Complacency--AND Fear (Pt. II)

Complacency. n. a feeling of quiet pleasure or security, often while unaware of some potential danger, defect, or the like; self-satisfaction or smug satisfaction with an existing situation, condition, etc.

We tend to think of this word to describe the condition of “resting on our laurels.” The state in which I found myself at the beginning of this year wasn’t at all a “quiet pleasure”—if anything, it was an agitated, fearful state.

Even so, complacency is a good, if not complete, word to describe how I ushered in the then-new year.

I was facing the last semester of my graduate studies, two and a half years into a three-year adventure that I’d begun with my family’s blessing. I was living a few days a week (and up to five) away from my husband and children, but I had more than a few weeks where, for whatever reason, my presence was needed at home (or, more likely, I thought it was needed), and I’d wake up and go to sleep in a different town every day for five, six days in a row. I had a manuscript to finish. I had vacant slots on my thesis committee to fill. I had my mother’s estate to finalize. I had months of travel in unpredictable weather and a body that was balking at the cold and snow. I knew what I needed, and the whole point of this endeavor was to receive the credentials that would help me find employment, which, of course, would benefit my most supportive family, so asking for help to get it all done wasn’t selfish, was it?[1]

So, without realizing that it was happening, my prayer upon awakening changed from “Thank you for another day. Please help me stay sober and show me what you want me to do today” and became the time I let God know what I had to get done and asked for the strength, the time, and the inspiration to get it all finished. It was almost as though the “show me what you want me to do” was a sham. After all, God had led me through four years of undergraduate study and into grad school, seemingly without a lot of intervention from me. I did what was in front of me to do, and that was that. Now that I’m here, I know, right? I know what needs to be done. I know what I need.

Problem was by altering my prayer, I restricted what I was willing for God to bring into my life. I was still reeling from the events of last summer when I had to make the decision to put my mother in a nursing home, only for her to die three weeks later (see my IOCC posts from last July here and here). It wasn’t what I’d have planned or asked for, but I was given the strength to do what needed to be done. Maybe part of me wanted to nudge closed the door on the unexpected. I was yearning for a little complacency—a little security in myself as writer, some self-satisfaction with my place in life without the intrusion of outside demands, my immediate family excepted, of course. I let my home group know in November when we elected new trusted servants that I couldn’t serve in any official capacity. Although I’d been volunteering in past semesters for Friday evening county jail meetings, I stopped doing that. I handed my phone numbers to new women, qualifying my offering by saying I may be reached during the week, but if they had an urgent need, they should make sure they had plenty of local women as contacts. I didn’t take on new sponsees—after all, my family had my time and attention only on the weekends, and wouldn’t I be depriving them if I made myself available for sponsorship? I continued to work with a few women who’d been sober a number of years and had taken their steps formally. I maintained only one relationship that existed primarily via email, and the rest just sort of fell by the wayside. I recall telling myself that I was so blessed, had such a full life, that to take on new women would be tantamount to depriving the other women who didn’t get asked as often. Talk about being full of denial—and of myself!

Here’s how it all shook out: By the end of April, I had an intact thesis committee that approved my manuscript (much of it furiously written in the previous three months), and I had fulfilled all the requirements of graduation. Our garden, which is my spring, summer, and early fall joy, had been tilled and all the spring crops were planted. My husband encouraged me to take a breath, enjoy the accomplishment, and spend some time feeling the gratitude for having been brought through, alive and in once piece (he didn’t put it quite like that, and if he reads this, I’m sure I’ll hear how I like to recharacterize his sentiments!). But I had things to do still. Revise some sections of my book. Write a book proposal. Find a job.

It occurred to me, a few weeks post-graduation, that while I did have much for which to be grateful, I was still focused on what I thought needed to be done, what I thought I should be doing, and, of course, praying for God's help so I could accomplish these things. I had become, without realizing it, the actor trying to run the whole show.[2]

Perhaps if I’d been talking a little more to my fellow alcoholics who, unlike God who rarely issues loud and clear directives, I may have uncovered this 11th Step lack sooner.

