It helped to write to Chris directly. That last post was like opening a pressure relief valve, I felt better after writing it. I was hesitant to post it here and I almost kept it for myself, but I decided to keep doing this crazy thing of putting it "out there." Why do I do this? I wouldn't blame anyone if they were a little surprised or uncomfortable; it does go against how we operated during the good years of the brain tumor journey when we were tight-lipped about it. At the end of his life, Chris lost a great deal but he realized he could still share his experience, and we finally set up a CaringBridge site and of course we worked with Health Story Collaborative. We both got an incredible amount of value from the process of working together to write posts and record our conversations. It brought us closer together and it let other people in. We also were supported by our CaringBridge readers who received our updates and musings on life with the greatest care, concern, and respect. Why keep going now that the health crisis is over, though?
Over the last decade plus as we dealt with the brain tumor, I was drawn to others' stories. Not just brain cancer, although those were of keen interest to me, but any kind of human struggle. I do not personally know the pain of pregnancy loss nor the death of an infant or child, and I do not know the grief that comes when a parent dies, but I have followed some narratives centered on these losses. When brave souls posted/published and I read or listened, I learned a great deal. Sometimes I felt a bit of discomfort in my attraction to these stories - was my interest in the territory of schadenfreude? It sickened me to consider the thought, but I kept coming back to my intentions and felt confident they were not malevolent. No, before Chris's recurrence I think I was looking for inspiration on how to live when your personal world falls apart. Sadly, there are many ways that can happen...
Now that I have been sharing more and participating in healing storytelling, I think I have a firmer understanding of why people publish memoirs or just post on the internet for a small group of people. There is meaning to be found in telling the story in a way that helps someone else understand what it was like to go through it. Recalling the details and giving it over to a fellow human being forces your mind to grapple with the events that transpired. The right recipient might ask questions or make comments that gently bring out more, and this is all part of processing and bearing a hard experience. Deeply listening to someone's story is a gift, too, to both parties. I've heard it described as holding space for the storyteller. It's possible to hold a still, quiet space and receive the story just as it is, with all of its pain and without judgment. It's sometimes possible to actively listen, nod your head, smile at the funny parts, and wipe away tears at the tough parts and show the person that you are getting it, you are in her corner. Either way, when someone crosses over from sympathy to empathy it makes a difference to everyone. It fosters deep understanding and true community.
I have lost so much. The frame of my life might still be there and it might even look like the same life minus one person from a distance, but in truth a tornado came through and took it down to the studs. I now have the enormous task of grappling with the disaster, inspecting the damage, and figuring out what can be salvaged and what must be completely rebuilt. When this happens in reality, the repaired house never looks the same. There are always updates and improvements, possibly some silver linings though the construction timeline never stays on track. In order for my future overhauled life to be constructed, I can't just use duct tape and hot glue to try to keep the old parts together. Trust me that doesn't work. I've already found that my heart isn't in it when I fall back on my old ways. I need to find my own new path forward. Small steps include coaching baseball and adopting a hound and fixing a gas weed trimmer and spending a lot of time in my head, things that might sound insignificant but have moved me along. Bigger steps are coming in time, I hope. Sharing our story is already one. Holding space for others is, too.
Over the last decade plus as we dealt with the brain tumor, I was drawn to others' stories. Not just brain cancer, although those were of keen interest to me, but any kind of human struggle. I do not personally know the pain of pregnancy loss nor the death of an infant or child, and I do not know the grief that comes when a parent dies, but I have followed some narratives centered on these losses. When brave souls posted/published and I read or listened, I learned a great deal. Sometimes I felt a bit of discomfort in my attraction to these stories - was my interest in the territory of schadenfreude? It sickened me to consider the thought, but I kept coming back to my intentions and felt confident they were not malevolent. No, before Chris's recurrence I think I was looking for inspiration on how to live when your personal world falls apart. Sadly, there are many ways that can happen...
Now that I have been sharing more and participating in healing storytelling, I think I have a firmer understanding of why people publish memoirs or just post on the internet for a small group of people. There is meaning to be found in telling the story in a way that helps someone else understand what it was like to go through it. Recalling the details and giving it over to a fellow human being forces your mind to grapple with the events that transpired. The right recipient might ask questions or make comments that gently bring out more, and this is all part of processing and bearing a hard experience. Deeply listening to someone's story is a gift, too, to both parties. I've heard it described as holding space for the storyteller. It's possible to hold a still, quiet space and receive the story just as it is, with all of its pain and without judgment. It's sometimes possible to actively listen, nod your head, smile at the funny parts, and wipe away tears at the tough parts and show the person that you are getting it, you are in her corner. Either way, when someone crosses over from sympathy to empathy it makes a difference to everyone. It fosters deep understanding and true community.
I have lost so much. The frame of my life might still be there and it might even look like the same life minus one person from a distance, but in truth a tornado came through and took it down to the studs. I now have the enormous task of grappling with the disaster, inspecting the damage, and figuring out what can be salvaged and what must be completely rebuilt. When this happens in reality, the repaired house never looks the same. There are always updates and improvements, possibly some silver linings though the construction timeline never stays on track. In order for my future overhauled life to be constructed, I can't just use duct tape and hot glue to try to keep the old parts together. Trust me that doesn't work. I've already found that my heart isn't in it when I fall back on my old ways. I need to find my own new path forward. Small steps include coaching baseball and adopting a hound and fixing a gas weed trimmer and spending a lot of time in my head, things that might sound insignificant but have moved me along. Bigger steps are coming in time, I hope. Sharing our story is already one. Holding space for others is, too.
Sharing seems to be an essential part of the complex thing we call the human experience. Thank you for sharing.
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