Letting Go

I have witnessed death first hand three times now. Twice it has been my choice to let a beloved pet go, knowing it was kinder to be with them when the vet helped them pass on rather than watching them be further tormented by illness. The third time was with my grandfather, having spent three days with him, watching as he faded from this world once we made the decision to withhold all nutrients, including water, while we placed him on a morphine drip to prevent him from suffering in his final hours. In all three cases I felt privileged to be part of their passing.

There is always the wondering. Did we do enough? Did we miss something earlier that would have prevented this moment? Is this what they would have wanted if they had the choice? Ultimately, I have to be willing to live with the decisions I was part of making, knowing they came from my heart. My mind wants to revisit every step of the process, yet that only brings me pain. I don't need to remember the final days to know I will deeply miss those who have passed.

Instead I bring my attention to the joys they brought to my life. The memories of long conversations with my grandfather. His love and support for me throughout my awkward growing up years. His excitement when I made him a great-grandfather for the first time, and his pride when my second child was a boy (yes, he was still a bit paternalistic). Thinking about the many times I sat through his endless slide shows and stories of his worldly travels, all the while his passion for adventure was seeping into my very being. The lessons he taught of being a loving husband to his adored wife Amy have carried on in me as I care for her as she declines into the hell that is Alzheimer's.

And my pets. Yes, I have had many throughout the years. I am surprised how easily I fall in love with the newest member of our family as each arrives. Their arrival is usually because another has departed, but they are not a replacement. They are an expression of the love each has brought into my life and the desire to continue to experience that companionship, affection and amusement that my animals have taught me in their unique ways. Sharing the pain of the loss with the stories of their lives eases the suffering just a bit.

But ultimately I believe it is the willingness to feel the pain of someone's passing, whether a dear friend, family member, life partner, or beloved pet, that frees me to love fully. The sadness of loss reminds me that I have felt deeply, and I wouldn't give that up for anything.

Fear

It always surprises me when I get on my bicycle and I feel a bit of anxiety. I've been riding since I was five years old, never had more than a minor fall, never been injured riding, yet the anxiety is there. When I take the time to listen to it, it's saying 'what if you can't keep up with everyone,' 'what if you can't get your foot out of the clips in time and you fall,' 'what if you want to turn around before everyone else and they think you're a wimp,' and on and on. In the past I've spent quite a bit of time talking myself out of each statement, only to find the next time I get on the bike those voices are with me once again. How silly is that?

The same voices show up even when I go to an indoor cycling class where the odds of falling off are remote, to say the least. I know I can choose to ride at whatever pace I want and no one will know the difference. I can even pretend to adjust the resistance to look like I am pedaling up the same steep hill as everyone else and they are none the wiser. Yet the fear comes with me. It was there this morning when I thought about joining a new strength training class at my gym...'what if I can't do it?' 'what if I look stupid?' I went anyway.

The voices follow me into other areas as well...every time I start off on a run, every time I climb on the back of the motorcycle with Terry, as well as when I get on my own scooter to ride solo. And not just in athletic arenas...those voices pop into my head before I meet someone new, or have to call a potential client, even when they called me first. They show up all over the place, uninvited and unwelcome.

The fear comes with me, even knowing I am competent and capable. Even with all my years of experience successfully navigating difficult situations and surviving them with perhaps a few scars and some good stories to tell. I've finally quit wondering when the voices will stop and I will be able to hop onto the bike with only silence as my companion.

My prediction? Never. Clients come to me all the time wanting their anxiety to go away. How in the world can I help them eliminate something that shows up so regularly for me? I've stopped bothering trying. Instead, I share what I have learned...to give up the struggle and find room for the fear to just tag along, the pesky younger sibling who won't quit hanging around.

And what have I discovered? Sometimes that pesky sibling fades into the background, and other times it offers some amusing, unexpected insights. But mostly I've discovered that it's easier to let it be than to spend my energy fighting it. So now when I get on the bike I invite the anxiety to ride along with me if it wants to, and instead focus my energy on getting myself settled in for a nice ride, breathing in the fresh air, and noticing the sights and sounds around me. Makes for a much better ride.

Pillion's Perspective...linking my writing for the Iron Butt Magazine, my book, Two-Up: Navigating a Relationship 1,000 Miles at a Time, and my life as a therapist into one narrative. Allowing it to evolve as the story unfolds, removing restrictions that may limit it to only motorcycling or only therapy but instead topics that interest me. The freedom of the road, the freedom of writing, the freedom to let my mind wander.

Terry and I were walking the other day and discussing the next phase of our life together. He has started a new career path, and after 30+ years of being a therapist, I am open to new possibilities myself. I love my work and I continue to be moved by the people who allow me to touch their lives in such a personal manner. Logically, teaching would be a next step, yet creating workshops and following curricula to fulfill someone's idea of continuing education sounds horrible. What I keep coming back to is writing, weaving the stories I have in my head from all the experiences I have had personally and the ones I have been witness to in the confines of my therapy office into useful narratives, narratives that have helped shape my own life.

The stories that interest me are of resilience, finding strength in going to the deepest levels of oneself, being willing to take a look in the mirror and confront what one sees in the reflection. Participating in life rather than spectating. Taking risks and feeling alive. Taking the thoughts that bounce around inside my head and committing them to paper where they can be judged by others and perhaps found wanting. Yet in that risk is excitement, a feeling of living life fully.

And so I will write.