But why the shift in the first place? Fear, of course. I understand that “For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more.”[3] Although I’m not much of a Biblical scholar or an adherent to all that I find within its pages, I can get on board with that—I have been mightily blessed, which means that my debt of living, active gratitude is the greater still, but my fear, stealthy and sly that it is, crept in and shook my faith. God has always provided for me—whether in time, patience, strength, or something else I may not have realized I needed. Fear was robbing me, just as my text says that it will[4]

I should also note that my nighttime prayers, those where I review my day in concert with God, had shifted also from a humble review to one of “worry, remorse [and] morbid reflection.”[5] I wasn’t asking for any kind of forgiveness for any lack I found; instead, I gave myself a good lashing and renewed my fears for tomorrow’s obligations.

As with most things, misery drove me to the state of humility necessary to right my spiritual state. I’m not sure who around me noticed things off kilter (I am very adept at veiling my state when necessary—years of alcoholic practice, and I can slip back into it like a well-worn glove), but when I emerged, I did start talking: to those who offer me recovery support; to my sponsees, to whom I was less than available; to my husband who witnessed his exhortations to slow down fall on deaf ears. And I began again to ask for direction, for God, not Jody, to make the day’s list. Doesn’t mean I don’t start the day with some goals, but I understand those are my human goals. The day, and God’s plan for my day, may hold something else.

Today, I sit here on the first day of “my” month on the IOCC, typing away on my front porch, my troublesome right leg elevated and aching. I had plans to weed the second plantings of lettuce and beans so the kids could get out there and mulch them. I cursed a bit stepping out of bed today, knowing “my plans” for the day would need some adjustment. Then it dawned on me that it was July 1^st, the first day of my committed month to share what little insights I’ve gained in the last year with you all. I smiled. No, I don’t think God had anything to do with my sciatica, but if it were to act up (and with the demands I’ve been putting on my back lately, it was sure to happen), what better day than when I promised to do something else?

I’m not sure what I’ll do with my next essay yet, but I’m thinking that a lot has happened in the past month and a half since I’ve been set upright again, and I think I’ll share some of that.

Peace & Love,
Jody K.

[1]”We ask especially for freedom from self-will, and are careful to make no request for ourselves only. We may ask for ourselves, however, if others will be helped.” Alcoholics Anonymous, p. 87.

[2] Alcoholics Anonymous, pages 60-62.

[3] Luke 12:48, KJV The Bible.

[4]Alcoholics Anonymous, pages 67-68.

[5] Alcoholics Anonymous, page 86.

What I Learned from Jody K.

In Jody's post Constant Conscious Contact I felt a strong pull towards this sober woman and her ability to work the Steps in her life. Jody said "But God often does for me what I can’t do for myself, and my first impulse was to pray, which I did. God held my tongue." Here she is working Steps 3, 10 and 11. Allowing God to do for her what she could not do for herself. Restraint of tongue and pen. Praying to God for the power to be able to do this. The fact that this is her first impulse reflects the work that has been put into her sobriety. This is an example I can follow. I can use this in my family life being the youngest myself with two older brothers.

As for her post "When the Answer is One We Didn't Expect" I can only say how sorry I am for your lose. I can relate as my grandmother (more like a mother to me) died at 91 and I watched her go through all the stages of Alzheimer's. I watched, as you did, her memory go a little at a time. I watched her lose her independence and the day she no longer recognized me ripped my heart out. I spoke at her funeral and it was hard to write and speak all those feelings. Your post is touching to my heart. I suspect a tear or two may have fallen while you thought of how you could give back to your recovering readers while going through your own grief.

I cannot pinpoint in words one specific thing I have learned. All I know is you are an amazing sober woman who walks her life using the Steps as a guide. Can anyone do all you have done without a solid conscious contact?

I feel blessed to know your words. Thank you for all you have given us.

When the Answer is One We Didn’t Expect

This is a difficult essay to write, folks. One week after I wrote the last essay, my mother fell at the nursing home, lacerating the back of her head and, we learned a few hours later, sustained a subdural hematoma. The fall occurred on July 4th, my 42 birthday. She died at 4:25am the following morning. She was 84 years old.

I had been praying for weeks, months, for my mother’s peace. She hated that she was losing her memory. I have precious friends who’ve shared with me that the early stages of Alzheimer’s is hard on the afflicted, but that it gets easier in time. It’s those later stages that become difficult for the family. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I will say that watching her struggle for every day words, trying to keep people and events straight, and giving up in frustration, lapsing into silent frustration was difficult for me. I prayed so hard that her pain would ease.

