MY SOUL I COULD RESTORE

Posted on April 8, 2012 by Judy

This is what I drive to get around.

My journey of insight began two years ago with the beginning of my blog. I am excited about sharing my story, and hopefully my audio book will be available by this summer.

 

What I have been creating is truly an extension of my soul. I believe the most beautiful part of my story is my honesty. My heart is practically beating outside my body as I speak, sing and connect my voice to my own words.

 

My rediscovery of music, which began at the same time as my blog, has given me an even wider avenue of emotional expression. Perhaps that is because a melody can evoke deep feelings and a song can crystallize love and pain with only a few simple words.

 

It was when I was recording songs and stories for my emerging audio book that my speaking and singing voice changed dramatically. It could have been as a result of practice and intense listening, but on an emotional level, suddenly my voice began to take on every nuance of my feelings.

 

It was fascinating for me. I would be speaking a sentence when the words took on a life of their own. I was transported back in time to the actual moment that inspired me to write those words. Within an instant, my throat would tighten. I felt like there was a sponge of tears inside my heart, and with the intense squeezing they poured right out from my eyes. I could not control those moments, nor could I recreate them at will.

 

I discovered that my quivering voice, which I initially thought was useless and embarrassing, was a voice of complete sincerity. It was what made my story far more touching.

 

With my voice changing, it was easily apparent that many of my recordings were not consistent. In January, I began to record my book over again with my new voice. At the same time, I decided to create instrumentals and new vocals for the 17 songs that are included with my book.

 

I found it so interesting how I gave myself permission to enhance my project with anything that I felt it deserved. Although it was costly, my decision to create instrumental versions of my songs for my book was something I was determined to do. In addition, I bore the cost and the hundreds of additional editing hours to create story recordings that were far superior to what I had done six months earlier.

 

I stopped worrying about the expense; refinancing our home had certainly helped. But amazingly, as I continued to spend more and more money for my book, I began to receive significant income from art assignments. This encouraged and sustained me even further. I began to really feel “blessed” and the many coincidences in my life seemed less so.

 

I wasn’t tired of working on my audio book; there just weren’t enough hours in the day for all that I wanted to do on it. But my body was tired from sitting so much in front of a computer. It was the stress of every day life that was such an intrusion and sometimes it caused my insides to ache.

 

Yet, every intrusion or stressful situation I faced was completely alleviated by my music. Whether I was waiting in line at a store, or listening to my father moaning for an entire afternoon, I escaped into the sweet melodies I heard in my mind.

 

I enjoyed listening to the new instrumental versions of my songs. However, working to create these instrumentals with my arranger, George was sometimes tedious; it wasn’t nearly as exciting as arranging a new song. I was usually far too ambitious and rushed George. The result was that sometimes there were subtle imperfections. I lived with them, because I planned to use the songs in the background of my stories, and for that they would still be adequate. 

 

But now, I was especially captivated by my most recent musical project.

 

I was getting ready to record the story and new vocals for my old song “So Real,” and made a snap decision that my song could be arranged differently. For some reason, I wasn’t moved by the music of my former arrangement. It was beautiful, but did not tug at my heart in any way.

 

I surprised George with the news that instead of an instrumental, we were going to create a new arrangement.

 

From the moment we started, I was moved. My heart was pulled in infinite directions and my soul began weeping with the first notes of my song. The new arrangement definitely captured the anguish of waking up to face reality after loss, and was exactly what my song deserved.

 

George suggested a different tempo for my song. We began to create the arrangement using Midi, which was a style of working on a keyboard that allowed for the melody to be recorded in perfect measures and recreated with numerous instruments. The tempo and key could easily be changed; areas could be copied and moved, which allowed for even more flexibility.

 

This style of working was so different from two years earlier, when I’d arrive at George’s studio and he would record me playing my guitar in his kitchen! Working in Midi reminded me so much of Photoshop. Everything was layered and delicate tones could be heard in different ways, similar to Photoshop where each layer could have different effects and opacity settings. Still, I kept in my mind my favorite motto that often “less is more.”

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Below is a blue link to hear my new arrangement as an instrumental:

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SO REAL INSTRUMENTAL – Copyright 2012 by Judy Unger

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As the new arrangement for “So Real” progressed, I felt reinvigorated. Once again, my music continued to heal me. I originally composed my song when I was seventeen and revised it with new verses and a bridge drawing from the memory of my intense grief for Jason. But it was so easy to feel emotional while singing it, because I really felt grief when I wished that my mother could still be there for me to talk to.

