Dawn. It is so
silent. There is a peacefulness in my being.
I take a moment to do my inventory: I feel good. I am rested.
I have had good dreams. I listen to the house sounds. The whirring of a fan somewhere, the buzz of
a motor, a small ding from my computer in the other room signaling an early
incoming email, the soft snoring from
our dog, Kira and the gentle breathing from my husband lying next to me. I am uncertain if I want to remain in bed a
while longer. I deliberate lazily, still
drunk with sleep. Then comes the sound
that jars me fully awake. My mother has
arisen and is walking around upstairs.
The sounds of her footsteps are magnified on the monitor. Each step reverberates. Clomp, clomp, clomp. On and on and on they go. Each step is an assault on the silence. Each step jangles me. I feel my nervous system react as though an
electric current is shot through me. I
try to return to that moment just before...that euphoric state...that quiet
moment. It is no use. The noise is
magnified in my head and I am wide awake.
The decision to get out of bed is made for me. I tiptoe quietly out of the bedroom. (Why am I trying to be quiet when I know that
there is no way my footfalls could be louder than the cacophony upstairs?) I cannot stand it any longer and I go to my
mother's room to announce loudly that she must go back to sleep. It isn't time to wake up yet. I must shout to be heard because her hearing
aid is not in her one good ear. Still,
she doesn't understand. She is confused
by my agitation. I point at the red
light that signifies that it is not yet time to awaken. ('When the light is red, stay in bed'.)
I ask her, "Why are you walking around and
around?"
She replies, "I'm not.
I just went to the door once."
She has no knowledge of what she is doing or how long she has been doing
it. Mindless wandering. That's what I
call it. She does it every night and morning. My sleep is interrupted by it
every day.
"Go back to bed," I order her loudly. It is
difficult to remain calm and loving. I
am immediately angry, impatient, frustrated.
As I retreat to a cup of coffee and a silent family room, I work to calm
myself, to remind myself of the loving, caring and gentler me. I dig it back up from the depths of my soul. Care giving will be difficult today. My mother will be tired from her night of
walk-abouts. She will complain that she
is sleepy and beseech us to unlock her door so she may go to her room to
sleep. We will explain patiently that
she cannot go upstairs to sleep because she must sleep at night. We do not want her to be wide awake and
rested in the hours when we are asleep.
Day after day, after day we explain the same thing knowing that the
explanation is futile. She doesn't
remember. Instead she gives a long
suffering sigh. I am her jailer. I keep her contained. I control.
I tell her when to eat, when to sleep, what to wear, what to do, where
to go. I lecture, rant, order, boss,
snip, yell, cajole, plead, beg, explain, ask,
shout, inform, coax.
This is care giving.
The words, care and giving are both contrary to how I am feeling. I am being selfish and uncaring. I know this. I have devolved to another state
of mind. I complain to my husband, Skip
that I do not want to be like this. He
is kind and understanding. He listens to
my words offering sympathetic replies.
He is far more patient. I look to
him for strength and resolve. I struggle
back up from the abyss of my dark thoughts and begin to mend. I finish my coffee and await the appearance
of our dog, Kira who jaunts in. Her tail
is wagging happily. She wears a smile on
her face as her jowls draw back in a grin.
Her eyes are bright with anticipation of her simple joys--a snack, a
walk, a scratch, a pat on the head. She
is undisturbed by the earlier interruptions.
She holds no grudges. How does
she manage this? I yearn to be more
dog-like. I laugh at this thought.
Today, I will think of myself as Kira.
I will attempt to respond to everything with unconditional love.
I attempt to talk to my invisible counselor--my spiritual
guide.
"What is it that is really bothering you?" She
asks.
I hesitate. I think
deeply. The seconds tick by. Still, I do
not answer. Then it comes to me. I am the jailer and yet I feel
imprisoned. I keep myself controlled,
contained, ordered, scheduled. I do not allow personal freedom. I am my own care giver. Only...is it possible...could it be? I do not care or give enough to myself!
Hmmm...I muse, perhaps I will take myself for a walk. I get
dressed quickly and take myself outside. The early morning is still cool and
silent. I regard the way the leaves move
in the slight breeze, I listen for the bird calls. I hear the small rustlings of the squirrels
as they forage for acorns. I watch a
butterfly flutter past a shrub. I see
the budding flowers that Skip has planted and smile approvingly. I stop to smell the air. It is fragrant and fresh. I am suddenly aware that my raw nerves are
calmed...quieted. I escape into the
nurturing environment of natural beauty.
My walk outside provides much-needed respite. I am refreshed. My inner-voice tells me I am healed (for now)
and I walk back inside.
Now I am ready to "CARE", to
"GIVE". I face my mother, my
job, my responsibility, my care giving task with a renewed vigor, with a sense
of loyalty, with purpose, with an understanding, forgiveness, and yes...with
love.
