Silent Screams (and other odd sounds)

This is what I'm thinking RIGHT NOW. It may not be what I'm thinking tomorrow.

Category Archives: Life Lessons


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A Different Kind of Father’s Day

Today is Father’s Day.  I’m pretty sure that there will be 10,258,265 blogs today that at least mention Father’s Day.  I’m also pretty sure that about 1 out of 3 families who have a living father will have a picnic or some other get together to celebrate Father’s Day.  I will be among the 33% of families who will celebrate with a picnic.

Today, as I was preparing food for the picnic my mind drifted back in time to when my daughters were 6 and 3.  I was sitting on a park bench at the softball fields watching my oldest daughter practice and my youngest daughter play with the other children in the dirt pile.  Halfway through the softball practice my husband arrives at the park and immediately my youngest daughter runs up to him gleefully calling, “Daddy, Daddy.”  In my mind’s eye he picked her up and twirled her around, but in reality I think he just picked her up to kiss her.  

Shortly after my husband’s arrival my oldest daughter runs in from the field to the park bench where I was sitting.  Nearly in tears she blurts out that the girl she was standing next to in the field told her that her sister and her could not have the same daddy and that one of them had a different dad.  My eldest daughter’s dark brown eyes were as big as saucers as she demanded to know, “Whose daddy is he?”

Since I really didn’t have a clue what the two children talked about in the field I was more than a little confused.  My oldest daughter’s heart was breaking before my eyes before I realized that she thought the man who she had called “daddy” over the last six years might not be her father.  After understanding her fear, I reassured her that the person she knew as “daddy” was indeed her father.  Slowly I saw the heartbreak leave her eyes and for a moment the air was light again.  Her head tilted to one side letting me know the wheels of her mind were spinning.  “Then who is my sister’s daddy?”  Once again I was lost.  What the heck was she talking about?  I could feel the tension mounting in her body once again as she wondered about her little sister’s paternity.  

Not having a clue what craziness had entered my daughter’s little head, I clasped her hand in mine and we went for a little walk to the end of the softball field so we could be alone.  We sat on the grass and I asked her to explain what in the world she was talking about.  There, at the edge of the softball field she explained to me that the little girl in the field had 6 brothers and sisters and they all had different dads.  The little girl explained to my daughter that kids could have the same mommy but they couldn’t have the same daddy.  

I sat for a brief moment not knowing what to say.  My daughter’s eyes were burrowing into mine waiting for a reply.  All I could do was hug her and re-assure her that her and her sister did share the same father.  Briefly, in a fleeting manor, I also explained that some children can have different fathers and different mothers but that didn’t mean that the person who lived with them didn’t love them just the same.  

I suppose she was happy with my answer because she smiled as she got up from the ground to join her friends at practice.  I watched as she ran to meet up with her friends.  My eyes first focused on my daughter and then on the little girl who told my daughter “her” facts of life.  

I think of that little girl often.  I wonder how her life is and has been.  I also wonder why I thought of her today on Father’s Day.

 


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In a Blink of an Eye

Back in April of this year, the weather was unseasonably nice for this area.  It was almost summertime in the spring.  The flowers had started to bloom, the trees were starting to bud and slowly the motorcycles has started to appear in the sunshine.  The cycles shimmered in the sun after being freshly pampered by their owners in anticipation of the first summer ride.

Having never been a motorcyclist, I can only recant second hand how excitedly cyclist talk about riding in the wind.  The lure of letting the wind’s fingers filter through my hair as my thighs embrace the seat of a bike has always been appealing to me; but far too scary.  Working in an Emergency Department has taken the fun out of riding for me much like the carnival loses its luster to a carnie.  I’ve seen too much motorcycle destruction and death to make it “fun” for me to wrap my legs around a Harley.  All too often I’ve had to tell families their loved ones are hanging near the edge of death, are paralyzed, have massive head trauma, or worse because of a collision between a motorcycle and …well… and almost anything.  In most cases, the motorcycle loses.

Today, I visited a woman exactly one year younger than I am who is living in a nursing home.  She is there because during one of those beautiful April days she was out riding her motorcycle and someone pulled across three lanes of traffic giving her just enough time to stand up on her bike to open her arms in an attempt to save the life of the person who was riding with her.  The passenger survived with minor scratches, bumps and bruises; my friend did not fare as well. As I walked through the halls of the skilled care facility towards her room my eyes glanced at all the elderly in their wheelchairs.  Some of the residents were “awake” but absent in thought, some were present in thought but unable to express to anyone that they were awake except when their eyes met yours.  Some residents were watching television in a common room, laughing and talking with each other; others just sat.  Each had their own stories of why they were living communally in this nursing home but all the people that I saw as I walked through the hall had one thing in common: they were all advanced in years.  My friend is not advanced in age.  Looking at the residents and thinking of her being in a place reserved for mostly “elderly” was something I was having a difficult time meshing in my mind.

Finally reaching her door I closed my eyes as I placed my hand on the door knob.  I inhaled deeply, the characteristic aroma of a “nursing home” filled my senses.  I shook my head trying to clear the sights and smells from my conscious before I opened the door to her room.

