LETTING GO
For Valentine’s Day, my husband gave me a blanket. This is a fairly random gift, but makes sense because I am almost always cold. It’s a super soft, light grey throw blanket with knobby tassels fringing each end. What my husband didn’t know when he made the spontaneous purchase is that the blanket would turn out to be a gift for my grandmother as she lay in a hospital bed, cold and hurting everywhere.
My grandmother was admitted to the hospital while I was on vacation, and it was several days before I could get to her. When I arrived, she lit up like a little kid watching the Thanksgiving Macy’s parade. “This is my granddaughter. My granddaughter is here,” she told the nurse, the aid, anyone who would listen. I’m her person and she’d been waiting for me. There’s beauty and weight in being someone’s person. I rested my forehead on hers and tried not to cry. “I’m feeling so cold,” she said. “I have just the thing,” I told her.
As the days ticked by and she went further and further without any nutrition, I started to worry in earnest. She’s 89 and doesn’t want any big interventions. There was a lot of pain. I sat and held her hand, trying to stay present and not jump ahead. What was my plan here? How do I take care of her? What was going to happen? It’s so hard sitting with inaction. Waiting and not knowing. “I’m not going to be here much longer,” she told me, stroking the soft lines of the cozy grey blanket. “And I’m ok with that.” Yes, but am I ok with that? How can I be ok with that? I tried to hold it together, to make it about her and not about me. She dictated letters and I typed, helping her say her goodbyes. She took the pain meds and got lightheaded and panicky. “It’s ok,” I told her. “Just ride the wave and let it take you.”
Each time I leave the hospital, there’s a rush of emotion that escapes from the dam I’ve built up. Fear, hope, tenderness, gratitude. It’s a veritable buffet and I’m not hungry. I cry, I snap at people, I feel a pervasive fog. I’m unprepared for grieving that happens before death, but it’s there. Each day is like riding a Tilt-a-Whirl that has no rhythm to it. You’re careening in one direction and then abruptly yanked backwards and sideways. Yesterday she was feeling a little better. Today she’s worse. There’s no linear path of progression towards something, just zig zagging through the day. For someone who likes to be in control and have a plan, it’s maddeningly uncomfortable.
I sit and watch her sleep, the sun streaming in at my back and the sound of her soft snores comforting me. I think about my need to plan and anticipate and control. What do I do now? The answer that comes to me may be the only one I get. Ride the wave and let it take you.
I’ll assume that you’re not personally working through the end-of-life process with a loved one. Though so many of us have experienced this in the past two years. Chances are, there’s something else you’re desperately wanting to exert control over, and can’t. Maybe it’s a personal concern, or global crisis. Maybe you’re trying so hard to help a loved one, and there’s only so much you can do for them. When you can’t control it, how do you show up for it? What do you tell yourself?
Here’s what I’ve been trying:
Make distinctions. What is in my control and what is out of my control? The act of categorizing things into these two buckets helps me identify where I can exert some control and gives me back some of the agency I crave.
Exert control in small ways. For those things that I can control, it helps to take action. These can be small things, like bringing fresh flowers or rubbing lotion into my grandma’s hands. These tasks feed my need to be helpful, even if I can’t actually fix the situation.
Follow the thread. Some of the discomfort that comes with loss of control has to do with the ego. What does it say about me if I can’t manage this? Who am I if I’m not always in control? These thoughts often run in the background, outside of consciousness. Following the thread and bringing these thoughts into the light offers better perspective. It allows me to see that I can’t control this situation, and yet it doesn’t reflect on me at all.
Go easy on yourself. When we lose the ability to control the situation, we don’t always react the way we want to. I may start crying out of nowhere, or snap at someone who is just trying to help. When this happens, don’t let the self judgement creep in. Talk to yourself the way you would your best friend. It’s ok, you’ll do better next time.
My grandmother is stable now, but not improving much. Each day is a lesson in relinquishing the need to control the situation. It’s a chance to practice letting go.
Are you ready to let go more, when there are things outside of your control? I can help with that. Reach out to schedule time to chat!
