Leaving Normal

Each time I cross the threshold, I know I must leave behind my ideas of “normal,” but it takes me a few minutes to let go, to relinquish the familiar in an effort to avoid emotional vertigo. Resistance is futile and painful, like muscle being pulled from bone.

Someone has painted the inside walls of the dayroom to look like the outside of a log cabin- a two dimensional porch, bright green grass and ambivalent flowers depicted close to the floor. Initially I find it garish, jarring, but with the natural light coming in through several windows in the room and the mental confusion of the residents, I can see how they might actually be comforted by the illusion of being outside, in front of a cottage, on a warm summer day.

Even after all this time, I look for the man I knew- the one with a ready smile, and quick, sure, energetic movements; the one who, just two years ago, would hug me so tight when I arrived at or left my parents’ home that all the air would be expelled from my lungs; the one who was always moving and doing, chopping wood, cutting grass, tending the garden, clearing snow from the driveway. . . .

I see him now, my father- smaller and greyer than he was, slowly making his way around the room in an oversized mismatched sweat suit and someone else’s shoes. He will no longer tolerate hearing aids or glasses. I approach slowly, not wanting to startle, struggling to leave my impossible hopes behind.

I touch his arm and he looks into my face. Recognition and confusion pass over his features like clouds crossing the sun. I speak quietly, deliberately relaxing my body to fit into the pace of his world. He does not understand my words but responds to my tone and body language. Realizing that I am not asking something of him that he may not be able to understand, he relaxes. I walk with him, following his lead, sitting when he does, stroking his arm, touching his face.

My soothing tone and movements are not just for him. Inside, a part of me is screaming in protest. This younger self arises each time I visit this place, filled with grief and rage at the cruelty of the disease (Alzheimer’s) that is shaping my father’s life. Part of me is having a hard time accepting that there is nothing more to be done, that this is beyond our control. I softly touch the skin on the back of his hand- fragile, translucent parchment- to say to myself and to my father- “It’s okay. This is what is. We can be with what is. We can love in the midst of all of the conditions over which we have no control. Breathe.”

And slowly, as I find a calm centre, I slip across the border from the world's ideas of “normal” to being with what is. Here, now, a smile,or a moment of connection and tenderness outweighs all other priorities or plans, all the "normal" measurements of accomplishment.

Other residents come up to me. Some try to talk, others just sit close. One woman moves continually, incessantly calling out random syllables- “La, la, la, la, ya, ya, ya, ya . . .” Suddenly she stops in the middle of the room and, looking at the rest of us with a surprising and momentary gaze of clarity, says emphatically, “THIS is NOT working!” Soft laughter ripples around the room. One of the staff gently takes her arm to walk with her and says, “No Gladys, it’s not. But it’s okay.”

And I think about all the groups of people thought of as being outside “normal,” somehow less a part of the world or daily life: those who are physically or mentally ill or injured (my chronic illness has often put me outside “normal;”) the very old or very young (and I think of being home with babies and feeling disconnected from the hustle and bustle of “normal” life;) in an affluent society- the poor and homeless; those whose beliefs are radically different than ones expressed in the media; those whose colour, size, appearance or sexual identity does not fit the dominant cultures’ mould. . . . . 

And I realize just how much life is happening outside “normal,” and I wonder how our notion of “normal”- what is seen as ideal- could be expanded, gently stretched to include the real, to hold all that is alive, breathing, feeling, sensing.

Or perhaps there really is no “normal” against which we need to measure ourselves or our lives- a process that too often results in shame and disappointment.

Because the truth is, there are no conditions that put us outside love. And that’s a reality I am willing to embrace in every moment.

~Oriah (c) 2012

(Note: for those who do not know- my father has advanced stage Alzheimer's and is a small ward in a mental health facility for those with dementia who have become too violent to be safely cared for elsewhere. My father was never a violent man, but in the latter stages of the disease he has injured several people. Most folks stay there for a few months so the staff can discern triggers for aggressive behaviour and residents can return to being cared for closer to their families. Dad has been here for a year. His violent outbursts follow no discernable pattern and often appear to have no external trigger. The care is truly wonderful, although I admit I wondered on my first visit if the staff were all on valium. They were so relaxed, consistently moving and speaking very slowly. Of course, what they know is that folks who are not able to understand much in their environment are hyper-alert to and potentially triggered by the slightest tension in others. I am deeply grateful for the tender care they offer my father. They are truly earth angels.)