Note: This isn't quite finished. I doubt it will be "finished," ever. But I want to share it anyway, instead of fussing over each detail. The gist is here, and it's finished enough. It's a little bit too close for me to be completely objective. You'll understand when you read it.
*********
We all knew my mother's days were drawing to a close.
The nearness of death was palpable. There had been other times prior, when the end had seemed certain… And then she had rallied, strengthened, come back to us. This time, though, it was different. The labored breathing, which suddenly required supplemental oxygen; the blank expression, except when it became rapt and attentive—and that, oddly, when she was looking past us. I couldn't help noticing that her most alert moments, when she murmured unintelligible words with purpose, happened when she was not looking at anyone in the room. At those moments, my mother spoke to someone else.
In a period of about 36 hours, she had changed from a somewhat functional and responsive person to a gaunt ghost of the woman she had been. It was clear the cancer and dementia were teaming up to claim her; she would not be celebrating her 84th birthday in a few weeks.
The family was in and out, my father a constant, anxious presence. My oldest sister, Sarah, had been there the day before, and now was out of town. Others had stopped by, and had ended up outside on the patio, unable to ignore her worsening condition, her obvious increased stress when noise levels rose in the room where she lay.
The caregivers had been working around the clock for the past couple of months as the situation deteriorated, and had borne the brunt of it, all with unflappable patience.
On Saturday evening, the day before her passing, discussion ensued about proper care for the overnight shift. The regular night nurse, Lin, had reservations about being alone. She'd seen this stage before, had witnessed the last hours of her other charges, and she knew the signs. The Hospice packet of heavy-duty meds lay waiting in the refrigerator, and had already been accessed several times... It would likely be needed again, and soon. Lin and Lottie conferenced quietly, then approached my dad to explain Lin's concern.
I listened to their conversation. I had been there through the day, and now was heading home to be with my young son; I knew I couldn't stay to support Lin on this night.
"I can stay with you," said the main nurse, Lottie; she also happened to be Lin's sister, and the very person who had recently enlisted her.
"But you've been here all day," Lin argued.
"I'll be all right. It's typical at this point to have two people on duty," Lottie replied. This wasn't her first rodeo, she had reminded us many times as my mom got worse. Lottie knew the end-of-life signs even better than Lin, having made caring for others her life's work.
My father agreed to the double coverage without hesitation. At this point, all hands were needed on deck; we had stayed the course throughout the journey thus far, and there was no reason to falter now. We had entrusted these ladies with my mother's life, literally. She had been in very capable hands.
"I'll come back tomorrow, and stay tomorrow night. Okay?" I offered. "Tom is home tomorrow night, and that will work fine. Mark can be home with him while I'm here."
"All right, Alyssa. That will work," Lottie responded. The plan was laid.
I gathered my belongings, said my goodbyes, and stopped last at Mom's bedside. "'Bye, Mom—I'll see you tomorrow." There was no response, her eyes were mostly closed, so I kissed her on the cheek and headed out.
The drive home was uneventful, the roads fairly clear, unlike the fullness of my brain. Mostly, I prayed the same thing I'd been praying: Lord, please don't let her suffer. Lord, please take her before this gets any worse, please don't let her hang on and on when she is actually already gone from us. God had been so faithful already: there had been no pain in a situation where every doc told us to expect it. Lottie for over two years, and then also her sister—the wonderful women who had come to our aid were truly angels. The visiting Hospice nurse, the friends and family who'd brought food and laughter and distraction, the pastor who'd stopped to encourage so faithfully. Even my mother's last two weeks were blessed; she had told my father she was going to take a long journey, was going to see her family… and she was the last surviving member of her family. I think she knew, through the fog of dementia, what was happening. She was ready. So, so many answers to my prayers.
At home, I immediately sent messages to my sisters and a niece, reiterating the seriousness of the situation. The niece and her little girl had been there with me earlier in the day. She echoed my sentiments; the words "death bed" were aptly used.
Middle sister Anne was planning to go back on Monday, when kids would be back in school and she'd have a few hours free from playing taxi. "Anne—I don't think we have until Monday," I messaged back. Anne made a new plan, to visit the next day, Sunday. The evening slipped away quickly, my mind heavy.
And then it was Sunday morning, time for church, the hustle and bustle, hurrying to get there on time. We sang a praise song, and I remember feeling very peaceful, mentally rested, in spite of everything. Nothing had changed with Mom's condition—I had checked with my father earlier Sunday morning—but something had relaxed inside of me. I went home with my son, and we waited for my husband Tom to get home from his Sunday school class so I could head down with bag packed for an overnight stay.
And then, a text message. From sister Anne. They needed the Hospice nurse's private number, right now. I had left it on the refrigerator, but in the confusion of the previous day, had forgotten to mention that to anyone. I texted it to her quickly, and as I sent it on its way, it crossed paths with another note from Anne: "We think she may be gone."
Oh. My. There's a simple phrase that'll make your heart flop.
