Holidays, Holy Days, Every Day

Warning. The first year is the hardest. The milestones stack up. Fourth of July. My birthday. Time at the lake. Halloween. Thanksgiving. Larry’s birthday. Christmas. New Years’ Day. Valentines Day. Easter. Our wedding anniversary. The first anniversary of his death. Then, will it get easier? I don’t know yet.

On a beautiful morning the tears began as I looked at the sun shining through the golden, yellow, and red leaves, arched across Legion Way in Olympia. I was driving to church, realizing that my being late was not only normal but intentional--fewer people to greet, rushing past the memories of escorting Larry carefully to a seat near the front of the sanctuary, a seat where he would not have to stand and would still be able to read the words on the screen. I remembered his irritation of my tendency to run late.  I had conquered my impatience with our differing concepts of time management. I was free of our mutual irritation. I was relieved of the burden of care. I repeated to myself that his release from suffering was a gift. Yet, the surprising tears kept coming.

In that moment I recognized that our continuing participation in the life of the church post-retirement had not been about the preaching content or the worship experience (although good to excellent by my estimation) but about how he held on to his identity. With limited energy or strength, Larry served on committees and taught a class, contributing to the life of the church. It wasn’t what he got from the church, but what he could give, that added value to his life.

I cried again this Sunday, as the Saints were named, candles were lit, and a bell rang. I was intentional about being at the service my cousin and his wife attend. I knew I did not want to be sitting alone. Someone was holding my hand when Larry’s name was read. I was safe. I was comforted. There will be one final remembrance of Larry being honored among the saints at the Memorial Service at Annual Conference in June. I will be surrounded and held in love again.

I went home to find David Whyte’s book Consolations.  He gives his poetic voice to the “solace, nourishment and underlying meaning of everyday words.” 

He writes of “Alone:”

 “One of the elemental dynamics of self-compassion is to understand our deep reluctance to be left to ourselves...”

Of “Heartbreak:”

“Heartbreak asks us not to look for an alternative path, because there is no alternative path. It is an introduction to what we love and have loved, an inescapable and often beautiful question, something and someone that has been with us all along, asking us to be ready for the ultimate letting go.”

There are days I am both heartbroken and reluctant to be left to myself. There are days I find a path to self care and experience great joy in the world. There are days when I realize that a holiday is coming, a day filled with tradition and memories that need to be honored and then reconfigured. These are days I make plans to be away, to do something completely different. There are more good days than bad.

As the seasons move me through this year, I am ready to move with them into something more, something new, something yet to be revealed.

All right? Not yet.

Walking arm in arm with my thirteen year old granddaughter from the Farmer’s Market to lunch, I said, “Lluvia, I love having you with me and spending time together, but you need to know that Grandma won’t need you to be with me 24/7 for very long. I’m going to be all right.”

It was the day after Larry died, and for the next week everyone was on Grandma watch, making sure I ate, slept, had someone with me to help make decisions, someone to drive my car, take me wherever I needed to go, remove reminders of constant medical care from the house. I was grateful, I was tired, I was numb. As I reassured my family that I was going to be all right, it was a way to assure myself. It was my way of getting through for three years. It was drawing on my survival mode from forty-five years before, widowed at 24, keeping the promise I made to my military husband, headed to Viet Nam, to be strong, to be brave. It all kicked in again.

These days I find myself having conversations with friends and acquaintances who mention something from Larry’s Memorial service and I realize I hadn’t known they were there, or I have forgotten. I thought I was prepared to keep track, to be able to say thank you, to acknowledge their caring, to let their love uphold me. Maybe not, until now.

I also hear myself retelling that last week in the hospital, reliving the very last day, the day I knew Larry was dying, when he was having visions of “the girl in the yellow dress” standing at the foot of his bed. Waiting? When he was asking over and over why he was in a hospital bed when he had just been sitting in another room, filled with light. Strong again and free from pain. When he unwrapped and offered me an imaginary piece of chocolate. Sharing his love for me.

I left that afternoon to go to the doctor. I had never recovered from the hacking cough and laryngitis I experienced on our trip to Alaska. It had been six weeks. When she diagnosed a sinus infection, an ear infection, and bronchitis, she prescribed antibiotics, an inhaler, and codeine laced cough syrup. She urged me to go home to rest. Larry and I talked once that evening on the phone. His doctor called to update me. I went to bed. I slept.

