How's Your Husband?

Human communication is weak at it's best, often awkward or careless, but seldom pristine.  Flawed as it is, it's a necessity for healthy existance.   So we keep trying.  Me, I get, "how's your husband?"  Well, it's kind of them to ask, but I don't think the askers really want to know.  So how to I answer?  Do I say, "He's doing fine",  or "He's making progress", or "About the same", or  "He's doing some walking", or "Amazing"?  Each gives a message that's part truth, part upper lip, part, "You really don't want to know." and part "I don't have time to really tell you how he is. 

So, how is my husband?  He's still a quadriplegic.  He still is totally dependent on others for everything short of a TV remote and a wheelchair joystick.  But that doesn't give an adequate picture, because that sounds pitiful and sorrowful and that is not how my husband is. 

On top of not being able to do anything for himself, my husband is in almost constant pain unless regularlly medicated.  But that doesn't give an adequate picture, because that sounds miserable and adgitated and gruesome, and that is not how my husband is. 

So, how is my husband?  Positive.  Supporting.  Encouraging.  Faithful.  Stimulating.  Imaginative.  Challenging.  Free thinking.  Creative and fun.  Which translates to "amazing." 

He gets physical therapy three times a week for an hour.  During that hour he walks.  Some days he walks 10 steps other days 60 or more.  He has no awareness where his feet or legs are.  It's called propreoseption.  He just doesn't have it.  So, walking is laborious.  It's a thinking as well as a physical challenge.   But he keeps at it.  He gets a little better, then not so good, then a little better.  Over and over, but the progress is real.  Minature but real.. 

He gets occupation therapy 2-3 times a week for an hour.  During that hour he picks things up.  Pegs, wads of newspaper, rocks.  He practices the movement of fingers and arms.  He tears pages out of magazines, wads them up and throws them in a container.  This is so strenuous that after 2-3 pages he's exhausted.  But he has the energy to smile, say thank you to his therapist, control the joystick to manuver himself to the car and get back home. 

We do accupuncture to stimulate whatever that can be stimulated, we do reflexology to keep the energy flowing, he is trying shots to help with pain, and on top of everything, he still makes me laugh and believe in the God which is the knower and controller of all. 

So, "How's your husband doing?"  Awesome!  He's my great gift.  I get tired.  He lifts me up.  I lose faith.  He builds it back and helps me find it.  I get discouraged.  He gives me kindness and joy.  I get scared.  He prays with me.  "How's my husband?"  No one could do what he's doing as well as he's doing it. 

Christmas Cards

I have a bit of anxiety about Christmas cards every year.  What to send? When? To Whom? How to find the time?  Another item on the list that never gets done.  Even getting one in the mail stirs me into different levels of humanness; "oh, man, how did they get theirs out so soon, or so beaufitully, or why send it if you aren't going to write something, or oh, no, not another 'my life is perfect and I have perfect children'  letter that I have to read and behave nicely about.  Truth is, sometimes I let them sit a day or two before I even open them, giving myself time to get my stuff together in order to read or be happy about the card.  What a shame. 

So, all this thinking about Christmas cards has taken me back to our little farm house in Nebraska.  The memories are vivid complete with colors and wallpaper.  Pineapples.  Brown and Yellow.  Thermostat on the wall by the door, and the sit-on-able floor heater where we all gathered October through March.  Us, a random baby calf rescued from the winter night, and a pan of water for moisture in the air.  The smell of Vicks most often permeated our space giving a sense of comfort and warmth to an already lovely little home. 

Mom and Dad sat together on the dining room table, opened the drop leaf and began the holiday tradition.  
Each card was talked about.  Each person cherished.  Each got a personal letter.  Little half sheet but nicely written with good penmanship and pride.  I remember the conversation between Dad and Mom, "you write this one" or  "I'll write to them this year."  Imagine.  I wonder if they had Christmas Card anxiety?  I wonder if they felt pressured to "get them out?"  I wonder if they ever just thought, "not this year, I'm too tired, too busy, too unconnected to the spirit of Christmas?"   Oh, yeah.  They rocked, but they were real.  That's what was so cool about my parents. 

So what now?  Where do I go from childhood memories to present Christmas card anxiety?  I've decided that this is my Christmas card.  It's modern, it's high tech, and, it's a bit impersonnal, but it has the heart of the little farm house with the floor heater keeping us all warm.  As I write, joyful thoughts of  people who have touched our lives come to mind.  The forever friend, the neighbor, the children and grandchildren, parents and brothers.....faces pop into my mind,  people who I've worked with for years, people who've worked for me, people that I want to say, "you have been important to me, you have made me who I am.  Merry Christmas and thanks." 

Life is wrapped up in a Christmas card.  This year mine says, "Without you we could not survive. With you life is interesting, challenging and fun.  God sent his only Son for us to know just that.  We survive each year by the Grace of God through the people He sends into our lives.  We humbly wish you a Merry Christmas and wish for you a sampling of the joy we have been granted this year. 

Six Weeks.