 

Because I felt I had endless hours of editing to do, I knew that updating my blog was a luxury I hardly ever had time for anymore. Yet, writing had also helped to heal me and when I heard a voice inside telling me to write – I listened. It was late at night, and suddenly I felt inspired to start writing for my blog again. I began to write something in third person, which I planned to finish later in the week.

 

The next day, I returned to George to continue working on the song. I tried to ignore the loud noise my car was making, but it seemed to grow louder the more I tried to ignore it. The rumble had started a week earlier, and I thought the loud hum in my car was because the street was not paved well.

 –

 

I drove a 1993 Toyota Previa, and it was nearing 210,000 miles. My minivan was the only car I’d ever had that was once new and I looked forward to replacing it someday. I knew that I could have been driving a newer vehicle instead of spending money on my music and recordings. I did have a vision of seeing new things surrounding me in my future. Certainly in my heart, I felt like a new person, and loved dreaming of surroundings to match. But material things were unimportant to me.

My latest body damage was a result of brushing a pole in the parking lot of my parents’ nursing home. I was trying to make room for my father’s wheelchair and came a little too close.

 

The next day after seeing George, I knew I needed to take care of my car problem. I went to a mechanic who came well recommended. I had to sit and wait for almost two hours until he could look at my car to analyze the problem. While I waited, I was blissful as I listened to my iPod. I always had a lot of stories to check and many songs to enjoy. I was proud of myself for being so patient. I sat next to a nice older man who was also waiting, and we had a nice conversation.

 

The mechanic came and asked me to come and look at something while my car was jacked up. His face was very serious as he explained to me how when he test-drove my car around the block, he ended up coasting slowly back. He told me that the problem was so severe, he did not want to stress the vehicle further. He said, “I’m amazed you were even able to drive it to get to this shop.”

 

He explained that the drive shaft on my car was almost broken in two. He pointed to the part that was still in my car. It was almost in two pieces and looked splintered; I could see he was right. Then he added, “There are two shafts for your car. If this was the back one and it snapped, your car would just stop. But this was the front one. If it broke at high speed on the freeway, it would have caused your car to flip over and you’d be dead. I hate to tell you this, but I’ve seen it happen more times than I can count. You are very, very lucky to still be alive.”

 

I went home and pondered how only the day before I was driving to Glendale on the freeway. I had no idea that by neglecting my car problem I had put my life at risk.

 

What really stopped me in my tracks was remembering what I wrote the night before, which related to my life.

It wasn’t as expensive as I thought it would be, but not worth risking my life over!

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SHE WAS BLESSED

 

She loved the idea that she was blessed. She thanked God for all of her gifts and treasured every step of her journey. 

 

With those blessings, she remained determined to finish the creative expression that had saved her. She plodded onward. Whenever she felt discouraged, another blessing came her way that enabled her to continue.

 

It did feel like plodding. The energetic steps where she danced toward a beautiful future had gradually slowed down. She had stopped sharing her excitement. Her tremendous energy and focus was still there, but whereas before she was light and airy, now she felt burdened by keeping so much inside. Sometimes, the heaviness was overwhelming, yet it only made her even more determined to move forward.

 

Although her life felt meaningful and she knew how it felt to be joyful, it saddened her that she was no longer dancing. It was easy to understand why. The sad distractions in her life were quite difficult to ignore and could not be dismissed. It was frustrating for her to admit that she was getting tired. So many things required her attention and she hated the distractions; she did not want to be diverted. But with positive thinking, she channeled all of her emotions into what she was creating instead of feeling pain.

 

When she looked ahead, she could clearly see her destination within view. There was a time, when she had no idea about her destination. Now that she felt more certain, in some ways it was harder. The destination was meaningless for her, as far as materially, because she could continue the creative expression no matter where she went. But the destination represented the time when she could share again, and that was something she was looking forward to.

 

The pain was deep inside. It would squeeze her slowly as it travelled into her throat and upwards to her eyes. The muscles in her neck tightened and it was hard to breathe; her eyes felt like a sponge filled with tears. The squeezing caused the tears to pour downward.

 

But her music was a blanket of comfort for her soul. It was warm and soothing as it surrounded the pain; all squeezing stopped. She would close her eyes and imagine the peacefulness of her future. She escaped into her music and it always lifted her out of the insanity and the pain. It was more than going to magical places now. It was her remedy. Nothing comforted her like her music did.