When the phone announced the call from St. Peter’s Hospital at 6 am, I knew. I drove to a nearly empty parking lot, parked at an angle near the front door. I walked past the hand lettered sign on his hospital room door which said, Do Not Enter. 

The room was sterile, all tubes and machines removed. His face was shaved. His hand was still warm.

Sometimes I think I should have stayed that night, I should have been there, I should have been holding his hand when he died. He should not have died alone. I think there should have been last minute assurances that he could let go, that it would be easier if I told him again I would be all right.

I’m tired of “shoulding” myself. 

February 10, 2014, when he was first hospitalized with renal failure, when he was so very sick, we weren’t sure he would live. His words to me in the emergency room were, “I want you to know I’ve had a good life.”

It was then we said our preliminary good-byes, when I first gave him permission to let go of this world, that he needn’t worry about me, I would miss him, but I would be all right.  I scoffed when he told me he wanted me to get married again, to find love. I knew that the pain of another loss would be more than I can bear. I was certain that even with a kidney transplant, his life would be limited, restricted. I anticipated this loss for the next three and a half years.

It washed over me with the force of a tsunami this week. I knew he was dying. I went home. I would not, could not stay to give him permission to let go of this world. Although it was the most healing thing for his body, to release his soul, I could not bear it. I am waiting to be all right.

Rearranged

I am successful selling furniture-- Larry’s power lift recliner, his desk chair, his dresser.  Repurposing spaces to remove triggers of emotion beats moving, I think. One small discovery was a carved stone turtle, a recent gift from a neighbor, which had gone missing during a visit by grandchildren. Inquiries of whether they had played with it, added it to the toy basket of my wind-up toys, or might have dropped it between the cushions in the couch all were met with innocence and denial. I discovered it, head broken off, as I moved the love seat.  It seems repairable, as soon as I find that super glue. Hiding it must have been prompted by fear that I would be angry and the perpetrator would get in trouble. Not so. There are many more important, more valuable things in this life than things.

I seem to be nesting. Rearranging my life. Reclaiming spaces. Discarding artifacts. Gifting stamp and coin collections, sorting and boxing books, donating shoes and clothing. I bump into bits and pieces from life with an invalid. Finding the digital thermometers for daily temperature charts, the ever present cough drops, boxes of kleenex, the scale set to weigh in kilograms, low sodium foods, protein powder, protein bars, bottles of vitamins and supplements. I cancel the newspapers, the cable TV service, close credit card accounts, sell a car, fill garbage bags. I have second thoughts and sign up for Hulu and Netflix.

Letting go of possessions has been easy. Letting go of patterns of behavior, expectations, feelings of grief and loneliness has been harder. I travel alone. Driving to the cabin with an audio book to keep me company, embarking on a cross country flight without needing wheelchair assistance, nor medical equipment, nor a suitcase full of supplies, no priority for early boarding, no one to hold my hand when taking off and landing.

The day I unplugged the telephone I was surprised by grief. The last point of connection to hope for a someday miracle, the last symbol of the constant anxiety of being available at all times for the possibility that a kidney donation had come our way, that an offer of life would be made. The end of the frustration, the anger, the disappointment, the impossible dream. It provided relief.

Larry’s former office is now a guest bedroom. I gained skills with roller and paint brush, conquered some power tools, and wrestled a queen size mattress from one room to another. The walls are now somewhere between the color of marmalade and nasturtiums. His favorite print of Don Quixote is all that remains.  As I walk past the open door, I am comforted by the change, the sign of hospitality, the possibility of unscheduled visitors, late night conversations, the freedom from routine, the banishment of shadows.

Knowing, Loving, Forgiving

I’ve been asked to preside at a Memorial Service for the Rev. Eugene Kester, a mentor, colleague and friend. I was honored, while at the same time, had a moment of concern whether it was “too soon.” Then I remembered that I am really good at this part of the job, having had life experiences that magnify my understanding of the need for comfort, hope, and solace at the time of death. I have done harder things, numerous times, so I said yes.

This I know; the family, children and grandchildren, will be sharing memories, telling stories, offering life lessons from their beloved. There will be tears and laughter. There will be remembrances of a faith-filled life, prayers, the reading of scripture, the singing of favorite hymns, and grand music on the organ he loved so much. We will be in the church where I ended my active ministry, with Gene seated in the pew, supporting my ministry. The congregation will have folks from the church in Renton where we have common history: Gene appointed there from 1985 until his retirement in 1990, Larry and I together there from 1995 to 2003. All of this will provide affirmation that the Circle of Life continues unbroken.

