Yeah, I know it's mushy and probably manipulated.
But I'm sitting here in tears, anyway after watching the final scene of the now-old movie Pay It Forward with Kevin Spacey and Helen Hunt, "Calling All Angels" on the soundtrack. Sentimental music bypasses my brain and goes straight to my heart. But it's OK; I need to reach down and feel this soft spot now and again.
I invite my coaching clients to watch the movie if they haven't seen it. I tell them that to "pay it forward" is truly all that is required of our lives. Often they believe they have no gifts to offer. But I hold up a sparkling mirror so they can see their brilliance and talents. And gradually, they begin to see what I see - a perfect and whole human being with incredible impact in the world, an impact that is essential for healing and growth.
I realize that I, too, am paying forward the unfaltering love that Victor has shown me through these 17 years. A little after 7 tonight, we went out for a quick dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant. A friend joined us, a woman who has returned to GardenSpirit Guesthouse for the fourth time - she loves it here.
After we ordered our food, Victor turned to me and said: "You know, I was thinking on the way home that I really love my job. But as much as I love what I do, I love coming home to be with you even more.
"And I realized that a lot of people don't feel that way. People love their jobs but they don't want to come home; they'd rather stay at work than be at home. I think that's really sad." And he leaned over and gave me a kiss.
My friend sighed and said "Victor, if you weren't already married, I'd want to marry you myself!" Truthfully, most of my close friends tell me over and over that Victor adores me. They notice it. I rarely do. Probably because I bask in the light of it all the time (well, OK, not ALL the time...we are human after all).
I guess the movie reminded me that my job is to "pay forward" the devoted love and support that I have received. Without experiencing it firsthand, I would never be able to notice it in my clients, my family and friends, acquaintances.
What I know for sure is that each of us, without exception, has a place in the world. That space can only be filled by YOU...and YOU...and yes, YOU. And who you are is absolutely necessary and important. All the world asks of us - of me - is to fully express yourself, to be fully who you are. Just as Victor lives his life to the tippy-top. Just as a fictional 12-year-old boy in a movie launched a Pay It Forward movement.
Tears dry. Smiles returned. I hear Victor coughing in our bedroom. Think I'll go snuggle up close to him and appreciate who he is. Wow.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Hope in an amber bottle
Victor has always been a poster child for the pharmaceutical companies. He's what doctors call "compliant." He takes his meds every day, at the appointed time (sometimes it's a bit ridiculous to stop everything so he can pop his 7 pm vitamin), he never misses a dose and on Sunday nights he faithfully refills his weekly pill dispenser.
It's a many-hued assortment - a virtual rainbow of chemicals that work this way and that (but not at cross purposes!) to keep him humming along. With the heart ailment, a new array of colors, sizes and doses were added. It's a handful. More medication than I would care to take. I avoid pills like the plague.
But it's not my life that has been prolonged for years by inhalable antibiotics and their ilk. And now, Victor's life may again be revived by a stiff cocktail of pills that look pretty much like TicTacs. They work differently, though. Quite differently.
The most recent doctor visit, a sure bet for hospitalization and heart monitors, yielded instead a 90-day trial of stronger drugs. After all the drama, we are now in the "wait and see" pattern.
What's the prognosis? Who knows?
All I know is that Victor's question never would have crossed my mind. Not while we were sitting in the cardiac intervention unit, not later at home. But Victor piped up instantly: "Does this mean there's a chance the condition is reversible?" I thought he had lost touch with reality, that the cardiologist would pooh-pooh him and pat his shoulder.
Instead, he nodded. "Yes," he said. "We've had folks on the transplant list who were able to go home without surgery." It hit me like a cold wave of froth. Hope. Amazing hope. Lighter step hope.
Reversible. What a wonderful word. There are no guarantees, of course. The future could look just as grim as it did before the appointment. I don't care. Victor believes he's feeling better. And though we have weeks and weeks before we actually find out whether he IS better, I am living life as though he IS.
Still going to keep that appointment to get the finances in order. Still going to update the wills. But that's what regular people do anyway, right? Right?
It's a many-hued assortment - a virtual rainbow of chemicals that work this way and that (but not at cross purposes!) to keep him humming along. With the heart ailment, a new array of colors, sizes and doses were added. It's a handful. More medication than I would care to take. I avoid pills like the plague.