 

It was then when she heard the voice in her head. Was it God? She didn’t care. She just knew she needed to be open to hear what the voice told her. It was time for her to listen.

 

The voice asked her why she had chosen to see her days now as heavy rocks, instead of the gold coins she had vehemently chosen a year earlier. She wasn’t sure how to answer. She said, “I look forward to spending my gold coins in my future. Today is not the time to spend them. At this moment, I understand why I have rocks – but I know it is only temporary.”

 

Then the voice said, “Today might be your last day. Do you want your last day to be a rock?”

 

She answered, “It doesn’t matter. I know what it feels like to live both ways. I accept this pain because I am trying to reach my destination. If I stop to make my days like gold, I might not continue. I am afraid.”

 

The voice said, “That is why I picked you. You are selfless. You are not on this journey to save yourself.  Continue to listen to your music and your days will be golden.”

 

She smiled and knew she would.


© Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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YOU WERE THERE – PART 2

Posted on March 19, 2012 by Judy
 

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Last week, I completed a new vocal and created an instrumental version of one of my favorite songs, “You Were There.”

 

It’s no coincidence that as both my parents decline; this song is very close to my heart. On the audio excerpt “He Was There and She Was There” I became very emotional. Therefore, since I haven’t had time to write new posts, I would love to share my audio story and new versions of my song. All of my stories have instrumentals in the background as I recite lyrics at the beginning of each story. I am planning to eventually market a CD of only instrumental song compositions.

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YOU WERE THERE

All my life, every day you were there, when I’d need you

All the time, I just knew

You’d be there and you’d see me through

I’ve always known, I’m not alone . . .

You were so strong; you’d pick me up when I’d fall down

So I can see all your strength is in me

Everything that I did, you’d applaud; you were right there

Watching me as I grew, sharing joy and my heartache, too

I always knew, that I had you . . .

Now I’m so strong; I picked you up when you fell down

I learned to see just how strong I could be

Although I try, It’s hard to say goodbye

To someone who loved me all of my life

And when I’m sad, because you’re not there

I’ll still see your love everywhere

Now that you’re gone, I say a prayer

And I remember

how you were there

–

A recent picture I came across of my parents when they got married in 1950.

From the time I was born, I was bathed in love. I was the youngest in my family and was always known as “the baby,” and it’s interesting that my mother was “the baby” in her family, too. In my mind, I can easily picture an old home movie where my mother showed me off as an infant. She glowed with pure, radiant joy while she held me, and beams of love shot out of her face and eyes. Throughout my childhood, she always told me that I was “the little girl she dreamed of having.”

 

My favorite instrumental song, “Farewell” with its gorgeous melody, inspired me to write lyrics that became a tribute to both my parents. My new song “You Were There,” was also a farewell. It expressed my appreciation to them while at the same time acknowledging how hard it was for me to say goodbye. I’ve been told my song is quite spiritual, and reminiscent of someone expressing deep appreciation to God. Certainly, when I wrote “You Were There,” it helped to fill a tremendous void within me.

                 

Because my mother was always my confidant, when she became seriously ill, I felt so empty. It was then that I discovered how I received solace from writing. Although my mother recovered from being on a respirator for two months, her mind was never the same after that. I was sad when she could no longer relate to me; there were so many things that I longed to share with her. But I definitely conveyed to her how I had healed. She was able to understand that I was happy and that mattered more than anything to me.

 

Unlike losing a child, I know it is expected and commonplace for parents to age and fade. Still, the process of seeing my parents deteriorate was painful as I tried to alleviate their suffering. I rose to that challenge because my parents were always there for me; it was their love and support that truly enabled me to cope after losing Jason.

 

My song lyrics for “You Were There” flowed out easily from me as though they were already written. The lines of my song that touch me most, are the two that describe how I went from being the child to becoming the parent. With the transition of words “me” and “you, I first say: “You picked me up when I fell down,” and then I say: “I picked you up when you fell down.”

 

There are many stories I could write about what I went through the many times where my mother fell down; I truly feel like I have picked her up. My writing journey began after she ended up on a respirator, and that was a result of a fall where she broke her shoulder and had resulting complications due to her immune disorder. She contracted pneumonia very easily. When she broke her hip later on, I refused to allow any surgery to repair it; I had not forgotten the ordeal of when she was on a respirator.

