There are times in life when our focus gets so narrowed, the rest of the world slips away. We bring all our attention, energy and emotions to bear on the event, and often, it is over fairly quickly. Studying for final exams comes to mind, or getting ready for a big presentation or performance.
When a loved one is critically ill, like my mother is now, the rest of the world falls away. So many of my waking hours are focused on her that I feel detached from the rest of my life. I know it's a beautiful day outside: I see it and have actually walked outside to get from my car to the hospital. And yet, I find myself not experiencing it. To maintain my sense of self and stay grounded, I have to force through that cocoon-like haze and do some things that bring me back to the natural world. Yesterday, I went for a walk for the first time in my new neighborhood. This morning, when I opened the door to get the paper, I opened it wider and stood there listening to the birds singing their hearts out welcoming the day.
It's true I am taking part in almost no outside activities these days, and I'm not sure how the near future will unfold. As in all things, there is a balance and I will work on finding it. Meditation, yoga, journaling, spending time with friends and connection with nature are some ways I'm holding on to myself and my world.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Moving Reflection
I am sitting in my small den off the kitchen listening to the birds on a sunny morning, two days before we move. Suddenly, I am overcome with missing this home, this room, this place.
My days have been spent packing and planning, coordinating and making sure the process will go as smoothly as possible. It took a long time to sell our house, and it is time to go. Yet, as I sit in the stillness, with the sun streaming in familiar ribbons across the room, I stop to feel the solemnity of the moment. Almost 14 years, the house my girls remember most as their home, a chapter in our lives.
In this room, there is a beautiful fireplace with two different moldings. It reminds me why my husband and I have always liked old homes. However, we are now moving into a newly built house, albeit a "colonial" with high ceilings, wide moldings and other attractive features.
I will also miss the familiarity of the house; it is known and comfortable like a favorite pair of shoes. The neighborhood has beautiful old trees and rock outcroppings, lots of streets of various grades which are perfect for walking. Within a couple of blocks, three good friends of mine are just a spontaneous phone call away. I know I'll continue to see them, but it will not be like it is now.
Except for our three years in London, we have lived in the same general area for 28 years. Whatever I need, I know where to go. I now understand why people return to their old neighborhoods and stores for shoe repairs or fresh fish; these are vendors we've been doing business with for years and it's familiar, like a family that has relied on each other for a long time.
In many respects I am lucky to be moving only eight minutes away, so that I can come back if I choose to do so. However, I have a feeling that once we're in the new house, it will be fun to explore and find new haunts: restaurants, services, walking routes and ways to get from here to there.
So I allow myself the momentary melancholy and know that the missing is what makes the parting so much sweeter and more poignant. It reminds me of what and whom is most important to me, and I feel blessed to have so much.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Doing Hospital Time
During the past month, I learned more than I thought I ever wanted to know about hospital health care, and have thought about some small changes that could make a difference in helping people heal. Even with the purported best accomodations and intentions, it is still the case that our Western medical system sees the patient as a "care-receiver" and does not think more broadly about how to help each individual heal in the fastest way possible.
I recently spent 2 nights in Greenwich Hospital, which is a modern, beautiful, upscale facility. Many call it the "country club" of hospitals. Two days later, my mother was admitted to Lenox Hill Hospital in Manhattan, where I had the opportunity, over a 15-day period, to see another system at work. Perhaps due to my own recent experience, and my involvement as a Board member at Sarah Neuman in Mamaroneck (the Westchester campus of Jewish Home Lifecare which provides long-term, rehabilitation and home care), I felt slightly detached, and was able to watch and observe what was happening around me.
Here is some of what I learned, and I hope it may be of help if you ever find yourself in a position where either you or a loved one is in the hospital.
1. For the most part, doctors care very much about their patients, and want to understand patients' symptoms and have them get better as quickly as possible.
2. Many nurses are in their profession because they are caring individuals, and they tend to their patients efficiently and with compassion. However, there are those who see their work solely as a "job," and their patients know it almost immediately. These nurses leave call bells unanswered, do not get to know their patients, and either do tasks too quickly (and often painfully) or leave procedures for the next nurse to attend to. While these discrepancies are true of most professions, in a hospital, these differences can have a profound effect on the physical, emotional and mental well-being of the patient.
3. Some hospitals rotate doctors so that the patient rarely sees the same doctors unless the patient is there for an extended period of time. This was my experience, but my mother had a team of doctors she saw regularly. There were some other interns, residents and doctors on occasion, but she got to know her doctors and THEY GOT TO KNOW HER. I cannot stress the importance of this.
How many times did I need to repeat my "story?" In the two days I was in the hospital, I must have repeated it 5 or 6 times, once being awakened in the wee hours of the morning by an intern who probably had to get "just one more history" before her shift ended.
4. Which leads to the fact that it is virtually impossible to get a good night's sleep in the hospital. We have all heard this. From a healing perspective, it is essential for the body to rest in order to mend. My mother was awakened countless times from a deep sleep. Many times it was to monitor blood pressure or temperature, but there were other times the nurse could have used discretion and allowed her to get the rest she needed.
