won’t remember that I don’t remember but still I don’t want to be around…I can’t imagine life having less meaning for me than being alone even in the midst’s of people I’ve known and loved my whole life.

Sometimes as people age, they become depressed or angry…sad maybe. Full of regrets about what did or did not happen in their lives. Dreams never realized, opportunities lost, failures of one kind or another…disappointments. I think we feel those things more keenly as we move through the latter portion of our lives. I guess that can make people mad. I get that.

My own observation of people is that as they age, they become more intensely who they already were. If you were unhappy your whole life you won’t suddenly be filled with joy. If you loved your life, you’ll love it until the end. Buddha said that we are what we think and that with our minds we create the world. I’m not sure I’ve ever read anything truer in my life. We will continue to live the life we created in our minds. So, what happens when you start to lose your mind, your memory?

The movie, “The Notebook”, is a story about the romance between two young people. These characters, Noah and Allie, marry and then in their later years find themselves living through the experience of Allie’s dementia. When Allie found our she had dementia she started a notebook. In that notebook she wrote the stories of their lives together. She asked Noah to read it to her when she couldn’t remember, and she would come back to him. The movie takes place in a nursing home with flashbacks of their love affair. Noah visited Allie every day, even though she had no idea who he was, and he read to her from the notebook. She loved hearing about the love story of Noah and Allie. Noah hoped the notebook would jog her memory and that she would come back to him, even for just a moment. It’s a beautiful movie…a real tearjerker. I won’t spoil the story in case there’s anyone on the planet who hasn’t seen “The Notebook” yet.

The thing that is so difficult to believe is that she really didn’t remember. People lose their memories. They don’t remember anything. Really? That boggles my mind. How can that be? How can I still be me without any memory of who I am or how I got to where I am? How is that real? Where do all these memories go…somewhere in “the cloud,”I guess. It’s such a mystery to me and so heartbreaking.

My wife and I moved to Florida almost a year ago and we brought my parents to live with us. Our hope was that they wouldn’t ever need a nursing home because they could be with us, and we’d care for them. My mom has dementia. That’s a rough diagnosis to take in. Perhaps harder for the people in your life because frankly, you don’t remember…every time we talk about the dementia it’s new information for my mom. New information that infuriates her. She’ll tell me her memory is getting better and ask why can’t I give her good news sometime…or why does she need to know all that depressing information? Why does she? Maybe she doesn’t. There is the saying, “ignorance is bliss.” Not sure that’s true. I tell her about the dementia so she can make sense of some of her behavior and her forgetfulness. Maybe I need that more than she does…the making sense part.

Now I am disabled, so I have some understanding of loss…needing assistive devices, chronic pain, loss of abilities, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. But I can only imagine the loss of my memory. I’m old enough that I get the “what did I come in here to get?” moments…but they’re moments…they come and, more importantly, they go. A couple years ago when I had an infection in my elbow replacement and had to have it removed, I had some problems. Maybe they were side effects of three surgeries in six months and months of IV antibiotics, I don’t know. All I knew was I couldn’t remember things I was told, my balance was off, and I felt like my processing of information was seriously delayed. I was so scared. I was terrified that I my mind and memory would be stuck in that awful place. Fortunately, I wasn’t stuck, but if I had dementia, I would be, and it would continue to get worse. I can only imagine what that fear would be like…panic and terror I suppose.

All of that would make for a seriously bad mood…people telling you what to do, giving you bad news repeatedly. You can’t drive, can’t go out alone…most of the freedoms we take for granted, gone. My mom wants to be dropped off at a shopping mall by herself. She wants to use Uber and be on her own for a few hours. But I can’t let her. It’s not safe. She can’t use Uber because she doesn’t know her address or the name of the apartment complex where she lives. She can’t be at a mall alone because she’ll get lost. She’s 90 and exhaustion can hit her suddenly and she needs help walking or the use of a wheelchair. All of that really pisses her off and I understand that. Even though I understand, I can’t let her do things or go places where she isn’t safe…that pisses her off too. And all of that makes for a volatile environment. 