But I don't want to tell a story about my mother's passing. I want to tell a story about God's goodness. So here is where I skip ahead a bit. Of course I drove quickly down to stay as planned, thanking Jesus through tears for yet another answered prayer—a quick departure, and no lingering. As you probably have guessed, I did not see my mother alive again. We all gathered for the next three days, my father and sisters and I, and did what needed to be done. We spent a couple of days in a blur of grief diffused by a whirlwind of activity, of company, of throngs of people and hugs and tears and flowers and food and wine.
And somehow, we reached the burial day. A lovely day it was, weather-wise and otherwise. The churchyard where her body lies is situated on a hilltop, and I wondered, looking into that stunning blue sky, how much more beauty must surround my mother in Paradise. The pastor shared wonderful, hopeful words, honored her, buoyed our spirits. We held a casual luncheon with those who'd known her best, and shared a meal, but mostly we shared memories.
As we cleaned up afterward, and carried bowls and slow cookers back to vehicles, I had a moment to chat with Lin and Lottie, to thank them again for their selfless care of my mother. "We knew it was close," said Lin. "That's why I wanted Lottie to stay with me that last night. I knew. And then I saw those angels."
"What?" I asked. "What angels?"
"I saw three angels through the night. I sat facing the front door, and Lottie sat in the other chair next to the bed, and your dad lay on the couch when he wasn't sitting next to your mom… We were all trying to get some rest between checking on her… And I saw an angel in the front doorway, three times."
"What did it look like?" I asked.
"Just a bright outline of light. Just there in the doorway, three different times. And there were those voices, too."
"What?!?"
"Lottie and I both heard them, those last couple of days leading up to her passing. In the next room where the television is. I thought I was losing my mind until I mentioned them to Lottie, and then she said she'd heard them, too. Murmuring, they were, not words you could make out, just quiet talking. It wasn't scary or anything, and then the day and night before she passed, I heard them again, louder." Lin was very matter-of-fact about it.
"I'd heard them, too. You couldn't tell what they were saying, just the sound of voices, like they were having a conversation," Lottie chimed in, nodding.
I processed this for a minute. Was that who my mother had been talking with when she looked past me? And I haven't explained her last few hours on this earth, and I should. She was hanging on, stubbornly clinging to life. The pastor was called in, and then my sister Anne and her girls arrived. My mother was in her favorite place, her home; she was surrounded by love, her husband by her side; she had a chance to say goodbye to all of her close family. The pastor and a granddaughter sang to her, and she took her last breath.
She hadn't lasted more than an hour after Anne's arrival. I suspect that's what she was waiting for, to see and hear each of us. I like to think that's what she was murmuring about, with those angels, maybe with Jesus himself—arranging her departure, every detail, just the way she wanted it. She was attended by earthly and heavenly angels, and music. She said her goodbyes, and then she was escorted to the Next Place.
It was as good an end as it could have been. I think about it, and am amazed again and again. How good He was to her, to us. I am thankful. My faith is strengthened and confirmed. We are loved more than we could imagine; we need only receive, accept, be grateful. And tell people, too. My mother's story becomes my story to share, so that others can see the lovingkindness of God even in terrible trials.
I hope for a heavenly escort myself, someday. Music and blue skies? That would be icing on the cake.
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
Thursday, May 5, 2016
Putting it out there so I don't have to talk about it
So, my mom is dying.
I don't mean to be blunt. It is my nature, but I suppose some of you will find it offensive, even cold. I guess it's just the way I deal with what's happening. In general, I don't do sentiment very well, nor very often. It takes too long, makes a bad thing worse to me, and puffs my eyes until I'm unrecognizable. No, thank you.
Anyway, my mother has been dying for a while now. And yes, I realize that we're all dying; out of 1,000 people here on Earth, 1,000 of them will die. The odds are sort of stacked against us.
But my mom is dying in a slow, observable way. And it's been pretty damned difficult to watch.
Dementia is bad enough. Dementia combined with ill health is worse. Dementia plus general poor health plus the ticking time bomb of cancer? That, my friends, is the trifecta no one wants to hit. It happens, daily, probably to more folks around you than you realize. Once you become one those folks, then you begin to grasp how common this type of situation is. But you wish you didn't know, and you wouldn't wish it on anyone else.
As her memory faded, she began to fail physically as well. We all noticed, pushed the memory meds (which I suspect do nothing), and saw the general deterioration become a bit pronounced. And then a bit more. A urinary tract infection caused the first landslide, and we all saw the woman we know retreat into herself and become, temporarily, an unhappy and uncooperative person who wanted only her husband and to be left alone. A short stay in a rehab facility to help her regain strength was a necessary but difficult period of time; she was not a model patient. Finally, the infection cleared and she returned to us, somewhat less muddled but permanently affected.