But it's not my life that has been prolonged for years by inhalable antibiotics and their ilk. And now, Victor's life may again be revived by a stiff cocktail of pills that look pretty much like TicTacs. They work differently, though. Quite differently.
The most recent doctor visit, a sure bet for hospitalization and heart monitors, yielded instead a 90-day trial of stronger drugs. After all the drama, we are now in the "wait and see" pattern.
What's the prognosis? Who knows?
All I know is that Victor's question never would have crossed my mind. Not while we were sitting in the cardiac intervention unit, not later at home. But Victor piped up instantly: "Does this mean there's a chance the condition is reversible?" I thought he had lost touch with reality, that the cardiologist would pooh-pooh him and pat his shoulder.
Instead, he nodded. "Yes," he said. "We've had folks on the transplant list who were able to go home without surgery." It hit me like a cold wave of froth. Hope. Amazing hope. Lighter step hope.
Reversible. What a wonderful word. There are no guarantees, of course. The future could look just as grim as it did before the appointment. I don't care. Victor believes he's feeling better. And though we have weeks and weeks before we actually find out whether he IS better, I am living life as though he IS.
Still going to keep that appointment to get the finances in order. Still going to update the wills. But that's what regular people do anyway, right? Right?
Monday, March 19, 2007
Nailing down a cloud
We expected last week's test results to be a little more encouraging. They weren't.
Victor, my adored and adoring husband, still has a serious heart problem. That, on top of his ordinary, old, everyday cystic fibrosis.
Yeah, right. Living with CF for nearly 56 years is anything but ordinary. There are only 30 or so men in the world still alive with this awful disease that clogs lungs and causes infections that can kill.
But CF is a familiar monster. After almost 17 years together, I have grown accustomed to the loud buzz of the nebulizer that delivers his medications three times a day. I've learned to locate Victor in a crowded room by listening for his CF-influenced cough. And I know the dangers of the cold and flu season with their inherent possibilities of bringing in yet another lung infection.
That's when the heavy artillery comes out: IV antibiotics and home care. Only rarely has Victor been a patient at Duke Hospital, even though he spends a lot of time there. He's a physician and a professor of medicine in the Medical School, so his interest is professional. It doesn't hurt that he knows his away around a PIC line and can monitor his own health.
He knows the significance of his latest tests, too. He is acutely aware that his heart has not improved even after beta blockers and blood thinner. The combination of CF and weak heart muscles make him breathless even when he climbs the stairs to our bedroom at night. It scares the hell out of me. He has started to prepare me for his inevitable decline.
I claw and fight at it like a crazed cougar. I won't have it. I refuse to allow it. Victor is a miracle man and he has a few last minute miracles in his back pocket. Right? Then I dissolve into tears, hearing his voice in my head, "I'm not afraid to die, but I hate to leave you alone."
Last night, I woke up about 2 am and listened to him breathe. Tight, short little breaths that gradually get softer and softer, then grow louder again, a cycle that repeats again and again. he tells me he is out of breath during the day. It won't be long before he will need oxygen. And soon after that, he'll be staying home instead of going to his office, too winded to walk the path from the parking lot to his office at the hospital.
I snuggled up to him, feeling his warmth and he stirred, too. "Do you want me to cuddle to your back?" he asked, sleepily. No, I said. I want to smell you. "To smell me?" he repeated. Yeah, I want to breath deep and take in all the Victor essence I can possibly hold. I want to capture you in a bottle so that when you're gone I will still be able to feel your touch, your warmth, your Victor-smell.
It's like trying to nail a cloud to the ground, beautiful and tantalizingly elusive.
So how do I hold onto a memory that is so fresh today, yet that will vanish when he's gone? I wish I knew. Nails aren't working worth a damn.
Victor, my adored and adoring husband, still has a serious heart problem. That, on top of his ordinary, old, everyday cystic fibrosis.
Yeah, right. Living with CF for nearly 56 years is anything but ordinary. There are only 30 or so men in the world still alive with this awful disease that clogs lungs and causes infections that can kill.
