The Kink and The Graces

We've always been on great terms, my two kidneys and I, over the past almost-six decades. In fact, I thought we were the best of friends...... until a few weeks ago when Ms Left decided to announce herself with pain. The very bad pain earned me a trip to the emergency department, CT scans, the urology clinic, the nuclear medicine suite, and back to the clinic.  Whoever wants to go to such places? Anyway, I'd become quite familiar with the urology clinic and last week I became incredibly familiar with its outpatient surgical center. The tests and my new doctor all said something is partially obstructing the ureter/tube between Ms Left Kidney and Ms Bladder. Apparently, this is not good and swollen kidneys should be avoided. He said a stent needed to be placed in the ureter to drain the kidney and maybe he could fix the obstruction at the same time.

Mark came from Missoula to help me and we were even early for my 11AM check-in. "Mam, did they talk to you about the balance due after your insurance pays?" asked the very nice clinic clerk. I handed over my credit card and just as she placed it in the reader the power went out! Well, they all said, this had never happened before. She wasn't sure my card had gone through. "Are the generators working in the surgical suite?" was the primary question as important looking people swarmed in and out of the waiting room. I was already nervous about the surgery and this situation didn't help at all. They asked us to wait for an hour before leaving in hopes the power would return.  So, I picked up stressful political magazines that Mark said I should put away. I needed to stay stress free, he counseled. He was right. Instead, I scoured my phone for Springfield Utility Board reports about the outage. Nothing there. Nothing on the news. So, we sat. And sat. And sat. Suddenly, at 11:55 AM, everything came back on and within minutes my escort arrived to take me back for surgery. Now, they were in a rush to get my procedure moving.

I was already overwhelmed by the whole thing and halfway hoping it'd be cancelled. But, before I knew it I was changing into the completely unflattering surgical gown that she said I didn't need to bother tying in the back. Right. The doctor came in and wrote "L" on my left wrist with a purple marker. Good, let's make sure you work on the left side, I thought.

The calm anesthesiologist came to prep me. She had questions, checked my lungs, more questions, and then said, "You're really nervous." That's all it took. With tears welling up I said, "This is the first medical crisis since my husband died." I was petrified because Rod wasn't in the waiting room and wouldn't be there when I woke up. She was very kind and just as she started to give me something in the IV to calm me down, an anxious office person showed up saying, "Your card didn't go through! Can we run it now?" Really? I told her my brother had it in the waiting room. "Is he on the account? Can he sign it?" "Well, no, he can't." The anesthesiologist stepped aside until the office person came back with the fresh receipt on her clipboard. I signed, she was happy, I got my drugs.

I woke up in recovery and was told the stent was placed, but, unfortunately the obstruction couldn't be fixed with this procedure and I'll need another surgery. It seems I was born with a kink. A kink? A kink in the left ureter leading from my kidney? It's been there all this time and just now presenting itself?

There's ample bereavement evidence that widowed individuals frequently experience medical crises after the death of their spouse. I know this. I talk to clients all the time about the physical manifestations of grief. But, I thought I'd escaped anything huge following Rod's death eighteen months ago. Not so fast, sister. Not so fast. Seems my system has an eighteen month grief clock. Eighteen months after my Dad's death I'd gone by ambulance to the hospital for several days in Tacoma back in 2003.

This kink has been here my whole life, the doctor says. Maybe the grief really tightened it up? Certainly possible, but hard to know for sure. Unexpected kinks come in many forms throughout life, don't they? And their counterparts, called graces, also come in beautiful ways. Rod couldn't be in the waiting room last Wednesday or with me when I woke up. However, his love has flowed through graces named Mark, Tahoe, Sue, Gail, Terie, Fran, Cynthia, Tressa, Joanne, Fran, Denise, Athena, Lori, Victoria, Krista, Nate, Julie, Dan, Larry, Tara,  Bryan, Eddie, Jim, Sandy, Fred, Connie, and Diane. These graces, amongst others, are lovingly supporting me through this time.

