I can't believe I didn't write the Stag Dream down in this blog. Well, its not like my mind has been clear. But tonight, I have to get the story down so I can go to sleep. 

On September September 12, Stephen and I had the same dream about a White Stag. Here's what I put on facebook: "Y'all know metaphysical isn't unusual for me/us. If you're around me long, you know weird stuff happens, its part of my normal life and always has been. OK, so yesterday morning, I wake up from a weird dream and wonder what it has to do with anything. 

It fades into the daytime and I don't think much about it. Stephen said later: I had a weird dream as I was waking up, but i was awake. We took Mom home where she could "go" and not be in a hospital. We took her to her back porch. A huge stag, a buck was bowing down in front of Mom and he had does around him." 

I cut him off and asked "He was white or really light, too. Did yours have fuzz still on his antlers?" his eyes got big and he said yes. I asked if he was huge, I mean enormous and healthy-- and also welcoming her? He said yes, he was bringing peace. I said... and the antlers were rounded on the tips and there were does and babies around them, too. I know, I had the same dream. Something in the dream told me that it had something to do with Jesus."

I look up stags, white deer and found that they are messengers from the "otherworld" in Celtic tradition and also are symbols for Christ. Other names for the stag is "Hart". Her doctor's name is Hart and the trauma doc is named something like Hartlong. Here's what else we found: "Allegory/Moral
The stag is a symbol for Christ, who tramples and destroys the devil. As the stags crossing a river help each other, so should the Christian crossing from the worldly life to the spiritual life help others who grow weak or tired. As the stag is renewed and sheds its horns after drinking from the spring, so those who drink from the spring of the spirit are renewed and shed their sins." Here:http://bestiary.ca/beasts/beast162.htm

They gave her a breathing tube, a feeding tube and new antibiotics to give her all the resources available to fight this bug. So, lets hope the Stag opens a can of you know what on that devil ♥"

OK. Backstory: It was as if All of nature was welcoming her. The Stag wasn't Christ himself, but a manifestation of Christ Energy. Gosh, that sounds so weird, but thats what it told me. It was Majestic, frightening in the awe it carried. Light eminated around it and we were aware what a treasurable gift this was to experience. . 

Allright, so here it is October 28 and so much has gone on since then. If you continue reading FB (or this blog, lol), you'll see that there were ups and downs, denial, contradictions, declines, changing diapers- adult and a baby's, doling out morphine, dilaudid, atavan, a weeks worth of diarrhea diapers and MEDS that didn't touch it, nausea, throwing up, itching, with trial and error. I had told her over and over it was OK to go, we would be allright. She was so weak. 

Yet, she couldn't let go of this life, and this is why. You see, besides me and Stephen, Mom never had a place where she felt truly loved and honored. If you have that, please cherish it-- because it is a gift. She (Carol, my Mom) had a mother (Leona) who had 10 children, 9 who lived... Carol had a father that drank and then eventually ran out on them, leaving them with basically nothing but an overwhelmed mother who had nothing but emptiness to feed her children, spiritually/emotionally/physically, nor any skills (she thought worthy) to barter for life's necessities. Public Welfare was basically begging who you knew for some throwouts. I've heard stories of them begging for coal for the stove or used coffee grounds to make something hot to drink in Indiana's cold winters. 

Leona drank. Heavily. She latched onto men that treated her badly out of her own need for love and security- perhaps for her children, perhaps for the hole left by pain of her earlier life. She drank to kill the pain of what the men did to her in front of her children. 

Mom felt like a throw away due to her Dad. He married another woman and "made another" family and never gave a thing to the other 9 children he abandoned, so the story goes. To add insult to injury, the 1940's version of DHS caught wind of Leona's drinking and leaving the children to fend for themselves and then took the children to an orphanage. My Aunt Patty (I think), Uncle Milford, Mom (Carol), Mary and my Grandma's favorite, Jane was taken away to the orphanage. Jane was the youngest. The other siblings were old enough to get married to escape that life, albeit in their teens. But back in the 40's you practically had to set your kids on fire for someone to come and take them away. It HAD to be horrible. 

Leona came back for Jane, but no one else. What does that do to a person? Somehow, Grandma did clean up her act, married a wonderful man who was a great father to the kids named Butch. Thank you God. They came back and lived with their Mom and Butch. 

