Terena Scott's Blog, page 4
April 11, 2024
Death can wait a little longer.
Image from https://richardeng.medium.com/the-nature-of-life-and-death-c626d8bf0f93Death paces the perimeter of my daughter’s life. Every birthday Death has been there, standing at the edge of the party wistfully, looking at the birthday cake. Every holiday, every trip to Disneyland, every special moment, Death tagged along.
But one day, I walked up to death and said, “What if she lives?”
Death stopped pacing and turned to face me, blinking rapidly as if trying to understand the question.
“What if she lives?” I said again.
Death looked at my daughter.
My voice became louder. “We’ve all been waiting for her to die for the last 10 years. Did it ever occur to you that she might actually live?”
Death stared back at me and said absolutely nothing. Then I realized Death had nothing to say about being alive. Death couldn’t imagine anyone living. Death was prepared for the end of life, not the continuation of life.
But I could imagine my daughter’s life. I could clearly see her alive and well and happy, living many years longer than anyone expected her to.
I stepped closer to Death and pointed toward the road.”I think it’s time for you to wait out there.”
Death glanced in the direction I pointed, then looked back at me.
I took another step forward. Death took a step back.
“I said you should wait over there. I know you’re not going to leave, but you don’t have to hover so close anymore.”
Death stare deep into my eyes, blinked a few times, then shrugged. Slowly, Death turned around and walked out to the road. It didn’t matter how long Death had to wait. What is time to Death?
I turned my back on Death and walked into the house to be closer to my daughter who I as happily coloring a picture and singing a song. I sat down beside her and allowed myself to dream of her future.
It doesn’t matter how long her future is. It only matters that she live.
April 2, 2024
Holding Anger and Joy at Once.
I walk in the rain, delighting in the feel of soft raindrops falling on my face. The air is fresh with the smell of damp leaves and that incredible scent created by cement at the first lick of moisture.
I’m walking in this rainstorm because my skin is hot from rage. I am sweaty from pushing my muscles up hill, needing to feel my lungs burn with effort. Heart pounding against my ribs, I stop at the top of the hill and look behind me toward the Bay. Multicolored container ships dot the gray water and I wonder where they came from. A crow lands on a fence post near me and caws loudly. I say hello.
In that moment, my body is balanced between anger and joy. Anger from yet another unreturned phone call from a doctor who could help my child. Joy because the rain is soft and the crow’s black wings look even blacker when wet. Anger that I work two jobs to keep a roof over my child’s head, and joy that I can live on such a quiet street with kind neighbors and a view of the Bay. The anger doesn’t leave my body but it softens. My burning lungs are cooled by the taste of rain falling heavier now.
Anger and joy. We think of them as opposite emotions, like magnets pushing away from each other. But I’ve learned that emotions flow like watercolors, mixing, separating and then combining again. I say, “I am angry” when I feel anger, and it’s true. But what other feelings press against the anger? The rush of rage sends me outdoors to walk up and down steep hills in the rain. But then an iridescent black crow says hello and I am reminded of how beautiful the world is. If I hold onto rage I miss the sound of raindrops as they scatter through tree leaves. If I ignore rage, I am unable to push myself up steep hills.
So I hold joy and rage in each hand at once, then open my fingers to feel the rain.
March 22, 2024
Catharsis
Image credit: martin-dm/Getty ImagesLast week I experienced a rush of emotions, memories and future terror cascading through my body. I was completely overwhelmed by the sensations of terror and rage caused by the fears I have for my daughter. It felt like I was lost in my emotions and I would never find my way back to balance.
With the support from the friends I called that night, I did return from darkness. One friend even got me laughing again. And with guidance from my therapist I understand what had happened (I didn’t go crazy!).
I had experienced catharses.
What happens afterwards?
Perhaps being flooded with grief and then experiencing the release that comes afterwards is good for your spirit. But is it really good for your life? When emotions are known and the problem identified how do you live your life with that knowledge? Does anything really change? Do I have new insight into helping my child? Have I learned to be kinder to myself?
At first nothing changed. But after a week of thinking, writing and one more visit with my therapist, I felt acceptance slowly spreading throughout my body. Acceptance of the limitations my daughter’s illness has created for us both. I realized it was okay to stop fighting those limitations so fiercely and open our lives to other opportunities.