That was 2 1/2 years ago. Since then, there have been more infections, falls, scans, biopsies, the deadly diagnosis of the "C" word, and a continuing decline. Help has been enlisted, then compounded. Some friends and family have been amazingly, touchingly supportive. Seeing this good in people, and spending time around the biggest helpers, have been humbling moments for me; I am a better person simply for proximity to these kind-hearted blessings in human form.
But the kindnesses and offerings and visits have not stopped the progression of the decline. Only God can do that, and I have to believe He has His reasons for permitting this. My heart has been softened considerably; never again will I be able to see a family dealing with a health crisis and not remember these days. I will certainly be slower to judge anyone facing terminal health problems; I will try to never take for granted my basic faculties and abilities. These are good ends, because I should never judge, and I should always be thankful. I wish there were easier means to acquire such wisdom.
She was never my best friend—we didn't have that kind of relationship. I was the third of three girls; I imagine that both of my parents were weary by then from the drama of all those female hormones. I didn't tell her my secrets, or give her every detail of my crushes at the high school dance. In the end, though, none of that matters. She is my mother, who protected me and bathed me and sat through my band concerts and made me do chores and helped me pick out clothes (until I was a teenager, at least). Her blood runs in my veins. I am here because of her, and thanks to her.
It feels now as if we are caring for a shell of the person we knew. Is she still in there somewhere? Does she remember bits and pieces, or is it mostly just gone? Sometimes she remembers me, but mostly she just knows that I am familiar. That's what she craves: the familiar. She is moving away from me, from us. I know we must be nearing the end because she has ceased to brag about her childhood singing voice; it has been months since she's told me that she was the smartest in her family, in her class even. Now she has begun to turn down sweets. My mother! Refusing a cookie! Not finishing a piece of cake. She used to declare how she loved to read—and she did, much more than housework!—and even though she hasn't read anything since this long, ugly journey began, it pains me that she doesn't even mention it anymore.
The person we knew is already gone, really. It's as if I'm watching a cheesy episode of Star Trek, where the crew members step onto those round platforms and disappear a little at a time (cue the shimmery, space-age sound effect). That is what's happening to my mom. She is getting more and more faint, even as I physically help her rise from her chair, even as we have to stand closer to each other than ever before so I can assist her with delicate matters in a way that the woman I used to know would never have permitted... Even then, she continues to vanish. She is disappearing right before my eyes.
I pray for her quick departure, that it is easy and light. Recently after waking, she announced to one of the wonderful ladies who help care for her, "Jesus loves me." Yes, He does. I trust He is preparing the arrival party.
I don't mean to be blunt. It is my nature, but I suppose some of you will find it offensive, even cold. I guess it's just the way I deal with what's happening. In general, I don't do sentiment very well, nor very often. It takes too long, makes a bad thing worse to me, and puffs my eyes until I'm unrecognizable. No, thank you.
Anyway, my mother has been dying for a while now. And yes, I realize that we're all dying; out of 1,000 people here on Earth, 1,000 of them will die. The odds are sort of stacked against us.
But my mom is dying in a slow, observable way. And it's been pretty damned difficult to watch.
Dementia is bad enough. Dementia combined with ill health is worse. Dementia plus general poor health plus the ticking time bomb of cancer? That, my friends, is the trifecta no one wants to hit. It happens, daily, probably to more folks around you than you realize. Once you become one those folks, then you begin to grasp how common this type of situation is. But you wish you didn't know, and you wouldn't wish it on anyone else.
As her memory faded, she began to fail physically as well. We all noticed, pushed the memory meds (which I suspect do nothing), and saw the general deterioration become a bit pronounced. And then a bit more. A urinary tract infection caused the first landslide, and we all saw the woman we know retreat into herself and become, temporarily, an unhappy and uncooperative person who wanted only her husband and to be left alone. A short stay in a rehab facility to help her regain strength was a necessary but difficult period of time; she was not a model patient. Finally, the infection cleared and she returned to us, somewhat less muddled but permanently affected.
That was 2 1/2 years ago. Since then, there have been more infections, falls, scans, biopsies, the deadly diagnosis of the "C" word, and a continuing decline. Help has been enlisted, then compounded. Some friends and family have been amazingly, touchingly supportive. Seeing this good in people, and spending time around the biggest helpers, have been humbling moments for me; I am a better person simply for proximity to these kind-hearted blessings in human form.
But the kindnesses and offerings and visits have not stopped the progression of the decline. Only God can do that, and I have to believe He has His reasons for permitting this. My heart has been softened considerably; never again will I be able to see a family dealing with a health crisis and not remember these days. I will certainly be slower to judge anyone facing terminal health problems; I will try to never take for granted my basic faculties and abilities. These are good ends, because I should never judge, and I should always be thankful. I wish there were easier means to acquire such wisdom.
She was never my best friend—we didn't have that kind of relationship. I was the third of three girls; I imagine that both of my parents were weary by then from the drama of all those female hormones. I didn't tell her my secrets, or give her every detail of my crushes at the high school dance. In the end, though, none of that matters. She is my mother, who protected me and bathed me and sat through my band concerts and made me do chores and helped me pick out clothes (until I was a teenager, at least). Her blood runs in my veins. I am here because of her, and thanks to her.
