In the Spirit of Jubilee: Loss & Love
For the first time in a long time, things in my life began to look a lot like Christmas this holiday.
Many folks would name Christmas as their favorite holiday, but for me Thanksgiving has always topped the list. Perhaps because Thanksgiving is the one time a year I see my mothers’ side of the family. Or perhaps it is because Thanksgiving is padded with a lot of rest, whereas Christmas comes with a schedule.
Nonetheless, the Christmas spirit captured me this holiday and I felt as though it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas. I wrapped presents, listened to holiday music and smiled in child-like anticipation whenever I came across a tree laced with lights.
I arrived to the office Monday morning of Christmas week looking forward to the short three-day workweek ahead. Around 2:00pm I received a call from my father. I assumed he’d be calling to let me know my aunt and grandmother had arrived safely from Florida. “Hello Pops,” I exclaimed eagerly.
“Hey, I wanted to let you know your grandmother and aunt took your mom to the emergency room this morning. She was having trouble breathing. I am still a few hours away but will be there as soon as I can.”
My mother has several chronic conditions causing regular bouts of sickness. She’ll commonly have days of severe pain. What most people consider worth a visit to the doctors, we regard as routine. It was not common practice for her to go to the hospital, but with her medical history it wasn’t extremely alarming.
I immediately left work and headed for the hospital. When I arrived my aunt explained that my mother had a fever of 103* and had been nauseous for two days, unable to even keep down water. She also couldn’t breathe. By 6:00pm mother was admitted to the intensive care unit so she could be monitored more closely.
I’ve been in hospital rooms. I’ve been with people during their last few months. I have a strong stomach and durable spine in moments of difficulty and uncertainty. And so as I went into the hospital room to see her, it didn’t cross my mind to prepare myself. I’d been there before.
When I entered the room the first image I saw was mom gripping the metal railing of the bed, coughing so violently it was causing her body to thrust forward from the bed. She was sweating profusely and the salty moisture from her pores made her hair stick and matte against her cheekbones. As I approached the foot of her bed she barely had enough strength to acknowledge my presence.
The beeping of the machines that monitored her vitals made everything seem more urgent. A high-pitched beep accompanied by a blinking red light alerted us that her heart rate was too high, racing in fact. Her breathes were shallow, quick, and muffled by the fluid in her lungs that was at war with the air she feebly inhaled. Another beep, sounding more like the stifled buzzing, warned the nurses of her dangerously low blood pressure.
I glanced at the steady drip of clear fluid gravity gradually pulled down through her IV. “She’s dehydrated,” the nurse informed me. “We need three IV’s to keep her hydrated, but we’ve only been able to get one IV in because her veins keep collapsing.”
Mom squirmed around, further tangling the sheets around her ankles as she tossed to kick them off. She fidgeted and swatted with the line of oxygen sliding from out beneath her nostrils. She looked up, met my eyes and struggled, “I love you.”
I’ve been in hospital rooms, but I’d never been there before, beside my mothers’ bed. It caught me off guard and I felt it - the swelling. The swelling always comes quickly, like a violent and unexpected wind. It comes when my heart understands what I am experiencing before my brain comprehends it.
When the swelling comes, my breath develops a metallic, almost copper like taste. I inhale unevenly in beats opposite my heartbeat. My exhalations turn into thuds similar to how I imagine a hard covered book must feel being dropped from the top shelve on to a wooden floor. The welling of water behind my eyes begins to boil up and I have that rare moment of uninhibited feeling.
It all happens simultaneously, within a second. As the swelling comes I break away from my gaze with mothers eyes to regain composure. I focus on a smudge along the muted colored wall, hoping it would give me a moment to push the swelling back from where it came. As I strove to distance myself from reality, I caught a glimpse of the neighboring fear that quietly accompanied me into the hospital room: Loss.
I’ve met Loss before. Despite my best attempts to make her a stranger she persists on dropping in from time to time. She swears it’s to keep me grounded in truth. I don’t doubt her sincerity, only her methodology. She visits now and again to remind me how fleeting this life can be. She reminds me that what I grasp onto with tightly clinched white-knuckles is not permanent.
