Thinking About Thanks and Giving

tree

I have emerged from a tunnel, one of those keep-your-head down bouts of hard duty. I've written before here and elsewhere about the ongoing challenges of tending to to a very elderly parent, but every now and then it erupts into crisis, and this has been one of those times. I won't go into detail–suffice it to say that my mother is wearing down and falling apart, and this week she abruptly slid into a whole different level of misery.

A thoughtful caregiver at the assisted living facility called and told me candidly that my mother was not "herself" and maybe I should get down there.  So I did, by train, and I spent a couple of days at her side, trying to help and comfort her and arranging for hospice care.

One of those days happened to be Thanksgiving. The tables in the dining hall downstairs were arranged in a line and draped with a crisp white table cloth, and there were smells of turkey roasting, but upstairs in the memory care unit things seemed stale and sad.  There were a few more visitors than usual, but for many residents the day passed without family or festivity.

And I mostly stayed in my mother's room watching her suffering and doing whatever I could to help. You just have to go into this warrior mode and get through it. It's grueling but it renders us human, and occasionally, in addition to grief and despair, it bestows upon us grace and compassion. No one has ever found it easy.

But there are the brightnesses. On my first night in town, Donna made toast for me in her kitchen late at night, and what could be more comforting than a friend in the kitchen buttering your toast?

And the next day, Paula came by, first to look in on my mother, then later in the evening to pick me up and drive me to a motel, handing me a carefully packed dinner of pasta and meatballs (soul food) to eat while watching mindless television in bed.  I felt fortified and fortunate.

Back at senior living, I saw caregivers doing their jobs with diligence and kindness. Some are indifferent, but the good ones really shine.  I chatted with a resident who was waiting patiently for her ride to Thanksgiving dinner at the house of a nearby relative. She had been sitting for hours in the room downstairs as the afternoon dragged on and the angle of sunlight shifted towards wistful, but she didn't complain.

I inevitably started thinking about how little and how much we are given, and even while having one of the most depressing Thanksgivings of my life I knew I'd landed on the lucky side of the spectrum. I was sad and all churned up inside and gaspingly engulfed by the issues of aging and death and the meaning of it all, but even so, I felt a profound sense of thanksgiving.

I also had the luxury of leaving, another thing to be grateful for, and so on the third day I left, a train ride from one reality to another, and for part of the journey home a startlingly bright orange moon adorned the blackness.

Don't get me wrong. I'm still sad and sick about my mother. I don't have the knack for pushing someone's misery aside and pretending it isn't happening just because I'm far away again. I don't want her to be suffering and scared, and my head is filled with haunting images. But I guess I've done all I can for now. I'll go back in a few days.

Today I had the delight of being home and feeling loved and pedaling my bicycle and walking through the  garden of a very old house by the sea. The filtered light slanting through the treetops transformed it all into a cathedral of gratitude.