It feels now as if we are caring for a shell of the person we knew. Is she still in there somewhere? Does she remember bits and pieces, or is it mostly just gone? Sometimes she remembers me, but mostly she just knows that I am familiar. That's what she craves: the familiar. She is moving away from me, from us. I know we must be nearing the end because she has ceased to brag about her childhood singing voice; it has been months since she's told me that she was the smartest in her family, in her class even. Now she has begun to turn down sweets. My mother! Refusing a cookie! Not finishing a piece of cake. She used to declare how she loved to read—and she did, much more than housework!—and even though she hasn't read anything since this long, ugly journey began, it pains me that she doesn't even mention it anymore.
The person we knew is already gone, really. It's as if I'm watching a cheesy episode of Star Trek, where the crew members step onto those round platforms and disappear a little at a time (cue the shimmery, space-age sound effect). That is what's happening to my mom. She is getting more and more faint, even as I physically help her rise from her chair, even as we have to stand closer to each other than ever before so I can assist her with delicate matters in a way that the woman I used to know would never have permitted... Even then, she continues to vanish. She is disappearing right before my eyes.
I pray for her quick departure, that it is easy and light. Recently after waking, she announced to one of the wonderful ladies who help care for her, "Jesus loves me." Yes, He does. I trust He is preparing the arrival party.
Friday, October 23, 2015
Terms
I've been in a strange season for the past year. Longer than that, actually—but the last 11 months or so have been the strangest thus far. I'm not alone in this season; others, mostly family members, are in it too. We're waiting for the other shoe to drop. Have you experienced a season like this? Where you cannot escape the (to coin a double entendre) "terminal awareness"? Where your thoughts constantly hover between the facts that our lives are finite, and that you can never, not for a moment, escape that reality?
I truly hope that it's not the new normal for me to wake each night, while the little world around me sleeps, and lie in bed pondering all the terrible potential scenarios of my own life and the people closest to me. I'm hoping that the night frets are just part of this *#!&?$ season. I suspect they are going to stick around for a long time, but I'd happily be wrong about that suspicion.
Either way, I haven't been up and out of bed really early for quite some time. This morning, though, I rose while darkness was still settled over our home. I poured a cup of coffee, began to do dishes, and noticed the overflowing recyclables container on the floor by the garbage. I'll take that out, I thought.
When I unchained the kitchen door and stepped out on the side porch, my eyes were instantly drawn upward, to the deep midnight-blue sky hanging above. I carefully, quietly deposited the items in our recycling container, then simply stood staring into the heavens. The night had been clear; stars stared back at me, some bright, some dim and twinkly, representing galaxies that were light years away.
Words to a church worship song popped into my head: "You made the stars in the sky, and you know them by name." I studied those hand-placed balls of fire and considered the power behind such arrangements. I thought again of my mortal nature here on Earth, of illness, of worry, of broken hearts and homes. It was still so dark outside.
And then, over the trees at the tip of the hilltop, a flash, a quick arc of light, there and gone in a fraction of a second. A shooting star. Not a star at all, but a piece of something, meteor, chunk of planet, whatever—being burned up. Dying. Ending.
Terminating.
And I thought to myself, that is the message for me today: that God is in this—even this.
I have to be reminded that God is in all things, not just the lollipops and unicorns of life. Not just the sunny days, not just the happy healthy moments. In all things, He is God. (I especially need this reminder in mid-winter. Bleeeech.)
I always get annoyed at people who say, "If we didn't have winter we wouldn't appreciate summer." I suspect, however, that there is some truth to that sentiment. My son had to read Tuck Everlasting, so I read along with him, about a family that accidentally drinks water from an eternal fountain. They can't die. And it's a burden to them, to be everlasting in this messed-up world with their human emotions and needs and pains. The book, while not my favorite, made me consider how pointless would be a life without end in this setting.
That's really all I have to say right about that. Oh, and this, which happened to turn up in my Daily Bread for today:
I truly hope that it's not the new normal for me to wake each night, while the little world around me sleeps, and lie in bed pondering all the terrible potential scenarios of my own life and the people closest to me. I'm hoping that the night frets are just part of this *#!&?$ season. I suspect they are going to stick around for a long time, but I'd happily be wrong about that suspicion.
Either way, I haven't been up and out of bed really early for quite some time. This morning, though, I rose while darkness was still settled over our home. I poured a cup of coffee, began to do dishes, and noticed the overflowing recyclables container on the floor by the garbage. I'll take that out, I thought.
When I unchained the kitchen door and stepped out on the side porch, my eyes were instantly drawn upward, to the deep midnight-blue sky hanging above. I carefully, quietly deposited the items in our recycling container, then simply stood staring into the heavens. The night had been clear; stars stared back at me, some bright, some dim and twinkly, representing galaxies that were light years away.
