Brave

A much-loved song by Sara Barellies about the courage of speaking up resonated with me but never more so than when my sister was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia. Like other cancers, AML can be indiscriminate in those it chooses. One day, no AML, the next day an ominous uncertainty of the future languishing and penetrating. For my sister it spanned almost three years. This lyric was the essence, the cornerstone of my sister’s odyssey with an unwanted giant: “Show me how big your brave is.”  How do we ever really know how big our brave is unless the slings and arrows of life pierce or graze us? I bore witness to a ceaseless barrage of a warrior’s pain. I watched how she engaged and tamed it; a puddle of malicious intention left on the floor of her hospital room- no match for her power.

Hearing she had cancer, a disease that had threatened then taken the life of our mother could have paralyzed my sister, Geri, with fear. The message sent from her stored cell memory- a knee-jerk imagining of the worst end result accompanying the doctor’s diagnosis. When I walked into Geri’s hospital room for the first time after the news, she was propped in her bed chatting with a close friend; her healthy looking body, blonde highlights and voice steady in the throes of conversation. I had to stifle the urge to say, ‘this is a cruel joke, let’s get outta here.’ In days that followed, I recall my successful family law attorney sister, sitting with her lap top on a tray table moments before the anticipated searing pain of a bone marrow biopsy. She checked in with clients despite the intrusion about to enter her body. No matter the source of the invasion, Geri’s Brave would not take a bow. It stood firm, proud, and uncompromised.

Weeks, then months at a time in the hospital threatened to break my sister’s verve and wit; and at times her will to endure the next challenge, but instead of railing against this new culture she had inhabited, she made peace with it. She was poked, prodded, infused, transfused day or night. The unexpected transformed into normalcy; she rarely complained unless she felt her dignity was at stake. The figurative gloves always stayed on; after all, she was in the ring, the fight of her life- she never blurred the line of accepting condescension for her cooperation.

Sometimes Brave looked like shared tears of laughter with a sister when the nightmare loomed the largest; it meant maintaining her own voice. No amount of drug therapy, procedures, including two stem cell transplants, or endless waiting, could diminish the will of her mission to live. Haze due to side effects of medication, dehydration and pain bullied her sharp memory, presence, and induced fatigue, but her essential essence remained.

 Life became a revolving door of cancer leaving and resurging, clean bone marrow shimmering then crowded with blast cells.  Agonizingly, a stem cell transplant of healthy blood from her son, Sam, didn’t graft, so hell became watching a sea of healing possibilities dwindle to a pond, then a pool. Another transplant, followed by other experimental treatments, stretched the scope of just how brave a human being could be. When she imagined out loud whether she would witness the high school graduation of her only child, she did so when she felt pretty good overall. The hoped for healthy body soon began to rage with a swell of bad cells and the tidal wave gained unwelcome momentum. No dance seemed to be fast enough to evade and eradicate the monstrous intruder. If wellness was the destination, time was the golden ticket we no longer had.

Things happened. When Geri developed a blood clot on her brain, surgery became necessary or her suffering of excruciating headaches and worse would ensue, and the medical team felt despite the stage of her leukemia, she could survive. My sister and I used to have a phrase for the most surreal moments in life. “Excuse me, is this a play?” When I walked into her hospital cove, after her brain surgery, the large staples in her skull assaulting in their size, placement and texture, I felt like a tiny ant in the presence of her Brave.  No stage, no curtain call, no actors.  Geri survived yet another trial threaded with gravitas that had no means of measure, but it was the unrelenting will on her face and the aura all around her that I saw when I entered her that room that day. Cancer started a war but could not steal the intention of her sovereign soul.  

Sacred Breath

Twice in my life I have witnessed the miraculous first breaths of our daughters, from the depths of my protective womb into an uncertain world. My daughter’s birth days were as divergent as could be, but both are so strong in my memory for immediate recall that movie- like scenes are indelibly imprinted forever. What remains, however, as the most sacred experience of my life, was having the privilege to hold in my own breath as I saw my only sibling, my older sister Geri’s, last breath. I have never talked about it, as I felt its power was such a forceful moment of both letting go and welcoming- of transitioning yet in a single second also a leaving behind.

