Sunday Confessional: Mourning

This is probably my most intimate, private, real Sunday Confession yet, but I'm okay with sharing my experience because I want to talk about my Nonna.  Her great grandchildren are still learning some Italian from those of us who outlived her, and they hear loads of stories about her.  The following is one story, though, that is bittersweet.  I have talked about most of the contents of this post with my family already.  We all miss my grandmother, but I might have taken her passing the hardest.

I think I'm done, but I've come to the realization before that I'm just not done yet.

Every time I think I've let go, something sets me off again.

My Nonna died over a year ago.  I'm not done mourning yet.  I don't know if I'll ever be.

I watched a movie earlier this month in which a family was bidding farewell to a girl who was on her death bed and couldn't speak.  I handled it well up until the very end when they said it was important to say goodbye, and to let her know that it was okay to die.  Well, I lost it.

I moved out of my parents' house shortly after my Nonna died.  I said that I moved out because I needed my own space, and so did they.  They were encroaching on my space with all of the stuff they had to sort through from Nonna's and the renovation.  If I am being honest, though, with myself and all of you, the real reason I had to get out of the house is because I couldn't stand to be around my mother every day so soon after losing Nonna.  I feel bad saying so, but I had been harboring some anger towards her.  Maybe anger is the wrong word, but I would look at her and see this strong woman whom I had seen at her weakest point, on the saddest day imaginable.  The feeling associated with watching her wait for her mother, my Nonna, to die was stuck in the forefront of my mind.

When my Nonna was sick, it was my Aunt's job to keep her paperwork in order, track Nonna's ever-changing list of medications and ailments, and keep her fed.  My mother helped when she could, but just couldn't handle seeing her mother ill so she never visited for very long.  In general, my Aunt was there for a few minutes as well, maybe an hour, and would mostly talk to doctors, nurses, and administrators.  My mother came by to help where and when she could, similarly mostly talking to doctors, nurses, and administrators.  That's the way they coped, by keeping her better.  That was very important.  I was angry, though, that they never stayed and spent a lot of quality time with their mother.  In retrospect, that was wrong of me to be so upset.  There was a bit of a duality to the situation; I was also glad for the times when they left me there to just hang out with Nonna, and glad that they dealt with the doctors and nurses so that I didn't have to most of the time.  Regardless of the good times I spent with my grandmother, I couldn't shake the feeling of anger toward my Aunt and my mother's way of interacting with my Nonna until a long while after she passed.

My anger probably stemmed from the fact that the rest of my family would talk about how ill Nonna was, and about dementia and stuff.  Sometimes I acted as though I was in denial, but I knew she wouldn't be around forever, and I was generally okay with death.  I was more concerned with life.  So, I would read to my Nonna and pray in Italian.  When I thought she wasn't listening to me any longer, I would trail off, but she would perk up and ask me why I had stopped.  She comprehended more than I did sometimes, actually.  Sure, she had forgetful moments, and we had to keep her in line about the day of the week, but she was present.  Nonna never got to a point where she didn't know who the current president was or who we were.  She just didn't remember that she had told me something earlier that day already or taken her medications and stuff.  Maybe my family was trying to be realistic, and I saw that as pessimistic because I just try to look at everything in a positive way.  That can be frustrating to some people, especially if they are trying to prepare for death.

Either way, my Nonna's last day on Earth was the worst day of my life, to date.  I couldn't handle it.  Mostly, I couldn't handle my mother crying and telling her mother that it was okay to let go.  Incessantly.  All day.  Apparently the doctor had put the idea in her head that telling Nonna that it was okay to let go was a good thing, but I hated it.

I hope that my children don't tell me "it's okay" [to die].  I've known ever since I was a child that it would be okay to die.  Death doesn't scare me.  It would piss me off more than anything to have my children gather around when I can't communicate back to tell me that it would be okay if I kicked the bucket that day!

I didn't have the energy to do more than protest once or twice, so I sat there miserably saying nothing for most of the day.  I was a wreck myself.  I actually crawled into my Nonna's bed with her at one point, curling up next to her in the hospital bed, holding her nearly limp hand.  Nonna had her gaze fixed on the wall/ceiling, and she needed help breathing because of the drugs they had her on to help ease her passing.  It was painful to watch.  My mother told me that Nonna saw her grandmother that morning, so it probably wouldn't be long before she joined her.

Nonna hung on longer than most of the family thought she would.  I swear, she was a totally different person around me than with anyone else, too.  One time, months after Nonna was in the ICU recovering from resuscitation, and probably 6 months to a year before she died, she was hospitalized for something or other that caused doctors much concern.  Her internal body temperature became very cold and the family had all but decided that they were ready to let her die.  At the time, I thought that they were cold and rude to speak so openly about my Nonna's condition like that.  If I ever get sick, I hope nobody talks about putting me on hospice or whatever without including me in some conversation about it first.  But, they did, and she knew it.