Words to a church worship song popped into my head: "You made the stars in the sky, and you know them by name." I studied those hand-placed balls of fire and considered the power behind such arrangements. I thought again of my mortal nature here on Earth, of illness, of worry, of broken hearts and homes. It was still so dark outside.
And then, over the trees at the tip of the hilltop, a flash, a quick arc of light, there and gone in a fraction of a second. A shooting star. Not a star at all, but a piece of something, meteor, chunk of planet, whatever—being burned up. Dying. Ending.
Terminating.
And I thought to myself, that is the message for me today: that God is in this—even this.
I have to be reminded that God is in all things, not just the lollipops and unicorns of life. Not just the sunny days, not just the happy healthy moments. In all things, He is God. (I especially need this reminder in mid-winter. Bleeeech.)
I always get annoyed at people who say, "If we didn't have winter we wouldn't appreciate summer." I suspect, however, that there is some truth to that sentiment. My son had to read Tuck Everlasting, so I read along with him, about a family that accidentally drinks water from an eternal fountain. They can't die. And it's a burden to them, to be everlasting in this messed-up world with their human emotions and needs and pains. The book, while not my favorite, made me consider how pointless would be a life without end in this setting.
That's really all I have to say right about that. Oh, and this, which happened to turn up in my Daily Bread for today:
The Lord comforts his people and will have compassion on his afflicted ones. Isaiah 49:13
Thursday, September 3, 2015
Trusting in a season of loss
The past seven days have brought much loss—many endings. Some expected, some unexpected. All painful.
Summer (the school-free part, anyway) ended. My long stretch of no illness ended (thanks, stomach flu from hell). And on a more serious note, a few lives ended here on Earth. We lost an older woman my husband knew, mother to a close friend of his who preceded her in death, at 41, from cancer. I'm hoping he was there to greet his mom on her arrival. Another friend left us unexpectedly, of a heart attack. He was only a few years older than I am, and left a wife, children, and parents who never thought they'd outlast their youngest.
When people die at an old age, we can take some comfort in the length of their lives. When people die young? Suddenly? When widows are bereft with children still at home, and the one who is gone leaves big, gaping holes in many lives? There is honestly no comfort then, none that we can find here. It is tragic, and awful. No question.
I waver between acceptance, and argument. Why? I ask God. Why are evil people roaming, healthy? Why are sick, tired elderly clinging to life while elsewhere a young family mourns Dad?
There is no reply. I must return to acceptance: Acceptance of my place in this universe (quite lowly); acceptance of my gratitude that good people are among us at all, and I've been blessed to know them; acceptance of the fact that I have created nothing, and therefore have claim on neither the extension nor the snuffing out of life.
I know in my heart there is a Creator. I know He is great; I see His works and His wonders. I know the Holy Spirit is real, because I have heard that voice inside me, so sure and true and clear that it cannot possibly be attributed to any other source. I know that this world around me now is not a good one, that it is fueled and ruled by a force that wishes me to be discontent, depressed, disconsolate, and doubtful. Lastly, I remember who I was before I knew that Creator and his saving Son. She was a miserable girl, and I don't miss her.
So, I trust. I think of this hurtful place, in time and space, as a stop on a longer ride to my true destination. I will visit here, and find good here; I will try to be good here. I will also try to hold tight to promises of salvation, and an eternity of pure love and worship so fabulous that I cannot imagine it with my small, pea brain.
Sometimes faith, like contentment, is a choice.
Summer (the school-free part, anyway) ended. My long stretch of no illness ended (thanks, stomach flu from hell). And on a more serious note, a few lives ended here on Earth. We lost an older woman my husband knew, mother to a close friend of his who preceded her in death, at 41, from cancer. I'm hoping he was there to greet his mom on her arrival. Another friend left us unexpectedly, of a heart attack. He was only a few years older than I am, and left a wife, children, and parents who never thought they'd outlast their youngest.
When people die at an old age, we can take some comfort in the length of their lives. When people die young? Suddenly? When widows are bereft with children still at home, and the one who is gone leaves big, gaping holes in many lives? There is honestly no comfort then, none that we can find here. It is tragic, and awful. No question.
I waver between acceptance, and argument. Why? I ask God. Why are evil people roaming, healthy? Why are sick, tired elderly clinging to life while elsewhere a young family mourns Dad?
There is no reply. I must return to acceptance: Acceptance of my place in this universe (quite lowly); acceptance of my gratitude that good people are among us at all, and I've been blessed to know them; acceptance of the fact that I have created nothing, and therefore have claim on neither the extension nor the snuffing out of life.
I know in my heart there is a Creator. I know He is great; I see His works and His wonders. I know the Holy Spirit is real, because I have heard that voice inside me, so sure and true and clear that it cannot possibly be attributed to any other source. I know that this world around me now is not a good one, that it is fueled and ruled by a force that wishes me to be discontent, depressed, disconsolate, and doubtful. Lastly, I remember who I was before I knew that Creator and his saving Son. She was a miserable girl, and I don't miss her.
