“WHY DO YOU WRITE CHRISTINE?”

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We were in the garage in that moment.

“WHY DO YOU WRITE CHRISTINE?”

There were a million questions behind that single one.

He wanted to know if it was worth it.

He was trying to understand.

“I write for many reasons”. That’s all I gave him in that moment.

 

My voice was taken many times.

This is a combination of experiences throughout my life. If you’ve read my stories, perhaps you will pick up on those times.

These will be my final words to my children.

My kids have experienced death from a young age. I know the questions that come from death. I’ve heard them a thousand times. It doesn’t frighten me. No. Rather, I reflect on how to answer questions my children may have later on. I have one child that will only read my writings upon my death. He acknowledged this. I hope I get to them all. I hope to lessen all their questions.

Sometimes I need to process.

It’s true. Sometimes I simply need to process shit. You may pick up on those times.

I live in a small town.

Small towns are often guarded people. They guard their hearts and their stories. Vulnerability is the opposite of stoicism. Call me crazy, but I still believe there is power in vulnerability.

I’m a psychologist in training.

                How can I expect others to process and own their stories if I cannot do the same? I’ll never throw myself upon a pedestal claiming to be the “all knowing” or the “savior”. I’ve known life too.

I have a story to tell.

                There are many sides to every story. This is my story. These are my experiences. This is my interpretation. This is what I learned.

Writing is therapeutic.

                It’s an outlet of mine. Need I say more?

Courage is contagious.

                I happen to believe that there is power in telling one’s story – when they are ready. I will be forever grateful for the contagious courage.

 

TBC…

© LifeasChristine, 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to LifeasChristine with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

 

 

 

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How do you measure strength?

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STRENGTH.

There is power in that word, but without much of a definition. It’s subjective to interpretation, isn’t it?

How do you measure strength?

It’s an interesting concept…

How do others define it?

Physical strength may be among the easiest to measure, but even that is not black and white.

We’ve all said it, or at least probably most of us, at some point in our lives or another, haven’t we?

“I’m strong!”

Or perhaps we thought it.

Or perhaps you viewed another and deemed them strong.

Why?

What is it about them that makes you see strength?

What is it about yourself that makes you see strength?

Can you conceptualize it? Can you define it? Can you put it into words?

I went on a quest recently to understand this.

It originated because I heard:

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

“I hope I can be strong like you.”

“You are so strong Christine.”

I heard this when I felt anything but strong. It made me mad to hear those words in the moment. I felt expectations were on me.  Expectations I didn’t want. Expectations I didn’t know if I could fulfill.

I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t want to be strong.

I know I can hear another’s story and measure what I view as strength. I can build on this strength with them. I can harness their strength. I can help empower, encourage, and promote growth.

But to put that into words, is tough.

Recently I started asking people: “How do you measure strength?”

These are some of the responses I received:

“…when life deals you the shittiest of hands and you’re still able to play the game.”

“…the ability to know what battles are worth fighting for. Sometimes it means fighting for what you want, while other times it means being strong enough to let something go.”

“…the strongest thing I ever did was forgive my sisters for what they did to me…they nearly ruined me…in fact they did ruin me. And I forgave them when they never asked for it…[that] was strength.”

“I think that strength is the ability to see the beauty in life regardless of the mountains we are climbing. I also believe that strength comes from the ability to view one’s own struggles in perspective of the struggles of others.”

“I think strength is being able to fight your battles, but knowing when to call for backup.”

“I would argue that strength is being able to view the mess of your own life in terms of feeling fortunate, rather than self-loathing.”

“Strength is the ability to be grateful when the mountain gets steep and we aren’t sure if we can make it over.”

“…knowing you’re going to lose the fight, but still standing up to your opponent and giving it your all.”

“…never giving up.”

“Strength is watching someone else do something, handle something, go through something, that you don’t know if you could do.”

“Genuineness.  If someone is honest and truthful that tells me they have a lot of strength because it takes strength to be vulnerable. I measure strength for one’s ability to be open and honest. Complete genuineness and vulnerability.”

“If people are able to work through tough times, do what needs to be done…”

“People that have endured hardships in their life and were able to get through it, making them a better person…going through bullshit and coming out of it with a positive outlook intact.”

Powerful isn’t it?

There are themes within.

Perseverance.

Endurance.

Forgiveness.

Wisdom.

Gratefulness.

Vulnerability.

What do you see?

I am hesitant to call myself strong. I know this. Seems the minute I do, life asks, “Oh yeah? What about now Christine?”

Life has a way of questioning our definition of strength. Or perhaps redefining or even refining our definition…

I’m still working through my own definition. I know for me, it is many of the things that others mention, but it is more. Truthfully, I think it grows with life experience, through hardship, through joys, through life….

To be continued…

© LifeasChristine, 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to LifeasChristine with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

“Don’t let go Christine.”

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It was a long day at the hospital. I was alone.

It felt like the weight became mine to bear and it felt heavier when I was by myself.

I hated being alone.

He didn’t know who I was. On so many levels, it made me feel more alone.

The nurse came in to change him.

I walked out of the room and down the hall.

I needed to find a place to rest. I needed oxygen – if for only 5 minutes.

I found a little room down the hall with the words “Consult Room” on the door.

I pushed the door open and found no one in there.

