Ah. The fog is finally lifting.
The sleep-interrupted, too-much-tv-watching, tired ol' caregiver fog, that is. The one which has made me--yes, I'll say it--crabby.
Always, when Tom has surgery I feel total simpatico with those of you caregivers out there, whether you care for someone who is 50 or 70 or 2. Color me tipping my hat to you, ok?
But since some clouds are still puffing within this head of mine, I'll let Sylvia Jorrin speak to you more clearly from her book, Sylvia's Farm. May this piece about her mother encourage you who wonder if what you're doing now for your children (and others) will remain with them in the future:
"I remember most vividly the kitchen on Ocean Avenue. Gray marbleized Formica on the kitchen table. Black vinyl seats on the chairs. Cream gauze curtains on the windows that shut out neither the summer sunlight nor the dark of winter's evenings. And the pantry where we both spent the evening doing the dishes. I talked and she listened. Everything was in order. There was a place for everything where the everything could always be found. I remember the silence in that room as I rushed into it as a teenager, a whirlwind of joy or despair and everything in between. The silence and security and order. The love in that room was absolute and impenetrable. It almost had to be pushed aside to walk through it. Nothing, nothing could ever cause even a ripple in that silent, thick air. The sense of security was expressed in that order. The knowledge of love was in my mother. And it filled the room in its entirety."
The sleep-interrupted, too-much-tv-watching, tired ol' caregiver fog, that is. The one which has made me--yes, I'll say it--crabby.
Always, when Tom has surgery I feel total simpatico with those of you caregivers out there, whether you care for someone who is 50 or 70 or 2. Color me tipping my hat to you, ok?
But since some clouds are still puffing within this head of mine, I'll let Sylvia Jorrin speak to you more clearly from her book, Sylvia's Farm. May this piece about her mother encourage you who wonder if what you're doing now for your children (and others) will remain with them in the future:
"I remember most vividly the kitchen on Ocean Avenue. Gray marbleized Formica on the kitchen table. Black vinyl seats on the chairs. Cream gauze curtains on the windows that shut out neither the summer sunlight nor the dark of winter's evenings. And the pantry where we both spent the evening doing the dishes. I talked and she listened. Everything was in order. There was a place for everything where the everything could always be found. I remember the silence in that room as I rushed into it as a teenager, a whirlwind of joy or despair and everything in between. The silence and security and order. The love in that room was absolute and impenetrable. It almost had to be pushed aside to walk through it. Nothing, nothing could ever cause even a ripple in that silent, thick air. The sense of security was expressed in that order. The knowledge of love was in my mother. And it filled the room in its entirety."
Just catching up on you...
ReplyDeleteGlad to hear Tom is home and you're taking such good care of him. Here's to a speedy recovery for both of you.
Hope you both are having a good day!
ReplyDeletethought I would check in to see how you guys were doing...I'm a few days late I know. It's been a crazy couple of days here, taking care of my son. Your post, as always was so timely for me as if God meant for you to write to me alone.
ReplyDeleteI hope you get some rest soon! The no sleep thing is so damaging to life.
So sweetly written these words are, I wonder the same thing "will they remember me?" Of course they will! Thanks for the reminder Debra, I hope Tom heals quickly and I will pray that the pain is not to bad. Good night, Pearl
ReplyDelete