My catharsis opened my eyes to possibilities. The uncontrollable weeping expanded my awareness. It shook me to the core so hard when I finally got up off the floor my entire life had changed
I know this acceptance won’t stick unless I keep working with it. That’s why I keep writing and meditating and talking to my therapist. Catharsis isn’t a one time shake up that magically transforms you. It is more like a door being blown open by a tornado and when it passes you have a big mess to clean. I also suspect we have several cathartic events in our lives, but I hope not because just one was brutal enough.
We don’t have to experience big emotional cathartic events to heal trauma. That seems to happen more to overachieving, “I don’t need any help,” workaholic martyrs like me.
This is what Michelle Maree Hardeman-Guptill has to say about catharsis and healing from trauma. Follow the link and explore more of her trauma work at Neuro-Soma Transformations.
March 13, 2024
The painful side of healing.
I am sitting alone in a hotel room on what was to be a restful, peaceful night. Instead, I am weeping so fiercely my ribs ache. I’m nauseous from hyperventilating and I’d scream but I don’t want to disturb the other guests at this quaint hotel.
Needing a break from caregiving, I drove an hour away from home, found a comfortable bed, put my feet up for the first time in days and instead of relaxing began to cry.
When I pledged to stop living in survival mode, I didn’t account for this part of healing. I didn’t realize that all of the anger and grief that I carry every day about my daughter and her illness and the challenges that the world puts up against her would overwhelm me. When you’re in survival mode you’re numb. You don’t have time to feel because you’re too busy trying to keep yourself and the people you love alive. But when you step away from hyper-vigilance and allow yourself to feel again, you don’t just feel happiness. You meet the darkness too.
The longer you bury the anguish the greater the waves of grief.
I want to run. I want to go back to feeling numb. I don’t want to feel this weight anymore. I want to stop crying.
But that means going back to survival mode, to a numb body and frozen heart, which I swore I wouldn’t do.
So now I am learning to ride these waves of profound grief and rage. It’s like surfing Mavericks after only two lessons.
I could shatter the sky with one scream.
Feeling joy is the goal, and I am happy to say that most of the time I feel it. There is joy in the sound of birds and of my daughter singing in the morning. And joy when I’m near my good friends.
But to feel that joy I also have to feel the pain.
That’s the part that makes me want to go numb again.
February 28, 2024
What if we stopped trying to fix ourselves?
What if instead of looking at myself like a broken mirror that I need to somehow glue back together, I stop and just look at my reflection? The broken pieces are sharp and cut my hands when I hold them, so what if I stop trying to hold them?
Do all the broken pieces have to be repaired before there is healing?
I am “working hard” on healing. Maybe too hard. I’m so tired of hauling around years of trauma, my abandonment issues, the stress of caregiving, and my lack of self worth. I am willing to try anything to feel better. I want to let go of the past and feel inner peace and maybe even love myself a little.
So I work on self-improvement..
And work
And work
But today I’m wondering… does healing require so much work?
Self-reflection is important. Learning from past mistakes and tragedies also important. And gaining skills to stop self-destruction and maladapted coping strategies is vital. It is important to learn to care for yourself and we often need therapists to help us do that. It takes dedication and real work to stop the harmful behaviors that lead us to misery.
My question tonight is… when do we stop working on ourselves?
When do we accept ourselves, broken parts and all?
I’m not saying we should ever give up on healing but I am saying its possible we’ve got the focus of healing all wrong.
I am not broken. I am human.
That means I overthink, am incredibly hard on myself, identify with my emotions, cling to other people and spend too much money on clothes. I am insecure, filled with constant anxiety and I can’t imagine why anyone would want to be with me. I work hard on fixing my perceived frailties hoping one day I’ll stop being frightened of my own shadow and feel good about myself.
After years and years of hard work, I’m still waiting to like myself.
So now I think I need to rethink healing.
Instead of working hard trying to find the right type of glue to put all of those broken shards together so I am whole, what if I simply look at myself in those reflective shards and say hello?
What if I say “Thank You”?
What if I approach therapy with compassion and curiosity about myself rather than as homework with a final exam at the end?
What if I say “You’re not broken” and stop trying to fix myself?
What if you did too?
