Getting by with Help from my Friends

February 10, 2014, four days after Larry suffered total renal failure I began to consider retirement. My plan had been to complete thirty years of ministry. I was two and a half years shy. I knew I did not want to spend what might be the last days of Larry’s life “at the office.” His immediate response was typically filled with unrealistic hope of a healthier future. “We’ll see. We can talk about it.” He didn’t realize how debilitating dialysis would be, how dependent on the treatment he would become, how little “good” time he would have left; we couldn’t know how sick he really was.

When asked by my superintendent whether I wanted to be reappointed to the church for the coming year, I answered yes, I still had goals I wanted to accomplish, commitments I had made, a belief I could handle it all. That was May. I privately counted out 60 weeks until retirement.

The same month, I  visited my doctor for some personal symptoms--pain in my hips and legs, headaches and overall anxiety. She used two simple phrases that set off a whole cascade of reactions:

 “Sometimes it is harder on the care giver than the one who is sick.”

“You could retire. Plans can be changed.”

I began to accept that Larry’s medical care would not be a sprint, more like a marathon.

In June, I admitted my exhaustion to a close friend. I was totally honest with her about my fears and frustrations. She suggested I quit right then, reminding me that Larry is not the only one who is mortal. I argued with her, cried on her shoulder, talked it over and over and over, and knew she was right. She was wise and caring. She had come across the state to stay with me while Larry was first hospitalized. We had started ministry together in 1987. She knew me well. She helped me decide on a compromised timeline. I felt the anniversary of Larry’s illness, preparing for Lent and Easter while I was doubtful about God’s presence, God’s providence, even God’s love for us, was more than I could handle. I planned to leave February 1, 2015.

July 1, Larry and I began house hunting.  We walked through more than two dozen houses in Olympia. When we came to this house, we knew. Because of the light. Because there was a room large enough to accommodate my long arm quilter. Because  there would be office space and TV space. Because it was all one level. Because the yard was landscaped and well-maintained. (I once shocked a kind and loving Trustee of a church who was planning the remodel of the parsonage kitchen before we arrived, by telling him I had no opinions about what I wanted, that I only use a kitchen because it comes with the house. I’ve felt that way about yards...until now.)

We made an offer on this house the end of July and closed on it in September, before I announced my retirement. Keeping secrets, being less than transparent, holding out on sharing joy and our excitement are not in my nature. I knew, every day, every Sunday in worship, that I was giving less than 100 % to people I loved, to a church that needed nurture and care. I never doubted retirement was right for me, that the timing was essential. It was “out of season” for the church. It was my first effort to meet my own needs rather than acquiesce to my perception of the needs of others. I am now recognizing my needs are legitimate every day. The last eleven months, I have had time to learn what it means to be retired from the identity of career as well as figuring out life on my own.

Lately, I have spent time in my yard and garden, grateful for this home, thrilled that the perennials I have added are in bloom, the dogwood and the hawthorn trees have survived. 

It is a home I was ready to move away from last fall and winter, a painful reminder of our unrealistic, hyper optimistic plans to live here together for twenty years. The friend who walked me into retirement was here recently to help me plant beans and peas and tomatoes and peppers and spinach and basil and squash, and I am grateful for her constant love and friendship. She has made weekly phone calls since last June, checking up on me when I have isolated myself, hearing my sorrow into speech. 

I am learning that being alone doesn’t have to be filled with loneliness.  I have not retired from friendship.