Six weeks ago today was October 6th.  Do you remember what you were doing?  What you were planning, worrying about, hoping for, dreaming?   Six weeks ago I know what my mind was working on....Ubaldo was moving in and I was going through stuff.  Tossing stuff, finding new places for stuff and making "important" decisions about stuff.  I was "directing traffic" with our handyman and generally involved in me and my comfort.  Making room for more stuff, for Ubaldo's cooking needs, for Jed's wheelchair needs and being rather self absorbed. 

Six weeks ago most of us were doing that very thing.  Taking care of the business of living.  But, six weeks ago Ubaldo's best friend checked into the hospital and last Sunday she died. 

I've tried to think of what I can do for him, how we can help him through his shocking grief.  I've decided to  write this in memory of his friend, Susan, and in honor of him, our caregiver, and friend. 

Life is a valuable thing.  But life with a dear friend is worth living.  One who makes you laugh, who can love you in spite of who you really are, who can tell you when you're being stupid, hug you when you're scared, and who is there for you, whether you need onions chopped, tears dried, or battles fought. 

I have a rather casual saying referring to important people in my life.  "They just dropped out of heaven."  But in that casualness is the recognition that God sends these people to us.   I don't understand why they are taken away and I've reconciled myself to knowing there is no way to understand, "for now we see in a mirror dimly..."   There's just stuff we will never understand. 

But what I do know is that dear friends that have been  part of my life have molded me, made me better than I would have been without them, and filled me completely; made my life whole. 

That's what Susan did for Ubaldo and he for her.  They were accidental best friends, but 15 years later knew they were each other's brother and sister.  Friends for life.  Soul mates.

Six weeks from today will be December 30th.  The trapping of the holidays will be behind us, the stuff of life will be organized once again from one season to another and our friends will have carried us through.

I am so sorry for Ubaldo's loss.   Six weeks isn't long to prepare for the emptiness that would follow, the hole in his heart.  Whether it's 6 minutes, 6 hours, 6 days, weeks or years, it's not long enough.  We just want our best friends to always be there, because we need them to be complete. 

My Grandma lived to be 99 years old.  I asked her what was difficult about growing old.  She said, "there's nothing hard about it, except you outlive all your friends and that gets lonely."   You don't have to live to be 99 to learn that lesson.  When your friend die before you, it is lonely. 

 It's almost Thanksgiving.  Take a moment to be thankful for those special people who've made you whole.  Jed and I are overwhelmed and awed by the friends we have been blessed with.  Susan's death has made us aware.

We are thankful for Ubaldo.  He has enriched our lives, turned our hopelessness into laughter and joy, lifted our burdens and filled us with genuine kindness.  Susan was very lucky to have his friendship for so many years.  

If Houses Could Talk

We've lived in this house for 20 years.  I've never lived anywhere for twenty years.  This house has served us well.  Sometimes I wonder about it's life before us.  Once an old gentleman drove up to the house, stopped and starred.  Jed invited him in and lo and behold he lived here as a child.  He spoke of the "fruit room" and the attic.  His childhood memories. 

Lately the house has had to work hard.  It got painted and nearly a million things have been moved in or out.  But the house seems to be saying, "thank you for letting me live another life, I had almost died, but now I can breathe new air and see new sights."

We took another step toward living well in spite of every reason not to.  Our care giver, Ubaldo, moved in.  He has made the upstairs his home and "the house" is saying, "wow!" Wow the the amount of stuff that can come down and go up, wow, to the new look and new life that an old house can take, (it's like Easter on a dark, dark night), and wow to the energy and joy that is back.  Houses like that, I'm sure.

In the process of the move, the past 20 years have been spread before us, Nate and Angie, the grandchildren's featherbed, their little crafts and toys, the many people who have called this house "home" for a while.  It's been a ride.  Not sad.  Joyful.  History.  Thanksgiving.  Every little notch in the wall or found child's writing has been a ride.  I have a sign in the house that says, "It takes a long time to grow an old friend."  This house has become an old friend.  And, within it's walls, we have had remarkable experiences with dear and old friends; like the art party with my buddies, and the noodle making, and the laughter with the neighbors, and the tears and even anger with family growing and becoming.  Scotch parties and chocolate rivers.

Recently I said to Jed, "We got a shitty deal."  He told me to never even think that way.  He, with no arms and legs, he who needs help with every bodily function, said, "This is what we have.  We will make the best of it and we will not call it a shitty deal." What can I say?  He's right.  Our deal is our deal.  We can choose to make it and call it what we will.  Right now we are making it a quite remarkable transition from one life to another and I know that the house is happy. 

Third Time's The Charm

Most people don't have the opportunity to get close and comfy with their local emergency system, let alone get on a first name basis, but Jed and I are unique in that way.  Since we've been in Colorado we've had the EMTs called three times; once for altitude sickness, once for anxiety, and kicker, for getting run into (while in the wheel chair no less) by a little old lady in a 2001 Lincoln.  Enough is enough.  But the emergency system here is amazing!  One little phone call and here comes the fire truck followed by an ambulance and two or three police.

