The Elephant in the Room

We live in a log home with a huge vaulted ceiling on the main floor, with an open balcony connecting the second floor bedrooms, and the floors of the upstairs bedrooms double as the ceilings of the rooms below. It is a beautiful home--open, welcoming, and quite homey with all the wood and rafters.  If it has one drawback, though, it is that you can hear EVERYTHING that goes on in the house, regardless of how many rooms away you are. Sometimes this is good, like when one of the dogs gets upstairs and is wandering around; sometimes it is a bit awkward, like when some amorous friends of ours came up to visit five years ago--yep, heard it all.  Other times, it is frustrating, like when someone (or someone's baby) is trying to get to sleep, and someone else, not sleeping, talks extremely loud. Normally, though, the lack of privacy does not create a huge problem, because normally the only people here are the two of us...me and my husband (plus the three dogs, but two of them are deaf anyway).  

Okay, so enter the holidays--starting in mid November, we have had folks in our house, besides us, for the past 35 days.First it was my mother-in-law, Connie, followed by my parents and my brother, who filled every room in the house, to celebrate Thanksgiving with us.  Not too much of an issue, as at least two of those four extra people are extremely hard of hearing, and most of them went to bed fairly early. My plan?  Connie would get a nice respite from her assisted living home, Alex and I would dote on her graciously, and my parents and Connie would engage in witty and poignant anecdotes about their lives.  The holiday would be topped of by a perfect turkey dinner with all the trimmings, and everyone would have an awesome time. And, by December 2, everyone was going to be gone anyway, so we'd manage.  Right before my mother in law left, our oldest daughter and her family arrived for the month, followed by our middle daughter and her husband and baby, and then, finally, our youngest daughter and family.  I have been looking forward to this Christmas since last Christmas--having all of our kids and grandkids here at the same time.  Idyllic, right?  Yes, I wanted this, yearned for it, and in fact, reveled in it. In my mind, in perfect Nana world, I would be the quintessential grandmother surrounded by her adoring family, while we baked cookies and wrapped gifts and ate dinners and sang Christmas carols together.  Snow would fall softly on December 23rd, and stay for the appropriate amount of time, and we would all gleefully build a snowman and make snow angels and then drink hot cocoa in front of the fire. Then, we would get family photos taken to preserve the memory of the best Christmas ever, and no one would be looking the other way or have their eyes closed or be sticking out their tongues. Oh, and of course, everyone would get along with everyone, no one would argue, no one would be sick, and no one would cry.   

Funny how real life does NOT imitate, or even closely resemble, my imagination.  What I envisioned as a nice, peaceful respite for my mother-in-law, a cozy visit with my parents, and a Hallmark movie Christmas with kids and grandkids,  turned out to be the ultimate test of my extremely fragile psyche.   When my husband arrived with his mom in mid November, the woman who came home with us was a completely different person than the one I have known (and loved) for the past 28 years. The once independent, strong Christian woman was now a depressed widow who had suffered three heart attacks, colon cancer, and the loss of her independence and her husband in less than a year. She required someone to be within earshot, 24/7, and had a medication regimen that rivaled that of any trauma unit. She could barely hear, and, since English is her second language, could not articulate things very well, especially to my 93-year old father who ALSO is hard of hearing. Conversations between them required translators and someone to repeat nearly every word. To complicate things, my dad has been newly diagnosed with bone cancer and has severe COPD, and my mentally handicapped 66 year old brother lives with them. Suffice it to say it was challenging to keep the mood light.  