 

I learned “just how strong I could be” when I faced down so many doctors and medical personnel who attempted to convince me that no one ever refused surgery to repair a broken hip. I was told my mother would be bedridden and die rather quickly, and as a result she was put on hospice.

 

My mother was able to sit in a wheelchair within a few days. Because my mother was not in terrible pain, I continued to follow my instincts and refused to allow for surgery. I requested another opinion and although this orthopedic doctor also recommended surgery, he told me that my mother’s hip fracture could heal over time. I requested that hospice be discontinued. Eventually, my mother was allowed to have physical therapy and it was miraculous that she was able to stand and walk again. Unfortunately, my mother never regained much of her former strength and more than anything; I wished that something could have halted her rapidly progressing dementia.             

 

When I first wrote lyrics for my song, there was one line that I wasn’t 100 percent sure of.  It was: “And when you’re not there, I’ll look for your love everywhere.” That line felt needy and sad, even though it was honest. Through hypnotherapy, I learned that reframing thoughts by replacing one word with another could lift my mood. I decided to change the lyrics from “I’ll look for your love” to “I’ll still see your love everywhere.” I knew that no one on this planet loved me more than my parents did, and now my song was truly finished.

 

I shared my song “You Were There” with both my mother and my father. My mother told me she told me she didn’t like my song. Dementia reduced her to a very childlike state; all her fears were extremely heightened. She had a lot of fear around death, so I wasn’t surprised. I understood she wasn’t ready to leave me yet, and I was glad that I had the courage to share my special song with her.

 

Just imagining my father listening to my song on an IPod with headphones, gives me a big smile. Even though he was quite ill and always adamant about hating music and electronic devices, he eventually caved in and listened to my recordings. My father was very emotional when he complimented me on my lyric writing. It meant so much to me.

 

Before I wrote my song, I first channeled my feelings into poems called “He Was There” and “She Was There” and they became the inspiration for my song.

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My mom and Jason when he was an infant.

“HE WAS THERE”

 

I stood up to give a speech. The room was crowded. I was the winner of the west coast region’s Secretarial Award and it was a great honor. I remembered how in the summers I would drive with my father every day to work as a secretary at the Board of Education where he worked in downtown Los Angeles. My father had painstakingly helped me with the application process.

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Everyone was clapping as I stood up, but it was my father’s face that I remembered most.

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He was there.

 

The beach parking lot was full. There was one space left on the side of the highway. As I exited my car and started walking toward the beach with my friends, I asked a man if it would be OK to park there and he said, “yes.” At the end the day, my friends and I trudged across the sand to my car. My guitar felt heavy and I was sunburned and hungry. I looked everywhere for my car, but it was gone; it had been towed.

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I walked a mile to find a pay phone to call my father to come get me. An hour later, his car drove up. He was very upset, but I remember how grateful I was to see him.

–

He was there.

 

It was time to say goodbye to my dead child. His body was being readied so he could be seen without all the tubes. I waited with my husband and my parents in silence; I was exhausted from my earlier screaming and wailing. A nurse summoned us to go in. My mother said she’d wait outside; she emphatically said she couldn’t do it. My father said he would come in with us. I asked him if he were sure, and he said he was.

–

Time stopped, as I walked in slow motion to face the worst part of my life. The horror of it would never leave me. I wanted it to end, but at the same time I knew I’d never see my child again. It was the only time I’d ever have to say goodbye. Finally it was enough. I left the room and my husband followed in silence. We waited and we waited. Eventually, I had to go back into that room to get my father and tell him it was time to go.

–

He was there.

 

It was just another evening following a day filled with grief. There was a lot of relief over surviving another day; perhaps it was another day that would be closer to healing and less pain. I thought I heard my father’s car pull up in the driveway half an hour earlier. I looked out and sure enough, his car was there. I wondered why he hadn’t come in yet. But I knew. He would sob in his car before coming into my home.

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I opened the front door and tiptoed barefoot into the twilight. He didn’t see me. I was right. He had his head bent over the steering wheel. His sobs echoed into the night air. I knocked on the window to let him know I was there and it was time to come in. 

–

He was there.

 

“SHE WAS THERE”

 

I was an adult in my early 20s. Suddenly, I felt like a baby again, with the flu. I was home alone and I could barely move. “I’ll be fine,” I told my mom on the phone. A moment later, I opened my eyes and there she was holding a cool washcloth. She wiped my forehead and patiently gave me a bowl of chicken soup.

