This article was originally written in 2019, it was influenced by the greatest love of my life, my late grandmother who sadly, passed away last year. Read on, she had a lot to teach me. You might learn a thing or two.
Before
“I looked in the mirror today. I hadn’t looked in one for a long long time. So today I looked.”
She swallows harshly, looking down at her hands, playing with the wrinkles surrounding her knuckles,
“What I saw was…off!.
I saw age. I saw a head full of white.
I saw a face filled with valleys.
There are lines running around everywhere.
At the corners of my eyes, around mouth, on my forehead.
It was…off. “
There’s deep confusion in her eyes.
I silently watch as she places her left hand on the ground beside her and tries to get up.
She fails. She tries again. And fails.
I can see the sweat forming on her brow as she stretches that hand towards me.
I slowly help her to her feet.
“I feel…I am…I feel young,” she let’s out,
“Me. Me inside this shell. I feel such joy sometimes… I feel like I can run for days and play endlessly in the rain. I want to stand on the street and shout and teach about God on the streets.
I want to dance. I want to sing at the top of my lungs.
But this shell…this body… It fails me.”
Now.
I hear the soft sounds.
She’s trying hard to be quiet, trying not to wake me. But I can hear the sounds.
I turn over and face the wall, my eyes squeezed tightly shut, and I try to breathe.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
I count each breath even as my windpipe starts to feel like its closing in on me and my nose feels like its clogged with layers of dust!
Eleven. Exhale. Twelve. Inhale.
I cannot breathe.
I’m afraid to breathe.
Fifteen. Inhale. Sixteen. Exhale.
My nose is now useless and I am afraid that taking in air through my mouth will make too much noise.
So I press my lips firmly together and bite down. I taste the salt of my own tears. My eyes hurt from squeezing them too tightly for too long.
But I cannot open my eyes.
Opening my eyes means facing the harsh reality of my own helplessness; that I’m unable to do anything to soothe the pain of the woman in the room next door.
I know she is in pain, I know that she feels like someone has got a hammer and is lightly tapping away at her joints. She has described the pain to me. It’s the kind of excruciating pain that can go on for hours. For hours!
I taste the metallic taste of blood in my mouth but I keep biting down, afraid that if I open my mouth even just slightly, I might scream.
I can feel my nails pressing into my palms. I forgot to cut them! How!? Why!? How could I?
I try to take deep even breaths but they escape my mouth as tiny gasps so I squeeze my eyes harder and try not to panic.
I feel my ribs heaving as if bound by ropes, straining to inflate my lungs.
My head is a merry-go-round of fears spinning out of control, each one pushing my mind further into blackness. I want to wake up and go to her but I’m frozen in place. Her sounds start to seem distant, like I’m far far away, like I’m no longer in the body that lies paralysed on my small wooden bed…
The blood pounds in my ears. My heart beats against my chest like I’m running a marathon. I can taste the bile rising in the back of my throat…
Fear. This is what fear tastes like.
A dozen needles dance their way across my body. I can feel my pulse at my temple, pounding out a hurried rhythm. Then…then…
I remember something. Something she taught me years ago when my lungs threatened to fail me. She had said “No matter the storm or how heavy the incoming panic feels, you can always take control of your own body. As long as you know how to breathe. “
Box breathing.
That’s what they call it…
Inhale for four. Hold for four. Exhale for four. Hold for four.
Yes! Yes. That’s it! Breathe….
In for four. Hold for four.
Out for four. Hold for four.
So I breathe, forcing the air out of my lungs.
And while I breathe, I reflect.
There’s an old woman in the room next to mine who’s own body is fighting against her. There’s a little girl I know of who’s fighting for her life, fighting to survive.
And here I lie,
Sleeping__
In for four. Hold for four.
Out for four. Hold for four.
__in a few hours, I will wake up. I will open my eyes, stretch my arms, unfold my legs and look outside my window.
A few minutes after that I will make my bed, brush my teeth, use the toilet and take a shower. I will then proceed to have breakfast and write for a few minutes before setting off to do whatever awaits me.
I will do all this without a second thought.
But as I lie here, listening to the woman in the room next to mine struggle to grasp a few minutes of peace, and knowing that there are people everywhere that are struggling to to stay alive, to keep breathing, it dawns on me that I have been doing it wrong.
This gratitude thing…
I have been practicing it the wrong way.
And you may be too.
Then
I slowly crept out of my bed that night and walked into the room next to mine.
It was four in the morning.
I couldn’t magically heal her, I am not God.
I couldn’t produce some drug that would erase her pain, I am not a Doctor.
But I knew what it felt like to have your own body fail you. I knew the kind of panic that could induce, the sense of aloneness and helplessness.
So I did what I could.
I slowly and horribly massaged her joints…
I sang a little bit…
I read her favorite scriptures, I prayed with her, I did everything I could to take her mind off the pain until the morning came and the sun broke through the sky.
When she finally closed her eyes to sleep, I walked back into my room and did it right this time.
I was intentional about my gratitude.
I wasn’t vague and simply saying thanks!
I knew what I was truly grateful for.
Intentional Gratitude
I was grateful that I was able to open my eyes and see, for my bodily functions that operate without fail everyday; like the ability to use the bathroom.
I was grateful for the strength to stand on both legs and take a shower, that my knees don’t buckle under me when I walk, that my hands aren’t rigid and stiff but flexible enough to reach out and open the window.
I was grateful for the gift of sight, for the rays of golden brown light that slant in through my window, for the gifts that are the splendid colors of the sun as it rises every morning, that I could feel the heat of the sun on my face and feel the wind on my skin that blows in through the open window.
I was intentional about my gratitude.
Now
It isn’t enough to simply give thanks for everything and nothing in particular and be done with it.
You can’t just say “I am grateful for everything.” What is “everything?”
Be intentional about what you are really grateful for because when you are intentional about something, it’s very hard to take it for granted.
Think deeply about it.
Break it down. Tell me about it..
What particular or specific things are you grateful for?
Hang Onto Hope,
Naks.
“Take time daily to reflect on how much you have. It may not be all that you want but remember someone somewhere is dreaming to have what you have.”_Germany Kent