February 11, 2024
A Tribute in Every Brick: Helping Seniors Choose Their Ideal Home
Guest post from Sharon Wagner of Senior Friendly
Image by Freepik
Embarking on the journey of purchasing a home for a senior loved one is both a noble and intricate endeavor. As a caregiver, you play a pivotal role in ensuring that the transition into a new home is seamless, safe, and suits their evolving lifestyle. This isguide tailored to help you navigate the complexities of this process, ensuring your decisions are well-informed and centered around the unique needs of your elderly family member.
Choosing a Community That CaresThe neighborhood plays a significant role in the quality of life for your senior family member. To start, it’s vital to research homes in their area that fit their budget. In San Francisco, the housing market is somewhat competitive, with homes selling in about 35 days on average.
A crucial factor to consider is the median sale price of homes in the area. As of last month, the median sale price in San Francisco was just under $1.4M, a 2% increase from the previous year. This price information can serve as a benchmark for what to expect when searching for the ideal home within a reasonable price range.
The Expertise of Specialized RealtorsWhen it comes to buying a home for a senior, the expertise of a real estate agent who specializes in senior home purchases is invaluable. Such agents bring a wealth of knowledge about the nuances of senior living needs. They can provide insights into properties that offer long-term comfort and accessibility, ensuring that your loved one’s home doesn’t just meet their current needs, but is also a feasible choice for the future.
Tailoring the Home to Their NeedsUnderstanding your loved one’s needs, both immediate and long-term, is crucial in this process. This understanding transcends beyond mere physical comforts and delves into emotional well-being. Consider the layout of the home, the ease of navigation, and even the minor details like the height of countertops or the type of flooring. Every aspect of the home should align with their comfort and safety.
Financial Realities and PlanningA thorough assessment of your loved one’s financial situation is imperative. This isn’t just about setting a budget; the National Council on Aging notes that it’s about understanding their financial stability and forecasting future expenses. This step will guide you in determining a realistic price range for the home and ensuring that the investment doesn’t impede other essential aspects of their care and lifestyle.
Leveraging Government AssistanceThere are numerous government programs and grants designed to assist seniors in home buying. These can range from help with down payments to property tax reductions and funds for making accessibility modifications. Familiarizing yourself with these programs can provide financial relief and additional support in making the home more suitable for your senior loved one.
The Importance of a Comprehensive Home InspectionBefore finalizing any purchase, ensure that the home undergoes a thorough inspection. This is more than a routine check; At Home Healthcare points out that it’s about identifying potential safety hazards and the need for future modifications. A comprehensive inspection can save you from unforeseen expenses and ensure the home is a safe haven for your loved one.
Assisting a senior in the purchase of a new home is a journey filled with responsibility and love. Your role as a caregiver in this process is pivotal in ensuring that their golden years are spent in a home that is safe, comfortable, and enriching. By following these guidelines, you can make informed decisions that honor their preferences and needs, making this transition a fulfilling experience for both of you. Remember, this isn’t just about finding a house; it’s about creating a home that cherishes and supports them in every way.
January 29, 2024
Keeping the flame alive on Imbolc
image from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ImbolcOn the Winter Solstice, I wrote “Survival Mode” on a piece of paper and burned it in the flames of a large, white candle to symbolize my intention to let go of fear and open my life to more joy. On Imbolc, I reaffirm my commitment to staying present to the joy in my life, both the large and the small moments. I also rekindle the fire of my creativity. I open myself to passion and hope while following the path leading to greater happiness.
Imbolc is an ancient Celtic celebration marking the beginning of Spring by honoring Brigid, the Goddess of fertility and light. Today, Imbolc is more commonly known as St. Brigid’s Day in honor of the first Christian nun in Ireland. Both St. Brigid and the Goddess Brigid are celebrated with milk and fire on February 1st. Milk symbolizes fertility, especially the fertility of the animals people depend on to survive. Fire symbolizes the warmth and light of the sun.
It has been five weeks since the longest, darkest night of the Winter Solstice and if you pay attention, you will see that the daylight is growing stronger. Sunrise paints the sky in watercolor hues a little earlier every day and the night has to wait a few extra minutes before sunset. Our intentions for happiness can grow too. What did you leave behind in the darkness of the Winter Solstice? Are the shadows trying to creep back into your life? Imbolc is a time to reaffirm your commitment to yourself and your dreams.