As I anticipate  the day (which will also include a wedding and a charity auction/dinner, if I get the timing right), I can hear the words, “I didn’t know that ...” When our son John spoke about his father at Larry’s memorial service, he said, “Now that my father is dead, I realize I didn’t really know him.” I was surprised, and my heart felt sad in that moment, for John was one of a handful of folks present who had known Larry longer than I had. There were friends from Larry’s military days in Germany, who greeted John at his birth. There were a few colleagues who first welcomed Larry to the Northwest forty one years ago. They may have been saying the same thing. But for his son, whose entire 46 years were shaped and influenced by his dad, to still not know him, it seemed unfortunate. He was a good person to know. He was also a complex, slightly flawed, somewhat emotionally repressed person, reticent to share about himself, protective of his tender spots. After that moment passed, I realized how little any of us can really know and understand another human being. How most of us protect our core realities, keep a few secrets, nurse some ancient hurts, want the world to see our best selves always, and sometimes only our best selves. Families often know better, and forgive anyway. 

In the months and days leading up to Larry’s death, we gathered frequently. We held one another in love. I held fast to this hope for him (from the pen of Raymond Carver): 

“And did you get what 

you wanted from this life, even so?

I did.

And what did you want?

To call myself beloved, to feel myself 

beloved of the earth.”

Send a Card

In the midst of the overwhelming outpouring of sympathy after Larry's death on June 29, I pause to reflect on all the feels. 
Yes, I am well acquainted with the classic stages of grief and aware that there is nothing linear about the process. So, while denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance continue to cycle through my heart and mind, I do what I have always done, try to make it all make sense, find a way forward, think of practical lessons to learn and apply. Besides his memorial service giving us time to celebrate the gifts of compassion, justice seeking, kindness, teaching and mentoring, it brought us together--family, friends, colleagues, and former parishioners. I planned carefully, chose twice as many hymns as we could possibly sing, invited speakers to highlight aspects of his ministry, listened breathless as four of our five children (Anne was in Slovakia) spoke about his impact on their lives, and felt supported by the arms of grace. I was stunned by the 50+ active and retired clergy joining in the Bishop's Hymn to honor our shared covenant and hope of God's reign made real.
I visited with 80 % of those who came, recalled our lives together, asked for people to tell me jokes, accepted hugs, enjoyed memories shared. I have thanked as many as I could for being there, for gifts given to the Refugee Program, for offering hospitality and other kindnesses. Yet, now two months later, I return to the lists of names, trying to remember who was there that I had the opportunity to talk to, who I might have talked to, who I missed seeing all together.
The biggest impact, the dearest keepsakes, are the cards you sent, the letters received, the slips of paper telling me stories, all recalling your relationships. My first learning was the significance in the task of selecting a card, writing a note, signing your name, leaving it at the church, or finding a stamp and sending it in the mail. 
It means more than you know. It is my new resolution, will be my new intentional practice in moving forward. It helps. It divides grief. It brings tears and joy.
Honestly now, send a card, it's not that hard.

Our Support Posse

I am effectively driven by timelines, expectations, deadlines, assignments, and responsibility, sometimes forgetting that those are what is supposed to be left behind at retirement. In the last two years I have put in over 45 hours of class time in a writing class, I will miss the last session, and its public reading, I mourn its end.
I was asked to create a list of ways I would be able to continue writing. I declared I would commit to writing a blog entry every week. Once I make a public statement about an intention, and receive interest, support, and recognition, the duty-bound obligation kicks in, which in many ways, is the motivation for sharing the information to begin with. Pressure from the outside increases the pressure on the inside, and something must be produced.
And so, I will look at some of the hard and beautiful events of life, mull them over, and display my understanding or my confusion, my learning or my questions. Many times I would suspect it would be some of any or all those things.

Today I have been confronted again with magical thinking, that something new would come along to make life easier would be the answer.Most often it has been faith in the knowledge and prowess of medical providers, and the newest elixir from pharmaceutical companies to alleviate symptoms, eliminate a rash, provide relief.  When disappointed by caution or the need for more information, and the wait for a different type of specialist, the magic fades. Time, hard work, discipline, discomfort, and discouragement accompany the loss of magical thinking.

It is in times such as these, that gathering a posse of friends and family for support, empathy and understanding, good courage, and positive energy works it's own magic. We carry our own burdens, but they are lightened by the love of others.