Geri knew of my intuitive, psychic, awakening experiences some years before this day, and her fascination with the stories I felt comfortable enough to share, were met with encouragement I sorely needed. I remained the greatest skeptic as the recipient of the messages and affirmations I was receiving daily until a trusted medium told me, “you need to stop the false humility.” She explained that being able to step into this gift had less to do with me, and everything to do with a divine choosing. I was simply a channel that I could tap into, but I should not continue the “who me?” position I had been taking.

It was organic for me to feel this way. Most of my life before this breaking open, though full of strong intuition and serendipitous occurrences, was not spent seeing words, symbols or hearing them in the person’s voice, that would speak of people’s past, present moments or future events, (validated later by them). Prior to this, I had never received a message from a loved one who had passed on either for myself or anyone else. It has been a painful process both physically and emotionally. In a development class I joined to tap further into this odyssey, our guide and mentor told us: “you can’t help heal others until you heal yourself.”

Since stepping into the truth of my life, and welcoming the symphony of spirit all around me, it has only opened this portal even more. As Geri stared down leukemia with bravery, acceptance and resilience, it stunned me deeply to see such strength, and whatever gift I felt was emerging in me dwarfed in comparison to this meteor that had hit our family. Over time, though, I began to realize that without initiation, messages would come in during my meditations about the state of Geri’s health or events that would be occurring. It was impossible to describe the agony of remaining a positive advocate for her in communicating with many health care professionals using my deepest intuition to ask the right questions to further her comfort or progress, while also possessing information that belied long-term survival. I stayed firmly rooted in the forward-moving hope and hand’s on commitment to her healing, but I was often seared with the content of my messages nagging at the center of my heart.

When I arrived in Minnesota after Geri endured a surgery to address bleeding in her brain, the walls of protection around my empathic wiring crumbled. The images of her attempt to recover in that hospital, amidst constant prodding of her body, insertion of electrodes in her skull to detect possible seizures, endless questions about who the President of the United States was to test her acuity were numbing. I could feel both her fight and resignation; her will to break out of the hospital in her gown at any opportunity combined with an exhaustion to close her eyes and just sleep. What more could be expected of her?

As days went on we were able to share some chats and even laughs while watching our beloved Green Bay Packers, where Geri kept saying: “Are they playing in slow motion?” She was present and yet the lack of feeling on one side of her body led the neurologist to decide a second brain surgery was necessary. Incredulous as we were that she could outlast yet another blow to her equilibrium, we agreed that after risk assessment with her doctor, her procedure would be scheduled   for the next day. A single moment in time can truly feel like a lifetime. In three words, my bold sister, sitting up in her bed on the eve of the dreaded surgery, lifting a single index finger before I left the room, said: “we are one.”

The next morning after my meditation, a doctor called to say the surgery had been canceled. The leukemia side of her complex medical scenario had nudged out any realistic option to do surgery; the risks were too high as her blood count had plummeted overnight. This is the time when you realize you have either been under water during the entire healthcare nightmare and the doctor’s information is a relentless search for a breath of air, or you have stopped breathing and the plunge downward into the depths of the sea has only intensified. For me, I found some level of peace in staying under water as decisions had to be made, and I could not gasp for air- I had to think clearly and float along.

As Geri succumbed to the comfort measures enlisted as part of her care, and we adjusted to her non-responsive reality of what would ultimately be the dying process, time stood still. Spirit was present through countless messages affirmed to me later; it was a watershed of believing what I had so frequently doubted perhaps because I felt I was supposed to. It was still foreign to experience this, so I refuted its weight.  I ay in the bed beside Geri, and I stood gazing at her face to preserve it forever.  She possessed a heightened beauty, her skin glowing at times and a peaceful look and presence which was wonderful to see during such a surreal time. It was the opposite of frightening; it was a full measure of tranquility as though the light that had enveloped her was so great it emanated out around her.  

