I have been thinking about the actor Christopher Reeve
lately. I've read a few of his/his wife's books. He wasn't my favorite
actor, but I really grew to admire him after his injury. He never gave
up hope, and his efforts to make progress, to stay as fit as possible
and try to walk again. He went through many stages of grief after the
accident. I recall something he said, to the effect that he had a choice
of what his attitude to his situation would be. That he knew that if he
became a "depressed hulk in a wheelchair" it would make things much
worse for his family and for himself. I have been thinking about this in
light of the fact that in this part of the world, we live with the
illusion that we can control much more than we actually can. We are
faced with so many choices every day, even as small as which type of
peanut butter to buy (creamy or crunchy? Natural or with additives?
Large or small?). This variety of choices tends to wear me out. However,
I like to think that I have the ability and the privilege to choose...
But here is a catch: this habit of choice tends to lead to the belief that we have a right to choose. Sometimes we have; sometimes the right is only to decide how we will face something that we didn't
choose. Christopher Reeve did not choose to become paralyzed at the
height of his mental and physical fitness, in the prime of his life; he
was able to choose how he faced it. Katie did not choose to become ill
and die; I did not choose to have my daughter taken out of my life. The
fact of the matter is that we were not given the power to make things
work out the way we wanted them to; we tried as hard as we could to save
Katie's life, but she died anyway. We must accept that. Katie faced her
illness with humor, a bit of anger, a bit of fear, a lot of courage and
strength, and the tools she had at hand. She faced her death the same
way. Now, I get to decide how I will face my life without her presence.
Some
days, I want to fight, like a mother bear whose cub has been threatened
and taken. I want to fight against accepting that I did not get to
decide how this turned out; I accepted everything short of this result. I adjusted to all of the hardships that were thrown at us, but I would not allow defeat
into my mind; I held onto hope. Now, I just want to say, "Show me who
did this, and I will shred him, tear him apart, limb from limb, and
annihilate him." Of course, there is no one to blame except the disease
itself. When I am in fight mode, I feel cut off from comfort. It seems
that the most comfort comes when I can humbly sit with God and say, "I
need Your help. Please help me today." But some days, even though I know
it does no good, I still feel like fighting. This does not seem to lead
to healing.
I want to choose to live with this with
grace and good humor, and to see God make something, create something,
out of it. I have hope for what His/Her creativity can do. I do not
believe that anything can compensate me for this loss. Nothing can fill a
Katie-shaped hole except Katie. But if I try to put my energy toward
acceptance with love, with gentleness, perhaps it will be better for me
and those around me. I believe that Christopher Reeve accomplished more,
and inspired more people, after his injury than in all of his
able-bodied accomplishments. Perhaps I can learn to live with my
brokenness in a meaningful and loving way, too; I pray that I can.
My
doctor recently asked me how I was coping, and if Katie had given me any
instructions before she passed away. I thought for a minute, and told
her that we had discussed Dana Reeve's passing last year, and that I
told Katie that I thought she died of a broken heart after her husband,
Chris, passed; I believed that she missed him so much that she became
ill. At that time, Katie told me, "Mom, if I die, don't do that." The
doctor said, in effect, "I guess you have no choice," indicating that
Katie had given me my "marching orders." I haven't felt like giving up,
but it was a reminder of Katie's clear sense of direction & her
spirit.
The ovens have been fixed and the microwave was
replaced. We are still awaiting parts for the dryer. I have heard from more than one person that after someone passes,
things break down (thanks for sharing this, Meril and Karen T.).
Our house is only 7 and a half years old; maybe it just feels the way I
do: a bit broken. We need to be willing to do alot of things in a
different way, in order to live with the brokenness.
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