Love Abides

And the importance of Sanctuary

SPOILER ALERT:

There is heartache in this one—the sister post to “With This Ring…”.

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First, some context for those who might need a bit of backstory:

My mom and Dad were married on November 21, 1964. They met a couple years-ish before in a dance hall in Yakima. No judging now…THAT was the TikTok, Instagram, Tinder meet-up place of the “back then.” It was ALL about the dance hall (recall the fun story from “The Dancer dances”).

The Dancer dances

Mom died in the hospital Tuesday, March 8, 2016 in the late afternoon. Her death was rather sudden—Trevor admitted her to the hospital a couple days before because she was having trouble breathing—well, MORE trouble than her usual. Mom struggled with her breathing the last few decades of her life. Mom suffered from COPD—Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. She was also a lung cancer survivor after “winning” her decades long war with cigarettes—one never truly wins THAT war though. Everyone expected her to bounce right back after receiving treatment in the hospital—and on Saturday, March 5, she was doing just that. She was alert, bantering with nurses and us, eating. Mom still had characteristic energy AND her full mental capacities. We took Dad out to dinner that evening and then came back home. The next morning, Sunday, March 6, mom’s 83rd birthday, Trevor called to say mom had taken a turn for the worse and was in a comatose state. She never regained full consciousness.

Though Dad was able to tell his wife of 52 years goodbye, in his own silent way, he didn’t get to hear that from her.

Mom didn’t tell Dad…goodbye.

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Okay, back to present day. Just the other day in fact (note: all things from the past, now, are “just the other day”).

You’ll remember my alter ego is as Dad’s personal genie.

The other morning, I was summoned when he finished his breakfast—as usual and in the usual way: “Kert, I’m finished.” (His way of rubbing the side of the lamp.) But this wasn’t going to be our normal banter as I cleared his dishes. Because when I ‘materialized’ and began to clean up, something very different transpired than what has been our usual.

Here comes the heart ache part.

Deep breath in.

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You see, the night before the breakfast I refer to above, just after 1am, Dad had another night terror dream—and likewise, something very different than his usual. Most every night now, we expect to be wakened by phantom, one-sided (Dad’s side) dream state conversations or random (to us) vocalizations—and about every third night or so, the dreams level-up in intensity to full on night terrors—nightmares that manifest in loud vocalizations and some level of physicality. Dad, being as immobile as he is, does not “sleep walk,” (THANK GOD!!!), so these physical manifestations usually involve facial twitching, head shakes, and arm and leg movements.

All of these are typical side effects or symptoms of Parkinson’s disease—and some Parkinson’s medications heighten the itensity of the dreams (the double-edge of some of these miracle medicines). Most of the time, the vocalizations are incomprehensible. In HIS dream mind, though, he’s making sense because the “dialogue” sounds like it might be elaborate; in the real world of late night/very early morning walkie-talkie transmissions, i.e. OUR ears, he sounds like a pre-verbal, babbling baby—but with an 83 year old man’s voice. At first, it was disconcerting to hear Dad like this—now, it’s become our norm. As time has gone on, I can now discern the tone and emotional intensity of the dreams fairly quickly. Over the course of a night, there can be as many as a half-dozen distinct sessions of dream vocalizations none of which we can ever hope to understand. There’s no way Dad gets full nights of restful sleep; and we typically don’t talk about the dreams the next day either—he never brings them up. They have simply become a part of our nights now.

But on THIS particular night…

He was yelling for me by name (which is unusual again because his verbalizations are not typically intelligible let alone comprehensible) and screaming:

“Kert you need to come!

Where are you? I need you!

Your mother needs help! Kert, she’s in trouble, she’s in pain.

Hurry Kert!

I can’t help her!”

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Dad was in an obvious panic and distressed.

Because he was calling my name, I surmised he was semi-, if not fully, awake and believing that what he had just dreamt… was terrifyingly real.

And mom needed help.

And he couldn’t help her.

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Heeding his beck and call that next morning and “magically” appearing before him as he finished his muffin, I went to collect his breakfast dishes and to orient his body in his chair to ease into the rest of the morning. The night previous still in my mind as I wondered if it was still in his. And then…

Dad: I talked out loud last night, didn’t I.

Me: Yeah, you remember, huh Dad? Yes, you did.

D: About your mother.

M: Yes, you remember. You were dreaming.

D: [he nodded his head though I’m not certain he knows it was a dream.]

[I sit next to him and rest my hand on the back of his.]

M: You were worried about mom, weren’t you.

D: [he nodded his head. His eyes began to swell up. I can tell he can no longer talk.]

M: Dad, mom is okay. You know that, right?

[Some moments pass as I see him trying to comprehend.]

D: [he nodded his head and the tears began.]

M: Mom is not in any pain, Dad. She doesn’t need our help. You were dreaming… but I know it felt real.

[More moments pass…silence; he’s wiping the tears from his eyes slowly.]

M: Mom isn’t in pain, Dad. She’s not hurt. She’s just… waiting for you, isn’t she.

D: [he nodded his head slowly and the tears flow freely.]

D: [Choking through the tears and tight throat]: “Thank you for breakfast.”

M: You’re welcome Dad.

