On Sundays, they escort their mothers to church and take them out to lunch afterward.
They pick up bread, milk, and the exact brand and size of mayonnaise their Mom wants and let her give them a coupon and the exact change.
Although they could finish a repair project more quickly without their father’s help, they try hard to smile when Dad supervises the work.
They sift through piles of Medicare statements and become wise in the ways of copays and explanations of benefits.
At their Mom’s house, they change light bulbs, program her cell phone, and write up a cheat sheet since she won’t remember how to use it.
They bring tins of homemade cookies, flowering plants, and companionable conversation.
After agreeing to be power of attorney, they spend countless hours balancing statements and paying bills.
As they sit at her bedside and spoon applesauce in their mother’s waiting mouth, they try not to dwell on the role reversal, because it just makes them sad.
They don’t talk much about the losses—they just shrug their broad responsible shoulders and go back to the office or go home. They don’t think their efforts are anything special–it’s just what they’re supposed to do.
Saying “I’m not afraid” over and over got Cheryl Strayed from the Mohave Desert through California and Oregon to Washington State – over an eleven-hundred-mile solo hike on the Pacific Crest Trail. I tried it myself this week–the mantra, not the hike–and it worked. I got through another moment. Cheryl Strayed had many moments on the trail with dangerous animals, a snowstorm, and misery.
Monday, October 20th, I was with over 2,000 people listening to Cheryl as she spoke from the lectern at Concordia College.
Her book reading was different from all others that I’ve attended in that she never read a word from Wild. She talked to us. We could have been gathered around a very large coffee table.
I had her book, Wild, for as long as it took her to do the hike – a summer–before I read a word. I was resistant because I didn’t want to be disappointed. I thought the praise for her writing might be because she was a local girl done good, and if I picked up the book the story would fall apart in my hands.
Enough people recommended Wild that I finally opened to the first page. Whoa.
I looked around the gymnasium at Concordia. A couple thousand people, including me, could relate to her story. How did she do that?
“It’s the only book that spoke to me,” said my friend sitting next to me. Her husband passed away eight months ago. “People know that I like to read. I got a lot of books, but this was the only one….”
“How can I bear the unbearable?”
Cheryl called her hike a universal journey. A journey of finding who we are and then coming to peace with that. “Grief is love,” she added.
Therein lay my answer. Universal truths. Truths that apply to all people.
“Love is the nutrient that we need.”
“Alone with something I couldn’t lift but I had to lift it.”
December 5, Wild will be coming out in movie theatres.
Cheryl invited me to the after-party. She invited all of us. How did she make me feel included in her trajectory?
Her author page on Facebook has 105,627 likes. She’s been accessible, not losing herself in her climb.
In my research of her many interviews and talks around the country she didn’t lose herself in the publishing process or the making of a movie.
“In a heroic battle to make my way back to myself.”
During the evening Cheryl spoke about refusing to allow herself, her writing, or her story to be pigeonholed. Wild isn’t just for women. 50 percent of her correspondence is from men.
She left me with a ‘how to’ for when my book sells: Go in expecting respect and politely inform others. An artist shouldn’t defend his or her work.
Her book is powerful but she is even more powerful.
“I’m not afraid,” I can imagine her … me … and all of us … continuing to say on our own personal hike.
As I walk into the skilled nursing center where Mom is rehabilitating, I see other women like myself and think, “God bless middle-aged daughters.”
We’re the sensible, competent women who make it all happen.
On the street, we often go unnoticed, although we’re attractive. We dress well, but in age-appropriate clothes. No six-inch heels or short skirts. We may carry 10 to 20 extra pounds, but we’re fit, trim, and solid enough to carry the weight of the world.
On our lunch hour, after work, or during weekend visits, we go see our failing mothers and fathers. We bring them flowering plants small enough to fit on a bedside table/hard candy/clean sox/good cheer.
We comb their hair and smooth hand cream on their veiny hands and swollen feet. Once they could manage a demanding job or their family’s busy schedule, keep track of birthdays, recipes and grocery lists, but now they can’t remember what you told them five minutes ago, so we answer the same questions again and again. The times they emerge from the twilight, smile and say, “Oh honey, I wish you could always be here,” are heartbreaking treasure.
As we go back to the office, drive home, or head to the airport, we sigh at the slippage and blink back tears at the losses. Then we put on our game face because somebody else needs us. We keep moving—plan the marketing campaign, schedule the meeting, throw in a load of wash, or make a decent dinner.
We are careworn. Our lives are not glamorous (and never were—we didn’t aspire to that). We don’t expect much. We can be made happy with so little—a compliment when we don’t feel sexy or a hug from a kid who often seems oblivious.
Photo credit: Bokal @ Vecteezy.com
Sometimes we need to push back our realities for a little while, so we laugh ourselves silly over a stupid joke when we’re out with our girlfriends or sink into the sofa and pour a second glass of good wine.
Thank you for reblogging the post. I hope it’s a comfort to your readers.
Mary Blowers
This is so true to my experience of being the only family member in the state to look after first both my parents, and now my mother. You figure out ways to transport them despite your busy schedule. You get to know pharmacists and adult medical supply dealers by name. You learn to check their supplies when you’re visiting them. Your schedule gets less busy for your own stuff and more for theirs. You rejoice when you have time to shave your legs or paint your toenails. You think, I’ll catch up on all this when they’re gone, and in the meantime I’ll cherish them.
Thank you for reading, It DOES help to realize that we’re not alone in this. Hang in there!
Pam
We’ve had a hellish week here–dad has a blood clot, his skin disease has returned, and he’s calling us with bizarre stories at night. I would not make it without words like these. I am off to have my second glass of wine. Thanks, Ellen.
Oh. Ellen. This breaks my heart on many levels. You captured your experiences with universal appeal. There are so many middle-aged daughters who can relate to this. I’m glad you can laugh. I’m appreciating more and more how laughter assuages the pain in life. May you and your mother have plenty of it…
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4 responses to ““I’m Not Afraid””
Great insights, Beth! Thanks for sharing.
Thank you for the post, Beth. Love and hugs. 🙂
Nice story!
Date: Wed, 29 Oct 2014 12:47:38 +0000 To: jdigrazia22@msn.com
What an inspiring Post! Thank you so much.