 October 20, 2015, as the afternoon wore on, an unspoken knowing encompassed the room where nurses checked in sporadically and I sat as vigilant as a shield guarding a treasure I was in no way ready to release. Almost imperceptibly without grandstanding or gasp, my protector and big sister, breathed in deeply, calling in the beacon that would guide her onward with no need to exhale. It was so subtle and yet it was omnipresence, energy flowing endlessly, and my grief sat for a moment as she comforted me with this ease, willing me to stand for a moment to receive this gift, and now be as bold as she had been so many times before. So that is what I am trying to be.

Grateful No Matter What Is

I come from a very small, close-knit family. In 2005, I began a path of what felt like a relentless dark night of the soul. Advocating and caring for, with diligence, the health of my family of origin, my own emotional and physical well-being, and then experiencing intense grief, taught me the role of Gratitude in the face of pain. The faces of pain are as unique as the person impacted by it but staying in the mind set and practice of gratitude can be universal.

See the face of the man struggling to find food but smiling. The person who does not know where her child will sleep that night, but she is singing. How? What do they know?

For me, my only sibling, Geri, faced every single test, procedure, transplant, pain, and more, with such a valiance and grace it still takes my breath away. She passed on after three years and though I could not contain the grief in one place because it overwhelmed me so, my gratitude for her life, her essence never lost; our bond, those who loved her through it, and Laughter gave me sustenance. We had always loved laughing together and in the midst of the unavoidable indignities the medical odyssey presented, we laughed. Tears of laughter during a time we referred to as "Is this a play?" It all felt so surreal. I am so grateful we had that.

During that time, grief and vigilance ruled the days for so long, and it gave birth to an intentional daily practice of gratitude expression. Journal, spiritual rituals and pursuits, daily offerings of this to those I love. But it could be holding your hand over your heart and just uttering thank you. That alone is powerful.

It is repair, regeneration, and a friend. Gratitude means positive things can come from the most negative outcomes. Doors open, windows appear; the possibilities show evidence and value of life still rooted here. And that can be hard to do.

Those with the greatest suffering often model joyful, courageous, generous spirits. And they know far more about the art of gratitude than I, but it shows we can be grateful no matter what is. That part is a choice.

TJ, the warrior cat boy. Be free and rest well.

I’m a dog person. I admit it. My appreciation for their unabashed acceptance and displays of love has only deepened in my soul over a lifetime of connection to those dogs we have adopted into our family, those I have known through friends, extended family, or have written about. Recently, I experienced an affair of the heart of a different kind. I fell in love with my first cat. During a recent stay, where I was responsible for the caretaking of this gorgeous gray feline with brilliant white accents on his face and belly, I gained a new respect for the balance of autonomy and jockeying for affection this particular cat maintained during my visit.  He drew me in; he left me wanting to be the cool person he yearned to be near.

The first few days in the house, I would see this bundle of fluffy observation in the corner of a room I was in, offering a level of reserved acceptance that I was there, but with no real interest in my petting or acknowledging him.  I was in charge of feeding him, cleaning his litter box, and I figured, that must count for something! Dogs generally adore the person who prepares their meals and snacks, so maybe this would be the case with this cat. I stole a chance to pet this fifteen pound boy’s back when I walked past him, but never did I think it would go further than that.

 One night, I was fighting through fitful sleep when my heart skipped a beat as I heard what sounded like a haunted creeping in the bedroom. My mind raced but landed on the notion that cats are stealth where dogs announce their comings and goings in various and obvious ways; tags jingling, playful barking or the rhythm and thumping of their steps. In moments, I realized a cat was standing on my side looking down upon me like a mountain lion atop a high cliff at the opening of “Wild Kingdom.”  Before I could get out a proper hello, I heard what sounded like a small motor emanating from this compact body. “You’re purring,” I said out loud in the stillness of the night, as if the piercing, green- eyed stare would be broken with the words: “Yes, Caryn. That is what I’m doing.”