Even with a kink, a stent, and another surgery on the horizon, I'm awed and deeply grateful for so many loving friends near and far. Maybe I was wrong last Wednesday. Maybe Rod was in that waiting room, holding my hand during surgery, and with me when my eyes opened. I think that's right. He just looks different now. He looks like all the beautiful graces carrying me through this otherwise scary experience.

Just 18" from the Edge

The process of installing new flooring through the house began in December. A little less than half of my studio remains to be done and Mark will be here in a couple of weeks to finish it. Today's the first time I've sat in here since it's been under construction. I'm struck by the metaphor spread out before me. I'm literally sitting 18 inches from the edge of the floor. Tahoe is strewn out across it with his towel. This side of the room is clean, comfortable, welcoming, and warm. At the edge, though, it all changes. Boxes of flooring sit open and not yet open. A lone dining chair searches for its mates. Rod's favorite chair sits in the corner. The hamper from my Mom's previous apartment is sitting on top of my road atlas on the seat. Will his chair go back to the living room? Does it need to leave the house to make space for the future? My recently installed bulletin and erasable boards hang on the wall. The window is opaque with morning light. 

My prayer journal calls out, "Show me the way I should go, Lord." The edge is definitely close enough to see, stumble over, and the expanse it borders is chaotic, unknown, and yet familiar. So very much like the world I inhabit, that we all inhabit. The small portion that is known and ordered provides stability that is fleeting and almost laughs at me as it flows across the edge. 

Mark will return to fix this mess. A choice will be made about Rod's chair.  Cleanliness, comfort, welcome, and warmth will then fill the entire room. The edge will be hidden beneath the floorboards, but it will still be there. It will remain all around me and often much closer than 18". 

Seeing the edge, intentionally stepping towards it, crossing it, and being safe in the unknown expanse is the work of grief, the work of life. Sometimes it's best to just take a seat and let the view sink in.

The Prayer Cloth

Over the past 17+ months I've done many things to help my heart understand and adapt to the reality that Rod won't come home again. The past six weeks have been involved with new flooring, removal of a wall unit, new paint, and overall redecorating of my living  space. While being housebound by snow and ice today I opened the old wicker picnic basket we had when I was a child. Inside I found a plastic bag with a tightly folded cloth with rainbow edges. The prayer cloth! I hadn't looked at it for ten years. Rod and I had draped it over our dining room table in Tacoma, 2006, when we were seeking a new call. On it we wrote the names of places with churches eager to talk with Rod. As the Lord's leading became clear, one by one they were each crossed off until Brigham City, Utah emerged on December 3, 2006. 

At the beginning of the search, we started with specific verses at the top and bottom in the rainbow with the question in the middle, "Where to, Lord?" Rod's prayer is at the top ~

Today the creased cloth flooded my heart with memories of our hope to follow God's leading and our dream of future adventures. My eyes were totally surprised to see one specific place written and then crossed off: Eugene, Oregon. A church here matched with him and they talked, but it wasn't God's call. It wasn't the right place. It wasn't the right time. 

Now, it is the right place and the right time. Rod made sure we got here for my work. And, the scripture from Mark, written on the cloth in 2006, speaks deeply to me tonight.

As Jesus was getting into the boat,the demon-delivered man begged

him to go along, but he wouldn't let him.

Jesus said,

"Go home to your own people.

Tell them your story,

what the Master did,

how he had mercy on you."

Through this time, Lord, give me imagination,faith, and hope to be here now, to tell my story of the great, great mercy You have shown me. Great mercy, indeed.

Hesitant to Return - 8 January 2017

The universe has shifted in ways I would have never predicted.

My mirror and backbone have vanished.

I've been very hesitant to return to this page.

The man who used to come through the door at the end of day to joke about fruit in my cooking is no longer alive.

Volumes of journals rest next to my bed as my intimate companions of these past almost 18 months.

The river of healing I wrote about in August 2014 still flows and holds more value and preciousness than I could have imagined when we were joined there in our service of healing and forgiveness.

The universe has shifted in ways I would have never predicted.

Ice surrounds my trees and bushes right now, but warmer air is moving in. The dripping has begun, with potential for flooding.

Could warmer air be coming to me, too?