But CF is a familiar monster. After almost 17 years together, I have grown accustomed to the loud buzz of the nebulizer that delivers his medications three times a day. I've learned to locate Victor in a crowded room by listening for his CF-influenced cough. And I know the dangers of the cold and flu season with their inherent possibilities of bringing in yet another lung infection.
That's when the heavy artillery comes out: IV antibiotics and home care. Only rarely has Victor been a patient at Duke Hospital, even though he spends a lot of time there. He's a physician and a professor of medicine in the Medical School, so his interest is professional. It doesn't hurt that he knows his away around a PIC line and can monitor his own health.
He knows the significance of his latest tests, too. He is acutely aware that his heart has not improved even after beta blockers and blood thinner. The combination of CF and weak heart muscles make him breathless even when he climbs the stairs to our bedroom at night. It scares the hell out of me. He has started to prepare me for his inevitable decline.
I claw and fight at it like a crazed cougar. I won't have it. I refuse to allow it. Victor is a miracle man and he has a few last minute miracles in his back pocket. Right? Then I dissolve into tears, hearing his voice in my head, "I'm not afraid to die, but I hate to leave you alone."
Last night, I woke up about 2 am and listened to him breathe. Tight, short little breaths that gradually get softer and softer, then grow louder again, a cycle that repeats again and again. he tells me he is out of breath during the day. It won't be long before he will need oxygen. And soon after that, he'll be staying home instead of going to his office, too winded to walk the path from the parking lot to his office at the hospital.
I snuggled up to him, feeling his warmth and he stirred, too. "Do you want me to cuddle to your back?" he asked, sleepily. No, I said. I want to smell you. "To smell me?" he repeated. Yeah, I want to breath deep and take in all the Victor essence I can possibly hold. I want to capture you in a bottle so that when you're gone I will still be able to feel your touch, your warmth, your Victor-smell.
It's like trying to nail a cloud to the ground, beautiful and tantalizingly elusive.
So how do I hold onto a memory that is so fresh today, yet that will vanish when he's gone? I wish I knew. Nails aren't working worth a damn.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Sink The Monitor
For years I was completely unaware of it and, therefore, was at its mercy – that nagging, guilt-laden voice in my head that told me what I “should” do, be and say.
“You can’t eat dessert in front of him – not on a first date! He may never take you out again. Order a salad.”
“You should recycle that plastic bag. The earth is in bad enough shape without you adding to the problem.”
“Don’t go to the grocery store without your makeup on. You’ll scare people. They won’t even recognize you!”
“Am I talking about myself too much? Are they bored? I need to be quiet so people don’t find out the truth about me.”
These may not be the exact “tapes” that ran through my head – fortunately I’ve erased and forgotten them – but the sharp tone and critical nature of the phrases are all too familiar. They were peppered with negative words: “can’t,” “shouldn’t,” “need to,” “don’t,” “have to.” The harsh voice was the ultimate authority; it demanded obedience. And perfection.
As I began to pay attention to this voice – not an easy task when it was so much a part of my mental processes – I realized that it was “watching” me. It was patrolling my thoughts, guarding against mistakes, protecting me from pain. I dubbed my internal voice “The Monitor.”
Much of The Monitor’s advice was gleaned from the people who shaped my life. “Watch both ways before you cross the street” arrived complements of my vigilant parents, who also gave me: “Pull your dress down over your knees,” and “We can’t afford it.”
Schoolteachers provided excellent fodder for The Monitor’s repertoire: “You have to spell it perfectly to get a star on your forehead.” I think the IRS took a cue from America’s public schools, too: “Your income tax records must be accurate or we will add penalties plus exorbitant interest.” And the icy stare from my boss when I was late clearly meant: “You’ll get fired if you don’t get to work on time.”
No wonder The Monitor had staked such a powerful claim. It was being fed constantly by the ‘outside world.” And I was allowing the groundswell of advice to occupy the Truth Section of my brain without much protest.
When I finally realized what was happening – that The Monitor believed I was still a helpless child who needed fierce protection at any cost – I knew I had to push it aside to hear my own adult voice. But if I heard my own voice, would I recognize it? What if it was gone, or worse, it wasn’t “good enough?” (Oops – there’s that darned Monitor again.)
