Generational Transformations: Part 2

(My mom realized some of the horrors of her childhood but she had internalized the practice of un-sharing because to expose one’s burdens, exposed their vulnerabilities. And this exposure could only lead to further victimization.)

My father was diagnosed with cancer at the age of 39. I was 13. It was during my 8^th grade year. Middle school. My mom sat in the hospital waiting to hear the news. By the grace of God or the Universe or anything anyone believes in, a friend named George happened to be at the hospital that day getting his blood drawn for routine testing. He stumbled across my mother in the waiting room and inquired as to her reason for being there. They were colleagues. She shared the situation with him- my dad was in surgery. It could be anything… blah blah blah… including cancer. Mom used to say that George must have run to the nearest pay phone and dialed his wife. His amazing miracle of a wife, Sondra, rushed to the hospital (although she has never once in her life driven above the speed limit that I know of) and was with my mother when she received the news. Cancer.

(Sondra is still a life-line for me. She visits my mother monthly and I have conferred with her about each and every decision and step throughout the caretaking process. She is one of those people whom I can never in a lifetime thank enough. I am grateful to her family for sharing. In every single dark place in my life, she has been nearby. In tears and laughter and confusion, Sondra.)

My brother and I were told about the cancer and somehow, I don’t even remember, the message that this news was to be kept quiet and not shared, was loud and clear. I carried this shadow for the duration of my father’s battle with cancer. Over the course of the next 3 1/2 years, he went through several treatments and experimental attempts to extend his life. He was often told that he had less than 6 months to live. The administrators at my school were informed during the latter part of his life such that I was permitted to leave school during any/ all free periods, to visit him in the hospital. I cherished this time with him- any time with him. He died in early December of my senior year of high school.

(To be present for Macy’s graduation and so many pivotal events that my daughters have experienced, to share in their lives even when we are apart, for all of these moments, I am beyond grateful.)

Imagine carrying the weight of pain, sadness, confusion and mourning, the sub-conscious belief that there was shame in morbidity and mortality. In sickness and in health… as long as you keep it to yourself.

We are raising a different generation. Information is a freefall formation and anything- even the absolutely false and ridiculous and the most damaging and hurtful and wrong, so very wrong- is easily accessible. Our kids must become experts at filtering and assessing everything for truth, reality, right. They cannot rely on people just because they are adults or claim to be experts. Then again, we couldn’t either but we were unaware.

I try to think of golden nuggets of wisdom to share with our daughters as they navigate their way through broken and battered relationships; face tremendous disappointment in so many people they considered friends; and discover innovative ways that people create to be and spread evil. When faced with sexual harassment, we have not only stood our ground but fought for justice. I have told them that they will face these things again- this is not anything a parent wishes to say- although probably in more subtle and extreme forms as they age. I have asked them to take this pain and these lessons and grow individually and to also share their knowledge by supporting others who encounter similar situations. To share growth and love and awareness of being enough.

This generation advocates for mental health every day. They live and breathe and demand a better world. One in which abusers and perpetrators are identified and held accountable. Unfortunately, there are so many older people (ok, boomers) who continue to protect evil. Have faith. They will die. We all do. The fight and passion this generation has for social justice, the demand for better conditions and fairness for all, the capacity to treat each other and model respectful behavior and cease judgment. All of this makes me hopeful. I think my mom would agree- we have come a long way from her triumph of being able to wear a pantsuit to work.

Seeking help and care when you need it, is always the best approach. Hiding pain and suffering under layers of dirt (you know I wanted to use a different word here), only delays the inevitability of dealing with decay and rot.

May this generation continue to grow and evolve and spread love and understanding for all. May they find strength in truth and authenticity. I love their power. I adore their passion and compassion. And the beat goes on…