eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781468573930 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 05/04/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 92 |
| File size: | 658 KB |
Read an Excerpt
Enlightened Reasoning
By Elize Lemieux
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2012 Elize LemieuxAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4685-7394-7
Chapter One
Here Comes the Bride"Here comes the bride, all dressed in white": a little girl's fantasy chant.
The innocent, the charmed; no matter the circumstance.
The youthful visionary dances unknowingly in a blind reality.
No need for solace.
No need for fear.
No numbness in ceaselessly wanting to believe in "happily ever after."
No yearning to be cherished in a barren union.
No seeking to quieten the drone of the routine of fruitless living.
No touch of kindness.
No flirtatious playfulness.
No heated passion.
No arms to embrace souls.
No bond of compassion.
No kiss to seal promises.
No white knight, my darling.
Here comes the bride, all dressed in twilight.
APGAR Score of One: A Life Worth Living
September 4th 1991
I would like to tell you about what happened to me twenty years ago today.
It was 2 pm and I was chairing a meeting. Thank goodness for the prepared agenda before me as I was running the meeting by rote. I remember feeling happy earlier that day, as it was the first day I wore maternity clothes – a navy skirt and a fashionable white blouse. I thought I looked pretty hot for a pregnant lady.
The meeting was going well up until that point. I was focused and in command of the agenda at hand.
Then the day took a dramatic shift south. I started to feel low back discomfort that quickly grew into an ache, and then a pain, that I could not ignore. My face went pale and no relief came from shifting my body repeatedly in the chair at the head of the boardroom table.
Thank God the meeting was to be adjourned. I quickly went to my car and proceeded to drive homeward.
I felt as if I were on automatic pilot now.
The pain came in waves and at the height of each wave I felt my abdomen writhe.
I was stuck bumper to bumper on an endless ride home. I could not navigate a different route because my mind was consumed with pain and premonitions of the tragic turn of events that were to follow.
I finally reached the driveway of 1122 Common Road West and could see that the pool closing crew where just leaving. I could not bear to deal with this now and simply excused myself and went inside.
Thank God my children were at home. All I needed at that moment was to see them and hug them and regain my strength and composure in order to deal with what was to come.
No words had to be exchanged. Both children instinctively knew that their mother was suffering and that they needed to rally round. One led me to my bedroom and I was grateful to lie down. He did not leave my side.
The other went to the kitchen, called my husband and told him to come home immediately.
I closed my eyes and rolled from side to side, unable to find a place of rest. I could not even drink a cup of tea or utter the words, "thank you."
My children kissed and hugged me, both with tears in their eyes, as they said their quick goodbyes. I felt some relief in knowing they would be ok while I attempted to face this cruel hand dealt by life.
My husband arrived with a deep look of anxiety, care and fear.
The drive to the hospital was without words but our hands were held tightly as the pain amplified.
Still no words were spoken as I pushed myself to guardedly and bravely get out of the car.
We headed directly to the 3rd floor of the hospital. My two previous trips to this destination were met with joy, not sadness and deep sorrow.
He quietly spoke to one nurse while another led me to a private room at the very end of a long hallway. She helped me out of my pretty clothes. Warm blankets were placed on my back as I lay on my side knowing I was in full-blown labor.
My husband attempting to be stoic came into the room, still in his business suit. He looked so handsome despite the tragedy we now confronted.
I tried to muster up a smile to show my connection to him and my intent to find courage.
Dr. Caner of the neonatal unit came in.
Tears from my heart and soul now streamed down my face.
His eyes told me the outcome before he spoke the words, "Your baby is too young to survive. You will soon deliver this baby and we will not resuscitate your child or do anything other than our best to make you and your child comfortable."
He squeezed my hand in order to give me more of the much-needed mental and physical strength I needed to endure this implausible journey.
He asked if I had any questions. I could not speak. This was no time to beg and plea for the survival of my baby. The absolute decision had already been made, despite my efforts to protect my child since I first learned of the dangers of my pregnancy the previous July.
That July, there was an outdoor family gathering on a beautiful summer day. It felt like laughter was long overdue. The sun was warm and the food and conversation was at its best.
That evening, my husband and I celebrated the day with torrid sex, all but forgetting the small life within.
The next morning I awoke momentarily happy, and then stretched only to feel a tremendous burst from within.
Red-tinged sanguineous fluid leaked from between my legs.
The phrase "premature rupture of the amniotic sac" now applied. The obstetrician offered a D and C but I refused and hoped and prayed that despite this catastrophic event, we would all survive this.
Now, eight weeks later, the consequence of this rupture unfolded.
The pain in my low back and pelvis was now minimal compared to the overwhelming pain of grief in my heart.
It was time.
I was wheeled into a small delivery room.
