Whither Thou Goest

(Saturday, June 24, 2006)

I spent several hours today on what is frankly a death watch for my dear friend J~, so her daughter P~ could get away for a spell.

I first met them both over 20 years ago when P~ was in the U of U hospital with a horrible bed sore. She has been wheelchair bound since her senior year in high school, when a single moment of idiocy on the part of the driver of the car she was in--yes, we should all be MADD--changed her life and that of her family forever. P~ recovered from that and many other bedsores and has actually been in relatively good health, when you consider the average life expectancy for a paraplegic is usually diminished. Her mother, J~ has been caring for her for some 25 years.

Only somewhere along the way the lines became blurred between who was caring for whom.

J~ is such a tiny woman. But it's true what they say about great things coming in small packages. She loves you with her whole heart and I've never heard her say an unkind word about anyone. I don't know much about her life--the details behind the lines on her face seldom explain themselves--except that it hasn't been easy. Yet her smile and the twinkle in her eyes belie whatever might be behind them.

One of my most poignant memories is of when J~'s husband died. We were called right away and arrived before the mortician. I will never, ever forget the look on her face as I watched her watch them carry her husband's body across the threshold of their home for the very last time. Words fail to explain the dawning realization that half of your core has been ripped from you and you don't quite know what to do with the gaping hole that's left.

P~is amazing. Although she has lost the use of her legs and her fingers are curled in on top of each other she taught herself to paint and has created some beautiful works of art. Of course she gives most of it away. She is known well throughout her end of town, as her long blond hair and her beautiful smile announce her presence long before she speeds up to you in her wheelchair. She is a good friend and has a great sense of humor. I will never forget how we both had a good laugh when one day when--after having spent a good part of the day at the mall--I asked her if she wanted to sit down.

Sometimes in my dreams I can see her walk again. (Which is interesting, because I met her after her devastating accident.)

There's nothing quite so humbling as watching someone society has labeled as "disabled" care for her dying mother. The offerings of a caregiver are some of the most dear. Today P~ gave me a hard time as about bossing her into "taking a walk" around the lake and then making sure she got enough water when she got back. I looked at her and replied, "You'd do the same for me." And she would.

Although I've seen a few people near the end of their days, I don't believe I've ever witnessed someone in as much pain. I know angels attend her, but I feel my prayers offered to heaven for J~'s relief must be rather empty as I watch the pain take her breath away. She cries out in agony and I can't keep the tears from streaming down my face. "I'm sorry," she says--still worried about everyone else. I keep telling her how brave she is. She doesn't think so.

Even through her pain she reaches out to me. "You're the best thing that ever happened to that Shane," she says. "I sure love you," she repeats over and over again. As if there just isn't enough time to tell everyone how she really feels about them.

She confides that she just can't do this anymore, but she neither can she leave P~.

I try to reassure her that everything will be OK, but again anything I say seems so shallow, so irrelevant when juxtaposed with the significance of her suffering. I feel so immaterial.

Prayer gets more complicated when you search for the exact words to bless the both the dying and the living who will be left behind. I guess I should just make it simple and ask that God's will be done. Tonight I was touched as I heard my 11-year-old struggle over the right words, what to ask on their behalves.

I don't think I'll be able to bear the look on P~'s face when they carry away her mother's body...

For some reason I keep thinking of Ruth and Naomi.

To the jolly porter, in regards to his latest post:

Dear Jolly Porter (whom I've never met),

Que je suis jalouse! I long to return to France, and most especially to see Paris. I was so close...just a mission boundary away.

But I beg to differ about one thing. I found the French eventually warmed up to Americans, as long as the Americans didn't speak French like a Spanish cow. But that was so long ago...and times have changed.

Loved the beautiful photos. I could almost taste the baguettes, the créme fraîche and the smoke-filled rooms. The art and the architecture are so fabulous!

So, as a display of my gratitude, I am going to return the favor. When I return from Finland (in September) I will post the photos just for you. I can't promise a witty travelogue; so the photos will have to do. I hope they'll be worth the wait!



Ametiés,

Compulsive Writer

M is for Courage

One of the desires of my heart is to write a book. I want to share what extraordinary beauty I see in the everyday lives of the most amazing of women. They may live next door. Around the corner. Across town. Or through the back fence. You might pass by them in the grocery store and you may or may not even notice them. But to me they are remarkable.

The book will likely never happen. But random excerpts will be posted on my blog from time to time to pay tribute to some of these my sisters who make my world a better place.


M is for Courage

I first met her probably a decade ago. She had moved into a home she owned in the neighborhood and she invited us--including our four children to Sunday dinner. I have wonderful friends, but only a few are brave enough to request the invasion of my entire family. But M~ did so warmly. And on more than one occasion.

Certain moments of your life are so horrible they etch themselves into your memory for eternity. February 14. I am frantically baking and frosting dozens of heart cookies to get to various elementary school class parties for the day. I get a call from M~. "I think I have cancer," she says. I'm not proud of this, but I was in such denial that it could possibly be true and I had so many other people counting on me I told her I would call someone to come and give her a blessing and I would see her as soon as I could. I did follow through, but I still deeply regret not having run right over.

Lesson learned: Drop everything for a friend in need. Sometimes the worst does happen.