Nonna didn't want to be a vegetable.  We had talked about it when she was well.  I don't know if anyone else ever asked her, but we were close like that, Nonna and I.  She didn't want to be artificially kept alive.  She was a wise, spunky woman.  But, she wasn't ready to go yet at that time, even if nobody else knew it yet.

When everyone was gathered around her room talking, she was still as a corpse, but once the last straggler left, she nearly jumped out of bed and began planning her escape.  I remember her saying "Cait-a-lynn, they're-a-gonna kill me!  Let's get outta here."  If I wasn't there, she would've fallen flat on her face with those muscle engagement things strapped around her ankles.  She was determined to escape.

On her last day, Nonna wasn't really there until everyone else was gone.  You could tell by her fixed gaze, and just her overall energy of the room.  She couldn't speak with the breathing tube in her mouth, but shortly before I left, she became aware, probably for the last time.  She looked up at me and told me that she loved me [with her eyes].  She was a little manic and scared, but I just told her that it was okay.  I couldn't tell her that it was okay to die like my mother and my Aunt had been saying all day, but she knew what I meant.

She lived a wonderful life, my Nonna.  At the end, Nonna didn't leave behind much in this world but her children, grandchildren, and great grand children.  She did a wonderful job raising each of us, though, and I'm sure she smiles at us every day.  I miss her, but as the cycle of life continues, I will meet her again one day when it's time for me to go.  Until then, I'm going to use my time on this earth to spread the Love and Laughter that she filled my heart with.

Ciao, bella!

Sunday Confessional: Taxes & Moving

Nothing like waiting until the last minute!

Here are my confessions of the day:

1.  I haven't done my taxes yet.

2.  I don't have the time or ability to get them done today.

3.  That stresses me out because I could have done them back in February.

Also, I am sending an e-mail to my landlord that this will be my final month of residence in my apartment (EEK!).  I'd actually really like to stay.  I enjoy living on my own.

However, it is time to accept that I will be in a much better place financially if I move back home with my parents for the time being.  I have a heft health insurance bill to tack on to my list of monthly expenses, and my parents have to start repaying some loans, so we could all use a little extra cash.

I've enjoyed the time away from home.  I'm not going to waste a second of the next 30 days of sweet solitude, though!

Confession:  I'm absolutely dreading moving back home.  Every time I discuss it with my parents, it makes so much sense and yet it seems so overwhelming at the same time.  Yesterday, I was at peace with the decision.  Today I am not.  Hopefully I will have more days of peace than conflict, but only time will tell, and it truly is only temporary.

Message of the Day: Pick one, I suppose!  Doing is better than thinking about doing (ie. stop procrastinating).  Also, recognizing when you are resisting something good for you is healthy; overcome and adapt.

...Or don't.  It won't change my reality.  Cheers!

Sunday Confessional: Drafts

True writer's block usually isn't staring at the screen (or paper, pen in hand) and having absolutely nothing to say, it is more often hating everything you wrote.  For a blog about positivity, that's one hundred percent counterproductive!

I have writer's block.

There are about 20 great beginnings, topics, and entirely completed entries in my drafts folder.  Most of them, I'm not satisfied with.  For some, they are not ready yet.  For some, the mood has expired and they no longer feel appropriate.  For others, they seem like they don't belong on a 'positivity' blog.  Still, others are just "blah," and they belong in the trash.

The final reason I haven't posted this week is that most of what I wrote just don't seem okay to post on such a public forum.  I'm not making excuses, but I feel the need to share that I have been struggling with a seemingly fundamental blogging issue for the past two weeks.  Blogging is about sharing, but everything I have to write about lately belongs in my diary, not on the internet.

How do I write about friends, family, dating, financial craziness, work issues, or any other scary topics that I wouldn't tell my mother?  Or my boss?  I feel filtered.  I feel restricted.  It's like writing out a text message to someone you know you shouldn't say "THAT" to and letting it sit in your drafts folder for a week or two.

So, here is some vulnerability:

- I'm feeling financially cornered.
- There are parts about the single life that really get me down.
- My ex, whom I had just started entering a really cool friends again place with, just exited my life via text.
- I don't want to publish my "first date" story with a boy because I told him that I blog and he is a friend.  A friend who might read what I wrote.
- I got back from my work vacation to find out that a distant relative died and there was family in town, but I was too exhausted from traveling to see them.
- My Nonna's birthday was this week.  She died last year.  It was hard.