But unfortunately, the modeling, the internal cycle and dialogue had already been recorded. Later, Mom married (or shacked up with) my Dad. To hear the story from their side, the only thing they had in common was fighting and the other f word. Out of my Dad's mouth... but he was bitter and she did "kiss his butt" a lot. He loved that. She loved him. Sometimes I resented her for it because it was self abuse, but it was the only thing she knew love to be. 

Anyway, he beat her. Horribly... and in front of me, so hence the PTSD and Major Depressive Disorder I dealt with during Katrina, his illness and passing. (Its how I know what hell is and why I don't want to go back there.) He not only threatened to kill her, he tried to kill her. I sat on her lap for what seemed hours when I was (8?? 9?) and begged him out of it. I had to "side" with him (on this and many occasions) to get him to see the logical consequences of what would happen if he did go through with it. That had to be hard for her to hear, yet another stab in the back. I know she knew I did it to save her, but it still had to prey on the injuries of the past. 

Nothing was ever good enough for him and most times and there were plenty of reasons for beatings. He drank too, but thats not an excuse, plenty of drunks just get happy. He had old wounds, too.  

He tried to force her out more times than I can count. What is that like to live with a man, bear his child, only to have him tell you he doesn't want you and hates you? From my perspective, I was afraid to go to school, have a bath, go to a friend's house or even go to sleep for fear that she would either be gone or dead when I woke up or came back. Once, she was getting ready for a bath and he drug her outside and locked the door. I came out front (don't know where I was, perhaps out back playing with the dogs) to find her wet, naked and hiding in the bushes. I let her in and hid her in my closet. 

I say that to say this: those years of being unwanted makes one hang onto what goodness comes your way with a vengeance. Before she dealt with part of the pain, she drank. Who wouldn't? What would those experiences teach you about yourself, especially if you never saw anyone behave differently? People are programmable only to what they have seen and witnessed real-live people do. Our parents are the primary models whether we like it or not. Teachers and other parents will give you envy and a feeling that you have to be someone else when you're not home, and from my perspective, thats about it.  

She had gotten into AA and really sober when I was 14, then Dad turned on me because I was angry, defiant and not willing to cower for any reason. She was sober and stronger and no longer victim material... he soon found out neither was I. ER room visits should have happened, but didn't. This is when I was introduced to reading psychology books and studying healing broken psyches. You can understand why. 

The last hurrah was when he threatened her for the last and final time. This time, she was sober, got a plan and moved us BOTH out of there. Homeless shelters feed you liver 2 meals a day, I know this from experience. At least it was food :) and we were safe.  

We lived first with a friend, Paula, in Gautier and then the Belleville projects in Gautier. Yeah, this is when "projects" meant something. Carver Village might have still been up and running, but if it wasn't, this was the WORST place to live in south Mississippi. Undercover cops were beaten nearly to death there by people who had better things to do than worry about what info narcs were finding. You might find something on it if you look up 80's undercover cop beatings in Gautier, MS.  I never tried. 

We built our way up... cinder-block end tables with boards on top and hand-painted finds from the thrift shop (with paint from the thrift shop too) decorated out walls. No child support from my Dad, he threatened to quit working if we pushed that. He hated her more than he cared for my welfare. 

We made friends of all sorts. Of course, you live next to gang members, the thing to do is make friends and keep your nose clean and your mouth shut. Thats how it works, fyi. 

Mom worked odd jobs cleaning houses, under the table. Under the table was because we didn't get much in government help and anything we claimed put us further down on the food chain, literally. I eventually got a drivers' license and got a job, too. Later, I got a "starter marriage" that ended and I soon met and married Stephen. 

Even busy with my own marriage, I tried so hard to make up for the love that was missing in her life. She fit in to the AA crowd like a perfect puzzle, found her own tribe and had purpose and meaning there. Most of her lifelong friends come from there. They are the deepest people one can ever meet and have empathy because they know pain and humility. Mom gained Spirituality there... a new definition of God, rather than the pentecostal holiness church she was raised in. 

Throughout all that, I have no idea how she knew how to love. But she did... all the kids she came across, all the animals we rescued, all the troubles that came our way via the  mouth of a burdened soul, we both listened and tried to sooth, help or just listen as best we could. We lend coffee, cigarettes and advice- whether it'll land you in jail or not wasn't the problem... getting you away from whomever is hurting you was the main issue at the time :) Everyone she met was special and they were HER children, no matter who they were or what they did. 

After I married, we spent quality time together and I helped her as best I could. I carried an immense amount of guilt and sadness ofabout the loss of love she had in her life and even as a little child, I tried desperately to make up for it.  But we sure did have fun! The stuff that spitfire did would leave you laughing so hard you'd cry.