We are grateful.

Living on Pause

August 23, 2016

One week ago I had surgery for a total joint replacement on my right knee. I am not yet one of those people who says, “it was the best decision I ever made. I wish I had done it sooner.” Right now I simply follow the doctor’s orders and the exercise regimen of the physical therapist, and trust I will get to those feelings soon. Between the pain, the bruising, the swelling, and the underlying support of effective codeine laced drugs and the weird dreams they provide, this is a time for rest and recovery, for not expecting to accomplish much of anything, and the accompanying frustration for someone who wants their life to be of use. It feels as if I have put my life on “Pause.”

The surgery was elective. I spent over a year trying alternative treatments, building up my core strength, getting shots in the joint, and waiting for insurance approval, with a short detour to recover from a broken foot last February. I scheduled the surgery around significant events this summer--being able to be present and participate in my 50 year High School Reunion, take a vacation in Puerto Vallarta, and attend my daughter’s magical wedding in Hawaii. Each trip had its special joy and I am filled with love and the blessing of great memories with friends and family. I also wanted to have recovery time before resuming a writing class in September. The goal is to have improved mobility, relieve the energy draining constant pain, and develop stamina to take daily walks (with a bit of weight loss thrown in).

Although I chose the surgery and determined its timing, there is that uncomfortable element of giving over control. The patient has the easy part, sleeping soundly once the anesthetic kicks in; it’s the surgeon who needs to be having a good day. I put my trust in the medical community, and continue to do so in my recovery. This is not a time for heavy thinking, or much reading for comprehension, but has become another part of accepting the journey of aging, retirement, and continual self-discovery. While the consistent need for my presence and support in Larry’s health care has reinforced our marriage covenant, it has also placed my sense of self in relation to the world on pause. This time of healing reaffirms an earlier decision, a response to an awareness of my isolation and need for community. 

I am preparing my heart to pick up missing pieces of my identity, to affirm my relationship with a loving community, to offer a ministry of presence. While watching the lined and peace filled faces of those coming to the altar for communion, my heart opened to our common desire; to be known, to be loved, to be nurtured, to be remembered in a family of faith. Soon I was in conversation with Peter Perry, lead pastor at First UMC of Olympia, remarking on the importance of holding dear these faith-filled saints, which surprisingly lead to an offer of a quarter time position, beginning October 1st (knee willing), providing pastoral care. My own surprise in all this has been my lack of doubt that now is a good time to reach outside of the cocoon of retirement, to re-engage in my call to be of service, to offer love, understanding, compassion, and grace to others.

Living on Pause

August 23, 2016

One week ago I had surgery for a total joint replacement on my right knee. I am not yet one of those people who says, “it was the best decision I ever made. I wish I had done it sooner.” Right now I simply follow the doctor’s orders and the exercise regimen of the physical therapist, and trust I will get to those feelings soon. Between the pain, the bruising, the swelling, and the underlying support of effective codeine laced drugs and the weird dreams they provide, this is a time for rest and recovery, for not expecting to accomplish much of anything, and the accompanying frustration for someone who wants their life to be of use. It feels as if I have put my life on “Pause.”

The surgery was elective. I spent over a year trying alternative treatments, building up my core strength, getting shots in the joint, and waiting for insurance approval, with a short detour to recover from a broken foot last February. I scheduled the surgery around significant events this summer--being able to be present and participate in my 50 year High School Reunion, take a vacation in Puerto Vallarta, and attend my daughter’s magical wedding in Hawaii. Each trip had its special joy and I am filled with love and the blessing of great memories with friends and family. I also wanted to have recovery time before resuming a writing class in September. The goal is to have improved mobility, relieve the energy draining constant pain, and develop stamina to take daily walks (with a bit of weight loss thrown in).

Although I chose the surgery and determined its timing, there is that uncomfortable element of giving over control. The patient has the easy part, sleeping soundly once the anesthetic kicks in; it’s the surgeon who needs to be having a good day. I put my trust in the medical community, and continue to do so in my recovery. This is not a time for heavy thinking, or much reading for comprehension, but has become another part of accepting the journey of aging, retirement, and continual self-discovery. While the consistent need for my presence and support in Larry’s health care has reinforced our marriage covenant, it has also placed my sense of self in relation to the world on pause. This time of healing reaffirms an earlier decision, a response to an awareness of my isolation and need for community. 