–

She was there.

 

It was the kind of fatigue that was beyond being alleviated by sleep. I was full of an intense, restless anxiety while at the same time my eyelids were as heavy as bricks. The night was giving way to dawn. I had gone another night without a single moment of sleep. Jason wouldn’t stop crying; he was only a few weeks old. I wondered: Would I be able to continue this pace of trying to feed this impossibly sick child without any sleep?

–

The doorbell rang. Jason was still crying as I opened the front door.

–

She was there.

 

There was no reason to get up; I didn’t want to move. I was under the covers. I had no tears left and my body was completely spent from crying for days and days. It had been a few months since Jason died and my husband had gone back to work. No one was home. Even though I heard the doorbell, I ignored it. I wanted to die.

–

She let herself in with a key and my bedroom door opened. She pulled down the covers, curled up next to me. She held me and together we cried.

–

She was there.

–  

© Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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I KNEW I’D BE OKAY – PART 1

Posted on February 29, 2012 by Judy

I created this illustration for the last story of my book. I am looking out my door to a beautiful future.

“I am blessed”

I used to go shopping with my mom every Monday evening; it was our special ritual. She would accompany me to many stores, as I hunted for items on a long list. I always brought along coupons in my holder and she had her own holder, which matched mine. We would often swap coupons. I no longer cut coupons and I shop as little as possible.

 

My list was getting far too long and I couldn’t put it off any longer. I decided to fit in a shopping run; it was certainly more exercise than sitting at my computer. I danced through the store and decided that I missed shopping as I listened to my music and quickly gathered items for my household. My basket was full, and I estimated it would probably be several hundred dollars. I swiftly placed belts, T-shirts, deodorant, food items and even some new bed sheets on the conveyor belt. The checker smiled at me, and I asked her, “How are you?”

 

She answered, “I am blessed!”

 

I stopped and said, “That’s amazing, I feel that way, too! Your answer is my answer. You know, we are part of a special group of people. Our deep appreciation for life glows from our soul as we walk through life.”

 

I paid my bill. As I left the store, I could still feel her warm hug. I didn’t know her, but felt like I’d see her again someday. She was very excited to meet me and told me she looked forward to reading my blog and hearing my music.

 

“I’ve closed the curtains”

I’ve described my writing as an explosion, when I first began my blog. The “window to my heart” opened up and I released decades of memories and feelings.

 

After a year of writing, I wrote a poem where I mentioned I had left the window open but decided to close the curtains. I still love to write, but have satisfied that desire by composing new songs. They continue to erupt from me and the process always leaves me totally fulfilled.

 

Writing for my blog is a luxury that I have had to limit in order to continue my ambitious pace of editing and recording my audio book. If I wrote about my passion and what I have been doing – it would probably be boring to read about. However, I am very excited at how much I have improved as a speaker and singer since I began recording my book.

–

This picture was taken two years ago. A lot has changed since then.

“Wings that fly, and wings that flutter”

I was up until 2 a.m. working on editing one of my songs. The next morning, my 21-year-old son became extremely ill. I received his text message while I was playing tennis. I suggested he make an appointment to see his doctor. I was amazed how I knew his medical record number, as well as his doctor’s phone number by heart. I texted him back the information.

 

He told me he was too sick to even make an appointment. I was wary, since most of my children are used to me taking care of things for them. That has changed a lot, though, as I’ve healed over the past two years. I decided I would call and take him to the doctor, because he looked like he was in tremendous pain. I was able to schedule a 3 p.m. appointment.

 

At lunchtime, it became clear to me that I had to take him to the doctor immediately. He could hardly speak or walk. I wished I were a little more lucid to handle the situation, since I had only gotten 4 hours of sleep the night before. As I drove him to the hospital, he retched into a bag and moaned loudly.

 

By evening, my son had surgery to remove his appendix and ended up spending one night in the hospital. All day long, I was relaxed and smiling; I let every health care worker know how professional and terrific they were. I came home and celebrated how everything had turned out ok; my child had received such excellent care.

 

I rarely write about my children anymore on my blog, but couldn’t omit this story. My 21-year-old son is truly a wonderful man. He has always had fears about surgery and anesthesia; he never even allowed for Novocaine shots when he had dental work. But yesterday, he was absolutely remarkable and I was so proud of him.