I’ve been telling folks that God had fingerprints all over the events of July 4th and the hours that followed the call I received at 9:15pm that evening. The first example is that I was not supposed to be home that night. It was the 4th of July. It was my birthday. We had a choice of places to go. One, a picnic we’ve attended for a few years now, is beyond cell phone service. The second was a concert followed by fireworks. I doubt if I’d have heard the soft bells-and-birds ringtone on my phone over the amplified music in the park. We stayed home instead, and I got the call.

My brother, who’s much closer geographically, takes medication at night that renders him unable to drive. The nurse who called me indicated that Ma was stable, that this didn’t seem to be an emergency, so I called my brother, asking if he could go and be with her at the hospital while she got a few stitches. He couldn’t. So my husband and I, both of us in night clothes and watching a movie, changed our clothes on and headed in to the hospital.

My mother was lucid, perhaps as lucid as I’ve seen her in recent months. The only frustration she expressed was her inability to remember getting out of bed and falling. She kept telling me, “It all happened at once. Everything hit me at once.”

A CT scan revealed the subdural hematoma, which was small in spite of the blood thinners that she takes daily for her heart. The laceration hadn’t even bled much. I asked the doctor, very evenly and calmly as I stood on one side of the hospital bed and he on the other, “Is it serious?” He replied in the same tone, “Yes, yes it is.” The decision was made to send her to another hospital for treatment. By this time, it was well after midnight, and I struggled in prayer with my ability or my husband’s ability to drive a couple of hours in the middle of the night without sleep. I asked if she was stable enough so that I could go home, sleep a few hours, and meet her at the hospital in the morning. The doctor said yes, that she should be okay.

Before I left the hospital, I asked my mother how she was feeling. She said, “I feel pretty good. My head doesn’t hurt much anymore.” I told her I loved her and I left. Forty minutes later, I arrived at home, and before I had a chance to put my nightgown back on, the phone rang. She would be taken to a different hospital, via LifeFlight – a helicopter. She’s never flown in her life. I struggled again. Should I go and fly with her? No, the nurse said. She’s stable. She’ll be okay.

Twenty minutes after we arrived home, I got another call, this one from the doctor, this one telling me that she’d become non-responsive, the doctor asking, “She has a Living Will. Do you want it enforced?” I couldn’t speak. I wasn’t sure what was being asked of me. It took a moment to realize he was telling me my mother was dying.

I did something selfish. I asked, “Can you keep her here until we get there?” And I hollered back the hall to my nocturnal children that we needed to go, right now, right now.

Second fingerprints. My youngest two children, my biological children, were both present when my father passed nearly four years ago, as was my husband. The same four of us, with Ma. And now the four of us were on the way back to the hospital.

What happened over the next two and a half hours, I struggle to put into words. We were assured that hearing is the last sense to leave the body. She could not respond, not even to squeeze our hands, but I feel certain she heard our voices. You see, there are things in my past, in my relationship with my mother, that still have a sting to them. Or had. In that last couple of hours with my mother, I was able to let go, give them, I pray, completely to God, not holding anything back. And my own part, the things that those memories clouded from my view, were revealed to me. I was able to tell my mother, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Ma, and I will try to do better. I believe God allowed her to hear me.

Just moments after 4am, we were asked to leave the room while an attempt was made to thicken and clot the blood leaking into her brain. I stepped outside into the night air, praying, and I turned to my husband and said, “Do you hear that?” At 4:05am, we heard a bird singing. A song bird, well before dawn. I knew in that moment it wouldn’t be long. My mother took her last breath twenty minutes later.

A few weeks ago, I asked a friend, “Am I a terrible person that I think she’d be better off dying?” She hated the nursing home, hated her memory loss, hated that she had lived long enough to see her oldest and dearest friends and relatives go on before her. I prayed for her peace, and I believe she is at peace. Although this is not the answer I would have liked, it is an answer, and even through grief, wanting her to be here where I can show her the love that was, I admit, clouded by pain and resentments, I accept that God knows better than I do. I was given a gift, the honor of seeing her out of the world. My husband and children received the same gift.

