Finding My Clown

A few years ago I had the privilege to learn with a counselor from hospice. He was talking about his 20 year career with hospice. "20 years" and "hospice" do not often go hand in hand. From that lecture there were many things that he said, that stay with me to this day.

"There is no room for martyrs in grief counseling."

"Our job is to listen to their story and not assume we understand how they are grieving."

"Find your clown."

The first two statements can stand alone. The last statement, on the other hand, needs some context for meaning.

He shared, how on one day, he was witness to 6 deaths.

I raised my hand and asked, "Where do you put all of that?"

Now this question, aside from being like some strange psychobabble, was asked not from some deep compassionate place. I think I asked it out of fear. Can I do work, where I may be privy to that kind of intense loss? Can I handle it? Where would I put all of that?

Without skipping a beat in the conversation, and without calling me out on my terror he said, "I am a clown...a card carrying, red nose wearing, big black floppy shoe donning clown."

He decided a long time ago that the only way he would avoid the burn out that comes naturally when surrounded daily by palpable emotional pain, he needed to do something that brought him joy and had nothing to do with death. He learned how to be a clown. He never did his clown gig for hospice. He was a clown for his church and anyone else who wanted a rent-a-clown.

So he looked at me again. This time I could see he knew my question was about me.

"You will need to find your clown, if you are going to do this work."

So here I am, doing the most meaningful work of my life. During the day, I work in some way with families who have suffered tragic loss, and have made the life "gifting" decision to donate the organs of their loved one so others may live. Twice a week in the evenings, and on Saturday afternoons I go to my private practice where I hold the pain of my clients for an hour and together we journey through it. When I am with them I often feel like a miner, with the small headlight trying to illuminate the way.

Meaningful work, in this case, is profoundly intense work and I have come to the place where I need to "find my clown." Perhaps some would find this mandate easy, I, however, am stuck.

I have learned over the years that it "easier" to be present for pain. The loss in my life has allowed this to come naturally, which is why I am drawn to the work I do. Being present for joy has always been a conscious effort and decision. That is the heart scar from loss as a teenager whose healing was uneven and not tended to.

Don't get me wrong. I have achieved things I never thought I could. I have wonderful children, a loving husband, a second career I thoroughly enjoy and worked hard to earn. I have good friends (albeit spread all over the country) and I have the capacity to appreciate my blessings.

But hear this. When we do not take care of the pain and ache of our children they will carry it with them. They will feel it over their joy. They will find a strange comfort in it, because it is what they know.

I am committed to "finding my clown."
I wish it did not seem like a daunting task.
I wish it was obvious.

It may have to do with music, or art, or water, or wise women...

I guess I have to, once again, follow the whisper of my soul and see where she leads.

A Prayer for A New Journey

Dear God,

Today I am being given the gift of a new job. In a climate where we have to worry about whether our current employment is safe, I am grateful that life presented me this opportunity and that I had the strength to respond.

People begin new paths each day. Some people have their journeys thrust upon them, while others (like this one) are by choice. Either way, we are pulled from our comfort zone and are asked (or told) it is time to look at life anew. What we do with this opportunity is up to us.

On this day, I feel my mom with me, and for the first time ever her picture is coming with me to work. I feel she belongs at this job with me, and I am not certain why, but I am following the whisper of my soul, which, I have come to believe, is You, guiding me through my darkest periods.

May I have the awareness to access the abilities I have to make a difference in the lives of others. May I use my love of collaboration and incessant need to learn to inspire those around me to be the best they can be.

Most importantly give me the ability to be present each day for this job so that I can learn all I need to, hear what is offered and then use it to excel. May I make my children and Alan proud of me, and may my moms hand rest on my shoulder, reminding me that I have come so far without her physical presence but her love has remained.

Thank you God, for my gifts and even for my heart ache, because from it all I have learned.

The Yearly Ritual

This morning I engaged in my yearly ritual of the mammogram. It is always the same. I am taken back by a well meaning woman who looks at my age and the questions come:

"Is this routine?"

"You are turning 40 this year and you have been having these for years, why?"

"Wow, your mom was diagnosed at 35."

"Did she survive?"

And thus the ritual begins. Mammographers mean well, but I prefer the older ones to the younger ones. I like the ones who are more my mothers age. Go figure. Today I had someone who was probably 25 years old. She was nice enough, but today I felt the need to have a gentle hand, a soft touch and reassurance that while my mom was dying at 40, I am going to live. 

No mammogrpaher in their right mind would stick my breasts in a vice and predict my future...but it would be nice.

On my way to the appointment I stopped for a cup of coffee. As I was pouring milk into my cup, I looked to my left and heard two women laughing. Both wore scarves on their heads and their eyebrows were fond memories. Their pink shirts, no doubt, hid scares that would make most of us weep. Did I mention, they were laughing? I could hear my mom (and Wendi) say, "Stop staring, Elissa," so I diverted my gaze and went on my way.

I don't remember my moms laugh.

I don't remember her voice. 

I don't remember her touch. 

I remember her cancer. 

I remember her scars.

I remember her death at 41.

So as I near 40 and deeply long for the guidance of women and mothers, wise ones who guide those who seek, I try to keep my heart open to the not so quiet lessons that my life brings and hope that wherever my mom is she is gently guiding me to where I need to be.