[He still thanks us for every single meal and for every act he perceives to be kind. And there is only kindness and love here now.]

The moment ended as Kristin came down to say good morning.

Me: “The baker’s here! You need to thank the baker for your breakfast today! That’s how you get tomorrow’s muffin.”

Composing himself because he still believes he shouldn’t show his emotions, Dad thanked Kristin.

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It is up to human rational awareness and perception to comprehend that dreams are not real. To the brain, especially a brain on Parkinson’s, dreams, as they are happening, ARE real. For healthy and trauma-impacted brains alike, this fact can be utilized to great benefit (e.g. helping: victims of abuse and trauma; PTSD soldiers and first responders; those of us living with depression and/or chronic anxiety; and also leaders, high-performers, and athletes—if you have “visualized” something before you engaged in the act (golf swing, public speaking, work presentation, free-throws, etc.), you have direct practice in this). There is NO distinction to a brain on what is being made up vs. what is actually happening. This is why visualization, hypnosis, and mindfulness practices work. To the brain, it is ALL just neurons firing and re-wiring.

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I know Dad is not taking anything for granted here. He understands what we are doing for him. What we, and our home, his home, are offering him.

A sanctuary, in its original meaning, is a sacred place, such as a shrine. And in the use of such places as a haven, by extension, the term has come to be used for any place of safety. This secondary use can be categorized into human sanctuary, a safe place for people, such as a [final/forever home with family]; and non-human sanctuary, such as an animal or plant sanctuary.

Sanctuary is a word derived from the Latin sanctuarium, which is, like most words ending in -arium, a container for keeping something in—in this case holy things or perhaps cherished people (sanctae/sancti).

(Wikipedia, 2022)

A cherished person, indeed!

In Sanctuary, shadows can surface to be exposed to healing light and oxygen; hard times are sequestered in a warm container called love and understanding; and night terrors can be talked about in the light of day without shame or embarrassment—only compassion.

Because it is safe to do so.

Fears are dissolved. Strong emotions eased. Discomfort, comforted. Brains and dreams placed in their proper perspectives. And nightmares met with love and compassion and understanding.

Deep breath out.

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Eldering

I believe a true Elder is always Eldering. Sometimes those lessons are direct and obvious; other times, it is up to us to find them, see them, recognize them when they are coming…and understand them. Even during very difficult or trying moments when the Elder himself might not be able to articulate his teaching or even understand what is happening.

There will be more to share later (I trust) about the bond that mom and Dad had. Like many of that generation, they were not demonstrable in their affection for each other. I don’t have many memories of them kissing, let alone hugging or telling each other, out loud, that they loved each other. But also remember we didn’t grow up in an impoverished home environment. We knew we were loved.

So it is up to us to recognize Eldering moments that sometimes follow a quiet breakfast after a rough night, when starting one’s day, with a morning TV program playing in the background that is not being watched, and with Sammy on the couch right behind him, for the Eldering that it is:

Love abides.

Love never diminishes. Love is beyond the boundaries of time—Love is eternal. Love transcends death. And Love, true Love, never needs to be articulated or demonstrated for others—it simply IS.

Love…

abides.

And grief never ceases.

Grief eases (some). But never ceases. It’s a constant shadow companion that at times is just right there, just behind your left shoulder, and just barely beyond the point of awareness and recognition…until it’s not.

Then you remember.

And right then, at that moment, things become real again.

Because, it hurts.

And yet, one CAN learn to live with grief with an open heart…

… a heart that sometimes breaks further open at 1:30 am when a dream seems so real, and when it seems to say that your loved one is hurting.

When she isn’t.

An Elder allows it to be known that loved ones are ever-present—loved ones don’t die. And that the care and worry for their loved ones are also ever-present, which, at times unexpected, causes us pain. Acknowledging that is also one of the most important Eldering lessons any of us could possibly learn. For it makes us all…more human.

It is all just one broken-heart beat away.

Sometimes even at 1:30 in the morning.

Eldering 101–Action Item:

Don’t waste another moment without giving someone in your life who needs one…a hug.

(That someone might

just.

be.

you.)

And pay attention to who releases the hug first.

Tell them you love them so they’ll always have that memory in case you won’t be able to say goodbye.

Or better, let the hug be such that it simply says it for you.

In doing so, YOU create a space of sanctuary

for those who are sacred

in your life.

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ANTIDOTES TO FEAR OF DEATH
by Rebecca Elson

Sometimes as an antidote
To fear of death,
I eat the stars.

Those nights, lying on my back,
I suck them from the quenching dark
Til they are all, all inside me,
Pepper hot and sharp.

Sometimes, instead, I stir myself
Into a universe still young,
Still warm as blood:

No outer space, just space,
The light of all the not yet stars
Drifting like a bright mist,
And all of us, and everything
Already there
But unconstrained by form.

And sometime it’s enough
To lie down here on earth
Beside our long ancestral bones:

To walk across the cobble fields
Of our discarded skulls,
Each like a treasure, like a chrysalis,
Thinking: whatever left these husks
Flew off on bright wings.

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T plus 68 days… and counting. And dreaming. And loving—through lasting grief. And may you never again be the first to release from a hug when it matters most.

(When doesn’t it matter?).