My wife, without exception, is the most caring person I know. You want someone with sympathy, empathy, and charity, Phyliss is your gal. Whether you’ve scraped your knee or lost a family member she’s going to provide comfort and solace. If you come to me with the same, I’m little help at all. She got the blues elimination genes, and I got the blue jeans.
Phyliss, Autumn & Hazel Chaga, June, Phyliss, and Eden
There’s one thing about Phyliss when it comes to her compassion. She has a hierarchy. If I’m the only person around, I get it all. If one of her adult children is around, I kind of fade into the background. If the grandchildren are around, I disappear completely.
I get it. It’s the way it should be. After all, an old guy like me shouldn’t need her magnanimity, especially when compared to the needs of her children and grandchildren.
Last weekend was a good example. It was my birthday on Sunday, but even more exciting, two granddaughters were visiting from Vermont and the two granddaughters up the street would be visiting as well. I know that when that happens, I need to make myself scarce ‒ At least in terms of having needs.
Don’t get me wrong, there are still needs. Like the need for me to fill the dishwasher, take out the garbage, bring in the firewood, and get the dock in so the girls can go fishing. I just shouldn’t try to compete with the grandgirls…or the dog, for that matter.
While Phyliss is busy cooking up a storm of the girls’ favorite meals, giving them their recently-sewn jean vests, setting up their jigsaw puzzle, getting them some fairyland figures or perhaps their favorite ice cream desserts, I know enough to stay in the background and just provide support when called upon. Once the girls are in bed she goes into whisper mode. I have severe hearing loss so when Phyliss goes into whisper mode I might as well be Quasimodo.
However, there’s one exception to this and that’s when I need, at the very least, equal prioritization. And that’s when it’s about my wellbeing. You see, I have this medical issue. It isn’t life-threatening. It only happens three or four times a year and for a very short time, but it requires her patience and understanding.
Sometimes in the middle of a dream I find myself unable to move. It is usually associated with a nightmare. For example, I once dreamt I was in a tent on a cliff, and someone was rolling boulders down on me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t get out of my sleeping bag to escape. I started screaming, “Help! I can’t move. Wake me up. Help!”
Phyliss started shaking me, “Wake up Jack, wake up!” After what was a short while for me but an eternity for Phyliss, I finally woke up, thanked her, and rolled back over to sleep.
According to the medical experts there’s little danger from what is called “Sleep Paralysis.” In most cases, sleep paralysis is simply telling you your body isn’t moving smoothly through the stages of sleep. In ancient times it was believed that paralysis was caused by demons, witches, or other supernatural creatures (perhaps alien abductions). While I’m sure Freud would have had an explanation it is rarely linked to underlying psychiatric problems.
And wouldn’t you know it, I had an episode this past weekend.
With two of the grandchildren sleeping down the hall I started screaming that I couldn’t move. Phyliss, in full hierarchy mode, was more worried about waking the grandkids than her devoted husband’s nightmare.
She could have rubbed my arm or back and gently said, “Wake up, dear.” She could have pinched me lightly. She could have even punched me. But instead, what did she do? She clamped her hand over my mouth and nose so I wouldn’t wake up the grandkids.
Unfortunately, I also couldn’t breathe. This was extremely effective in not waking the grandkids until I realized I was being suffocated. I woke up, and screamed, “You’re trying to kill me! Why are you trying to kill me?”
My screaming woke up our daughter-in-law who stumbled into the hall dismayed, disarrayed, and disoriented.
Ironically, the kids slept through it all.