THE LEARNING JOURNEY
Absorbing Life's LessonsBy June W. LambBALBOA PRESS
Copyright © 2011 June W. Lamb
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4525-3417-6Contents
DEDICATION.....................................................vACKNOWLEDGEMENTS...............................................viiINTRODUCTION...................................................xiChapter I: The Hardest Lesson Of All...........................1Chapter II: Where Is Authority?................................17Chapter III: You Are Mind And Body.............................33Chapter IV: You Are Two........................................42Chapter V: Do It Now...........................................51Chapter VI: Love Thyself?......................................60Chapter VII: Marriage Is A Laboratory..........................68Chapter VIII: White Knight/Fair Maiden.........................86Chapter IX: Feelings Are Guides................................97Chapter X: Psychology and Spiritual Truths.....................112AFTERWORD......................................................127Appendix.......................................................139RULES OF COMMUNICATION.........................................139FEELINGS AS GUIDE..............................................143OPTIONS FOR ACTION.............................................145BIBLIOGRAPHY...................................................147
Chapter One
THE HARDEST LESSON OF ALL
The Acceptance of Death
At age nineteen, life seemed predictable. My parents took care of me and taught me how to behave. I was sheltered, clothed, educated and expected to become a responsible adult. Although it was not expected that I would go to college (in my family girls were not encouraged to pursue higher education), marriage and family were nearly guaranteed. But my predictable life did not go according to plan.
In 1941, soldiers going off to the war in Europe were patriots, brave and true. They would come back victorious, be celebrated, and resume that predictable life. The explosion of that simple belief system became my first and hardest lesson in the classroom of life. My high school boyfriend, Doug Jones, didn't come back. He died on a hilltop in Belgium, never to be seen again. The war ended five months after his death and I experienced a chaotic mass of emotions. While wishing to join in celebrating that the war had ended, I carried a dark void of disbelief at the permanence of his death that left me isolated and confused. His was an enormous presence in the class of `43 at Yakima High School. Not only was he President of the class but a star performer in drama and music productions while maintaining an exceptional grade point average in all his class work. It was impossible to imagine such a dynamic, vibrant young man as no longer existing.
It was my first, but not last, lesson in recognizing that there is no escaping the permanence of death and the painful process of grief. My grief was complicated by my need to comfort his family who suffered a myriad of emotions. While they were angry with the German soldier who fired a bullet into their son's head, they also grieved and regretted that they had not helped us marry before he went off to war. In reality, neither of us was ready for marriage, but wartime accelerates the normal drive to enter into committed, lifetime relationships. As my fellow classmates returned from the war front, they joined me in lamenting the loss of a young man so full of talent and promise. Because we had been "steadies" for our junior and senior years, I was inextricably linked in their memories of him and many times they burst into uncontrollable tears when they saw me around town, in a store or visited me at home.
I was surrounded by a pervasive sympathy that both supported and weakened me. Some friends avoided me, not knowing what they could say or not wanting to feel their own pain. Others hesitated to talk of anything other than Doug's death and were taken aback when I laughed or appeared unemotional for even a moment. Thoreau was right when he said "Pity is the brother of contempt." Pity shifted my identity as a strong and intelligent girl to one of "poor June" and left me feeling weak and isolated. The role of "victim" was alien to my experience as a leader and achiever. After a year had passed, exhausted by the confusion of inner and outer disorientation, I fled to another state when the opportunity presented itself.
After settling into a boarding house full of returning veterans, and finding a secretarial job in a law office in downtown San Francisco, I found myself struggling with the desire to reject all of the teachings from my childhood and to live carelessly and rebelliously. I had unwillingly discovered that life could end without preamble and I needed to make the most of my time—an effort tinged with anger and rejection of my former religious beliefs and the discovery of unpredictability.
The "guest house" in San Francisco opened a strange but exciting world to the country girl from Yakima, Washington. These houses were filled as veterans returned from war and resumed their education. Women, no longer needed in munitions factories, sought new employment in big cities. That very first night in the dining room of the boarding house I met Jack and Alex, both of whom had returned from experiences as soldiers on the European battlefront. Both of them were taking advantage of the Veteran's package offered by the U.S. Government for financial assistance in gaining a college education. Both of them needed to augment that assistance by working in the kitchen at the boarding house for additional spending money. Jack was a law student waiting tables and Alex attended mortuary school while employed as an assistant cook. They were roommates and I married both of them, thirty-nine years apart.