And this happened night after night but along with the motor sound of purring, came the “kneading” of my skin on my upper arm, or the crook of my neck. I had no idea what this was but intuition told me it was good, and that maybe I was passing muster. I have since learned that the purring, and nestling close to me, the kneading as though I were dough for this cat’s next culinary creation before he fell back to sleep, was a high form of flattery.  I was able to kiss him on the head, on the nose, or hold his head in my hands and lovingly tell him what a good boy he was. I gave up wanting this feline ball of independence- disappearing for hours a day only to emerge in time for a snack out of his bowl- to be a dog.  He played a little hard to get and it worked. But, when he gave, it was because he was compelled to. When I left, he looked at me without turning away first. His stare stayed with me out the door and on my way home. I had, in fact, become cool enough for him to want to hang around with. And, we will again.

* For TJ Westermann, originally written around 2014.

Connection

Tiny people can leave a giant footprint. About two years ago, my mother-in-law, Jean, called on Mother’s Day to thank me. I was not accustomed to this softer side of her; she was raised with a pragmatism that she wore like a fitting skin. She was a kind woman with scores of friends, I had just grown to know her as more matter-of-fact in her manner and delivery. As a stand -alone holiday phone call of gratitude it would have been enough to fill a hole of approval I had longed for. It was not that at all, really. It was a gateway, a door. It was a beginning.

 A crucial part of my story is that my mother passed in 2005, my dad in 2010, my only sibling in 2015, and while they all live within me daily, I did not turn to Jean with the depths of my pain so easy to access. She was not a stranger to her own painful life moments, but I kept any need for mothering and familial bonding close to the vest. Our relationship was not more than it could have been, and not less than it should have been.  It just was.  

Jean’s declaration of thanks at my role in raising our daughters, now 28 and 31, signified a shift in her own consciousness; I sensed immediately she was doing an inventory of her life. It had become important for her to share a generosity of words and I was the beneficiary. I felt seen and it was good. I wanted to be sure she in turn, felt the same way.

An eloquent writer and English major in her day, she edited many of my writing projects over the years, some for publication, and while her focus was on the better word choice, or pristine grammatical structure, it was that comment,  such as: “remarkable and real,” after reading an essay I wrote about my sister’s final breath, or “ important and informative,” when describing part of my mom’s journey with cancer that stirred satisfaction in me. She called it as she saw it, so this kindness of recognition to me on Mother’s Day was my signal not to just pry the door open to more consistent, intentioned communication. It was a divine directive. In her words, this time was met with her desire to know me, to learn more about my life and how I was living it.

How often did we talk about spiritual matters in the past? Never. My path in this realm has been an awakening of layers over many years, and while this calling has led me to working with clients as an intuitive, psychic medium, I had no expectation of discussing this opening in my life with Jean. It came up organically- Jim had paved the way during one of his many weekly phone calls with her, reporting about his reading of the book, Journey of Souls.  He marveled at how I was living and talking about what he was reading about, though I had never read the book. My accounts of experiences I was having, as well as my connection with spirit resonated with Jim as this collection of life occurrences by those who had passed on technically, but lived to tell the story, matched many of the things I was reporting. Jean was intrigued; she asked questions, relished accounts when I shared messages- anonymously so as not to betray confidentiality- and exchanges I was having with spirit and clients. It was safety for me; her factually trained- mind tried less to make sense of it as she leaned further into all that is and could be.

I could hear delight in her voice when I called; as a woman challenged physically by the indiscriminate and unkind force of Parkinson’s disease, she gracefully accepted the disruptions to her mobility and dexterity, while welcoming reprieves through conversation and exploration of new beliefs and ideas. We emailed too, and I was continuously struck by her cognition. She seemed to track effortlessly on the phone. Parkinson’s had left that alone; age cast no shadow there. We talked about death; the passing of her dearest life-long friends, most of whom I shared messages with when they chose to come through. She affirmed them; I had no hesitation to withhold any of this and it was a beautiful entry for her into her own post mortality life. She found great comfort in it. This kind of ease, the flow and recounting of the lives of her granddaughters, my feelings, observations, and intuitive input about her health, were the definition of being in the present moment. No judgement. No history. No future. Just those moments. Freedom.