I have come to terms with all of this, and hopefully I have gotten over my funk.  Here are some of my coping mechanisms:

- I'm taking back control of my financial situation.
- Dating or single, I am who I am, and I refuse to let the possibility of a broken heart bar me from dating.
- Letting go.  I still feel disrespected and dragged around (again), but if he can't be a friend, then he just can't be a friend.  I accept it.
- I'll have a frank conversation with the man I went on that date with, and then maybe one day I will talk about it.  Maybe I won't.  Either would be okay.
- I forgive myself for avoiding death because of exhaustion & my own health.  It's okay.
- Finally, Nonna loves me.  I will tell stories about how amazing she was until the day I die.
Ti amo, Bella!

Message of the Day:  It is okay to keep some things close to the chest, just as it is okay to be vulnerable.

Cheers!

Sunday Confessional: Fear

This is the third week in a row of my Sunday Confessionals.  Readers, if you enjoy these "Let's get real" moments, let me know in the comments section below.

One day this week, I was feeling like I'm not quite practicing what I preach.  I still have some fears I need to overcome.  Without getting into too much detail, I'm allowing some fears to hold me back.  I'm creating excuses.  I'm deferring responsibility when I shouldn't be.  Partly, it's inactivity that is holding me back, but I understand the limitations of what my body can do right now, and I'm barely poking those limits.  Afraid of re-injury?  Maybe.  Talking myself in circles about what I should or shouldn't do without actually doing it?  Maybe.

Friends, I knew that I needed to get out of my own head.  I knew that I needed to stop pouring effort into things that I don't really care about, or that won't really matter in the long run.  But I was feeling stuck.  Very stuck.  I made a list of things I hoped to accomplish for the day in an effort to provide myself with a more tangible goal to work toward, but I knew that realistically I wouldn't get to half of them.  I was stuck.  

So, I wrote on the walls...

For those of you who didn't read my Writing on the Wall post, don't worry.  I did actually write on the walls (WHAAAAT?), but it wipes off.  I write on the walls of my shower.  I use dry erase markers.

Phew!

It wipes off easily, but it doesn't always work if the shower is wet or steamy.  I have another device for that, but I'll talk about that another time.

After this feeling of stuck-ness decided to linger for over 30 minutes, I wrote inspiring things on the wall.  Specifically, I scribbled 10 reminders I set for myself on 10 different tiles.  To me, it looks like the typical cubicle with a cluttered array of sticky notes everywhere.  I went a little overboard.  But that's okay; they wipe off.  I'll examine a different one every day/every time I shower and I shall erase them when I feel that I no longer require a reminder.

It's time to own the fact that I am a powerful creator, with the potential to do great things!  That's pretty much rule #1: You create your own reality.

The rest of my reminders look a little like this:

Own up to your creation.  Honor yourself.  Listen to yourself.  Love yourself.  Do things you Love.  Let go of people/things/situations that don't support you.  Stand by your beliefs.  Acknowledge your fears, for they ache to be heard; then overcome them.  Accept life's pleasures; you deserve every happiness.  Empower others.

Message of the Day:  We all feel afraid sometimes; it's okay.  Acknowledge your fears and overcome!

...Or don't.  It won't change my reality.  Cheers!

Sunday Confessional: Hospitals

Last week, I began something called my Sunday Confessional.  It's a time when I strip away my positive outlook and share a real, vulnerable moment in which I struggled to smile.

I had a very serious moment last Sunday evening, I got very sick.  I'll spare you the gory details, but I threw up 6 or 7 times over the course of an hour or two.  Because I lost so much fluid at once, I became very dizzy and almost fainted.  I found out later that this is not uncommon.  But, in the moment when the world went fuzzy and my reflection was that of a zombie, I got scared.  So scared that I totally lost it!  I dropped to the floor, feet in the air, and called 911.  Something very wrong was happening with my body.  It was making funny noises.  I was feeling a million strange sensations at once.  I was worried because of the medication I was on, and to top it all off, I was about to pass out amidst a vomiting episode.  Alone in my apartment, this was not the best scenario to be in.

So, the EMTs arrived at my apartment to find me on the floor, a tad more conscious than I had been when I called, but still ghostly pale.  Embarrassed, I took a ride to the hospital just to be sure that nothing more serious was going on.

As a child, I took many rides in an ambulance, but there was always someone there with me.  My last ambulance ride was alone as well, but I was hyped up on adrenaline. This time, there wasn't anyone familiar with me.  My body was in pain.  Every fiber of my being was drained and exhausted.  I was thinking about the massive bill going to arrive soon for this expensive excursion.  I was trying to filter through my cloudy brain to find the relevant medical information like what drugs I was taking, allergies, and other basic medical history.  I was cursing myself for not wearing my medical alert bracelet (in case someone had found me unconscious).  Most of all, I was dreading telling this same story to the EMTs, then the RN, the MD, and since it was nearly midnight, the covering RN and MD.  All the while, my brain was fighting a panic attack, and I could just feel myself in a state of inescapable resistance to the world around me.