Later, her health started to decline and in '01, she and I quit smoking. Damndest thing, you quit smoking after a long time and you develop copd worse... strictly in my opinion- because that is what happened to her. It makes sense: nicotine stimulates dopamine and norepenephrine... which narrows breathing and nasal passageways, which keeps COPD symptoms at bay. Stop the "meds" and the inflammation gets worse automatically. Health issue after health issue, there started the downward spiral. 

Life was easy and enjoyable for a long time after that. until 03 when she was dxed with breast cancer. Chemo wasn't a walk in the park, but she did that and a mastectomy and ended up healthier than she was before! For some odd reason, she even gained weight. We'd been both underweight our whole lives and this was something extraordinary. Who knew? 

Anyway, we did everything together, she was basically my best friend, one among a few. How lucky am I? 

she then got sicker and I was afraid, after my Dad's illness and passing, that I'd have to deal with the SRHS (which does the best they can with what they have) with her health issues. We wanted a cooler place for her breathing to not be as effected as it was in the hot hot humid south. Plus, hurricane scares every season- whether they hit or not- is not a cup of tea for anyone. Especially after witnessing the suffering of Katrina.

As she started to decline worse, we picked up the pace, took the voluntary layoff offered to Stephen and moved us up here. It was and is still PERFECT.  Weather wise, people, art, willingness to experiment with new avenues... its so wonderful. 

So here we are. Now, onto the rest of the story... 

Even though Fran is here, I don't understand whats holding me together. It is as if me has been pushed aside inside and I'm watching from another place from inside, safe. Is this dissociation? It is an answer to a prayer, however.

I'm sitting here watching my Mom wither away in front of me while I change her diapers and keep her comfortable. I've got a cute toddler running around and into everything, getting bored and wanting attention. I'm running to try to meet the needs of so many. I see her cold and shivering and in pain (massive headaches) and so itchy and nauseated she gets no peace, but none of this is entering inside my personal experience. 

It was the prayer to God that I be protected so that I can be what is needed for her, Devyn and Stephen. If this really sank in and the feelings were as intense as it looks like while viewing this situation, I would run from it. I am so grateful.

Since I can't change it and this is how it is, I'm grateful for the protection. Life has got to go on, its got to keep moving. I just pray that this protection lasts until the day I die because if it hits, when it hits, I just don't know. They gave her 2 weeks and that was last Thursday. Then, her "due date" will be Halloween. 

Warning, adult language and really weird subject matter ahead. Stop now if you're not an adult or are either so narrowminded or conventional that information from "sensitives" scare you. You've been informed. 

Something odd happened tonight and, admittedly, I needed it :) I had a rough day. My Mom is awake, but she's not eating, she doesn't feel hungry. She says no to a feeding tube, says no to wanting to die, but says no to food by mouth. I mean to tell ya, it is a full time job making sure she eats something. 

Ok, so after today, I ended up pissed off. Most of the day was spent force-feeding mom, literally, with a syringe and ensure. I didn't want to do that, it felt disrespecting, but I kept asking her if she wanted to be ill from not eating (no), if she wanted to eat (yes), if she wanted to fix her low blood sugar (yes). She was so hypoglycemic that she was cold. I wasn't mean, I was stern and loving.

Good news is that after doing that, she was more alert and felt better. I just took the syringe and wiggled it in her mouth, through clenched lips and all, and gave her a squirt to the inside of her cheek. I'm used to this stuff with dealing with Devyn's GERD and that NAAAASTY meds the docs gave him. He had quit eating at all when he was 7 months old from the pain that esophagitis had caused due to the acid repeatedly burning his throat.

So I get home and I'm mad. Maybe it was justified. Maybe it was a pity party. How long is it going to be for me to have a life of my own? Am I willing to continue this at the expense of my little boy? Haven't I suffered enough by saving her life over and over? Hasn't she suffered enough? What fresh hell is this to work so hard to get someone to survive when they say they want to, but all their actions are going against survivability? And finally, just open your mouth and eat, dammit! I don't deny I want to spend the time helping her survive or saving her, but get with the program. (And, yes, I know that her mind is inhibited by toxins, but it doesn't make the feelings any better.)

Knot in stomach, heart in vice, I go to paint. Dev's having some sleep, I start writing all I feel and what I want to say on the canvas and start getting ideas of what its going to be. The letters' lines are going to cue me in on color change. Plus, I'm letting the poison out onto the canvas so it doesn't mess with me later. 

