beware the last nerve
One of the friends that used to hang around when our kids were small warned about the dangers of stepping on a mother’s last nerve. I laughed whenever he said it and it became a household phrase. “I’m on my last nerve,” was all I need say and behaviors would change. I suppose every mother has a different tipping point, and a different reaction when tipped, but all of us have the vulnerability of the last nerve, the thin veil that stands between us and chaos.
I’ve been pondering the presence (and absence) of the last nerve. If indeed we could identify the source to replenish a mother’s nerves, Hallmark would be rendered useless as children instead gathered coins for nerve replenishment. Although motherhood may be a particularly poignant vantage point to watch the last nerve phenomenon, I suspect its really quite universal. The causes are equally diffuse. Long associated with the female reproductive cycle, men are no stranger to the phenomenon, the phrase ‘grumpy old men’ didn’t originate in Hollywood. Neither are children immune to the ebb and flow of nerve supply.
One of the benefits of aging is perspective, and with growing perspective I realize the fine line between righteous indignation and my last nerve. I’ve come to understand that not every bit of fiery advice that emerges from my mouth can be understood as kingdom building, in fact sometimes quite the opposite. If understanding translated easily into impulse control, we would be wise to put our elders in charge. Unfortunately, as wisdom dawns, impulse control is often fading.
Unlike the overburdened camel, the power of the last nerve metaphor is the acknowledgement of need and interdependence. Simply put, when someone you care about is on their last nerve, you have a choice. You can either offer to them a hand, an additional nerve if you will. Though there is no short cut for nerve replenishment, I do believe that the spirit abiding in relationship refuels our frayed souls. The other option when approaching someone with minimal nerve reserves is to play the foolish child, jumping on what remains and living within the chaos.
With the heat index down and the air quality meters again green, refueling is the order of the day. Still, I am humbled by the realities of my own reserves and grateful for community with which to refuel.