Holding mothers hand alongside her hospital bed was no place to entertain my fear of Loss or my thoughts on impermanence. I pushed them aside and so too, my tears. I found my composure and looked back towards my mothers weakened state to continue offering my strength.
The following days were spent coming and going from the hospital and coordinating schedules to help take care of the miscellaneous tasks that, despite illnesses, demand life continues. The holiday I looked so forward to quickly faded and I found myself abandoning the spirit of jubilee. I did what I do best: kept busy, kept doing, kept moving, and kept my mind far from the feelings that lingered.
Mom’s health continued to steadily improve and she was eventually diagnosed with pneumonia developed through a suspected strand of H1N1. Four days after being admitted to the hospital, she was released with strict orders for bed rest.
I drove her home, got her into bed and while she slept, I helped grandmother prepare the traditional holiday casseroles. That night Christmas Eve traditions were set aside without complaint, as we were thankful just to have mom home. I left my parents and returned to my house.
Finally I had a moment to sit still and allow my heart a moment to catch up on all that had happened. As I recalled my initial visit to the hospital the feeling of Loss swelled within me again. We’ve all met Loss in some form or another. And although we don’t like the truth she sometimes bears, she remains part of our humanity, helping us keep the balance.
Over the years Loss continues to teach me many things. She’s taught me thankfulness, mindfulness. She directs my attention towards the love in my life - the fullness and overabundance spilling over top my cup. She causes me to reevaluate that which is most important. And she reminds me about the urgency of this life while ironically whispering softly for me to be still.
I woke the next day and drove to my parents to join my family gathered in the living room, as we are accustomed to Christmas morning. In the shadows of Loss and in the light of Love, we opened presents, tossed wads of tightly balled wrapping paper across the room at one another, and celebrated in our unique way, the Joy and Hope afforded to us this holiday season.
I am so thankful for the grace and continuous love in my life. I am reminded how blessed I am by the thoughts, prayers, and well wishes so many offered to my family this past week.
And so I arrive at Christmas’s end having learned the simple, yet profound lesson that without Loss, Love is not as extravagant, not as imperative, nor as breath taking.
Quite simply, without Loss, Love ceases to be eternal.
May you each meet the spirit of jubilee this season, however it may choose to visit.
Happy Holidays,
Bobbie
Many folks would name Christmas as their favorite holiday, but for me Thanksgiving has always topped the list. Perhaps because Thanksgiving is the one time a year I see my mothers’ side of the family. Or perhaps it is because Thanksgiving is padded with a lot of rest, whereas Christmas comes with a schedule.
Nonetheless, the Christmas spirit captured me this holiday and I felt as though it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas. I wrapped presents, listened to holiday music and smiled in child-like anticipation whenever I came across a tree laced with lights.
I arrived to the office Monday morning of Christmas week looking forward to the short three-day workweek ahead. Around 2:00pm I received a call from my father. I assumed he’d be calling to let me know my aunt and grandmother had arrived safely from Florida. “Hello Pops,” I exclaimed eagerly.
“Hey, I wanted to let you know your grandmother and aunt took your mom to the emergency room this morning. She was having trouble breathing. I am still a few hours away but will be there as soon as I can.”
My mother has several chronic conditions causing regular bouts of sickness. She’ll commonly have days of severe pain. What most people consider worth a visit to the doctors, we regard as routine. It was not common practice for her to go to the hospital, but with her medical history it wasn’t extremely alarming.
I immediately left work and headed for the hospital. When I arrived my aunt explained that my mother had a fever of 103* and had been nauseous for two days, unable to even keep down water. She also couldn’t breathe. By 6:00pm mother was admitted to the intensive care unit so she could be monitored more closely.
I’ve been in hospital rooms. I’ve been with people during their last few months. I have a strong stomach and durable spine in moments of difficulty and uncertainty. And so as I went into the hospital room to see her, it didn’t cross my mind to prepare myself. I’d been there before.
When I entered the room the first image I saw was mom gripping the metal railing of the bed, coughing so violently it was causing her body to thrust forward from the bed. She was sweating profusely and the salty moisture from her pores made her hair stick and matte against her cheekbones. As I approached the foot of her bed she barely had enough strength to acknowledge my presence.
