Well, friends, it has been a while. My words went silent and sunk into feelings. Drowning in feelings. There is Robert to think about and those thoughts are now competing with other thoughts that are filled with anxiety about my upcoming surgery. I remind myself, between episodes of heart palpitations, that people who surround me have been flooding me with offers of escorting me back and forth, that I should not worry, that things will fall into place, that people care and they have formed a loving village. That calms me for a few minutes and then the fear ramps up again. And the cycle begins: I stop myself, remind myself. I try to make the terror subside but last night it got me. In my sleep. In the middle of the night. At the usual witching hour of 4:00 am.

When I finally went back to sleep (there may have been two episodes of this, possibly my dream picked up where it left off) I was in a place, perhaps a building, there were people all around. NO ONE was available to help me. I had looked in my bag and my house keys were gone. Gone. What was I to do? I had no one to call. I was locked out. I was homeless. I was wandering. I was trapped in the moment, filled with terror. Where would I go?

Keys represent entry. Answers. Safety, security, in a place to which one has special access. A home was built with another person who I no longer recognize, nor can I go to for comfort or information.  The genetics tests are also a  key and I have no answers as of yet.

But here I am trapped in this dream: Do I call a locksmith? Did I have my phone? What do I do? This seems to be the ongoing question. Where do I go from here? Where do I live? A house is a metaphor for one’s body. In 2004 I had a mastectomy and reconstruction. The painkillers lodge in the system for months. For months I had nightmares, there was a faceless man coming after me, attacking me, invading my space. After a while I realized that the man was a symbol of cancer. I had been traumatized: I’d wake up screaming. I learned to prime my dreams, if you will, before sleep, and tell my inner workings that everything was fine. Nothing was going to happen. It was done, over, they got the guy.

The guy called cancer who mugged me and stole my well being, my feeling of safety and security.

This oncoming procedure, which requires three steps of preparation before the surgery, revived a lurking PTSD.

The lifetime theme that rears its heads in dreams, for me, has been loss.
I lost many people. I lost a part of my body. I lost one partner and I have lost another though he still is here. I have lost the feeling of safety and security. When we are vulnerable we fall prey to the saboteurs that live within us and that remind us, though we have grown and changed, that we are far less than we think we are. This is the child that we still harbor.

I had been beating myself up over a repair that I needed for a patio chair. I was ripped off of a lot of money, I didn’t have a receipt, was overcharged, the repaired chair came back broken in another place and this man tried to get me, put it all on me, but took the money and ran. I may see the chair again, I may not, but the feeling of that loss of security due to a bad choice and not being on my toes, caused a short circuit in my self-trust. That’s what happens when your head is in the wrong place.

But despite all of this self-doubt there are the people who come to your aid. The above photo is of Robert’s out-ot-town, second cousin who came bearing gifts, braving the heat on the hottest of days. I have always said that some of the best gifts that Robert has given me are his family and friends. He amassed so many relationships along the way, from every part of his life, from childhood through education, through work. His aunts and uncles became my aunts and uncles. His cousins became my cousins. His friends are my friends. I am grateful.

So, last week when I visited I asked Robert: Do you know who I am? (And I think, I have lost my identity as a couple and am trying to find out who I am.)
Susie.
I asked who Evan is.
He’s our son.

Every time I visit, I expect to see a whole person sitting up in bed and reading or joking with staff. Instead, I find a stranger, and I am shocked, again and again.

He is aware. He knows. But somewhere in the brain’s language area there is a disconnect between inner language and speech. Sometimes he answers and sometimes not. Sometimes he is surprising. He never initiates conversation.

When one visits, one carries on a monologue, for the most part, now and then a question is asked: he may answer.

The visitor can get exhausted. I often end up calling Robert’s sister for help and relief for a few moments. Robert will say hello and call her by name if prompted. This time with prompt he wouldn’t-didn’t-couldn’t say goodbye. So, who knows what is going on in his head?

On this day, as pictured above, Robert’s cousin is speaking to his sister. She is about to end the call as Robert listens. The conversation is steered by the stream of association. The topic was old fashioned, an abstract topic that included things, customs, conventions. From old telephones to marriage.

I like old-fashioned things, said Robert.

To me, that comment meant so much more.

He was saying how much he liked life the way it was.

📌The series starts here:
Part 1: And The Band Played On … a mother’s life, a daughter’s journey

The previous post is here

(In between, there is a linked post to breast cancer)

The next post is here