So, I trust. I think of this hurtful place, in time and space, as a stop on a longer ride to my true destination. I will visit here, and find good here; I will try to be good here. I will also try to hold tight to promises of salvation, and an eternity of pure love and worship so fabulous that I cannot imagine it with my small, pea brain.
Sometimes faith, like contentment, is a choice.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Perspective, again
I woke this morning feeling slightly achy; I'm trying to find the "right" pillow and I'm failing, because one is too soft and flat while the other is so firm and full-bodied that it actually causes me to slide farther down on the bed's surface until my feet are smashed. To top it off, I stayed up too late—and then the boy was coughing off and on all night, so the mom in me kept waking up to a) make certain the cough never turned into "cough-before-puke" (other parents might also be familiar with such a cough) and b) to make certain that the cough eventually halted. At one point, when I went into his room with medicine, the half-awake child burst into tears and refused to swallow the stuff...
So. Not a restful night. I was just beginning to wander down the woe-is-me path when I remembered where I'd been last evening.
A hospital nearby. In the cancer section.
I have wanted, in past years, to go caroling with members of my church choir. Circumstances never allowed it until last night. I drove to one of the big hospitals just across the river and met some other folks I know (and a few I didn't) so we could sing Christmas carols in the hallways. Our first stop was a quick one: a choir member's father was in one of the rooms, waiting to go have a procedure done. He's been sick for awhile. He's getting sicker. My friend wanted to drop off dinner for her mom, and hoped that a few of us would come with her and sing for him.
We did just that. Martin (not his real name) has no voice to speak of; his throat has been damaged by the cancer. He whispered hello to us; his thin frame was barely concealed under one of those shapeless gowns. The four of us sang a few carols, mostly hymns, and for the last couple of tunes, Martin's wife joined in with her lofty soprano. Martin listened. I think he wept a little. And we joined hands and prayed for him and that family. He thanked us. His daughter, the choir member, thanked us. We hugged her mom when she walked us to the door.
Then we set off to find the larger group of singers, gathering in a separate lobby. We were all rather shaky by then.
The others had mostly arrived, and we were about 15 strong. We took our packets of lyrics and music and made our way into the hallway. Our leader, the organizer, explained that we all needed to sanitize hands, and that if anyone had indications of a cold or other illness, he should don a surgeon's masks before going into anyone's room. We all sanitized, then soberly made our way to a cul-de-sac where a couple of patient doors were partially open.
We began to sing. One woman closed her door (we saw, then, that she was on the phone—oops!) but another fellow asked his wife to open his door a bit more. He requested "Silent Night," and we flipped through pages until we found it and then set off. We found out his name, sang another couple of songs, prayed with them. He was younger than I am. There they sat, smiling with red eyes, a few days before Christmas, in a cancer ward.
We moved down the hall to a different section of the floor. Another patient stood and came to her doorway, then asked if she could sing with us. "Of course! Please!" we said. We launched into "O, Holy Night," our new friend's mouth hidden by a protective mask, her hair shorn to just a centimeter or two. She had a beautiful voice, clear as a bell; she said she missed singing and that this was the first year she hadn't been able to lend her voice to a choir—but here she was! She could still join in and sing with a group.
It's difficult to be in a place like that for an hour or two, let alone to stay there. My eyes were stinging when I left, but at least I got to leave. I wasn't being held captive in a room, or keeping watch over a loved one, or trying to extract information from a doctor or nurse.
Yet, even in that sterile, hushed place where bad news is all too common, there was joy. Many of those people were sincerely thankful, for singing and family and hope. Even in the face of horrible illness, there is always hope. I came away feeling blessed, not just because I love to sing and the patients seemed appreciative, but also because I witnessed people who, in their darkest moments, have come to grips with the truest understanding of what matters, and Who we can rely upon.
Riches come and go, romance can fade, jobs can disappear, and health can fail. This is a fallen world. Our bodies are temporary, weak vessels. But it's Christmas. We have a savior. We have hope, and salvation if we merely ask for it. We are loved and forgiven.
My prayer for you is that you would know in your heart what matters most, and Who loves you most. Those people who are facing disease and death? I'm sure there are some who are bitter, but I glimpsed others who are clinging to Hope. I'm going to think of them, and choose joy. Even when my neck aches and I'm sleepy—especially when that's all that is wrong.
Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown.
So. Not a restful night. I was just beginning to wander down the woe-is-me path when I remembered where I'd been last evening.
A hospital nearby. In the cancer section.
I have wanted, in past years, to go caroling with members of my church choir. Circumstances never allowed it until last night. I drove to one of the big hospitals just across the river and met some other folks I know (and a few I didn't) so we could sing Christmas carols in the hallways. Our first stop was a quick one: a choir member's father was in one of the rooms, waiting to go have a procedure done. He's been sick for awhile. He's getting sicker. My friend wanted to drop off dinner for her mom, and hoped that a few of us would come with her and sing for him.
