A Foray Into Shyness (Pt I)

I am in the middle of a major life change now, while already in the middle of recovering from a trauma I never realized had victimized me, decades ago. This recovery period is now into its fifth year. But now, as of the past two weeks . . . and months, even . . . the first major life event has occurred, since the beginning of the recovery process in 2020.

I can respond differently than I ever have before. 

My mother died. 

May 25th, 1:30am. In her room. In her home. With all four kids, two children-in-law, and two grandkids present. She fought bitterly against the vast sweep of hospice care, and heroically. But finally breathed her last, and fell asleep. 

I have been her primary caregiver for the past five years, at least. It was then that she began to lose her grip on her cognitive and physical abilities. 

As her decline progressed, we all failed to note the milestones. We could see changes, but just attributed it to her having a bad day. "We'll improve her diet. We'll make sure she gets more sleep. That will turn things around."

But the decline of dementia does not work that way. There is a long, steady, but certain slide into losing one's independence and quality of life. Towards the end, the decline pivoted into more of a nose-dive.

Our response to Mom's decline is parallel to my response to trauma - two major traumas in my life, which precipitated all the others. 

My traumas were these:

  1. Treatment by the University of Michigan bureaucracy (Doctors, Educators, Administrators, Authority Figures) and
  2. Treatment by Nortel's hierarchy and others (Human Resources, Executives, Friends and Colleagues, the ACLU and NAACP)
Both traumas created habitual responses on my part, that impacted the rest of my life: career, relationships, friendships, overall wellness. My decades of anxiety most likely culminated from the experiences. Other minor traumas followed: A person, once marked, becomes easier prey for the next predator. 

My reversal began with the shock that was dealt my system, thanks to the Robert Anderson case taking shape. I spoke to other victims and whistleblowers. I knew I was not alone, I was not crazy, and the physical sensation in my chest was not because I was "out of shape."

Our experience caring for our Mom was traumatic to all of us. We did not recognize it. We did not know it was there. But it put strains on our relationships with our Mom and each other. It layered upon my own spirit, that was in the midst of addressing the afore-mentioned serious life traumas. 

The trauma was broken upon Mom's own death . . . when we began to grieve, and to see clearly what we had been through (eventually - - - it is all still a fog to me). 

But I have entitled this post "A Foray into Shyness," and have not even begun to go there yet. Let me make it a two-parter, and end Part One right here. 


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