I take a break and walk outside and hear a bell, one sound, over and over. It feels like someone is trying to get my attention. I feel it in the pit of my stomach. I feel someone there. All of a sudden, I was compelled to say "I know you're here, I just wish I could see you." I then started to feel the other person's protectiveness and that I'm never alone. They don't want this dilemma for me or us. But I get the distinct impression it isn't one of my blood relatives. 

I ask Stephen who it might be on his side: the person is protective, not to the I'll take your head off extreme, but by way of getting in between an experience and the person and shield the person. He said that sounded like his Mom. "the person is also very "polite" and would never invite themselves in... they're waiting on being welcomed in. They're not boat rockers, but they wouldn't hesitate to be fierce if they needed to" so, I said it outloud... "hey here, Mom Hill, go ahead and come in. I hope you know you're always welcome here."

With that, I went to get a cup to make some putty and didn't think any more of it. While I was getting the cup, I was overcome with motherly love, all these feelings at once just flooded in like a tsunami... all for Stephen and what he was doing with his life, how he was handling things, how well he loved, what kind of father and husband he was. I was so full of sentimentality, pride and joy (like he was MY son!) for him that I started crying. For me, thinking of my husband as a child, my child, just doesn't happen.  

I stopped what I was doing and went to tell him I was sure it was his Mom and couldn't get out what (I?) she was feeling for him because I was crying too much. I AM NOT A CRIER. I listen to slipknot, I take blows like a champ- get ticked off about situations, not hard, but not mushy, either. Sensitive, yes, empathic and compassionate, but not this.
 
Finally, all I could do was hug him and tell him how wonderful he was and that she was so so so proud of him. She was proud of his choices . He was just a good man. 

I got ahold of myself and told him that was why she was outside, she didn't want to intrude (thats one of the feelings I got) and that if he wanted to be alone with her, he could go outside. Seemed fitting that was where she was "concentrated" seeing as how he was taking out the garbage a minute or so ago. 

Stephen got some things and went outside. And, apparently, so did she... because the tidal wave was gone. I was done and was by myself to do what I wanted and my mind was quiet. What was left in her wake was contentment, gratitude, serenity. Something I'd needed all day long. What a huge gift to the both of us.... she is still mothering both of us :)

I've always considered, probably because of my upbringing and the shame surrounding that-- that I was not the kind of girl one takes home to mama. But oddly enough, as blunt, wild, bossy, outspoken and fun as I can be, but I got the distinct impression she did approve of me :)  I am honored. 

Well, here is whats going on: Mom woke up. After almost 2 days of being silent, her main concerns were 1. I have canvases and I want to paint... will you bring me my stuff? and 2. I'm in hospice? What the hell for? 3. There is decisions being made for me? And its not me? WHY is THAT?! 

I have to laugh. As a fly on the wall, from an objective standpoint, its damned funny. Yes, we went through the gut wrenching series of grief stages, crying for hours, getting good and ticked off, meeting with doctors, being tired, wanting to just go hide, cry some more, call off all engagements---- all to come to this place. She's awake and is wanting to return to the rollercoaster, meaning that she wants all the life-sustaining devices she can get. This is what I wanted, to be out of that loop where I may or may not make the right decisions for her. 


And- I got to hear her say I love you one more time. I got to hear my Mom's voice again. Thank You, God. 

I understand what she wants, but there comes a time when what you're surviving/fighting for isn't worth it, imo. Maybe it always is? Is it the devil you know verses the one you don't thingy? 


Anyway, I can't say for her what that line-in-the-sand will be, as its not my decision. Like I told the doc, Dr. Weiss, she hung on for 20 years with a man who treated her as sewage, so there is no telling what she's willing to survive for.


Either way, the kidney dysfunction is causing severe nausea and other symptoms, in which she is unwilling or unable to eat. Everything, apparently, tastes like crap. So.... she's not eating. Which is what got us into this state, anyhoo. Yes, I did call her on it: eat or else you will get sicker and go on machines again and your brain will tap out. You will die. Eat and potentially puke or...... die. Those are your options. (Nausea meds don't touch this kind of nausea). No matter how much I love someone, I can't sugarcoat or placate. 

For Mom's fight and ours, this is my dedication to all of us (plus, it was an awesome experience when Charlotte and I saw them and this at Ozzfest ;):