Mercifully, when I opened her door, her room was filled with visitors so I had time to rid myself of the thoughts flooding my mind.  Her eyes brightened when she saw me.  “Carmie!”  Her eyes filled with tears and so did mine. This was the first time I’d seen her since I visited her after her extensive surgeries.  She looked wonderful but still more fragile then the strong, vibrant woman I knew her to be.

Since her surgery for a shattered pelvis and ruptured bladder, she has been unable to walk.  She’s not paralyzed, but her injuries are so extensive that her pelvis is not stable enough to allow her to bear her own weight.  Inwardly, I know she is blessed just to be alive.  Statistically less than 5% of people sustaining her types of injuries and surgeries survive.  She is one of the “lucky” ones.  Yesterday she was delivered what she perceived as another devastating blow.  Her trauma surgeon told her that she would have to have another surgery (not as extensive as the last) but she would have to remain bedridden another 12 -16 weeks after the surgery.  She will not even be able to attempt to walk until around October of this year.

Most of her visitors slowly left her room before she turned to say to me, “Do you know how it feels to lay in a bed for 12 weeks?  Do you know how it feels to look out the window of this room and see that other people are doing things and I am sentenced to this bed for another 12 weeks after my surgery? I haven’t been out of this bed since my accident.” It took all that I had in me not to cry.  What good would I be to her if I was a crying fool at her bedside?  What good can I be at all?  I can’t take her place and I don’t really know how she feels.

After I listened to her vent, I lowered my eyes and shook my head before letting my eyes meet hers.  “No, you are right.  I can’t really imagine how you must be feeling.  I do know that I can get up out of this chair and leave this room and you can’t.  I know that if I come back here tomorrow the chances are that you will be in this bed.  I know that when you look outside you see others moving around and you are confined to either this bed or at the mercy of someone else to put you in a wheelchair and wheel you around.  Hell, you even have to depend on someone to put a pot under you to piss in.  No, I don’t know what that’s like at all.  I’d be crying every bit as much, if not more than you are if I were in your bed.  You have every reason to cry and be mad.”  As I spoke my next words I couldn’t look her in the eye, I had to turn my head from her.  “The alternative would have been worse.  Never seeing your children again; never hearing them laugh or cry; never hearing your husband tell you he loves you.  I’m not sure, but I think I would try to endure the bed before the coffin.”

She was silent for a few minutes before letting out one of her familiar deep laughs. “Carmie, the Lord done saved my life once and I tell everyone it was Him.  I think the devil just wants to pour more shit on me so he can say…’Go ahead, tell everyone how good God is now.’  Well hell Carmie, He is good and the devil can just keep piling shit up on me ’cause he ain’t gonna win.”

Her mood, and mine, was much lighter when I got up from my chair to leave.  I bent down to hug her as she laid in her bed.  I kissed her forehead and cheek before saying goodbye.  “I love you girl.  Take care of yourself.”

“You know I love you too Carmie.”

I waved goodbye as I opened the door to her room feeling a bit guilty that I could walk out of her room and she could not.  I walked down the hall passed all the residents in their beds and wheelchairs more alive to my ability to walk than I have ever been before.


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Respect

Growing up I was taught that I should automatically respect others.  The respect I am referring to is not the kind of respect afforded a deity; but the respect of regard and consideration that should be shown to every man.  Back in “the day” when I was still under the absolute authority of my parents, a lack of respect to another would bring upon swift and immediate punishment.  The idea of “back-talking” or having a total lack of regard for another’s opinion or feelings was not tolerated at all.  Growing up with such life lessons, I, of course, attempted to pass them along to my children. Taking a step back and looking as objectively as I can at my children, I think they have learned the lesson well.  It isn’t too often I see them deliberately hurting or violating someone else’s rights, opinions or feelings.  It does my heart good to see them being able to treat others with kindness so effortlessly, even when they are not shown the same in return.

Of course, as some might say, showing respect in all situations can be misinterpreted as weakness. Standing silent while someone attempts to spew forth venom into your very soul can be a daunting task.  Having someone spew obscenities and half-truths in my direction can wear me down enough to make me want to jump right into their foul stench of a pig’s sty with them.  Shamefully I admit that there has been occasions when I jumped into the stench and didn’t come out smelling like a rose. If I jump into the pig’s sty with them, don’t I get just as dirty?

Many times I’ve come across a situation where I have been lied about or lied too or been the target of another’s frustration.  Often times I’ve had to stop and ask myself, “Can this person accept the truth?  Does this person even want to know the truth?  Is this person, at this time, able to react rationally?”  Most times, when a person is down in the muck and mire, the only voice they hear is their own, and it is not the voice of reason.  It doesn’t matter what I say, they have their own mindset.  When all is said and done, when the words have settled into the dust, the only thing remaining to tell the story are the actions I have displayed.

So, what does all of that have to do with respect?  Over the years I’ve learned that when I truly respect others by not jumping down into a muddy pit that the general population may want to pull me down into; I’m really respecting myself.  At the end of the day I like to go to sleep really liking who I am.