I don’t think that my prayers and wishes for her led to her climbing out of bed, uncharacteristically, and falling. Not now, anyway. There was that moment, on my way back to the hospital when it occurred to me that thoughts become things, as my friend, Gabe, likes to say. Or thought manifests, another way of saying it and something I’ve believed for a very long time, seeing evidence of it in my life through good times and not-so-good times. I believe that a loving God took mercy on my mother and provided a way out of the world that spared her and those who loved her from experiencing and witnessing the spiritual and emotional pain she had been suffering a long time. And I believe the Hand of God guided other events, made it so that Ma would not be alone, that she would be with the same people who shared her pain when my father passed, four years minus ten days ago.

At the funeral, my youngest son, my father’s special grandson, and I placed his ashes in the casket with my mother. I realized that I had buried both my parents on the same day, together as my mother wanted it. I said to a friend, “I’m an orphan now,” and she reminded me, I’m a Child of the Universe, never an orphan. That thought has softened the grief, and when I think about calling my mother and remember she’s not there anymore, or wonder if my father will call after a good rain to ask if the grass needs cutting, I can smile, knowing they, too, are Children of the Universe, gone back to the Source.

Peace & Love,
Jody K.

Constant Conscious Contact?

There’s a lot going on here on Rainbow Mountain, both within and without our walls, or a little farther away but connected to one or more folks living here, and some days, I just don’t have time to write. One of the boys came home to live; another came home for a visit, though I was away teaching for most of it; the third is doing well, working in the city, living on his own and supporting himself. The baby, who’s not much of a baby anymore at sixteen and a half, is awaiting her Barron’s SAT study guide, the idea of which, I admit, brings tears to my eyes. My husband and I eye our garden daily, especially our tomatoes. I said a prayer earlier today thanking God for the grace to weather the many seasons of our lives, but please, could the late blight skip our tomatoes this year? I’m still trying to decide if it’s a selfish prayer. Getting late blight could infect our neighbors’ gardens, too, and spraying poisonous fungicides could leach into the groundwater and harm the critters down in the stream below our property.

The biggest “outside our walls” event happened during my last week of summer teaching. I put my mother in a nursing home.

Four years ago, after my father passed away, I talked with my mother about choosing a Power of Attorney. She was clear thinking then, though she was beginning to get a little forgetful, mostly in relation to words. She could describe something, but she couldn’t always find the appropriate word in her vocabulary to name it. She has three children, and for reasons that aren’t really important here, she chose me to assume the POA. It hadn’t been an issue until recently, though a few times, my siblings brought it up to me. Once, I considered permitting one of my brothers to assume it, even though I had to be reminded it wasn’t mine to give. I could feel an old familiar defect of character – wanting others to like me, not be mad at me – rearing up in conversations with him and his wife.

Two weeks ago, when I was hours from having to return to the city to teach (and remain there for three days), the situation with Ma became critical. She couldn’t be left alone, and though we had aides during the day, we had no one to stay with her at night. With one brother in another state, asleep, I assumed (he works the night shift) and another out of town for the day, I made the decision. This was, I felt, and the law recognized, part of the responsibility I assumed four years before. For her safety, I made the decision.

The following week, I got blindsided by the feelings of my two brothers. I’m much younger, two decades or more, than both of them. One is wanting to take over at least partial control of my mother’s affairs. The other is telling me I don’t spend enough time with my mother and I should put aside other things in my life to do so. I felt cornered, and I felt the urge to defend myself – which meant, of course, in my old, alcoholic way of thinking, pointing out to them their own shortcomings. A chemically or emotionally drunken me would have done just that. But God often does for me what I can’t do for myself, and my first impulse was to pray, which I did. God held my tongue. God didn’t hold my tears, or my desire to be seen in a favorable light, so I said things and promised things that later on became 10th step issues. I agreed to a lopsided visitation schedule. I live four times farther away than one of my brothers, and I’d committed to almost eight hours of driving a week plus the time I’d spend with Ma. I also promised to talk with my spouse, who’s an attorney, about shared decision making.

In prayer, I remembered a conversation I’d had with my mother about the Power of Attorney. She had her reasons, as I said, for wanting me to have it, and I didn’t have the right to disregard those reasons now because I selfishly wanted to deflect any ill will. And voicing her reasons would be breaking her confidence, not to mention further hurting a sibling’s feelings. So I prayed again. My brothers insisted the greatest concern was my mother’s health and health decisions that may need to be made when I was out of town. I called the nursing home only to be assured that the consent-to-treat papers were enough in routine situations; any serious issues, and I could be back from the city in two hours. I told the youngest of my two brothers this the following day and he seemed satisfied.

