With every single event of my father’s care came this roller coaster of shock, anger, bewilderment, choices, and outcome. For a while, I waited for this routine to end. But it didn’t end.
In the meanwhile, much as I didn’t wish to, I had to start building my life. I had to sell my childhood home, find a place to live, find a job. And I had to do that while being emotionally wrecked. I cried often, and felt as though I had no rudder. My childhood friends were no longer a part of my life, so any support they might have provided was nonexistent. There was little to distract me from my duties – I didn’t have the time! I had to finish my trek through my father’s papers to find out if we had enough money to pay for a nursing home...or if, at 34 years old, I was going to become a nurse to my father for the rest of his days. Once my father actually made it into the nursing home full time – no more voyages to the hospital for yet another stroke, or another infection – I was able to start making a new life. But what was I supposed to do, given that I was dealing now with both depression and no idea what type of career to pursue? I followed a friend’s advice and applied for and landed a job working as a clerk for the City of Cincinnati in the Sidewalks Division. Who knew there even was such a thing as a “Sidewalks Division”? The job paid the bills, and it gave me a co-worker who was my best friend for quite a while. In that friendship was clearly the hand of Amma, because the first day we met we compared parental stroke stories – in her case it was her mother – and we bonded instantly. When eventually I began taking anti-depressants, she covered for me when I was forced to take naps in the bathroom, felled into unconsciousness by the way my body initially reacted to the medication’s help with my stress. I was indignantly sure that this would never have happened to me in Boston, where Mother was. Right... Boston was so far away now! Now I felt far, far away from Mother, but still I railed at Her, and fumed over my inability to understand what good She was doing me now! It wasn’t like I felt Her or anything – it wasn’t like She was sparing me or anything! For God’s sake, I was on antidepressants! How could this be? And yet...She would not leave my mind, and the stories that had impressed me in the past came to the surface with each challenge that my father led us both through. I had read a story once about a woman whose husband was in the hospital, and as he died, she circled his bed three times as is the Indian tradition with holy beings and manifestations of holy beings (such as the holy mountain Arunachala, which is believed to be the physical manifestation of Lord Shiva). Though he was in a coma and thus unable to speak, he actually responded to her, saying “Thank you!” I was reminded of this when my father did something similar during one of his hospital stays. He too was in a coma at one point, and I made up a Mother-inspired song to sing to him while I stood by his bedside. The song was as much an effort to buoy myself up as it was to try to reach my unconscious father. But although I was making up a very serious spiritual song hoping to rouse my dad with my deep thoughts, nothing happened and I got so frustrated with the failure of my earnest efforts that out of my mouth came something silly and irreverent amidst the deeply serious poetry. My father, unconscious, suddenly barked out a laugh. Out of the blue, this man who was lying there like a sturgeon suddenly started laughing, and then just as suddenly stopped! It was amazing. All totaled, Dad went to the verge of death three times. The third of these times, I decided that if he was going to die, he wasn’t going to do it without Mother’s blessing. I was going to have to take him to Chicago to see Mother – the nearest to Cincinnati of all of Amma’s tour cities. (Whaddaya know! It had turned out that Boston was not, in fact, the only place to see Amma; certainly I had known that?). There was a hitch, though: he had both a catheter and a colostomy bag, and he couldn’t walk. How the heck was I going to get him to Chicago, and care for him while there? This would have been a wonderful opportunity to back out of the challenge. My mind told me, “You’re not a nurse! How can you do this alone?” But for some reason, my determination was up, and I told myself, “If this were happening to Mother, She wouldn’t let objections stand in Her way. So I can’t either. I’m finding ways to do this. If I really can’t, then I won’t. But I’m not just taking the easy way out. I’m going to try to find a way to do it.” Who knows why I thought this way? But over the next couple of weeks, I addressed the issues. I talked with the nurses and they gave me instructions on dealing with colostomies and catheters, and gave me some extra colostomy bags. And then I spoke with Mim Grace, my Yogananda devotee friend who had not yet met Ammachi. I offered her a deal: “If you come with me and help me with my Dad, I’ll pay for your trip.” She agreed! Part of me couldn’t believe I was doing this, and the other part was simply no-holds-barred determined. Told that we were going on a trip, my father was over the moon about the whole thing. This was a man who had traveled internationally for more than 20 years as a cellist, so for him, the plane trip alone was a return to normalcy. The three of us boarded a plane and got ourselves to Chicago. If anything was ever miraculous, that certainly was. Before we deplaned, I asked one of the airplane personnel to help me stand my father up so that I could