I got up shortly after 7 am. The sun was already up, but it was cool. I decided on the lighter sweatshirt figuring that it would be too much if I took a long walk, but no. It was like a cool Indian summer day in the northeast for the full length of the walk. I walked further up the hill into the subdivision than I had in a very long time. The last time I got that far, my leg gave out entirely on the way down, and I had to hitch home. It has been over a year.
When I put my pants on this morning, I put more weight on my left foot as I raised my right leg to slip it into the leg hole. The exercise where I put more weight on my toes is producing unexpected results. The exercise is: walk twenty steps pushing through onto my toes, making sure the sole of the foot is as far off the ground as I can get it. This is done in three positions: first with my feet in parallel; second, with my feet turned out slightly; and third with my feet point inward; I look pigeon-toed. Putting more weight on my toes is having an effect on my legs and my abdomen. Only one warning: make sure that you don't overextend your knees, especially on the pigeon-toed positions. If in doubt, don't use that position at all.
After church today, I auditioned to become a lector, someone who reads selections from the bible from the podium at the front of the church. There is a ritual entrance, bowing to the altar, and a way to read the selections. I knew a lot of it already from observing Judy when she served as a lector. I passed. I doubt if I'm religious enough; I volunteered because I was told that there was a need for more lectors and because I thought Mike would love it if I participated. However, when I did read the biblical selections, I found it a moving experience. Maybe God is calling me in mysterious ways.
However, I did not enjoy reading the article on Catholic beliefs in the bulletin this morning. It said that when people died, their first stop was purgatory unless they were something special, in which case they could pass right to heaven. The people in purgatory were purified and then could make their entrance. However, it said that those who don't believe in Jesus go immediately to hell. That's the part I don't like.
I once said to Judy that God was generous. She said, "Yes. He forgives us our sins." My thought was that God is generous in presenting a buffet of ways to worship and allowing us to choose what most suits us. I don't believe that any one religion can possibly capture God. If there is a God, he/she/it must be larger than any, and all human minds can conceive. All we are capable of seeing is an aspect. We are all like the blind men trying to describe an elephant.
I think the choice of religion is part aesthetics and part location, location, location. Location has to do with what family you are born into. Most people follow the faith of their parents. That experience, while growing up, always leaves a big mark on the psyche. The aesthetics have to do with how the beauty of a particular religion touches our soul. I don't mean beauty in a superficial sense; I mean it in the sense of that which inspires awe. The story behind a religion touches us deeply. It calls to our souls. This is our path to God.
After the audition, I spoke with Judy C., who trains and organizes the lectors. We talked about Mike's time in Oahu. I remember thinking only of Mike during that period. The other day, Dorothy said that she found me hyper when she visited Mike in the hospital. I think that was probably true. There was something I had to focus on, him. His well-being, his survival, was what it was all about. I ran on adrenaline.
For the longest time, I didn't or didn't have to accept that he was going to die. The brother of an old friend had gone through a similar process; he also had severe pancreatitis. However, he was 54 and in good health. Mike was 78 with end-stage kidney disease caused by high blood pressure. As I reread the blog entries I made recently, I saw over and over comments referring to his possible death. I knew it was serious, but I held on to Tom's survival story. Thank you, Tom. If I had had to go through that whole experience with no hope, it would have been much worse.
When I came home, I read a little of the NYTimes and napped. Karin, my niece, called just as I was waking up. I told her I was doing well because Mike was back. I told her my experience of waking up to pee in the middle of the night and 'knowing' Mike was sleeping in the bed. This was the first time I felt that. Previously I knew he wasn't where I was but could believe he was somewhere else. I had lost that feeling and had been in deep grief for several days as the realization that he was gone, gone, gone hit hard. I felt so alone.
Karin told me that she had heard that the dead often return to care for the living after a year. It takes them a year to adapt to the idea that they are dead and make the necessary adjustments. Karin said they actually go traveling to visit people and places. Touring?? I suppose that's possible.
I generated another theory as I'm writing this. It often takes a year for the person left behind to come to grips with what has happened. Activities related to the death fall away. What is left is just the new life, no more distractions. Is Mike's reappearance a new compensation on my part, or was the despair I felt for a few days a way of making it possible for him to reenter my life? There is no question in my mind that he will do whatever he can to help me.
I know when I experienced him as returning, I was concerned that he was sacrificing himself in some way for my sake. I want him to have peace above and beyond all else. I was left with the feeling that he was okay. Something had happened to give him that peace, and he was okay being with me for the duration. How long, I don't know.
After dinner, while I was watching tv., Yvette came up as promised to do some massage on me. She does fantastic work. She did Graston on my legs. She was pretty vigorous. I was both looking forward to the effect of her work and worrying that I might not be able to walk in the morning. Muscles that haven't been active for 70 years had been roused from their sleep and asked to work. They were in shock—my poor muscles.
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