It continued to dog me, though, so much so that I felt resentful and still defensive enough to bring up ‘resentments’ as a topic at a meeting. I wrote about it, a sort of narrative fourth step, saying on the page all the things that I didn’t say when I surrendered my tongue to God. What I was leaving out was my part. So I had to go back to work and admit a few things that belonged to me, including withholding my forgiveness. I also thought of my husband’s words, when I expressed my desire to let loose and defend myself (“How will that help your mother?”) – so at one point, instead of speaking from my own limited point of view, I found myself asking my younger brother to tell me stories about Ma before I was born, which was pleasant for both of us.

Today, the three of us got together and pre-planned my mother’s funeral. Thinking about it last night, my head began to ache. I woke with the same headache, which persisted as I drove to the funeral home. I realized I was tensing up, waiting for another meeting like we had the weekend before. I had said to my husband this morning, “I’m not a child, and if I allow the actions of others to make me feel like a child, that’s on me, not on them. I will honor the commitment I made to my mother, and I won’t compromise that commitment because others expect me to do something other than what I know she wants or trusts me to decide for her. I’ll be mindful of their feelings, because I know they love her, not so they won’t be mad at me.” I thanked God for bringing that affirmation back to me.

There was no incident at the funeral home. There were no disagreements. When we parted, the brother from another state was going to visit Ma. I have the long-distance trip to the doctor tomorrow. The younger brother will receive a call from me if my mother agrees to attend a “coping with change” group on Wednesday, and we’ll both attend. And then, I’ll take care of some things that need taking care of at home for a few days before my next visit. It’s enough for me to know that if I lived seven minutes away, I’d visit every day.

I remember learning the definitions and distinctions between the words constant and continual when I was younger. Continual means occurring frequently and regularly; constant means without ceasing. If I prayed in the morning and again at night, I’d be praying continually. In difficult situations like this, with an aging parent and three siblings who never were very close, I accept that I can’t know anyone’s heart but my own, and even then, it’s only through prayer and constant conscious contact with my Higher Power that I can know and see the truth in my own heart. Do I maintain constant conscious contact? I wish I could say I do. I know that when I invite God into situations that are difficult and fearful, when I ask for my consciousness to be guided by God rather than by me, those situations are a lot easier to deal with.

And in the last month, in the above situation and many others, I have yet to find it necessary to get drunk at anyone. Knowing the “me” of three quarters of a decade ago, that’s pretty significant progress.

Peace & Love,
Jody K.

What I Learned From Jody K.

Read the posts of Jody K.

In Jody's post Following the Signs I keyed in on two paragraphs. The first was (5th paragraph) when Jody wrote of he simple morning prayer "God, guide my thoughts and actions. Please make me useful today." Next I zoomed in on (11th paragraph)"though I've come to the conclusion that if I listen and follow signs, I'll fall in step with God's will for me. And I'll be given the power to carry that out - in time, resources, inspiration, or whatever I might need." I identified with these actions actions. Though I may use different words I too ask God in the morning to be of service to others. Without a doubt I believe God gives me the power to carry that out. No matter how much I may drag my feet I am given what I need to be of service to others.

When reading Meditation on Being I had a LOT of nodding going on. Oh yes indeed! I loved hearing about "wordless prayer" and "Aligning myself is Harmony." How I related to all of her words describing this and had never put it to words. I especially related to how her concept of a Higher Power shifts. My concept of a Higher Power is first the God of I grew up learning about. All of the other spiritual and religious concepts I have learned since becoming sober help me understand my Higher Power on a deeper level. I learn from so many sources, so like Jody my concept of my Higher Power shifts.

How do I make use of what Jody has to offer? For me reading the words that describe what I frequently do helps me to be mindful of the action. So now when I am doing "wordless prayer" I can be mindful of it. I can practice being in the moment when taking the time to "breathe for a while." I can also make use of what Jody wrote about being given the power to carry out God's will for me. I can always always use reaffirming, after all I am only human. ;)

Thanks Jody K. for all you have offered us!