Jack and I were married in August, 1949, and were not unlike the thousands of young couples who, making use of GI loans and a burgeoning economy, lived in a brand new home on the San Francisco Peninsula among other couples just like us who were eager to start family life. The entire community was full of hope and promise. Nearly everyone in the neighborhood joined a local church, hosted barbeques and spent hours discussing pregnancies, landscaping and the schedule of the commuter train. Our three beautiful children arrived within four years and were the center of our lives. Soon our schedule was filled with PTA meetings, Cub Scout meetings, choir practice, bridge games and anticipated summer vacations at the beach. After nine years of marriage we had begun to move into a new phase of maturity and satisfaction with our many accomplishments. Once again, life seemed comfortably predictable.
Then one day in July, 1958, my world shattered once again. Jack arrived home from his train commute looking strangely disoriented. He admitted to having a severe headache and immediately went to lie down. His coloring was an unnatural gray with beads of sweat scattered across his forehead. Although the headache passed within half an hour, I wasted no time in making an appointment for him to see our doctor.
After a stumbling and flawed process of diagnosis which took six weeks, the doctor called me from his office saying he was rushing Jack to the hospital. The tumor growing in his frontal lobes had finally produced a pressure which could be seen by a simple eye examination. Further tests in the hospital were followed by a rush to operate. Jack's mother flew from Pasadena to join me in the long wait during surgery which went on for eleven hours. My mind refused to entertain the possibility that our idyllic life in suburbia could be at an end or that the children would be fatherless. I spent the hours gulping endless cups of coffee and reassuring his frantic mother that everything was going to be all right.
At last, the neurosurgeon came out of the operating room to tell us that he had removed the frontal lobes of Jack's brain in order to save his life. Cancer had produced a tumor the size of a lemon, which had spread into the mid-brain, where the surgeons dared not go without risking the possibility of total paralysis. The doctor's exhaustion was obvious as he told me: "You will be responsible for him from now on. He will no longer be capable of making decisions or caring for himself. We cannot say how long he will live, but if he recovers from the surgery, the longest we can expect is probably five years." None of this information registered in my exhausted brain and it would be months before I understood the full meaning of the challenge our family faced.
There are many useful strategies and techniques for people facing such adversity to help them monitor the onslaught of emotions and reactions they will experience. I found myself writing as a means to organize my thoughts. The following is an example of my own writing which helped me process my inner turmoil and pain. Writing it out clarified a painful adjustment to a new reality. It had begun when I first noticed my husband's symptoms and I called it:
DENIAL IS A WARM BLANKET
Can't stop to feel, or understand, must complete dinner—can't stop to question or ponder—a birthday to plan for. No time to savor and digest—children to feed—"Cleanliness is Godliness" "Duty is Good."
Why does he look so confused? His day must have been difficult. Something is wrong.
More food to prepare—bathrooms to clean.
Is he feeling something he can't talk about? Have I done something to upset him?
Children to bathe—cookies to bake—nothing is wrong.
Why are these headaches so often? Why do I feel so separate? He doesn't seem to feel it.
The dog must be trained—PTA meeting to attend.
Well good. The Dr. knows what is going on. It's only tension. A blackbird keeps flying through my head—"you know something is wrong and it's not tension!"
There is laundry to do—beds to be changed. If you are good and do all your work, you are protected from evil.
Must I dare to contradict the Doctor?—will I be punished? The blackbird keeps flying.
I did it—it's done. I was bossy and aggressive. I said "It's not right, you must listen to me." How daring of me—how nervy to question a doctor. Doctors know what they are doing. Authority is to be listened to.
The blackbird has perched. You can't stop now—you have to be heard. Alone—an alarmist? —a neurotic?
God is good. If you show up in church—baptize your children, nothing bad will happen to you.
Mrs. Lamb, "You could be causing the headaches."
Women must not nag—be bossy—they won't be loved. But I am loved. The doctor has misread me.
More tests? Hospitalization? Grim faces?
There are children to be bathed. The dog must be fed. Life must make sense. Everything will be normal tomorrow.
Mrs. Lamb, your husband must have surgery-he has a very large brain tumor.
The groceries must be shopped for, the children need new clothes for school. Of course he won't miss the next Cub Pack Meeting. He's their leader.
Mrs. Lamb, your husband's brain tumor was malignant. We do not expect him to live.
The lawn needs mowing. Is there no reward for virtue? What God? I have done nothing wrong. I cannot be destroyed—my life has always made sense. He's too big to die.
Mrs. Lamb, your husband is suffering major paralysis—he'll need lots of care. You must be responsible for him from now on.
"There's no use crying over spilt milk." Don't cry. Don't collapse. You can handle anything—the children need you.
He looks so confused. His head is not his. Where did he go?
A new reality? Authority must be questioned. They have no answers—just sad faces. None of this is true. It will be different tomorrow. Aloneness is a universal state. Life is cyclical. What cycle is this?