An obstetrician was not present. There was only a frightened male med student and myself now ready or not for this birth.
Once entered into the birth canal, the baby's journey was quick into the awaiting hands of the trembling soon-to-be doctor.
All I heard was: "APGAR of one."
The babe was handed over to me, all naked and pink.
His head moved gently to and fro as he found comfort in the palms of my hands. There was only the very faint sound of a cry. I put my face to his and felt the frail, translucent skin as I kissed his tiny, perfectly formed body. Both the smell and the taste of my baby's skin was sweet, and then wet and salty from my ever-flowing tears. I used these tears as the holiest of water to baptize my baby. His color now faded from pinkish to blue as his last breath faded forever.
The tears still flowed and the sobbing now engulfed the room.
A somber nurse came into the room with a tiny basket.
She took my baby from my hands, wrapped him in a small white cloth, and placed him in the basket.
After one final kiss, his physical body was gone from me forever.
Such a brief life.
Was it all worth the immense heartbreak?
Absolutely!
This soul traveled a whole lifetime in five minutes.
He felt the love and the warm touch of his mother's lips as I tenderly and repeatedly kissed him.
He felt the warm tears splash on his tiny chest. They must have felt like the waves of the sea. His tiny body was so weak and fading, yet his spirit rallied with all its might for breath. Oh for him to breath and reach for his mother's face, so warm and wet with grief juxtaposed with joy! I knew him so very briefly and yet I do not regret this event in my life. Looking back, I cherish this memory of a mother's unconditional love.
This baby struggled to survive a natural birth and death. Not unlike all of us.
He travelled from fetus to babe to young human being and became as old as time in one tiny interval.
His life will never be forgotten.
His courage to survive was all too innocent, yet meaningful.
Now, twenty years later I still thank you, dear baby of mine, for the precious gift of gratitude, grace, and serenity your memory always brings to me.
I am no longer consumed or conquered by grief and despair of your failure to thrive.
I feel your hopefulness, incredible courage and strength of soul. Thank you for clinging to life for those five precious minutes and gracing this humble mother. I am forever touched by your fortitude, but also, your fragility. God bless you and please God continue to bless me with this huge lesson of life. In only five minutes, a precious lifetime can exist. Those five minutes will never be misplaced or forgotten. Still, I am always able to draw strength from this divine experience. It is in our frailest moments that God gives us courage and hope.
Despite only having an APGAR of one, you are so dear to me. Dear son of mine, whenever anyone asks me how many children I have, I always count you in.
Michael's Story
How deep is his perception?
I.
What I see and feel in Michael's gaze:
Where once I could only see darkness, pain, suffering and fear,
I now see a vastness of light on an incredible horizon.
I see a self-assured look of courage, anticipation and optimism in Michael's gaze as he consumes the view of his sunrise.
His vision has such inner beauty, power and personal contentment.
When all the elements of his support system align, he experiences a "high."
Calmly and serenely absorbed in the moment, his high is a personal victory of heightened perception.
This is a living story of magnificence, courage, hope and triumph and I would like to share it with you.
II.
I recently visited Port Stanley Beach with my son Michael:
He was so happy to be free on the beach with the wind and the waves.
As you can imagine, his world of autism is often one of confinements, with precious few freedoms.
Seeing and feeling his joy and delight put my heart in a happy place.
Just a year prior to this day of celebration, worry, despair, grief and yes, alcohol, took me to a very dark place in my life.
I could literally feel myself sinking deeper and deeper into a dark hole of desolation.
I had to reach up and out for help to know how far I'd sunk.
Somehow, I was directed by a power greater than myself.
This power, which I choose to call God, heard my plea and helped me humbly to my knees.
Even though I had no strength to stand, I used what little might I had to remain on my knees and pray even more.
I prayed that Michael and I would find our way out of that desperate abyss together.
I prayed everyday and soon I found the courage to change the things I could, and the wisdom to finally accept the things I could not change.
I have been beaten down and accept that he will not become a rocket scientist.
This world is not his oyster, but he has his wave to ride. It is likely that he will never be able to successfully go to the corner store to buy milk. (This is ok because he does not like milk.)
He will never be able to tie his shoes. (Thank God for Velcro.)
Hopefully, he will experience true love and intimacy.
Through the grace of God, Michael has taught me the sincere depth and power of my love for him.
III.
Michael has taught me:
To never hold back.
To persevere, no matter what the odds are.
To fight for every morsel of quality of life for him.
I no longer crave alcohol to numb the painful reality of my son's autism.
Enlightened Reasoning
What I crave now, with a renewed passion, is the look of his eyes focused on his horizon.
Michael creates his own possibilities with grace, wonderment and peace.
My renewed sense of faith has freed my body, mind and spirit from the griping anguish of autism, alcoholism, and suicidal ideations.