We did just that. Martin (not his real name) has no voice to speak of; his throat has been damaged by the cancer. He whispered hello to us; his thin frame was barely concealed under one of those shapeless gowns. The four of us sang a few carols, mostly hymns, and for the last couple of tunes, Martin's wife joined in with her lofty soprano. Martin listened. I think he wept a little. And we joined hands and prayed for him and that family. He thanked us. His daughter, the choir member, thanked us. We hugged her mom when she walked us to the door.
Then we set off to find the larger group of singers, gathering in a separate lobby. We were all rather shaky by then.
The others had mostly arrived, and we were about 15 strong. We took our packets of lyrics and music and made our way into the hallway. Our leader, the organizer, explained that we all needed to sanitize hands, and that if anyone had indications of a cold or other illness, he should don a surgeon's masks before going into anyone's room. We all sanitized, then soberly made our way to a cul-de-sac where a couple of patient doors were partially open.
We began to sing. One woman closed her door (we saw, then, that she was on the phone—oops!) but another fellow asked his wife to open his door a bit more. He requested "Silent Night," and we flipped through pages until we found it and then set off. We found out his name, sang another couple of songs, prayed with them. He was younger than I am. There they sat, smiling with red eyes, a few days before Christmas, in a cancer ward.
We moved down the hall to a different section of the floor. Another patient stood and came to her doorway, then asked if she could sing with us. "Of course! Please!" we said. We launched into "O, Holy Night," our new friend's mouth hidden by a protective mask, her hair shorn to just a centimeter or two. She had a beautiful voice, clear as a bell; she said she missed singing and that this was the first year she hadn't been able to lend her voice to a choir—but here she was! She could still join in and sing with a group.
It's difficult to be in a place like that for an hour or two, let alone to stay there. My eyes were stinging when I left, but at least I got to leave. I wasn't being held captive in a room, or keeping watch over a loved one, or trying to extract information from a doctor or nurse.
Yet, even in that sterile, hushed place where bad news is all too common, there was joy. Many of those people were sincerely thankful, for singing and family and hope. Even in the face of horrible illness, there is always hope. I came away feeling blessed, not just because I love to sing and the patients seemed appreciative, but also because I witnessed people who, in their darkest moments, have come to grips with the truest understanding of what matters, and Who we can rely upon.
Riches come and go, romance can fade, jobs can disappear, and health can fail. This is a fallen world. Our bodies are temporary, weak vessels. But it's Christmas. We have a savior. We have hope, and salvation if we merely ask for it. We are loved and forgiven.
My prayer for you is that you would know in your heart what matters most, and Who loves you most. Those people who are facing disease and death? I'm sure there are some who are bitter, but I glimpsed others who are clinging to Hope. I'm going to think of them, and choose joy. Even when my neck aches and I'm sleepy—especially when that's all that is wrong.
Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
How I came to be diabetic
By the time you've finished reading this post, some of you might think I’ve flipped my lid. Ah well, that’s the beauty of the blog: No one is forcing anyone to read it...or to affirm its contents.
Many of you already know that inside my big file at the doctor’s office, I’ve been diagnosed as prediabetic. It showed up during my pregnancy as gestational diabetes, about two thirds of the way through the experience. It was a pain in the hind end, and I really missed ice cream, cake, real yogurt, chocolate, macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, and all those other staples of pregnancy…but my GD wasn’t as severe as it could have been; I never had to take insulin, or give myself a shot, and although I still hate to stick myself for blood samples, it really wasn’t so bad. I lost my pregnancy weight pretty quickly, and the diet worked because my dear little boy was just under 7 pounds—not a huge kid at all.
Typically, the condition of gestational diabetes disappears as soon as the child emerges. However, developing GD increases your chances of developing plain ol’ diabetes later in life. In my case, I just felt weird in the months following the birth of Marcus, and even though the doctors felt no need to re-test me when all was said and done, I wanted to have it done just for peace of mind. So I asked them to do so, and they agreed. But just as with many other tests, getting results for the blood test that measures glucose levels can take a few days of waiting.
Now, during those months after I had my son, another drama was unfolding. A gal I know, not really well but semi-well, had discovered that she had cancer. She was going for daily radiation treatments even while I was waiting for my blood test results from the diabetes re-check. She is married, with a nice-sized family. Small children—and since this was a couple years back, the kids were even smaller then. She’s very nice, very sweet, has nothing negative to say about anyone, is a good mom and wife, and is simply a pleasant and friendly woman. She’s a great person.
And I was driving one day with my baby securely in the back seat, running errands, and I was praying. (With my eyes open, of course—don’t worry!) First I was praying for my test results, and I don’t remember the exact words, but you can guess the gist: Lord, please let those results come back negative, please let my paranoia be just that, etc. And then, I was praying for this friend, praying that the treatments worked, praying that she would be healed completely.
