time to let go

Namaste good souls...this blog is a sacred space where I ponder on the good stuff of life and getting through the wobbly bits too. And hopefully it will uplift and inspire you and somewhere in this mad old world it makes a positive difference.

When I set it up,  I never imagined I'd be writing about bureaucratic systems or political thingys but that's where I find my life right now.  Some of you might know that my lovely Dad had a stroke in India in March and since bringing him home to England things have been T O U G H. This is a BIG WOBBLY BIT.

Feeling hopeless, I spoke to my good friend Jane today and she said, 'tell your story Dal, let others hear it and let your words be your power'.  I'm also inspired by my fellow blogging comrades to tell IT like IT is.

This is a timeless story, a tired story, a repeated story. But also a shared story and journey especially relevant during National Carers Week.

So please bear with me as I bring to you the bare bones of life as it is now, there are pearls hidden within if I search hard enough. And thank you for sticking with me.

Deep Breaths...

There comes a point during some life journeys when you just have to throw all your cards up in the air and let go. When it's time to put your hands up and say 'enough, I've done what I can and I can do no more. I'm not in control of this situation'.

Today the establishment took away my Dad's one bit of hope that he was clinging to, his rehab bed. He'd had two good weeks of progress after a steadily managed decline.  And then bam, he went back in to hospital with a chest infection. In passing we were told casually that they only hold Dad's rehab bed open for 48 hours for him to return to. 

Anyone with any sense knows things don't move that quick in the NHS. But then I realise that people who have any sense do not make such none-sensical policies. 

That's me right here, right now with my gorgeous Dad, currently trying to navigate the behemoth that is the NHS to get the best outcomes for him. I feel my fingertips slipping from the cliff edge we've fought so hard to climb.  I've sent the emails, made endless calls, banged on doors, challenged. But still I don't feel I'm being heard.

It's weird feeling so powerless. So ignored. I firmly believe in the NHS but my gosh, being on the other side of it as a new carer is completely bewildering. And that bewilderment is coming from a seasoned social worker used to dealing with bureaucratic monsters on a daily basis, used to fighting corners. I'm beginning to feel defeated. But that's just not an option.

So now it's over to YOU - whatever, whoever is up there in that infinitely huge and dark sky - I let go, I surrender, I let YOU. I don't know if I even believe that there really is an omnipotent YOU up there amongst the stars. But my Dad believes there is and so I am handing over to YOU, the one Dad believes in, I am  praying to YOU. 

Please take over and do the right thing by my Dad.  He is suffering beyond words and none of us can make sense of this ongoing out of control rollercoaster that he, we are on.  Dad prayed every day for hours for all living beings and creatures on this earth as part of his faith. He gave money to poor people, did his seva. He righted his wrongs. 

Today, he wept that he can no longer recite his prayers and pray for everyone else on the ward to get better.  He wept as he told me he is crying but the tears can't fall from his eyes. He wept whilst he told me he has never cried in his life, that he's always been strong.

I said it's ok to cry Dad, even if the tears don't come, empty the burden from your heart and cry. Even strong men cry Dad, it's ok.

But it's hard to see my Dad cry. Really hard. I always thought of my Dad as a big strong oak tree. Always there, solid.

If that is so, then he would have dropped little acorns that would have grown in to little oak trees. So Dad, here I am, your little oak tree.

You are not alone.

And I pray that your god hears my prayers tonight.