5. There is little to no understanding or connection between nutrition and health in a hospital. My roommate was a diabetic, and when she could finally have a meal of clear liquids, everything on her tray was loaded with sugar (jello, ices, fruit juice, etc.) Especially for people trying to recover from infection, sugar is something to be avoided. While hospital food, in general, can be very unappetizing, if you get to know the person taking the orders for meals, you can often request certain dishes more to your liking which are not on that day's menu.
6. Communication between medical personnel and patients is extremely poor. I'm not sure whether this has to do with the differences among patients (education levels, language barriers, cultural differences) and how sick they may be, a patronizing attitude, or if it's simply not a priority, but as a patient, you have to actively pursue getting your own test results. The doctor may mention it or not. Yet, there is no hesitation to draw blood, request urine samples, and prod and poke patients to no end, day or night, to get what they need.
7. Like most other things, there is a learning curve in the health care system, both as a patient and a family member. It is possible to overcome most of a hospital's shortcomings by having family and friends serve as advocates, and provide preferred foods and other essentials.
One aspect of the hospital I did appreciate was what I refer to as "hospital time." It might also be considered a time warp. In either case, everything slows down, and it is as if the outside world does not exist. The focus is on the present. No sense in talking about what may happen, other than in the context of care. In that sense, I didn't mind the hospital at all.
I recently spent 2 nights in Greenwich Hospital, which is a modern, beautiful, upscale facility. Many call it the "country club" of hospitals. Two days later, my mother was admitted to Lenox Hill Hospital in Manhattan, where I had the opportunity, over a 15-day period, to see another system at work. Perhaps due to my own recent experience, and my involvement as a Board member at Sarah Neuman in Mamaroneck (the Westchester campus of Jewish Home Lifecare which provides long-term, rehabilitation and home care), I felt slightly detached, and was able to watch and observe what was happening around me.
Here is some of what I learned, and I hope it may be of help if you ever find yourself in a position where either you or a loved one is in the hospital.
1. For the most part, doctors care very much about their patients, and want to understand patients' symptoms and have them get better as quickly as possible.
2. Many nurses are in their profession because they are caring individuals, and they tend to their patients efficiently and with compassion. However, there are those who see their work solely as a "job," and their patients know it almost immediately. These nurses leave call bells unanswered, do not get to know their patients, and either do tasks too quickly (and often painfully) or leave procedures for the next nurse to attend to. While these discrepancies are true of most professions, in a hospital, these differences can have a profound effect on the physical, emotional and mental well-being of the patient.
3. Some hospitals rotate doctors so that the patient rarely sees the same doctors unless the patient is there for an extended period of time. This was my experience, but my mother had a team of doctors she saw regularly. There were some other interns, residents and doctors on occasion, but she got to know her doctors and THEY GOT TO KNOW HER. I cannot stress the importance of this.
How many times did I need to repeat my "story?" In the two days I was in the hospital, I must have repeated it 5 or 6 times, once being awakened in the wee hours of the morning by an intern who probably had to get "just one more history" before her shift ended.
4. Which leads to the fact that it is virtually impossible to get a good night's sleep in the hospital. We have all heard this. From a healing perspective, it is essential for the body to rest in order to mend. My mother was awakened countless times from a deep sleep. Many times it was to monitor blood pressure or temperature, but there were other times the nurse could have used discretion and allowed her to get the rest she needed.
5. There is little to no understanding or connection between nutrition and health in a hospital. My roommate was a diabetic, and when she could finally have a meal of clear liquids, everything on her tray was loaded with sugar (jello, ices, fruit juice, etc.) Especially for people trying to recover from infection, sugar is something to be avoided. While hospital food, in general, can be very unappetizing, if you get to know the person taking the orders for meals, you can often request certain dishes more to your liking which are not on that day's menu.
6. Communication between medical personnel and patients is extremely poor. I'm not sure whether this has to do with the differences among patients (education levels, language barriers, cultural differences) and how sick they may be, a patronizing attitude, or if it's simply not a priority, but as a patient, you have to actively pursue getting your own test results. The doctor may mention it or not. Yet, there is no hesitation to draw blood, request urine samples, and prod and poke patients to no end, day or night, to get what they need.
7. Like most other things, there is a learning curve in the health care system, both as a patient and a family member. It is possible to overcome most of a hospital's shortcomings by having family and friends serve as advocates, and provide preferred foods and other essentials.
One aspect of the hospital I did appreciate was what I refer to as "hospital time." It might also be considered a time warp. In either case, everything slows down, and it is as if the outside world does not exist. The focus is on the present. No sense in talking about what may happen, other than in the context of care. In that sense, I didn't mind the hospital at all.
A Good Reminder
As I was getting ready to go to the city to visit my mother in the hospital, and so hoping she would be released today, a small volume of Pema Chodron teachings caught my eye. I opened it randomly, as I always do. Yet again, I was reminded that all moments unfold from this present moment. To live in the future or the past is a futile exercise.