The EMTs asked me to get on the gurney, and instead of my usual, "Okay.  I know how this goes and I'll just go with the flow" attitude, I felt panicked.  Just asking me if he could buckle me in brought me to tears.  That's not to say that I was a miserable, blubbery mess the entire time.  Admittedly, my dark side came over me once or twice when my parents showed up and there were just too many people in the room asking me too many questions.  However, I perked up by the 2nd or 3rd IV bag of fluids, and the end of my hospital stay.  I found it hilarious, both in the moment and in retrospect, that amidst my tears and sullen attitude, I kept saying things like "I'm sorry.  I'm normally a happy, positive person."  I'm sure the EMTs and doctors are used to people not being their 'best selves,' but I was definitely a disaster.  Normally doesn't mean just out in the world on a normal day.  There was something totally wonky going on because under extreme circumstances of emergency, the presence of the EMTs usually calms me and I have a positive attitude no matter how crummy my body feels, joking around when appropriate.  I take pride in making the lives of the health professionals around me joyous.  Clearly, that didn't happen last Sunday.  I was rather a pain, actually.

Longing for a "reset" button, I didn't really escape the heightened energy feeling until yesterday.  As much rest as I was getting, as much amazing support I got from friends and family, I was only happy and recovered on the surface.  Thinking I was all better, I returned to work on Thursday.  No matter what I did, I couldn't shake this deep seeded feeling that I needed help to feel less anxious.  I confided in a coworker (whom I think I drove a little nutty by bouncing about the office, unable to calm down).  She suggested Holosync, which is something that I have done before (in principle), but never as an actual meditation, or when I really needed to.

Then, I went to see my PT.  He's an awesome guy, and a great friend.  I confided in him about not being able to meditate in my usual ways and thinking about this silly idea of taking a doctor's advice to use medications in order to change my brain chemistry.  He affirmed what I needed to hear, reminding me that I can change my brain chemistry myself.  By changing my environment, I can make changes that will outlast the effect of any anti anxiety medication.  In this case, I need to change up the way I meditate.  He shared something with me that has been enticing me with increasing frequency as of late.

Have you ever heard of something called binaural beats?

They are basically different frequencies, alternating both in pitch and in which ear you hear them, used to make changes to your brain.  You have to use headphones while listening.  It is a great tool to use for when you need a more passive meditation and can't seem to get to a calm state without assistance.  That is the basic the technique Holosync, and many other, similar meditation series use.

I tried this Brainwave Studio App today, and it seemed to be effective.  It helped me slow down my brain a bit, at least.  I think I'll alternate using this and my current meditation routine for a while.

Message of the Day:  Ask for help, listen to the Universe when it repeats itself, and change up your routine if it serves you.

...Or don't.  It won't change my reality.  Cheers!

Sunday Confessional

I'm starting something called my "Sunday Confessional" for two reasons.  First, I would like to remind myself that it's okay to get down sometimes, as long as I pull myself out of it within a reasonable amount of time.  Second, I'd like to be more real with you, my readers, by expressing my "down moments" as well as my generally positive perspective.  Feel free to be vulnerable here with me, and share things that you are struggling with as well.

Okay, so here it is:

My Sunday Confessional:

This week, I nearly cried in the shower because of the seemingly paradoxical "Ahhh... so much less hair," and "GAH, I have NO HAIR!!!"  The first is a positive, light, wonderful feeling.  The second is SCARY!  I reached back and there was virtually, comparatively, NOTHING there.  Everyone (okay, like 3 people) have told me how "brave" I am for cutting off so much hair, but I honestly hadn't thought about it from a vanity standpoint until they pointed out how brave it was.  Now, I'm playing with products and trying to get my hair to do what I'd like it to, and it isn't really cooperating as easily as I had hoped.  Handling this whole "new hair, new me" thing, right after I washed it, pretty much looked like this:

I stared in the mirror with a line of hair product in front of me.  I had rarely used hair product when my hair was long, but something tells me it will be essential in the coming months!  Gazing at myself in the mirror led me to thinking back on the words I uttered so casually just days ago, "it'll always grow back."  Those words seemed to have a slower than snail-like connotation when considered in retrospect.

Dealing with my demons:

I called a friend who I knew would brighten my mood.  We had plans to hang out, but he confessed that he wasn't up for it (bummer, because that means now I really won't leave the apartment today).  We chatted on the phone for a while, and then my guitar started calling my name. 

I got all of my "scary" feelings out in the form of sweet frustration, learning to play the guitar.  I love my acoustic; she is such a bright sounding guitar (specifically strung that way), and she is always there for me when the world gets me down.

Message of the Day:  We all get down sometimes, just don't let your demons keep you down for long.

Either way, it won't change my reality.  Cheers!