The diagnosis was an aggressive leukemia. Prognosticating doctors only gave her a 20% chance to live and she embarked on one of the most valiant battles against cancer I had yet seen. (I'm sad to say it hasn't been the last.) I remember one day seeing her, comatose, in the hospital. She looked like death. It broke my heart. But prayers on her behalf were answered.

Lesson learned: God does know your name.

She continued to wage courageous war against cancer. The picture she painted for me of one of her major radiation treatments--her standing naked and alone on the cold tile floor, weak to the point that only sheer will kept her wobbly body upright, as doctors directed the near-lethal doses of radiation that both saved her and doomed her--still haunts me. I know I would've just fallen to the floor, curled up and died.

M~ survived, but her fight cost her dearly. Her small motor skills damaged to the point she has trouble communicating and doing many things she once loved, she now has the emotional capabilities of a 15-year-old. And a heart of gold.

She hasn't really felt well since her treatments. Her disabilities have further complicated her already difficult family life. Her body and her heart broken, she never gives up.

When her life just gets to be too much for her she often goes to the temple for solace. "I'm just going to turn it over to God," she says. There have been days when she has shown up at my door in tears. I listen for awhile, then take her home and put her to bed. Hoping and praying the sun will come out in her world tomorrow.

Lesson learned: Just turn it over to God.

M~ is the queen of the dollar store. She remembers everyone in the neighborhood's birthdays. Even the kids'. Last year we threw a big surprise birthday party for her to try in some small way to show her our love and appreciation. I wish we could do more.

Lesson learned: When your life seems unbearable, thinking of someone else will help you get through one more day.

Because she has a difficult time talking, she often expresses herself through notes delivered by her husband or left at one's doorstep with a gift from Honks or a plate of brownies or cookies. (Her Mexican Wedding Cookies are the best.) Her notes both break your heart and make you smile at the very same time. Here is an excerpt from the latest:

Yesterday my doctor did a rectal & pelvic exam & a breast check. (Whew!) I asked her if she was really up to all that. I survived, (a little ragged around the edges) & today I took a fasting blood test & Mon. I have a mammogram & Aug. 1st I have a bone density test. Cut weeds in my back yard & right now, a nap sounds good.

Love, M~

M is for Courage

One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three..

May I recommend--for your camping pleasure--the lovely Payson Lakes campground area? I hadn't been there for years. So I forgot how beautiful it is.

Payson Lakes Campground, Group Site B

Yesterday (and the entire night and day before) it stormed.

My FIL, preparing to turn water into fire

And the storms continued after I arrived last night.

My niece--also my hero--who took her two little girls camping in the rain all by herself

My niece's daughter, in proper rainstorm attire. Note my child in the background wearing swim trunks and bare feet

I lay awake all night in the cozy truck bed counting most of the night. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, one thousand four, one thousand five...

I have been painfully afraid of thunderstorms since I was a child. We rarely had them in Oregon, but every summer I would travel to the family ranch in Randolph, Utah during branding season, which seemed unmercifully to correspond with summer thunderstorm season. And I was scared to death.

My fear remains, although I force myself to put on a brave face for the sake of my kids. But I still unplug major appliances, turn off televisions and computers and phones and make sure candles are prepared. Just in case.

And I count.

My dear husband loves to point out the foolishness in this habit. The THUNDER can't hurt you, he says. And he's right. If that lightening bolt were going to get me it would be all over before I would ever have a chance to start counting.

But I still count.

And I pray.

Last night I was fairly certain the two oldest boys were safe in the back of the van. But I was praying fast and furiously for my daughter and her cousin sleeping in the tent next to our truck.

I pondered the futility of all the practical warnings of what to do in an electrical storm if that storm happened to occur while you were camping in tents in the middle of groves of tall trees nearby a lake on top of a tall mountain.

And I calculated all the paths available in the back of the truck capable of conducting megavolts of electricity. I pictured the death strike traveling through the space between the truck bed and the cab and up along the fishing poles stacked beside me. Could the old mattress I was lying on possibly impede its path enough to save me?

I didn't know.

Fortunately, I didn't have to know.

Darling daughter, storm survivor, during the ROCK painting activity--now you know why I won't let her wear makeup till she's 18 (kidding!)

And today was lovely. Warm sun. Blue sky. Rare wispy tendrils of cloud. Mist on the water.

My baby--Happy 7th Birthday today!--still in his swimsuit and bare feet

Lovely.

Morning breaks across the water

Just lovely.

Georgia on my mind

Serendipity!


Trying all day to find the right words to thank Georgia...

For her lovely visit. (After all, she wrote a poem.)

For teaching me at dusk to enjoy the honeysuckers by my doorway.

For sharing a part of her story with me.

For being a beautiful person.

For a wonderful book with a beautiful message. (Which, unbeknownst to her, connected me to my great great grandmother and reminded me to be a better person.)

For being a friend before we ever met.

For the anticipation of a future exchange--honeysuckle for scented geranium. Mmmmmmmmm.


But everything I write sounds schmaltzy.


Spontaneously, I drop by Reams--I rarely shop at Reams--to pick up a couple of things. At the checkout counter, I recognize the song softly playing over the loudspeaker:

"Georgia on my mind."


Thanks Geo.