When St. Brigid built her church in 500 AD in Kildare, Ireland, she lit a flame that was tended by the nuns and burned until the 1600’s. In 1993, the fire was relit and continues to burn today. But long before St. Brigid lit a flame to show her devotion to Christ, ancient Celts lit fires to honor the Goddess Brigid, hoping she would bless their herds.
In the darkness, when we are afraid the warmth of the sun will never return, we light fires to keep us warm and give us hope.
What fire will you light to honor yourself on February 1st?
January 22, 2024
Deep Breath Tango
Fate walks across the room to me
Holds out their hand to say, Shall we?
I take their offer and am pulled near
Hand on my back with nothing to fear.
Palms together, our arms feel strong
But I’m worried my frame is all wrong
Fate smiles. “Just take one breath.
Stay right here. I’ll do the rest.”
Shift left. Shift right. Shift left. Shift right.
We stand together, moving so slow
Shifting our weight, finding our flow
Looking for balance within the song
Two bodies breathing, begin to belong.
And then Fate moves. A subtle sign
I’m moving back as our steps align
A step to the side, a turn, an advance
I smile as Fate shows me the dance.
Shift left. Shift right. Shift left. Shift right.
If I learn more, perhaps I’ll persuade
Fate to keep dancing. Now I’m afraid.
I’m just a beginner in these tall shoes.
So I try even harder, until I’m confused.
Our rhythm is off. Fate stops moving.
“I’m sorry,” I say. But Fate is approving.
Fate smiles. “Just take one breath.
Stay right here. I’ll do the rest.”
Fate whispers… Shift left. Shift right. Shift left. Shift right.
Breathe and feel the music’s tempo
Stay in the moment and let it all flow
Your body, your bones, feet and hands
Fate wants to dance, won’t hear demands.
I am so hungry to see and learn more
But the faster I dance, the slower I go
I wish I could learn to finally release
Then maybe this fear of age would cease.
Deep breath…. Shift left. Shift right. Shift left. Shift right
Fate has been simply waiting for me
Holds out their hand to say, shall we?
We stand together, moving so slow
Shifting our weight, finding our flow.
“Trust me,” Fate says, “Life is a dance.
“Take another breath. Give life a chance.
You know the steps, now follow my lead.
When you learn to follow, you will be freed.”
And then Fate moves. A subtle sign
I’m moving back as our steps align
A step to the side, a turn, an advance
I smile as Fate shows me the dance.
January 16, 2024
Exuberant Art Lover
Photo by Chris F on Pexels.comThe colors glowing from within and along the surface of the glass sculpture mirrored the movement of the glass when it had been created. Flowing, rolling, expanding, curling… twining around itself and then upwards into a dream of the ocean. Not just a single wave, but the entire ocean, frozen in one blue, turquoise and gold moment. The ocean twenty feet high and thick with sharp edges, smoothed into tentacles and starfish. Rounded into the shape of an hourglass full of movement but forced to stand still on a frame of bare wood with hundreds of lights. No shadows anywhere, just color and fragile shape.
Being frozen with wonder is real. It happened to me the moment I saw this scultpure. Eventually I could breath again and then I walked around the perimeter, over and over, trying to see every detail that made this sculpture seem so alive. I swear I heard the sound of the ocean as I paced.
That was just one of the glass sculptures I saw at the Chihuly Garden and Glass Museum . Traveling from room to room I became more astounded by the intense beauty and creativity of the sculptures. Some as small as a salad bowl while others stood ten feet tall. One room was filled with a thousand colorful glass shapes creating an undersea world, while another room held a garden of giant poppies that changed color when you shone a light on the petals.
While standing beside a display of glass balls in different sizes and bright colors cascading from a container shaped like a boat, I felt my body tingling. Perhaps I’d been holding my breath too long from the beauty I couldn’t seem to process. But sometimes when I’m looking at a picture, listening to music or reading a story, I feel an slow surge of electricity flow through my body. Art reaches deeper than just my senses. I don’t see the picture, I experience the picture. I feel the artist and the inspiration and the work and the materials all at once. I want to laugh, shout or sing… it’s just so damn beautiful!
