For a few days, my son, R, has been very anxious as he awaited an experimental treatment for stroke. Somehow the every-moment-unknown seemed even more intensely unknown today–particularly after watching him sign release forms that suggest the possibility of death in sixteen different ways. His hand shook so badly as he signed, and yet he was fully ready to move forward with the treatment. There was no room for mama-anxiety this morning. I noticed some in private, of course. Mothers are deeply conditioned for concern.
The role my husband and I played once we met up with our son this morning was to be the calm, open presence for whatever might unfold. I made sure R had the opportunity to tell the doctor what his wishes were if the treatment went terribly wrong–since he had not thought of filling out advanced directives–and what he said was, “no resuscitation measures of any kind.” The doctor seemed shocked; I was not. My son has told me more than once that he doesn’t care to grow old–not with his body–that quality of life is everything. He’d rather have three fine months than fifteen miserable years.
The treatment proceeded, and then we drove the seven hours home. There may be subtle change already. During the next three months more changes may occur.
To be a clearing: to be open, transparent, lucid, and awake to/with/as whatever arises.
© Amrita Skye Blaine, 2013
photo credit (had to use this image again!)