I’ve trained myself to do the opposite of that principle. Some of it has been a consequence of facing afflictions that are very hard for the people I rely on to understand, or because I felt as though the heartache and repeated string of suffering became too much for my friends and family to bear with me. Even if my thinking was deluded by the chemotherapy and trauma, I believed and felt alone, so I remained quiet and bore the grief in isolation. Yet, rightly so, some of it is because I didn’t have the energy or time to reach out and let someone know I needed help.
It has taken a lot of holding on and letting go, minute by minute, to stay alive, and that pattern continues. I have a plethora of problems post-cancer, both physical and mental, that I have to manage. Some of them take a good amount of time, and some of them simply require awareness, but they all take work—so it goes with everything in our mortal state. If we cease working on ourselves, houses, cars, relationships, etc.—they die. I have been near death too many times, and have problems that will put me near it again if I don’t manage them well—and I don’t want that, not yet.
Going through many health traumas places one in a state of fear when the phone rings from the hospitals and doctors, when the calendar has another "check-up" coming ahead, and when doing the big visits. Has the cancer returned? A never ending looping question driving one slowly insane.
Accepting that this is my life is the hardest part—living with broken hearts, lost time, dreams unfulfilled, and bad energy, loitering in the corners, has been my lot for the last while. I am trying to learn how to let go and move forward, but I can’t do it alone. I need family, friends, prayer, meditation, and good books to fuel me forward. I trust few with the details of my journey, and that’s okay right now—at least those few are there to hear my frantic pleas and keep me grounded.
I am different now and have feared coming into the world as the person I am because I loved the person I was. Yet, there is newfound wisdom in who I've become. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. The biggest change is perspective—to see things deeply, with greater understanding and intensity, to know the depth of sorrows that can run in the pulsations of the heart, and to find that nothing is guaranteed. Life is very short, and the simple ticking moments we spend in waiting are all we really have.
It is okay to have a hard time, but we can still love through the hard times—we can make mistakes and then try to recover, repay, and release, so we don’t live with too much undone when we are called home for a period of rest. It is definitely okay to be flawed, don’t try too hard to be perfect. Accept yourself and make changes a little at a time so that you can decrease the suffering you may place on yourself or others. Love isn’t all you need, but it is what we can freely give and accept, and it is transmitted by words, actions, and raw honesty with who we really are and hope to be. Find acceptance for yourself and the people you love. It may rattle us to the core to feel the angst we cause others, and have done to us, but there is always a path forward. Don’t let anyone tell you that you’ve fallen too far to be loved and respected—someone is there to love you. They may be the person in front of you, the person that came to mind when you were at your lowest, and even the person in a dream that has long been gone and somehow has a way of making you feel loved and accepted in the transient state of sleep. Just listen with stillness and your lifeline will be given to you when you need it. All is not lost, it’s just changing.
My sweet little Gavin, in his young innocence, fell on the sidewalk recently. He was beside himself in agony as he made his worst landing to date. I was alone with him, and the ache in my heart was just as bad as the torn skin on his knees. I picked him up, as he laid in his sad screaming state, and carried him quickly to the car, curled him into my arms , upon my lap, and waited for my daughters to rush the band-aides out to us. He was gasping for air because he could see all of the blood dripping down his leg, and he called it “pain”. After I got him bandaged up, buckled into his seat, and on our way, he quietly told me, “thank you for saving me mommy, you’re like a superhero...you’re like Batgirl.” My heart melted. It took little work on my part to carry him in his sorrows, but the bulk of the work came from the area of the heart—how much was I willing to invest in his “pain”?
Once we make the decision to invest in someone’s pain, no matter how trivial or gigantic we may think it is, we must put patience, tolerance, and love into them so that we don’t have them feel like they are either too small or too big for our time and agendas. The choice is easy to make, the work is the hard part. As the Savior says, I’d rather you be either hot or cold, but not lukewarm (paraphrased slightly). We love or we don’t.
When it was time to give up the band-aides, Gavin looked at me with sadness and said that he just wanted them to look like this—he then proceeded to show me the skin on the palm of his hands—beautiful, perfect, and whole. I told him he was in the healing process and one day it will look very whole again, even if it’s not perfect, but until then, we can be brave and strong, knowing we are getting better (a hint of foresight into his next fall!).
We all have to let go of wounds, and be brave enough to work through the healing process—it is tough. Gavin’s pain is just as hard as my pain—once we remember that, we can play the healing game with respect, and most of all....love.
I love you dear son, my little man.
Mommy’s got your back, is in your corner and will wrap those wounds and give you nourishment so you can keep fighting. Thanks for doing that very thing for me by being you.
With all the love a mother can give—
Mommy
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