I needed to Sink The Monitor. To keep me dependent, The Monitor always warned me I couldn’t do things without help. In this case, The Monitor was right. I reached out to therapists, I read a lot of self-help books, I worked with a coach.
Ultimately, though, it was my determination to change, to live a life with more clarity and joy, that conquered my dependence on The Monitor. I learned to notice when it nudged its way into my conversations (and more often into my self talk). I would marvel at its wacky and often counter-productive advice. And then I would bring forward my knowledge, experience and wisdom to create a more resourceful thought.
There are a lot of thoughts in my head. It took a long time for me to sort out the new Linda thoughts from The Monitor automated responses. But every day, every week, every year, I get better at trusting the Authentic Me instead of The Monitor.
I have learned to respect and appreciate The Monitor. It stood tall when I most needed a protectorate. It saved my childhood life countless times and its wise counsel has shaped who I am today. Its influence has diminished, but not vanished.
Yes, The Monitor still lives within me. It still does its (very important) job of keeping me safe when I cross the street. Sometimes, however, I misspell words (thank goodness for spell check) and I eat dessert whenever I like. The Monitor slumbers and I don’t feel one bit guilty.
“You can’t eat dessert in front of him – not on a first date! He may never take you out again. Order a salad.”
“You should recycle that plastic bag. The earth is in bad enough shape without you adding to the problem.”
“Don’t go to the grocery store without your makeup on. You’ll scare people. They won’t even recognize you!”
“Am I talking about myself too much? Are they bored? I need to be quiet so people don’t find out the truth about me.”
These may not be the exact “tapes” that ran through my head – fortunately I’ve erased and forgotten them – but the sharp tone and critical nature of the phrases are all too familiar. They were peppered with negative words: “can’t,” “shouldn’t,” “need to,” “don’t,” “have to.” The harsh voice was the ultimate authority; it demanded obedience. And perfection.
As I began to pay attention to this voice – not an easy task when it was so much a part of my mental processes – I realized that it was “watching” me. It was patrolling my thoughts, guarding against mistakes, protecting me from pain. I dubbed my internal voice “The Monitor.”
Much of The Monitor’s advice was gleaned from the people who shaped my life. “Watch both ways before you cross the street” arrived complements of my vigilant parents, who also gave me: “Pull your dress down over your knees,” and “We can’t afford it.”
Schoolteachers provided excellent fodder for The Monitor’s repertoire: “You have to spell it perfectly to get a star on your forehead.” I think the IRS took a cue from America’s public schools, too: “Your income tax records must be accurate or we will add penalties plus exorbitant interest.” And the icy stare from my boss when I was late clearly meant: “You’ll get fired if you don’t get to work on time.”
No wonder The Monitor had staked such a powerful claim. It was being fed constantly by the ‘outside world.” And I was allowing the groundswell of advice to occupy the Truth Section of my brain without much protest.
When I finally realized what was happening – that The Monitor believed I was still a helpless child who needed fierce protection at any cost – I knew I had to push it aside to hear my own adult voice. But if I heard my own voice, would I recognize it? What if it was gone, or worse, it wasn’t “good enough?” (Oops – there’s that darned Monitor again.)
I needed to Sink The Monitor. To keep me dependent, The Monitor always warned me I couldn’t do things without help. In this case, The Monitor was right. I reached out to therapists, I read a lot of self-help books, I worked with a coach.
Ultimately, though, it was my determination to change, to live a life with more clarity and joy, that conquered my dependence on The Monitor. I learned to notice when it nudged its way into my conversations (and more often into my self talk). I would marvel at its wacky and often counter-productive advice. And then I would bring forward my knowledge, experience and wisdom to create a more resourceful thought.
There are a lot of thoughts in my head. It took a long time for me to sort out the new Linda thoughts from The Monitor automated responses. But every day, every week, every year, I get better at trusting the Authentic Me instead of The Monitor.
I have learned to respect and appreciate The Monitor. It stood tall when I most needed a protectorate. It saved my childhood life countless times and its wise counsel has shaped who I am today. Its influence has diminished, but not vanished.
Yes, The Monitor still lives within me. It still does its (very important) job of keeping me safe when I cross the street. Sometimes, however, I misspell words (thank goodness for spell check) and I eat dessert whenever I like. The Monitor slumbers and I don’t feel one bit guilty.
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