Monday, April 26, 2010
How Much Do We Really Need?
Note: This entry was written in the spring and inadvertently left as a draft. However, the message is not date- or time-specific.
No electricity.
No phones.
No heat.
No internet.
No transportation (other than one's own two feet!).
With the flooding a few weeks ago, we had this very predicament. There was a large tree across our driveway, so no way to get the cars out.
In some ways, it was like a snow day, until it stretched to two days, then three (we were able to get the cars out after two and a half days). The house got very cold. I didn't mind the candles and figuring out how to do things by the light of day (sort of made me feel like a pioneer woman). Then I got sick with a bad cold. It made me wonder how much and what I need to be comfortable in this world.
One would think the simpler we live, the less we need. But living simply out of choice is very different from being forced to live "simply" because you cannot afford to live any other way. And where is the dividing line between a pared down way of life and not having enough food on the table?
I like to think I don't need that much but I wonder. I wonder what would happen if there was a more serious situation, a prolonged period of doing without. The media has recently given us a heaping dose of cataclysmic events (movies such as 2012, The Road). Current events around the globe reek of wars, genocide, and crises like Hurricane Katrina and the earthquake in Haiti which give hardship and deprivation new meaning.
How much do I really need? I'm not sure. Most people would not voluntarily choose to test themselves on this score. I may never truly know the limits of my discomfort.
I do know I have what I need, and much more, and I'm grateful.
No electricity.
No phones.
No heat.
No internet.
No transportation (other than one's own two feet!).
With the flooding a few weeks ago, we had this very predicament. There was a large tree across our driveway, so no way to get the cars out.
In some ways, it was like a snow day, until it stretched to two days, then three (we were able to get the cars out after two and a half days). The house got very cold. I didn't mind the candles and figuring out how to do things by the light of day (sort of made me feel like a pioneer woman). Then I got sick with a bad cold. It made me wonder how much and what I need to be comfortable in this world.
One would think the simpler we live, the less we need. But living simply out of choice is very different from being forced to live "simply" because you cannot afford to live any other way. And where is the dividing line between a pared down way of life and not having enough food on the table?
I like to think I don't need that much but I wonder. I wonder what would happen if there was a more serious situation, a prolonged period of doing without. The media has recently given us a heaping dose of cataclysmic events (movies such as 2012, The Road). Current events around the globe reek of wars, genocide, and crises like Hurricane Katrina and the earthquake in Haiti which give hardship and deprivation new meaning.
How much do I really need? I'm not sure. Most people would not voluntarily choose to test themselves on this score. I may never truly know the limits of my discomfort.
I do know I have what I need, and much more, and I'm grateful.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Daily Discovery
As a young teen, lying on the shag carpeting of my room with my feet up on my dresser, I sometimes thought about the many different roles adults play and how impossible it seemed to be all those people at once. I was just becoming acquainted with myself, looking at how I played out my limited repertoire: student, daughter, sister, friend, camper, dancer, etc. How can a person be all these things and go from one to the other so seamlessly, I wondered?
I wanted to fit in, be accepted. External appearances were important. The more I tried to keep up with everyone else, the more fractured I felt. Who was I really? It was at this time I started to have my own unique thoughts about the world. I was discovering I did have an internal life as well as an external one.
It is the deeply rooted sense of who we are inside that gives us our center and makes us feel connected to everyone and everything. We cannot go inside, be connected to this Source, and at the same time be concerned with comparing ourselves to everyone else. So it is no wonder that my teenage self was confused about who she was.
This feeling has lasted to varying degrees for most of my life. Like Dani Shapiro, in her memoir, Devotion, I came to a point in mid-life where I needed some answers. We each have our own questions, and they are often of an existential nature. Mine were primarily about my purpose, my contract in this lifetime. It is clear that I am on a path, a journey of discovery. I know that each and every day something new may be revealed. But what am I meant to be doing, what is my life’s work?
I’d like to think of myself as a patient person but I am not. I want to KNOW. I’ve always been like that. Sometimes, when the suspense of a story became too scary, too big, I flipped to the back of the book just to KNOW that the hero did not die. So, too, I want to know what is in store for me, where I’m heading.
The Space Between Breaths
I have just finished reading Devotion, a memoir by Dani Shapiro. It is a story of her spiritual journey, and it could just as easily have been mine or yours. So often I felt myself nodding at her self-discoveries, Truths with a capital “T.”
We all grapple with finding that quiet space within ourselves, trying to find it over and over again. That, and not getting lost in the distraction of everyday living. It is my greatest challenge.
Why do I go weeks without posting on this blog? I don’t make the time to sit and write—it’s not my “job” or “profession.” So, I go from one airplane ride to the next train ride, having a period of an hour or two, suspended between two destinations, like that space between breaths. It is in that space I can give voice to what I have been experiencing.
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