 

I know there are many parallels between my children and my parents at this time in my life. I’m still definitely part of the “sandwich generation.” But lately, I’ve realized there are some differences. One of those differences came to the forefront last week, and filled me with sadness.

 

I was sad because my children are spreading wings to fly, whereas my elderly father is fluttering slowly down to the ground.

 

A few weeks ago, my father mentioned to me that he wanted to move from his skilled nursing facility into an assisted living facility. I felt trepidation at first, but stifled it when I saw how excited he was about it. It was rare that he was excited about anything anymore. Most of the time he was dour and depressed.

 

The glimmer in his eye and the lilt in his voice reminded me that it was important to allow for his dream, even though I realized that it might lead to a situation that would not be in his best interest. I was concerned that if he fell ill, I might end up frantically trying to find a place to care for him.

 

When he told me one of his major reasons for moving, it was hard for me not to laugh and cry at the same time. He said he wanted to get away from his nursing facility because he was “surrounded by dummies.” That was my father’s description of the rampant dementia that did indeed surround him. I knew he wasn’t that tolerant of my mother’s confusion, but now his roommate and the three other people at his dining room table were driving him crazy.

 

The other reason my father mentioned was financial. His love for my mother was apparent, because he wanted to be sure there was enough money to continue paying for her companion/caregiver. He said he wanted to move in order to make things easier for me and insisted there would be more money if he went into a cheaper, assisted living facility. The feeling of being cared about by my father was something I treasured. It was the last vestige of my role as his child.

 

My father was looking out for me.

 

It soon became clear that he wanted to make his dream a reality. I was excited to see my his enthusiasm. My father was controlling his own destiny now and I decided it was very important that he had this opportunity, even with the reservations I had. Like any of my children, it was best that he came to make his own decision. I did not want to discourage him, nor be the one to dash his dream.

 

My father had a brand new facility in mind, that had been recommended to him. On two occasions, I drove him over to look at it. I noticed that there wasn’t a handicapped parking space and it looked like this new place was simply a converted apartment building. As I helped him out from my van, I felt like I was taking one of my children to look at a college dorm. (Even though none of my children have ever lived in one).

 

There was another comparison to my children: My teenagers always wanted to appear cool in a new situation. When my father told me not to bring the blanket he normally wore over his shoulders, I realized that he wanted to appear less ill that way.

 

A young woman introduced herself and gave us a tour through the facility. When my father moaned loudly, she asked him if he were okay. He said, “I always moan and everyone always asks me that. I can’t help it. I’m not in pain; it’s just discomfort.”

 

My father has suffered greatly with a permanent catheter, due to his enlarged prostate and kidney stones. Sadly, he continues to have recurrent infections. After viewing what would become his new room, it looked fairly certain that he would be moving the following week.

 

Then he changed his mind about moving.

 

The first thing that happened was that he received a call from his urologist. His recent urine specimen showed another infection again. His antibiotic regimen was extended for a month and all healthcare workers were required to wear gowns and masks when working with him.

 

I asked him if that was the reason he had changed his mind. Then he told me there was more to it. He said, “I reconsidered moving when I was wet at night and needed my diaper changed. At the new facility, there wouldn’t be anyone to do that for me in the middle of the night.”

 

I felt so sorry for him. As his dream faded, I could see that his eyes exuded hopelessness.

–

A recent picture taken with my father.

“No more hospitalization”

It was so different for me being in a hospital yesterday with my son, than it had ever been in the past. I was calm, relaxed and extremely grateful for the excellent care my son received; he would be fine with all the advantages of modern medicine.

 

I have had many traumatic experiences in hospitals, especially with my son, Jason, who died in 1992.

 

I have also spent a lot of time in hospitals with both my parents. However, my parents now have orders that state “no hospitalization.” If they are ill, they will simply die at their nursing facility without any intervention.

 

The “no hospitalization” order was written for my mother when she was on hospice after breaking her hip. My father has told me that he definitely never wants to see a hospital again.

 

I dread when the day arrives where they will be dying at their facility.

 

I pray it happens in their sleep.

–

This is a rare picture of my father with his mother and one of his grandchildren. His mother never smiled and I see a lot of resemblance to her in him now.

“How horrible a catheter is”

My son walked gingerly into his bedroom. He was so tired and told me he had hardly slept for two days. We drove through Taco Bell so I could buy him his favorite lunch. His eyes bulged with pain as he lay down on his bed. He was shivering, possibly a reaction to pain or to medication.