The beeping of the machines that monitored her vitals made everything seem more urgent. A high-pitched beep accompanied by a blinking red light alerted us that her heart rate was too high, racing in fact. Her breathes were shallow, quick, and muffled by the fluid in her lungs that was at war with the air she feebly inhaled. Another beep, sounding more like the stifled buzzing, warned the nurses of her dangerously low blood pressure.
I glanced at the steady drip of clear fluid gravity gradually pulled down through her IV. “She’s dehydrated,” the nurse informed me. “We need three IV’s to keep her hydrated, but we’ve only been able to get one IV in because her veins keep collapsing.”
Mom squirmed around, further tangling the sheets around her ankles as she tossed to kick them off. She fidgeted and swatted with the line of oxygen sliding from out beneath her nostrils. She looked up, met my eyes and struggled, “I love you.”
I’ve been in hospital rooms, but I’d never been there before, beside my mothers’ bed. It caught me off guard and I felt it - the swelling. The swelling always comes quickly, like a violent and unexpected wind. It comes when my heart understands what I am experiencing before my brain comprehends it.
When the swelling comes, my breath develops a metallic, almost copper like taste. I inhale unevenly in beats opposite my heartbeat. My exhalations turn into thuds similar to how I imagine a hard covered book must feel being dropped from the top shelve on to a wooden floor. The welling of water behind my eyes begins to boil up and I have that rare moment of uninhibited feeling.
It all happens simultaneously, within a second. As the swelling comes I break away from my gaze with mothers eyes to regain composure. I focus on a smudge along the muted colored wall, hoping it would give me a moment to push the swelling back from where it came. As I strove to distance myself from reality, I caught a glimpse of the neighboring fear that quietly accompanied me into the hospital room: Loss.
I’ve met Loss before. Despite my best attempts to make her a stranger she persists on dropping in from time to time. She swears it’s to keep me grounded in truth. I don’t doubt her sincerity, only her methodology. She visits now and again to remind me how fleeting this life can be. She reminds me that what I grasp onto with tightly clinched white-knuckles is not permanent.
Holding mothers hand alongside her hospital bed was no place to entertain my fear of Loss or my thoughts on impermanence. I pushed them aside and so too, my tears. I found my composure and looked back towards my mothers weakened state to continue offering my strength.
The following days were spent coming and going from the hospital and coordinating schedules to help take care of the miscellaneous tasks that, despite illnesses, demand life continues. The holiday I looked so forward to quickly faded and I found myself abandoning the spirit of jubilee. I did what I do best: kept busy, kept doing, kept moving, and kept my mind far from the feelings that lingered.
Mom’s health continued to steadily improve and she was eventually diagnosed with pneumonia developed through a suspected strand of H1N1. Four days after being admitted to the hospital, she was released with strict orders for bed rest.
I drove her home, got her into bed and while she slept, I helped grandmother prepare the traditional holiday casseroles. That night Christmas Eve traditions were set aside without complaint, as we were thankful just to have mom home. I left my parents and returned to my house.
Finally I had a moment to sit still and allow my heart a moment to catch up on all that had happened. As I recalled my initial visit to the hospital the feeling of Loss swelled within me again. We’ve all met Loss in some form or another. And although we don’t like the truth she sometimes bears, she remains part of our humanity, helping us keep the balance.
Over the years Loss continues to teach me many things. She’s taught me thankfulness, mindfulness. She directs my attention towards the love in my life - the fullness and overabundance spilling over top my cup. She causes me to reevaluate that which is most important. And she reminds me about the urgency of this life while ironically whispering softly for me to be still.
I woke the next day and drove to my parents to join my family gathered in the living room, as we are accustomed to Christmas morning. In the shadows of Loss and in the light of Love, we opened presents, tossed wads of tightly balled wrapping paper across the room at one another, and celebrated in our unique way, the Joy and Hope afforded to us this holiday season.
I am so thankful for the grace and continuous love in my life. I am reminded how blessed I am by the thoughts, prayers, and well wishes so many offered to my family this past week.
And so I arrive at Christmas’s end having learned the simple, yet profound lesson that without Loss, Love is not as extravagant, not as imperative, nor as breath taking.
Quite simply, without Loss, Love ceases to be eternal.
May you each meet the spirit of jubilee this season, however it may choose to visit.
Happy Holidays,
Bobbie