Millions of baby boomers are navigating the murky waters of health care on behalf of our aging parents. Knocking on Heaven’s Door, by Katy Butler, is a gripping account of the author’s journey alongside her mother and father during their final years. Woven into this daughter’s love story is critical information on the medical approach to dying in today’s world.
Get a copy and a yellow highlighter. It’ll be worth every reading minute.
My website has been under construction for several months. Thanks to Martha Branch of Branch Marketing Group in Richmond, VA, we have a new look. I hope the site will continue to provide valuable resources, inspire and reflect a sense of clarity and peace.
The Invitation
by Oriah Mountain Dreamer
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for,
And if you dare to dream of meeting
Your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
For love, for your dream,
For the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow,
If you have been opened by life’s betrayals,
Or have become shriveled and closed from the fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit in pain,
Mine or your own,
Without moving
To hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy.
Mine or your own,
If you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
Without cautioning us to be careful, realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself,
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
I want to know if you can be faithless and therefore be trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty
Even when it is not pretty every day,
And if you can source your own life
From its presence.
I want to know if you live with failure,
Yours and mine,
And still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the moon,
“Yes!”
It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair,
Weary and bruised to the bone,
And do what needs to be done for the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you are, how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
In the center of the fire with me
And not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
From the inside
When all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone
With yourself,
And if you truly like the company you keep
In the empty moments.
Like parents since the cave men and women, mine didn’t always agree. But, they didn’t need a library of self-help books to parent as a team. When an authoritative decision was needed, they would disappear into our knotty-pine paneled den and close the door, leaving my brother and me to wait – on pins and needles. When their muffled squabbling ended, they would emerge together and present a united front as they announced the verdict.
Most times, we could have guessed the outcome. My parents’ guiding principles were rooted in common sense and old-fashioned family values. And, if nothing else, their decisions were predictably (and annoyingly) consistent. “No,” they’d announce, “you may not invite your boyfriend to the beach for our family vacation.” “Yes, you’ll be attending your second-cousin’s wedding, even if it means missing the homecoming dance.” “No, you may not have a car for your sixteenth birthday. We don’t care whether Mary Stuart Gillespie or Johnny Williams got one.” My brother and I didn’t dare question our parents’ process or the end result – not in front of them, for sure. In our house, their word was law.
I figured all marriages worked that way. So when my first marriage didn’t, I felt a twinge of alarm. Was it a basic difference in parenting philosophies or was it the behavioral problems we were facing with our son that produced the tension? After all, even healthy marriages can be torn apart when learning issues or addiction enters the picture. Like the black light a crime scene investigator waves over the hotel bedspread to expose forensic evidence, a child’s substance abuse, for example, exposes the ugly parts of a marriage.
When families are blended by remarriage, the problem that was once yours or mine, becomes ours. The substance-abusing child is a pre-existing condition, like high blood pressure, adding a layer of stress to an already challenging family dynamic. The ups and downs of addiction are rarely convenient, so it’s not uncommon for a stepparent to have a tough time empathizing.
I wrote a blog post titled The Wedge, March 5, 2013. The wedge exists in every marriage where a child is in trouble. It’s not an event with a beginning and end. It just is. The real test comes when you’re faced with tough decisions and how you, as an married couple, or divorced parents, decide to deal with it.
The best advice I ever got is this: whether your marriage is made of stone or has crumbled beyond recognition, focus on carving out a single channel of communication where the child is the priority and everything else between you – the grudges, tensions, petty squabbles, skin-crawling irritations – are off limits.
Work as a team. You’re in triage mode.
