Today I cried.
I cried as I tried, and failed, to erect the rotary washing line in the garden. I no longer have the strength in my arms nor the flexibility in my legs to wrestle the beast into an extended position and it was a pathetic scene.
I cried because I realised that I am at my peak in terms of what remains of my physical strength and that tomorrow I will be a little less able, or maybe the same as today, but not better. This then is as good as it gets in terms of what I am able to do physically of my own accord.
I cried because Google chose today to post me copies of photographs I took a year ago, which reminded me of a time when life seemed so full of exciting possibilities. Instead I am facing a darker future which stretches relentlessly before me with no apparent light at the end of the tunnel. Muscular dystrophy is not something you recover from, instead it is something you have to learn to live with; to accommodate in your life like an unwelcome guest in your house.
I realise I was experiencing grief and as my daughter, who has had her fair share of grief this past year tells me, grief comes in waves, often when you least expect it. You can’t resist grief, you have to give it space to wash over you then rise again and get on with your life until the next wave hits.
There have been some bright moments these last few weeks. We have started to adapt the house, for instance, putting in place seat and bed risers to help me get up more easily: it makes the sofa feel like a throne and Sally needs a ladder to climb onto our bed, but they make life easier.
We have also engaged the services of Remap, an organisation of retired engineers who use their skills to solve accessibility problems for disabled people. They have created a portable half-step to help me climb the stairs so we can continue to use our main bedroom. www.remap.org.uk
Then, in the midst of my tears, my daughter arrived with our latest grandchild: two weeks old – a sister to Noa who died last year. After the mandatory feeding and multiple nappy changes – the baby’s, not mine (yet) – she settled to sleep on the sofa next to me. As I rested my hand on her and felt her gently breathing I realised she is living testimony to the faithfulness of God. She is a gift to our family to show that beyond the grief of the last year there is hope and a new beginning.
We are not forgotten. We are not alone. God is good and these tears will pass.
Thanks Ian. Luv from Yorkshire!
Amen
Look forward to seeing you upon return from SA
Psalm 56:8 says “You have collected all my tears in Your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book. We sent this to Chantal a while ago and are reminding you too to comfort you in ‘those’ moments. We are crying with you, but trying to put it to good use crying out to the Lord for his strength to see you through. We love you so much.
Psalm 56:8 New Living Translation (NLT)
8 You keep track of all my sorrows.
You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
You have recorded each one in your book.
We sent this to Chantal a while ago and are reminding you too that He sees your sorrow, but has given you his Holy Spirit to give you supernatural joy despite your circumstances. We cry with you, but are trying to turn this sorrow into a cry for God to support and sustain you in ‘those’ moments.
PS. Whirly lines are rubbish; they were made to frustrate and annoy everyone, so I recommend what we changed to. One that attaches to the wall and you put out the line and hook it at other end!
Tears are good. Grief is a watery business x
You amaze me Ian , and yes God is good even when times are so tough we always know he is there ..
Keep going Ian
Sorry for repeat earlier – it didn’t appear to go through!
Although you are a regular (and very welcome!) commentator, for some reason the site requires me to individually approve your comments every time I put up a new post. Until approved you won’t see it posted. Thank you for your words of encouragement though; they are really appreciated. xx
I am sorry to read the content of your post but I learn from and admire your tremendous show of mental strength. That strength manifests in your willingness to share your feelings with your friends and also in the comfort you obtain through your family and your faith.
Thinking of you far more frequently than my rare comments on this site might imply.
Ian – sending you big virtual hugs. You are so amazing and brave through this all. I’m not sure it’s possible as I had already put you on a pedestal but I admire your strength, integrity and faith in God even more.
Ruppi
Thanks for sharing so transparently Ian.