Could the ice containing my existence, protecting me from further harm, soon start to drip, to wane, to vanish away?

Could flooding call me back to my life? Back to my heart? Back to my creativity?

I don't know.

All I know is that I returned to this page today trying to continue my stories -

First time since the immediate ravages of Rod's death.

There, I typed it.

I don't think anyone reads this blog.

There's something quite weird about putting my thoughts out there online for anyone to see. 

There's also something that hints of life, life taking an itsy bitsy chance at creating again.

His life force flew out the window with such certainty and focus that it took my breath away, too.

But, I need it back.

I really need it back.

The universe has shifted in ways I would have never predicted.

Today's Dementia Log

Today the room stank when I walked in. Most of my visits begin while she's at a meal so I can check things out. The last time it smelled like this was the beginning of a terrible stomach bug that went through the whole place and included my stomach and my place.


Quickly I assessed the bed was rumpled, but not soiled. The new pants purchased just a week ago were hanging over one of the dining chairs as opposed to the laundry basket in the bathroom. They were wet and soiled. Following my new self-preservation protocol I put on a pair of gloves, got a garbage bag, and without any fanfare put the new pants in the bag for the trash. Next, I wiped down the chair with a disinfectant wipe. I opened the patio door to air the room out, but the smell was still strong.


I hadn't looked at the chair at first, but there it was. Smeared poop on the edge of the beautiful upholstery and on the blanket covering the chair that I'd just washed last weekend. Another pair of gloves, another bag, another trip outside.


When I returned she was back in her chair having not noticed her guest chair had been turned against the wall so she wouldn't sit in it without the cushion. All she noticed was my arrival and that it was really cold in the room.


"Mom, I had to remove the chair cushion again because I have to get the poop off of it. Are you feeling ok? When did this happen? This morning? Yesterday? Are your socks clean? Let me see. I have your pants (no mention of their demise in the trash outside). I know you try to take care of everything yourself, but you need to call for help next time you have a mess. The aide can help you get your pants off without making a mess on the furniture.  Can you try to press your button and call for help next time?"


"Yes."


"Good, that'll be very helpful. Now, do you want to play some Scrabble?"


"Yes."


And the next two hours wittled away with game after game. She caught every word I misspelled.


Later in the afternoon I hosed the blanket and slipcover off on my front porch. All the while I kept wondering "How can she still spell, but doesn't know when she has to use the toilet?"


If I were playing Scrabble only using words to describe this experience of trying to care for her through this dreadful dementia journey I'd use - baffling-  pathetic - sad - maddening.


Two afternoons ago she started to cry when I was leaving, "Why are you crying?" "It's so sad that I have to live here." Yes, yes it is. What is happening to her is beyond sad, pathetic, baffling, and maddening. It's unstoppable and cruel.

Power of the River

On the edge of the McKenzie River we each took two handfuls from the bag. A gentle breeze rising from the cold water caught the first handful while it danced in the gleaming morning sunlight on its downward fall. The second handful was released a bit closer to the water in the little alcove above the rapids. The final handfuls swirled around close to the shore as if they weren't sure it was alright to leave us. I caught my breath as I thought for just a moment, "It's all coming back at us," then the power of the river took over. Our gazes were transfixed as the water gently took the cloud of ashes farther away from us and then all at once they were gone. Completely and totally gone from our sight they were pulled into the river of life. They were sent onto their next task of regenerating the riverbed, the cedar trees rising from its banks, and the life that teemed below. We returned to our bench just on the edge of the bank. Cleansing our ash stained hands with cloths, gently using those same cloths to wash each other's feet, and then taking a small vile of oil to make the sign of the cross on one another's feet, hands, and forehead. Raising our song only loud enough for each other,  "Praise God from whom all blessings flow, Praise Him all creatures here below, Praise Him above ye heavenly hosts, Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Amen." Suddenly a bright yellow raft with summer vacationers rushed by on the rapids. Life speeding by! And, just as suddenly, a big family came to the shore we'd claimed as our private sanctuary. Mom, dad, kids of every age, grandpa, and the dog, all came close to see, to experience the river of life.