Moods for people with dementia, for my mom, can change very quickly…and it always surprises me. In the movie “Pretty Woman” there’s a scene where Richard Gere, who plays Edward, thinks that Julia Roberts, Vivian, is doing cocaine in his bathroom. It turns out she’s flossing her teeth…strawberry seeds, go figure.  Edward shakes his head at his mistaken assumption and says, “Very few people surprise me” and Vivian replies, “You’re lucky. Most of them shock the hell out of me.” That’s me. I am frequently surprised…especially by the mood changes. Sunday was one of those days. My mom woke up fighting mad…literally. Nothing happened, she just came out of the bedroom all piss and vinegar. It was a full day of complaints, accusations, verbal assaults, name calling, and being told to “fuck off.” Needless to say, it was a long, exhausting, painful day. Now I imagine that Sunday was awful for my mom as well, except that Monday morning she didn’t remember anything. WTF!? Are you kidding me? How can anyone be a 4’10” hurricane of vitriol and not remember? I found myself wondering if it was true and how could it be true? How could you be that hurtful, go to sleep, and wake up with no memory of your behavior? No memory of how much you hurt people?

And there’s the rub…she can’t remember but can I let it go? I read a quote in a book once that said something to the effect of, “I’ve never let go of anything that didn’t have claw marks on it.” That is also me. Letting go is not my strong suit. I wish it was. I also wish being relaxed, easy going and patient were, but wishes do not always come true…even if you wish really, really hard.

Now let’s be real, letting go sounds easy…just let go. Duh! Open your clenched fist and LET IT GO…for the love of God, pry it out of your hand. I guess I’ve got movies and television on my mind today…in the television show “Reba,” her son-in-law, Van tells Reba, “I have one word for you, letitgo.” Reba says, “That’s three words.” And Van says, “Not the way I say it, Letitgo.” But how? How do I, how do we letitgo? I believe I come from a long line of grudge holders…people who remember every way you have hurt, offended or slighted them for your entire life. Letting go does not come naturally to us…my Irish Catholic people…and not to me…although I’m still wishing.

Why not let it go? What benefit would I get from hanging on? Holding on to the hurt, pain, mistreatment, abuse, nastiness? It must serve me in some way, or I’d fucking let it go already! I suppose that hanging on to the pain could make me look all noble. “Look at her? Even with all the mistreatment, she keeps caring for her mom?” A little inflating of the ego…everyone likes that at times. My sister jokes that she can’t tell if I’m a saint or really stupid taking this on. I’m gonna vote for neither. You do not have to know me well to know I am no saint. I swear to fucking much for that consideration. And I am not a stupid person, although in this instance I might have been a smidge naïve…just a smidge. I certainly did not anticipate being accused of elder abuse because I don’t make enough vegetables or taking care of them because I want their money or hating her…apparently, I brought her here with me because I hate her and want to make her miserable. She would rather “live in the gutter than in this hell” which we call Florida. I definitely did not expect all of that and it shocked the shit out of me.

So, then she forgets, and everything goes back to normal…for her. But I am slow to engage, slow to warm back up…very cautious and tentative…defended even. Perhaps slow to forgive. Definitely slow to letitgo. Letting go involves such vulnerability. Exposing my underbelly again even though it’s all ripped up. Vulnerable enough to open up again and try. Try to connect with her. Try to enjoy her and this time we have together. Try to laugh at some of the irony…or just try to laugh at all.

When something upsets our dog, Abby, she has to stop and literally shake it off before she can keep walking. Abby is the smartest dog I’ve ever known and maybe she has the answer. Perhaps the answer to letting go is taking a moment to shake it off. Recognize something scary or painful happened, acknowledge the impact, allow myself to feel it, then shake it off and let it go. Don’t hang on or wonder “what if” just let that shit go. Shake it off and keep walking…keep engaging and try again. That’s what Abby does…she keeps going. She may move more slowly or cautiously at first, but pretty soon she’s prancing along again…like nothing ever happened. She is not a grudge holder. Abby knows how to let go. Maybe I can learn a lesson about letting go from her…I’m shaking already.

Because let’s be real, all that really matters is how we love people…because love wins…always.