get his catheter untangled from the chair and empty it since neither I nor my friend was strong enough to make that happen in the confines of the airplane. That poor man! This was certainly not in his job description! I could relate to his discomfort. There were so many things I did for my father during that time that had me marshalling my internal reactions of nausea, disgust, revulsion, fear. But I was on a mission, now, and that steward was going to help me! And help me he did. I hadn’t thought ahead to what might happen for my father once we got there. It was possible, of course, that he would look around and be upset with the scene, and I was concerned that he might be unable to say so because he hadn’t been speaking much lately – what turned out to be multiple strokes had taken him first to a mute state, and then to one that was minimally expressive. I hadn’t heard him speak complete sentences in months! But I wanted him to be comfortable, and I told myself that I would watch him closely for any signs of discomfort, stay just long enough for him to be blessed and then leave, if he wished. But as it happened, he sat in his wheelchair fairly close to where Mother sat, and just watched the whole thing, chin in hand, undisturbed. It was uncharacteristic of this man to be so patient with something so foreign to him, but he was. Finally, someone came to me and said that it was time to bring him up to see Amma. I stood up and pushed his chair forward, and watched while Mother gave him darshan. She stroked his chest with Her hand, over and over again, and smiled up into his face. She stroked his arms, and his puffed up right hand that he could no longer use, and She put vibhuti on his face and hands. The whole while that She blessed him, he talked nervously! He said, “Oh! Oh, thank you. Yes, that’s very nice, but it’s not necessary... Oh, okay.... Well, thank you. That’s okay, you don’t have to ... Thank you, that’s very nice of you,” and so on. Mother never looked up at me once. Not even a glance. Dad’s darshan was over, and I pulled his chair back to his place in the crowd, and I remember thinking, “Well, what can I expect? I’m just another person, another child of Mother’s. Other people suffer worse than I do, so why should She pay attention to me? I’m no one special.” But while that may have been true, I still wanted my darshan! I left my father in his wheelchair and joined the queue. The line in those days was still floor seating only - there were no chairs lining the center aisle – which made it easy for women along the way to touch my arm and say, “Was that your dad? He’s so cute! That was so great! I’m so glad I saw that! You’re so lucky you could get your dad to come!” Hmmm...brute force had more to do with it than luck, I thought. But I didn’t tell them that. Why ruin the fantasy when it has so much meaning for them? was what I thought. I reached Mother’s lap and received Her darshan. I remember feeling so numb from what I’d been through during the last year. I also remember feeling dully angry at the thought that now my life was going to go on in this exact way, day in and day out, caring for my dad, rather than being fabulous, whatever that meant. As far as I could see, my life was over. As for Mother, after Her lack of response to me, I didn’t expect a super-duper darshan, and sure enough, She hugged me and let me go; no fussing over me. I stood up and started to move away, accepting that I truly wasn’t more important than anyone else. Apparently, I was now behaving just the way I was supposed to; all that I had done for my father was unremarkable because it was what anyone should do. But something stopped me. From behind, as I began to move away, someone had grabbed ahold of my skirt and was tugging on it. I turned back to see what was going on, and it was Mother, Herself! She was gesturing to me to come sit beside Her, which I quickly did, puzzled but more than happy to acquiesce. For a little bit, I just looked at Her while She continued to give darshan, and then She turned to brahmachari Amrit and said something. He smiled warmly, turning to me, and then spoke words that I could never have dreamed of hearing: “Mother says She thought of you almost every day this year.” My mouth fell open. Literally, it did! My mind was in turmoil, thinking both, “You thought of me???” and, “I know which days You didn’t think of me, alright!” There was only one response to that, really: tears. I said to Amrit, “Please ask Mother to make me a good girl, and to show me my path.” He did so, and Amma beamed, blessing me with a hand on my cheek and more smiling attention. I’ll tell you, half the time I ask Mother things, I don’t think I really know what I’m asking for. Make me a good girl? What I meant, probably, was “make me not make stupid mistakes”. In any case, for a little while, I felt happy again, happy that Mother loved me, thought of me, approved of my seva over the last year. I felt like more than a devotee - I felt like a disciple! The depression lifted for about an hour, and then settled back into its accustomed place. The next night – a Devi Bhava night - found my father and I side by side against the wall on the “men’s side” of the temple (traditionally, the right side, facing front, is considered the men’s side, and the left the women’s), waiting with everyone else for Mother to enter. When at last She arrived, everyone rose to their feet. My heart melted when I saw that my father was struggling to rise from his wheelchair! A man nearby saw his struggle, and helped me get him to his feet to