This faith and acceptance has freed us both so that we can now live with happiness, joy, peace, and yes, serenity.
I now consider myself to be truly blessed to have this son as he really is and likely will remain.
The daily challenges are finally feeling less and less insurmountable.
Where once I felt only our collective pain, I now see and truly appreciate his sense of optimism and well-being.
You see, it no longer matters how deeply he can perceive this worldly existence within a neurotypical model.
His eyes are on the prize––the trophy is the highest quality of life we can, and will, achieve together.
This amazing young man, with a heart so pure and simple, reveals his soul in his engaging smile.
His gaze conveys all I need to know.
This young man is my son.
Yes, he has autism.
Michael has endured so much restraint, criticism, excessive hardship, ridicule, humiliation and abuse.
He has always had the capacity to forgive and move on with grace.
The reality of Michael's lack of independence no longer plagues me, but motivates me to welcome each new day with shared optimism and delight.
Yes, I am truly blessed and truly grateful to have Michael as my son.
Our higher power has directed us and carried us into flight.
We no longer live in a world of disability but ability.
This journey through the hardships of autism and alcoholism is not one of doom and darkness, but of renewed and rejuvenated hope, faith, care, reward and compassion.
Has this journey been filled with small miracles?
Absolutely!
Has this been a journey of spiritual awakenings?
Absolutely!
And for this I am truly grateful.
My Mother
My mother would have loved it here. She used to scold me and my siblings saying, "All I want is peace and quiet". I can remember all too well the daily turbulences as she tried to keep up with the demands of five needy offspring.
Most days she fumbled. Most days we went without the care and protection we needed. Most days her mental illness consumed her day and ours. The result was that we learned to fend for each other, as well as for ourselves.
I can only remember my mother making us breakfast a few times. Thick, lumpy cream of wheat with milk and brown sugar. Today, I would never think to make this and I know I have never made this for my own children.
I remember when my grade two teacher, Mrs. Lowery, would ask the class, one by one, what we had had for breakfast that morning. When it came to my turn I would lie and say I had bacon and eggs with real buttered toast and homemade strawberry jam. To this day, I do not know if she caught on to my repeating white lie. How could she not have? – my rumbling empty stomach echoed the truth.
Living without truly rocked my formative years. I was frustrated, socially compromised, and had a poor sense of self and well-being. I was constantly reminded of what I lacked by my hunger, the paucity of clean underwear and the hand-me-downs, which were always way too big as my older sister was much taller than me. These hand-me-downs passed hands several times before they reached my siblings and me. I hated this feeling of constant compromise. My stomach held an abundance of discontent. It felt like small gravel stones churning in a pit of unrequited need. The only accessible fix was a cold drink of water to temporarily divert my attention from my want of basic needs.
Where was my mother? Usually, admitted to the psych ward. Where was my father? Usually, off in search of small pleasures, losing himself in familiar bushes in order to find game for his hungry children to eat.
Each day was a hidden exercise in survival behind the closed doors of 585 Second Line.
I suppose that it is healthy to remember one's roots. The humiliation of poverty I then resented has now transformed itself into the great lesson of humility I oh so appreciate today.
My mother needed my siblings and I to look after her. The benefit of there being five of us was that when one of us got tired, another took over.
My mother is gone now. She died in 2004. She died a horrible death by rapidly growing tumours. When she was drawing her last breaths my siblings were all around her taking care of her as we had once done when we where small children and too young for such responsibilities. And now she needed us to keep pushing the button that sent morphine pumping through her narrowing veins. I would hold her close to me and tell her over and over again how much I loved her. I will never forget stroking her hair only to feel the tumorous lumps erupting more numerous each day.
Only a month passed between the time she entered the hospital and her cancer-ridden death. Tumours engulfed the life right out of her weakened body. She even had a tumour in her heart.
Years later, now that I have found that place of "peace and quiet" she so desperately craved, I ask myself: Was she a tormented and troubled soul? I choose to think not. She lived and died with her five children at her side caring for her and loving her no matter the circumstance.
I feel connected to you as I surround myself with this treasured peace and quiet, dear mother. I feel enraptured and know that I am sharing it with you. I miss you. I love you. Your gentle and weak soul now comes to me as we experience the simple pleasure of just being in this quiet moment together. Together, we cry our tears as we recall the past. I feel you close to me now, dear mother of mine. Your spirit, so gentle, now comforts my soul.
I love you mom. I am ever so humbled by your love for me despite your adversities. I am so very grateful to have these beautiful memories of you on this peaceful afternoon, with the cool breeze beckoning the autumn season of our lives.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Enlightened Reasoning by Elize Lemieux Copyright © 2012 by Elize Lemieux. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.