By December 21 we were at capacity--14 people and four dogs in one house, six of them were under the age of 12, half of them sick with viral croup, and everyone had different biorhythms and family styles. We were four families, living under one roof, out of our element, and trying to accommodate each other without stepping on toes. Normally accustomed to at least 1000 square feet of living space for their own family, they now had to share one house, albeit a fairly large one, and each family unit was confined to one bedroom--five people in one bedroom, three in another, four people and one dog in the basement bedroom, and Alex and me (with three dogs) in our room. Commandeering nearly a third of the living room was a giant, 15 foot Christmas tree, which forced all living room seating to one side. Our dogs, accustomed to the run of the house 24/7, except for their bathroom walks, were now either locked in our room or pushed out onto the deck, to prevent counter surfing or nipping of little fingers and faces. Everyone, including the dogs, had to adapt to a new "normal"--sound levels, sleeping arrangements, meal times, wake up times, extracurricular activities, downtime, even the ability to enjoy a cup of hot coffee. During waking hours, not even 5 minutes would elapse without someone crying or whining (by the way, not always a child), and I could not go anywhere without walking on a lego or a princess.Our kitchen counter became a pharmacy/bakery counter, and the dishwasher was always full of dirty dishes. The laundry room had more visitors than Santa Claus at a busy mall in December,  and we became frequent shoppers at every grocery store within a 30 mile radius.  There were frequent accidents--dogs pooping and peeing in the house, children falling and bumping heads/knees/elbows, cooks burning or cutting themselves, spilled milk/water/coffee/(insert unwanted food by child being pushed on floor here), and occasional hurt feelings, dogs fighting, strained looks between spouses and siblings, cousin squabbles, and kitchen messes.  

Yes, for the past 35 days, Alex and I have had no privacy, not even in the bathroom or getting dressed. Our sleep schedule is nonexistent, and the noise level in the house is comparable to that of a train station. My compulsion towards a neat, organized home was strained to the max, and as a highly sensitive introvert who tends to obsess (putting it mildly) about my every perceived misstep,  the atmosphere was highly charged, and ripe for a breakdown.  It was only a matter of time. Finally, on Christmas Eve, of all nights, Alex and I had a fight...well, I tried to keep it between us, and make him see things my way, then walk away when he wouldn't, but he wouldn't allow that.  He followed me up the basement stairs, stomping on each wooden step in cowboy boots, just as kids were going to sleep, and stormed in the kitchen, shouting at me.  With half of our family in the living room, and the other half right upstairs.  To say I was mortified would be an understatement, and I wrestled with the urge to run away and never come back.  I took out the recycling, calmed down the oldest grandchildren, fought back tears, and then joined the rest of the family.  You could hear a pin drop.  Everyone sat around in the living room, most with pained looks on their faces, looking anywhere but at me, in stunned silence.  Eventually we all blithely participated in some inane, harmless discussions and tried to ignore the elephant in the room.  I apologized quietly to my oldest granddaughter, reassured her Pappy and I would be okay, and then apologized to first one daughter, then the next, and finally the last, but I never truly acknowledged the issue.  

Finally, too cowardly and too ashamed to apologize to the group, I composed a letter, and sent it electronically to each one of them. Then I prayed, and prayed some more. And fought with all my might to NOT be sucked into the vortex of self-blame and regret and self-flagellation that have been the hallmark of my life for nearly 50 years. I stayed awake, all Christmas Eve night, praying, thinking, and blogging. Capturing every thought that would come into my selfish little head, and holding each one up to the standard of my faith, my Christ, God's Word.  Not something so trite as "WWJD," but a full-blown investigation of that thought, the feeling, the nearly uncontrollable urge to rationalize, justify, validate my thoughts and behavior.  All night long, I struggled with my demons, my sinful, human nature, my selfishness, my self-pity, and my need to put myself in a good light, to exonerate myself by blaming others, my past, my situation, my illness, my weakness. Although I have not won the war, I have won this one battle.  In holding up those thoughts that followed my sinful behavior, I feel, no, I know, I have turned a corner. I had to acknowledge I am not merely fighting against human flesh (usually mine), but against supernatural forces. Spiritual warfare is what I am engaged in, and as long as I keep focused on the truth that the victory is already ours through Christ, and hold each thought that pops into my head prisoner and compare it to God's holy truths, I will face my own elephants in the room. And unashamedly acknowledge them, and finally get them out of my life, even if I have to do it an inch at a time.  

By the way, elephant does NOT taste like chicken...