On this day, I got the wiggles. Exuberance flowed out of my hair and my fingers until I couldn’t stand still. I leaned against the wall and looked up at the gigantic glass solar system above my head. More beauty. Everyone around me was quietly chatting and taking in the art with reverent appreciation. I wanted to shout, “Do you feel it? There is so much beauty here! Does anyone feel drunk too?”
Instead, I found a corner away from the glass and jumped up and down with excitement, making my friends laugh. “It’s so damn beautiful!” I said.
“Uh oh… Terena’s being exuberant,” one friend said with a smile.
I’m grateful my friends understand how deeply I am affected by beauty and art. And I don’t think I’m the only one feeling overwhelmed by what they saw. When I was done being “exuberant” and felt safe to walk near glass again, one woman grinned at me and shone her light on the petals of a glass flower. “Look how they sparkle in the light,” she said.
I am not the kind of art lover you take to a formal art exhibit, unless you need someone there who will exclaim “Beautiful!” every time she sees a picture she likes. And don’t take me to a concert if you’re embarrassed by people who either dance or cry when they listen to great music (even the symphony).
Art is the purest expression of being human and creating art is to be truly alive.
Art brings me joy. No, art IS joy.
And I am all about the joy.
Go on. I dare you. Be exuberant at the art museum. Just once.
January 1, 2024
Letting go of Survival Mode
I have been planning my daughter’s funeral for ten years. She almost died at seventeen from metabolic distress but after a nine day stay at the Stanford’s Children’s Hospital, she stabilized. However, her prognosis wasn’t good.
“She probably won’t reach twenty. You should prepare yourself,” her doctor said.
Three years. Three more birthdays. Three more Christmases. Three more summers… if we’re lucky.
But despite all predictions, there have been ten more birthdays, Christmases and summer vacations.
And at every celebration I wonder if it will be her last.
This way of thinking puts you in permanent survival mode. It becomes impossible to make plans for the future or believe in your dreams. You remain hyper-vigilant, aware of every breath your child takes in her sleep. You put everything other than her needs on hold because you believe that one of these days, tomorrow or next week or next year, she will die.
You forget how to live.
My daughter has not forgotten. She lives every day like a Bodhisattva, fully embracing the present moment and enjoying her life. She loves unconditionally, is kind to everyone, stands up for herself when crossed but then quickly forgives. When she is happy she sings off-key with a loud voice, arms wide open, not caring if anyone stares or laughs. People usually smile.
My daughter doesn’t live in survival mode, even though her life is at risk.
On the Winter Solstice, a few close friends and I stood around a large candle set on a table in my garden. One by one we burned a piece of paper on which we’d written something we wanted to let go off. It was the thing, person, worry or fear we wanted to leave in the darkness of the longest night to allow room for sweetness and light in our lives going forward.
I wrote “survival mode.” Then I touched the paper to the flame of the candle, held it for a moment as it began to burn, and dropped it into the hot wax. As the paper curled and turned to black ash, I thought, “No more survival mode. I want to live.”
I want to feel my own body again rather than pushing away hunger, fatigue and pain. When I push those sensations away I also push away the ability to feel happiness, softness and pleasure.
I want to honor my own artistic abilities and make space for them to grow. Survival mode steals energy from creativity. If I open to my own muses, what can I create?
I want to build the life I dream of, one filled with art, joy and love. I don’t have to wait until someday, I can start today. I live in a large, funky house with amazing views; what better place to begin?
I want to learn to live in the present moment without always watching for the next battle. My survival skills are excellent and have served me well; I am resilient and sturdy under any crisis. That’s good, but I don’t have to live like there’s a crisis every day.
I want to throw my arms wide and sing loudly when I’m happy, just like my daughter does.
On New Years Day, 2024, I make the same request as I did on the Winter Solstice. Let me release survival mode so I can embrace life. Let me honor the skills I gained while battling for my child’s life by learning to let those skills go when they’re not needed. Let me feel all of the sensations of my body, including pain, so that I can fully love and feel happiness. It won’t be easy because survival mode is safe. Stepping into the light fully human and vulnerable is terrifying. But I imagine the joy I might find, take a deep breath, and start to sing.
My daughter knows the song.
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