Honestly, I was grateful. I wasn’t up to pleasantries. I didn’t want to talk to random strangers. My life had just flipped upside down and inside out. I was holding on by a thread.

The peacefulness of a quiet room ended within a few minutes.

Three people walked in. It was a mother, father, and their adolescent son. One of them asked me if it was okay if they came in and sat. I knew what it meant to find a place when you needed a place, despite my wanting to not share the space.

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’m just waiting here.”

The last thing I wanted to do was make small-talk. Yet, it began…

I probably initiated, though I don’t actually remember.

They asked me who I was visiting. I explained the situation. I probably went into too much detail. I usually do.

I learned that their young daughter had a tumor. The surgery went well. They removed the tumor. They found it because they noticed a large growth that kept growing on the side of her neck. They were beyond grateful it wasn’t cancer. They were taking her home in the morning.

I remember being envious of that… “taking her home in the morning”.

I had been at the hospital long enough that I knew my way around and was often helping people with directions. The ladies in the lobby that checked ID’s, no longer needed to ask who I was there to see; they knew the name and the floor.

They asked me where I was from. I told them about an hour away.

I learned that they were from my neighboring county.

We chatted for about 20 minutes, until they could go in and see their daughter. She had just gotten out of surgery.

I sat there for a few minutes in silence when they left. I thought about the journey I was on. I thought about how quickly life can flip upside down. I wondered how their lives had been changed, if at all. I thought about stories like their’s, albeit different endings. I wish I had asked them if they realized the grace they received.

I returned to see my father.

Around 9 pm, visiting hours were over. He had been sleeping most of the time I was there. I quietly slipped out and took the elevator down to the lobby.

As I stepped out of the elevator, I ran into the three individuals I had chatted with in the consult room. They had left at the same exact time and took another elevator down. We walked into the hall at the same moment.

The father told me to hang in there. The mother came up to me and gave me a hug. She also said, “Don’t let go Christine.”

Sometimes we get what we need in life, not always what we want, but often what we need…

© LifeasChristine, 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to LifeasChristine with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

 

 

I’m only human…

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I signed the papers with a heavy heart and a head full of questions.

Will he make it?

Will he be in a coma?

Will I have to make a decision to pull the plug?

Will he ever be close to the same?

Will he be mad at me for signing the papers?

Will he have quality of life?

I remembered the night Dad woke me in the middle of the night. He never even said hello. He said, “Promise me something”. He asked me to promise him to never put him in a nursing home. He told me to take him into the woods with a gun. He told me he wants to be cremated. He told me to give his ashes to his best friend. He said Ed would know where to spread his ashes.

Come to find out, Ed isn’t really sure.

Since the morning my father fell off a ladder and sustained a traumatic brain injury (TBI), that phone call from a few years ago has materialized in my head. I go over our words. I think about our beliefs. I consider our values. I get angry at the irony.

The emergency neurosurgery lasted about 4 ½ hours. I sat in the trauma ICU family waiting room holding my breath. I barely spoke to anyone.

I wanted to run. I wanted to run like hell. I wanted to run away from that hospital as far as I could. I wanted to run away from the day. I wanted to run away from the tragedy. I wanted to run more than anything.

I didn’t run. I knew I couldn’t yet.

We were allowed in to see him in the trauma ICU once he made it out of surgery. He was in a medically induced coma. He was on a ventilator. There were tubes coming out of his head draining blood. The left side of his skull was removed. I later learned they placed it under the skin in his stomach. This is a common procedure to keep the bone viable for later placement. His vitals were out of control. Constant flashing of a heart-rate beating too fast, blood pressure that fluctuated dangerously close to death… the list goes on. The beeping never stopped on that machine.

I wanted to throw that machine out into the hallway. I wanted to smash it. I wanted to scream at it.

STOP BEEPING!

STOP FLASHING!

God, I hated that machine.

One nurse told me to ignore the machine. I laughed at her.

I knew what those numbers meant.

I walked out of that ICU room one day when his systolic blood pressure hit 225. I looked at my little sister and said, “I’ve got to go”. I ran.

I ran to my car out in the parking lot.

I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know if I can do this.

But truthfully, life didn’t care if I knew how to do it or not. It didn’t care if I wanted it. It was here and it was happening. I was in the middle of the biggest shit storm of my life. Yeah, that’s real. I’ve been through some challenges in my life previously, but nothing like this.

Can I be strong for my little sister? Our mom died 10 years ago. She needs me to be strong for her. She needs me to be strong for Dad.

Can I be strong for my brother? He lives out of state. There’s only so much he can do. He needs me to be strong for Dad.

Can I be strong for Dad? He needs me now. He needs me to fight for him. He needs me to believe in him. He needs me to push him.

He wants me to be strong.

I’m not even a fan of the word ‘strong’. “Oh, you’re so strong” – what the hell does that even mean?

And those people who…without batting an eye testifying  their own strength, “I am strong”…. Please, they drive me nuts.

I’ve appeased others and gave them those words when they needed the reassurance that I too was “strong”, but truthfully I am scared. I will keep going. I will do what needs to be done. I’ll probably make some mistakes along the way. I’ll probably break down. Hell, I already have.

I’m not strong. I’m not weak.

I’m only human.

I’m just me.. Christine…

© LifeasChristine, 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to LifeasChristine with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.