The first time was a little scary.  Jed was at therapy (the second day in Colorado) and he just started to pass out.  They immediately called in the big guns and there in the little therapy room were 6-8 very good looking young men in tight uniforms. (oops, I'm getting off track.)  The second time was here at home.  Jed started believing he couldn't breathe and the longer we worked on it the worse it got, so we called our emergency friends.  They all entered our bedroom and left 3 young grandsons with gaping mouths and wide eyes.  After some assurance that all  was well, the boys got a tour of the fire truck.

But the little old lady in the Red Lincoln was just over the top.  We'd just come from acupuncture and were waiting at the intersection by a popular Starbucks for the traffic to clear.  I was walking, Jed in his wheelchair.  When, like a flash of  dragon blood, BAM!!!!!  I screamed, the police on their break at Starbucks ran to the moment, Jed a bit dazed, me flaming fire.  As it would be our little old lady was watching the same traffic and waiting for it to clear.  When she saw an opening, she gunned it and whoa, oops, forgot about the wheelchair in front of her.  So, we got to hang out with our friendly paramedics once again.  By this time they were apologizing for meeting like this and I was telling them that we were looking for friends anyway, so not to worry.  After 45 minutes at 8 emergency people later we determined that Jed was okay. 

But the real topper came a few days later.  Kai, our third grader, was telling the family that he liked his old school better than his new one.  After some grandmotherly questioning the truth came out.  "This school has way too many old ladies."  Gavin, the 5 year old, looked at him sympathetically and  said, "It's okay, Kai, Old Ladies are just a part of our world."

Yes, indeed, old ladies are a part of our world.  But watch out for ones driving red Lincolns. 

God Knows.

We went to church today.  It's basically in our back yard here in Colorado.  Jed drives his wheelchair there.  Today was tough.  First we get there late.  There's always something.  This time, in addition to our normal "almost late,"  we had to move a car out of the driveway as Jed got stuck in the rock landscaping attempting to circumvent the obstruction.  There we were, stuck, spinning wheels in the rocks.  So I go inside, get the keys, move the car, put him on manual, pull with all my strength, and we finally get rolling off to church. 

Knowing we were late, we sat in the back, and were just in time for the sermon, "God Knows."  On and on he talked about how hard life is, how sometimes the tough just happens....and "God Knows."   I was getting into it, tears almost in my eyes when Jed started to pass out.  We had to move fast, get out of the church, get him some water, get his legs raised...The whole time the pastor went on about how God Knows and He cares.

So, there we were, out in the church lobby, me holding his legs up in the air and about 8 men come out.  They look at us and say or do nothing.  They get in their little familiar circle, hold hands, say a prayer because they are about to administer communion and supposedly God doesn't want them to do that unless they go through their ritual.   Ha.  Good thing God knows and cares because those men certainly didn't seem to. 

I thought, "what would I do if I saw the situation Jed and I posed for them?"  And, I pray to the core of my bones that I wouldn't just go through my ritual and ignore people in my midst.   One man offered us communion and asked if he could help.  The others pretended we didn't exist.  It's easier that way with the handicapped.  Turn the other way and pretend you don't see.  I refuse to do that, as hard as it is sometimes.

Recently I was standing in the line at the grocery store and the woman in front of me was terribly deformed.  I started to pretend that she wasn't there and then forced myself to say, "were you in a fire?"  She almost hugged me.  She opened up, told me her whole story, I told her about Jed, she said she would pray for him every day and my heart was lifted.

Even though most of the men in church today didn't seem to "get it,"  the message today rang true. 
"God knows and He cares."  This brings me comfort and we will do yet another day with faith that even though there are those out there who pretend not to see because it is just easier, others see, they see with their hearst and perhaps, just for that moment, they are God. 

Setting Goals

Jed's been sick today.  He caught a cold somewhere and hasn't gotten out of bed all day.  When He's like this the meds sort of take over his mind and who knows what will come out.  Sometimes it's a song, sometimes it's vulgarity, and sometimes it's plans.  Goals.  Today's rather irrational medically and fever induced goal was, "I'm gonna kick somebody's ass."

I told him that I looked forward to that and casually asked who's ass he might be planning to kick.  "I don't really know, but I'm going to kick it."  So everybody watch out.  Jed is planning to do some long awaited kicking.

I've been newly reminded of goal setting because I helped the kids set some for themselves, and we agreed on an award if they achieve their goal.  This was all done, of course, to mold and manipulate if you will , the negative behaviors that all children exhibit, and we teachers (once one always one) try to rid them of forever. 

So, the discussions, the agreements, the charts,  the stars, the anticipation, etc, etc, etc.  While trying to be so diplomatic, Ian said, "Grandma, if you make this too complicated, the award just might not be worth it."  Wow!  Brilliance!

So we made it simple.  Easy to understand and easy to accomplish.   Jed's goal is just that.  It's simple, it is getting closer to be accomplishable. and the reward will truly be worth it.  He can kick my ass if he wants.