The river, the morning sun, life on the water, under the water, and at the bank's edge all affirmed our choice to let go. The length and breadth of our time on that hallowed bank far transcended the thirty minutes marked by the clock. With heart-healing grace it reached back over the past two years to remove the dust from our feet, the pain from our souls, and the ache in our hearts inflicted unjustly upon a geography of betrayal. The ashes that swirled away to bring new life were our burnt transcriptions of places, names, events, injustices, and wounds brought on by forces outside of us that we could no longer harbor within. Their burning and washing away revealed a new geography - one of grace-filled healing.

As the rushing McKenzie is new every second may our path, God's leading, and healing grace prove to be just as powerful, just as life-changing, just as beautiful here in our new home, our new future, our new grace.  

Sunday Calls to 911

Since moving to Oregon a year ago I've called 911 a few times. The most traumatic was 37 weeks ago on a late November Sunday morning and the least traumatic was today, an early August Sunday morning.

As I grabbed my phone this morning to punch in 9-1-1 I keenly remembered the very same action last Fall. On that morning I'd been up and dressed for church long before my husband woke up. I wanted to try the local Catholic parish, but he sleepily told me he didn't feel like it. I was just on my way out the door when I realized I'd never make it. Mass was starting as I was looking at the clock. Just as I decided to stay home, Rod came out to the kitchen and was very groggy. He wasn't waking up very quickly and mumbled something about needing his coffee. But, then he started to stumble a little, I carried his cereal bowl to the table, he sat down, and then it really started.

He wanted to lay down, he said, and then his words started to emerge in very slow motion. His speech started to slur as he started grabbing the sides of the table. The horror grew in my stomach as I started yelling at him to open his eyes, stick out his tongue, and to try to smile at me. Within seconds I was calling 9-1-1 and I couldn't get the words out fast enough, "My husband, he can't talk, his teeth are clenched, one eye is more closed than the other, please hurry!" The operator asked me if I could get him on the floor and again I yelled at Rod, "Honey, help me get you down, You have to get down on the floor!" but he couldn't move or speak. Both arms hung limp at his side and his torso was dead weight. His head kept flopping forward and the operator told me I had to hold it back so his airway would stay open. This frightened me even more. His eyes were half closed and didn't seem to see anything. I didn't think he could hear me. At one point he slurred as loud as he could, "No!" and I think he was fighting what was happening to him. I had to let go for a moment to unlock the front door for the paramedics. Within seconds those five guys had thrown the table away from Rod and thrown him on the floor. As he lay there his speech returned and he tried to convince them he was just fine. He was not. He'd had a stroke. His left carotid artery was only open about 5%. The MRI revealed a past undetected stroke, too, when we lived in another state. Two days after "the event" (as we call it) he underwent neurovascular surgery and came out of the anesthesia paralyzed on his right side. Another wave of horror set in, but after returning him for immediate testing it was determined his right side just needed more time to wake up. And, indeed it did and his language returned. He came home on Thanksgiving Day. His recovery has taken time and today he told a friend, "I'm about 80%."

Today, on this particular Sunday morning 37 weeks later, he was once again in the kitchen, pouring his coffee, and as he looked out the window I heard him say, "Oh my goodness! What in the world? There are cows across the street!" I jumped up to see two extremely large bovines eating grass across the street and moving along at a healthy clip. I called 9-1-1 and instead of saying, "Something's horribly wrong with my husband!" I told the operator, "We have two really super large black cows loose from their pasture, eating the grass, and on the move through our neighborhood!"

As the cow incident began we thought we wouldn't get to church today because what if the cows decided to cross the street, graze through our yard, and even take a swipe or two at the car? Well, for whatever reason those two turned their really big bodies around and headed back to the pasture. Then, the police car drove through very slowly. "Do you think we can make it?" I said. "Well, if we really move, yes!"

And would you believe it, we made it. We walked in and found seats just as the worship band started the first praise song. As Communion was passed I turned to Rod saying, "The Body of Christ broken for you." "And also for you," he replied. Sweet grace. Sweet grace, indeed.