And suddenly I was convicted in my heart, because here she was fighting a much bigger fight than me, fighting to stay alive, to stay here on this Earth and raise her family… and I was bemoaning the potential loss of chocolate cake from my daily existence. Kind of puts things in perspective, doesn’t it. I stopped praying for a minute to let that sink in. I felt a bit selfish.
And I heard a voice; it said, “Would you be willing to accept diabetes if this woman can be healed?” or something quite close to that. I kid you not, it was as if the voice was in my head. It was not a big, booming voice or a still whisper or anything like that—just a voice, a clear vein of thought. And I knew who was asking, and I knew what my answer should be. I am happy to tell you that my honest, gut response matched the response that in my heart I knew was desirable to the One who was asking: Yes, I answered. Yes, of course, if it means that she is here and well.
And that was that. The light changed or traffic sped up or something took my mind off the exchange—and it had been an exchange, at least to me. Within a few days, I had the call from the doc’s office, asking me to come back in. Yes, I was, indeed, still diabetic, but just barely so. Yes, I still needed to do what I’d done when pregnant, although not to the same extreme. Yes, it could worsen at any time—but thus far, it has not.
The conclusion of the story? My friend finished her treatments, and no, she has not had any recurrences. I pray that will always be the case. Would my answer to that inside-my-head question be the same today? You bet it would.
(I’d love to see you right now, reader, and see whether you are shaking your head and compressing your lips in doubt. All I can say is that if you know me, you also know that I lack imagination and have often been accused of believing thing only when they slap me across the face. If you know me, then you know I couldn’t make this up. Enough said.)
Many of you already know that inside my big file at the doctor’s office, I’ve been diagnosed as prediabetic. It showed up during my pregnancy as gestational diabetes, about two thirds of the way through the experience. It was a pain in the hind end, and I really missed ice cream, cake, real yogurt, chocolate, macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, and all those other staples of pregnancy…but my GD wasn’t as severe as it could have been; I never had to take insulin, or give myself a shot, and although I still hate to stick myself for blood samples, it really wasn’t so bad. I lost my pregnancy weight pretty quickly, and the diet worked because my dear little boy was just under 7 pounds—not a huge kid at all.
Typically, the condition of gestational diabetes disappears as soon as the child emerges. However, developing GD increases your chances of developing plain ol’ diabetes later in life. In my case, I just felt weird in the months following the birth of Marcus, and even though the doctors felt no need to re-test me when all was said and done, I wanted to have it done just for peace of mind. So I asked them to do so, and they agreed. But just as with many other tests, getting results for the blood test that measures glucose levels can take a few days of waiting.
Now, during those months after I had my son, another drama was unfolding. A gal I know, not really well but semi-well, had discovered that she had cancer. She was going for daily radiation treatments even while I was waiting for my blood test results from the diabetes re-check. She is married, with a nice-sized family. Small children—and since this was a couple years back, the kids were even smaller then. She’s very nice, very sweet, has nothing negative to say about anyone, is a good mom and wife, and is simply a pleasant and friendly woman. She’s a great person.
And I was driving one day with my baby securely in the back seat, running errands, and I was praying. (With my eyes open, of course—don’t worry!) First I was praying for my test results, and I don’t remember the exact words, but you can guess the gist: Lord, please let those results come back negative, please let my paranoia be just that, etc. And then, I was praying for this friend, praying that the treatments worked, praying that she would be healed completely.
And suddenly I was convicted in my heart, because here she was fighting a much bigger fight than me, fighting to stay alive, to stay here on this Earth and raise her family… and I was bemoaning the potential loss of chocolate cake from my daily existence. Kind of puts things in perspective, doesn’t it. I stopped praying for a minute to let that sink in. I felt a bit selfish.
And I heard a voice; it said, “Would you be willing to accept diabetes if this woman can be healed?” or something quite close to that. I kid you not, it was as if the voice was in my head. It was not a big, booming voice or a still whisper or anything like that—just a voice, a clear vein of thought. And I knew who was asking, and I knew what my answer should be. I am happy to tell you that my honest, gut response matched the response that in my heart I knew was desirable to the One who was asking: Yes, I answered. Yes, of course, if it means that she is here and well.
And that was that. The light changed or traffic sped up or something took my mind off the exchange—and it had been an exchange, at least to me. Within a few days, I had the call from the doc’s office, asking me to come back in. Yes, I was, indeed, still diabetic, but just barely so. Yes, I still needed to do what I’d done when pregnant, although not to the same extreme. Yes, it could worsen at any time—but thus far, it has not.
The conclusion of the story? My friend finished her treatments, and no, she has not had any recurrences. I pray that will always be the case. Would my answer to that inside-my-head question be the same today? You bet it would.
(I’d love to see you right now, reader, and see whether you are shaking your head and compressing your lips in doubt. All I can say is that if you know me, you also know that I lack imagination and have often been accused of believing thing only when they slap me across the face. If you know me, then you know I couldn’t make this up. Enough said.)
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