 

I hurried to eat my own lunch and took a quick shower. I had an hour before my father would be coming over. I did not want to change the routine; every week, my father loved to come over to spend the afternoon at my home. He had so few pleasures in his life and on this day, he would get to see his grandson.

 

My father’s eyes were bright when I told him my son was home from the hospital. I pushed his wheelchair over to my son’s bedroom. My son was still awake.

 

My son piped up, “Grandpa, now I know how horrible a catheter is! It’s like pissing sand!”

 

My father bent over his wheelchair and sobbed with relief to see him.

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My mother is a miracle because she is able to walk after breaking her hip a year ago. She did not have surgery to repair it. Her dementia symptoms have been quite alarming lately. She has been more aggressive and did not recognize her caregiver, yesterday.

© Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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ANOTHER YOU – PART 2

Posted on February 1, 2012 by Judy

– 

ANOTHER YOU

Copyright 2010 by Judy Unger

 

Here I am writing to you,

When I know you’ve heard these words before

But now there’s so much more,

And it’s mostly left unsaid

And here I am singing to you,

When I know that you’ve heard every song

But this one is lifelong; the music is forever

 

And I know if I search my whole life through

I’ll never find another you

I could search and search my memories, too

And I’ll never find, I’ll never find another you

 

Here I am dreaming of you

Wishing I could tell you so many things

But then the memory brings a smile

And you are with me now

Here I am shining to you

And I can’t believe what’s happened to me

My happiness is there to see

and what you would have wanted

 

And I know if I search my whole life through

I’ll never find another you

I could search and search my memories, too

And I’ll never find, I’ll never find another you

I’ll never find another you

Even if I search my whole life through

I’ll never find another you

Even if I search my whole life through

–

CLICK THE BLUE LINKS BELOW TO PLAY MY SONG:

ANOTHER YOU-1/18/16 Copyright 2015 by Judy Unger

 ANOTHER YOU #2 INSTRUMENTAL Copyright 2010 by Judy Unger

Link to part one of this story: I’LL NEVER FIND ANOTHER YOU–

 

I dedicate this post to Cheryl. I am including many old pictures.

 

I wrote my song “Another You” for my friend Cheryl thirty-three years ago. It was one of my very first song arrangements with George when I started recording my songs in 2010.

 

It must have been no coincidence that on the third anniversary of Cheryl’s death, I was working with George to create a new arrangement of this song.

 

I spoke with Cheryl’s mother, Blanch, while driving to Glendale where I work with George. It was a difficult phone call. I let her know I was thinking of her on this sad “anniversary of the heart.” Blanch reminded me of what I already knew – that every single day was hard, it made no difference about the anniversary. The pain of her grief was endless.

 

I told her I would share my song when it was finished, and I mentioned how Cheryl continued to touch my life. I often hear Cheryl’s voice, and I feel like she is close to me. Recently, I added another verse to my song, about how Cheryl is with me.

 

Last week I ran into some technical problems at the recording studio. I’ve been working on my audio book without much of a break for months, and the prospect of seeing it almost finished was tantalizing. The recording issues translated into hours of recordings that were not usable. I was devastated and more than a little discouraged. It felt like my destination of finishing my book was getting farther away.

 

However, I decided to find serenity with the fact that I am “the vehicle” for all that I am doing. I can redo anything, and practice has always been beneficial for me. Unfortunately, the problems have not yet been solved, and I plan to hang on until they are.

 

While I was hanging on, I wrote a new song. Every time I write a new song, I continue to heal my soul. My heart feels like a garden that is blooming, and the beauty of my music continues to bless my life.

 

My music gives me emotional strength. Recording a new arrangement for Another You was an expense I wasn’t sure I could justify. But when I listened to my new arrangement, it caused my heart to soar.

 

My serenity allows me to push aside the doubts, which had begun creeping inside of me like poison. I drove home from my recording session and I felt relaxed. I was determined not to allow financial pressure to cause me stress.

 

My journey was about helping other people, and also about healing myself. I did not want it to end.

 

I came home to a beautiful message from an art director. She wanted to purchase several paintings that I could easily produce. It was sign for me. Letting go of fear, once again produced an amazing result.

 

I cried tears of happiness. I heard Cheryl’s smiling voice. She was beside me every step of the way.

–

My journey would continue.

–

© Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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