I am preparing my heart to pick up missing pieces of my identity, to affirm my relationship with a loving community, to offer a ministry of presence. While watching the lined and peace filled faces of those coming to the altar for communion, my heart opened to our common desire; to be known, to be loved, to be nurtured, to be remembered in a family of faith. Soon I was in conversation with Peter Perry, lead pastor at First UMC of Olympia, remarking on the importance of holding dear these faith-filled saints, which surprisingly lead to an offer of a quarter time position, beginning October 1st (knee willing), providing pastoral care. My own surprise in all this has been my lack of doubt that now is a good time to reach outside of the cocoon of retirement, to re-engage in my call to be of service, to offer love, understanding, compassion, and grace to others.

Journaling Joy

In the dark of winter, aware of the approaching two year anniversary of Larry’s kidney failure, I decided that one antidote to the anxiety of care giving and waiting and not having much certainty about our future, would be to record my joys. I trusted that when I took a moment to examine the small things that make up each day, I would find joy. Somedays it has been more challenging than others. On July 22, the 204th day of 2016, I have only missed one day recording an experience or an observation that brought me joy. 

In the last week, my joys and thus, my moments of gratitude, have included the taste of vine ripened tomatoes off my own vine; the grandeur, beauty, and mystery of Haleakala, “the house of the sun,” on the island of Maui; the beauty of my neighbor’s flowers; rainbows; and a good night’s sleep in my own bed. Often it has been the laughter and love that comes to me through my grandchildren, the gifts that my daughters, step son, and daughters-in-law and son-in-law bring to my life. I celebrate their integrity, and record the names of others who exhibit kindness, generosity, and compassion. Quilting, reading, writing; friendships, old and new; the natural world; the color blue: all bring me joy. When I pause, I recognize that my life is filled with privilege and abundant blessings. The challenge is to remember, to value the smallest of things.

The smallest of things....

My guess is that the PD nurse (PD stands for peritoneal dialysis, and there is a nursing specialty that focuses on home dialysis patients) on call on Maui considered that she was only doing her job when she answered her phone (in the shower) on Wednesday, July 6th. We arrived at our vacation destination to find that the seventeen boxes of solution that Larry would need for the next ten days had not been delivered. Our twelve hours of travel meant he was overdue for “an exchange” (a manual dialysis treatment), and there would be nothing for the machine overnight. We had no way of knowing when or if it was to be delivered. 

Her name was Shari, and we never actually met her face to face. After drying off, she dressed and went to the Dialysis Center, gathered enough supplies for Larry for three days, gave us directions, worried for us about the hour it would take us to get there, and had everything loaded on a cart ready for us to get it to the car. She checked on us the next two days, and ran interference with the delivery company. We weren’t on their schedule, but they might get to us on Friday, the day of the wedding. That was unacceptable to us, and to her. The boxes came Thursday night.

It may have been her job, but Shari was kind, considerate, and compassionate. She brought joy to our day.

Tethered

Independence Day has an odd ring this year. Reflecting on a life of interdependence.

We are tethered to a machine. It is called the Cycler. Overnight, for ten hours, with plastic tubing from machine to toilet, plastic tubing from stomach port to machine. Bodily waste drained out, peritoneal cavity filled with fluid, left to dwell for ninety minutes, drained out, refilled, four times, machine sometimes buzzing, beeping, clicking, always humming. Larry cannot walk any farther than fifteen feet. Enough to reach the bathroom, not enough to leave the room. A machine to do what healthy kidneys do. Dialysis. It is all miracle and mystery. The process keeps him alive. The cycler and two boxes of solution accompany us for any overnight away from home. Trips require planning, fifteen boxes are sent ahead, delivered, and waiting.

We are tethered to clocks and calendars and record keeping. To bed by 9, awake at 7:00. Home each day by four pm for another exchange of fluids. Monitoring blood pressure, heart rate, taking temperature, recording numbers.  Inventorying supplies, reordering once a month, sterile gauze, face masks, antiseptic solution, mini-caps to close the port, antibiotic for changing the dressing, hand sanitizer, bottles of liquid soap. Placing the order, planning to be home on delivery day, between the hours of 10 and 12. Two monthly appointments for lab work, to receive a shot, stock up on protein supplement, to see the doctor and nutritionist and social worker and nurse. We are tethered to the medical community. They help him stay alive.

We are tethered to each other. No space for independence. Learning interdependence. Working to stay cheerful and optimistic. Tired, always tired. Waiting for the call that would change everything. Tethered to our phones. Always tethered.