As physical challenges became grave, attempts were made to figure out some of those causes, but not surprisingly, just shy of 90 years old, Jean did not yearn for heroism, or extension of her life beyond her clarity of thought. She rode this wave with the understanding she was tired, and ready to welcome all that awaited her. This was communicated to her family, and to me.  She told me she would be talking to me; “in eternity.” I believe souls pass on their own terms to a degree, if not totally. I barely left my mom’s side for 10 days during her dying process, but she chose to pass when I was not there. Jean spoke to our daughters with great clarity only a few hours before she turned serene and inward. Her final moments were peaceful as she transitioned beyond. A teacher to be sure, but also a life-long student with a thirst for knowledge that was never quenched, Jean left behind an affirming echo. I can distinctly hear her laughter, her steady, purposeful “I love you,” to me the day before she died, and perhaps more poignantly, she heard mine.

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GRIEF

Grief. It is barely lifting your head off the pillow with the ache of realizing it is the day of your beloved  dad’s funeral. The pain of his passing sears deeply, and is equal parts encompassing, steadfast, uncomplicated love; it is emptiness. It is blinding bereavement. It is the quivering lips and strained faces of your children fighting back tears at the grave side of their grandmother; the one they played school with, and who never missed celebrating a single day of their lives. It labors and languishes in the soul of a mother who lost her son to suicide.

Grief resonates with the spouse as he leans in to kiss his bride of 50 years, blinking back incomprehension as she will likely not make it through the night.  It is expelled through the tears of disbelief from the sister who witnessed the last sacred breath of her warrior counterpart; the realization that joint surrender is part of the fight.  Grief imposes as the indescribable inevitability most of us will experience at some point in life, despite asking the universe, God, or a higher power to shield us from this pain. If truth be told, grief is not a friend, but a teacher.

Grief is learned by being the voice for a soul- mate dog that showed Zen-like grace and acceptance her whole life despite a disability, then calling by name the suffering that is moving from the fringes to the center of her being and you can’t let it happen. Grief rips deeply and if you forget for a minute you have lost a person or animal vital to your existence, it reminds you with endless butterflies in your middle, an anxiety that can only be quelled with tears of release.

Grief is shadows that cast a gray pall over all even when it is bright outside, the muted shade that transforms the color of things, like a stroll through Kansas before Dorothy meets the wizard.

 Grief can combat a previously perceived darkness around death by evolving into a more ethereal experience. Those who consciously work through the layers of grief, may be gifted insights through faith, spiritual awareness and healing. They support the beauty of the soul’s journey, and that death being synonymous with nothingness couldn’t be further from the truth.

Grief is not a straight line. It is the first days of fog as you plan a memorial service, write an obituary and decide which vase your loved one’s ashes will be stored in.  Grief sits with you like an unwanted visitor when you try to sleep and can’t think of anything but your family member or friend’s last days or moments. You know it would be better to envision the healthy, vibrant light force that was, but the mind trips and circulates that which the heart cannot accept.

 Grief is Velcro- it sticks to the moment of joy you may allow yourself in the months after your loss, it grabs hold on the days that start out focused and driven only to bring you to your knees with realization. Grief thrives within the melodies that have new meaning when you are in mourning; they comfort and they also unleash the dark knowing from the deepest parts of yourself most in need of expression. Music is ultimately a code that cracks wide open the memories and moments you most cherished and repelled; both equally necessary to heal.

Grief can start with the preparation of a eulogy, because you are organized by nature and you memorialize with clear thoughts as the event of death will be leveling. Grief is prayer, it is meditation, it is the calling in of spirit in ways you have never understood before and with the exception of the love you have for present family, will become an encompassing, sustaining light. The welcoming in of spiritual awakening comforts but it also exposes us to what lies beyond the analytical; it asks us to trust our own intuition and knowing.

Grief restores; in time, it frees.  When it is not squelched, it rebuilds a layer of protection that hurt will try to penetrate again and again. Willing students will learn. It is relentless until it fades in intensity as you find other ways to remember, honor, and celebrate that and those which you have lost in the physical world. Connectedness is felt by those who welcome it in to varying degrees. Energy lives on and despite one’s personal beliefs, it can be said that it stares down grief and wins. Grief is a darkness that can lean into light. Energy is life and it cannot end. It is that which transcends.