honor Amma. Incredible that my father’s response was so instinctive. Just as incredible was that my brother surprised us by driving up from Cincinnati in response to my telephone plea earlier that day that he come to receive a family blessing. God knows we needed it after all the years of discord after my mother’s death. Andrew made that five-hour drive even though Mother meant nothing to him, spirituality seemed bogus to him, and blessings were also equally meaningless. But something compelled him to drive five hours for a Devi Bhava family blessing. Delighted, I got the three of us to the front of the stage on which Mother now sat for this special night, and there we had a problem. In order to get my father onto the stage, three strong male devotees were going to have to lift him, wheelchair and all, into the air. My father was not happy about this; he was terrified. At first I said to him, “Okay. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” He looked so relieved! But only moments later my desires got the better of me, and I went against my word – ouch – and had the three devotees lift Dad onto the stage. Oh God but he hated it! And such is the possibility of instant lessons in Mother’s presence, I learned there and then that I must never force anyone to my desires, even when the outcome seems to be so worthwhile. Mother never forces anyone to do anything; neither should I. I apologized to my father several times that night, but it didn’t help me. I felt so guilty! Up on the stage, I told anyone and everyone that we were a family, and should be blessed together. In this country, Mother always takes families together and puts Her arms around all of them as a unit, showering them with flower petals. But for my family tonight would be different, shockingly so for me. None of the helpers along the way placed us in a family order, no matter how many times I explained. Perhaps it was the wheelchair, which took up needed room and didn’t allow for a grouping? I don’t know. But I do know that Mother knows everything – this is, for me, a fact, proven to me over years and years of my doubting and then receiving miracles of love and aid and response – and when my family reached Her, She first took my brother into Her arms – released him - and then my father – released him - and then me. We were never blessed as a family unit. As far as I am concerned, this was Her will. But why? I don’t know, but I did find it fascinating, as I had not heard of this happening to anyone else. My brother turned around and drove back to Cincinnati that very night, and my father, my friend and I returned to our motel room and prepared for our return home the next day. Blessings notwithstanding, my dad was still ill, I was still going to be living in Cincinnati, I was still lost as to what my life was all about, and I was still depressed, Mother or no Mother. What was this path all about? |
Mother Love: Embracing the Wound, Tempering the Steel
$10.00
I learned that when you bring the divine into your life, a few things DON'T happen:
You don't get rescued from your path...but you get helped along it.
You don't get helped in all of the ways that you expect - but you do get help.
You don't immediately heal from mental illness...but you get the assistance you need to do that healing.
This book is a chronicling of 20 years of my life spent as a Seeker and a Follower of the great saint Ammachi. Ammachi started coming to the U.S. in 1987. I met her in 1988 when there were no crowds, and the time spent with her was very intimate and saturated in shakti (divine energy).
At the same time, I was two years shy of a nervous breakdown which would change my life. This period began a deep questioning which has never ended. Who is the divine? What is the purpose of the divine? How do I "tap" the divine when its representative - the guru - is not physically present? What is faith? Why do I have God in my life and still have emotional/mental problems?
I wrote this book to give the uninitiated the opportunity to perhaps experience what it is like to spend time with a great saint. I wrote it to be open about mental illness and its truths and myths. I wrote it as a love song to Amma, and I wrote it to try to understand what this journey is that I began in 1988 and continue, now in 2021 and beyond.
You don't get rescued from your path...but you get helped along it.
You don't get helped in all of the ways that you expect - but you do get help.
You don't immediately heal from mental illness...but you get the assistance you need to do that healing.
This book is a chronicling of 20 years of my life spent as a Seeker and a Follower of the great saint Ammachi. Ammachi started coming to the U.S. in 1987. I met her in 1988 when there were no crowds, and the time spent with her was very intimate and saturated in shakti (divine energy).
At the same time, I was two years shy of a nervous breakdown which would change my life. This period began a deep questioning which has never ended. Who is the divine? What is the purpose of the divine? How do I "tap" the divine when its representative - the guru - is not physically present? What is faith? Why do I have God in my life and still have emotional/mental problems?
I wrote this book to give the uninitiated the opportunity to perhaps experience what it is like to spend time with a great saint. I wrote it to be open about mental illness and its truths and myths. I wrote it as a love song to Amma, and I wrote it to try to understand what this journey is that I began in 1988 and continue, now in 2021 and beyond.