Rules are only perception—there are no dependable rules. God does not have a long arm with which to change anything. Prayer is a joke. Cause and effect are set. God weeps with our pain. Beliefs are imposed. Beliefs can be changed. Are there any answers?
Who took my warm blanket? Where did it go? It's so cold. Where is everyone?
I see. I must start over—begin again.
My belief system did not include the possibility of a disaster of this magnitude. Having been a "good girl," I expected reward. There seemed no place to go, no place to look for reason. What I had been taught about doctors having answers to anything pertaining to health was not true. The doctors were uncertain. I turned to the religion which had previously gone unquestioned and, taking my hand, the minister looked at me with great sorrow saying, "Have faith." I looked back at him in disbelief and angrily retorted: "I DID."
The man who came home to his children three weeks after surgery was not the man who had left. Changing my perception of his capabilities became a daily task. After hours of sitting still, expressionless and withdrawn, he would suddenly explode in anger, or plunge into the front yard, dressed or not. The children began to alternately fear him and try to take care of him.
In the seven years that followed, before his death, I searched for answers to my questions. Why? How was I to survive and protect his children from the catastrophe that had befallen their father? Did we humans have a right to operate on each other's brain, leaving a shell that appeared to be the person we had loved, but which had rendered them helpless to experience any further normalcy? What God would do this? I had believed God directed all earthly activity and that He was loving and fair. This was not fair. How was I to retain my sanity in a world where our friends commented on the wonderful miracle of his saved life while I lived in a 24-hour nightmare of confusion, anger and fear?
The rules I lived by required an absolute loyalty and protection toward him. When friends and neighbors reveled in how well he looked and how lucky we were, I was able only to nod and attempt a smile. Only the doctors and I knew the full extent of his condition, but when I tried to discuss my quest for understanding with them, I was rebuffed. Their interests were narrowly confined to medical statistics and the physical body. They often commented with surprise at his unusual and steady physical recovery and on my courage in caring for him. They also reminded me that they did not know what direction the remaining tumor might take, and that I might wake up to find him dead at any time. They began cobalt treatments, hoping to delay any further cancer growth in his brain. Eventually it was explained to me that the radiation, while slowing the cancer growth, would also destroy more healthy brain tissue.
They consistently dismissed my belief that events taking place in his life could have a direct effect on his physical health. But as I observed his daily behaviors following the ups and downs in our struggle to survive, I began to understand that the mind and the body were not acting as separate entities as was commonly believed, but were acting in unison.
Jack's partner in business was forced to dissolve their corporation and when we told Jack this news he looked back at us blankly. But within hours, he suddenly began to stumble and to exhibit alarming additional symptoms of mood instability. I rushed him to the doctor's office where I was told that the loss of his business identity and his physical symptoms were not connected in any way. The doctors were puzzled as to the source of his symptoms, but assured me that it had nothing to do with anything happening in his life. Their interests focused on his genetic history or whether he had had a blow on the head when playing football in high school – neither of which held a clue to his illness. Once again we went through tests only to find that there was no medical explanation for his current difficulties.
I looked for other authorities in the world which could offer explanations for the phenomena I observed. I pored over books on brain function, books on spiritual healing, on alternative medicine and psychological tools for survival. Well meaning friends frequently brought materials they felt were relevant to Jack's condition. My anger grew as I realized that no one had the answers I sought.
As our oldest son grew toward becoming a healthy, vital young man, he became the target of Jack's increasing frustrations. These frustrations could spill into unprovoked rage toward our son and end with his father shaking uncontrollably. Once again, I would ask the doctors if these symptoms could be the result of his frustration with his own lost manhood and I was assured, somewhat impatiently, that these behaviors were part of his physical condition and nothing more. Knowing that my son was not old enough to understand his father's condition and was forming impressions of himself and his own value from these experiences, I was desperate to know when this nightmare might end. Our son expressed the belief that his father hated him, and it was with great sorrow that I attempted to help him understand that this was not so. What his father hated was his now limited and blighted ability to live normally, which, though not conscious, was buried deep in his psyche. I was on guard night and day to push away unthinkable thoughts – that we might all be better off if he died.
It is important to remember that what I am relating happened fifty years ago. Since that time there has been an explosion of knowledge concerning the connectedness of the mind and body, the importance of the family system, and a much greater understanding of the function of the brain. The help our family needed in understanding Jack's condition and getting support for our daily struggle was not available at that time. It is because of this family experience and my unsuccessful search for validation in what I was observing that, as a psychotherapist, I have chosen to specialize in working with families where one member is suffering catastrophic illness. The current clinical case included in this chapter is evidence of the great advances that have been made in this field.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from THE LEARNING JOURNEYby June W. Lamb Copyright © 2011 by June W. Lamb. Excerpted by permission of BALBOA PRESS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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