Sunday, May 30, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
AN INSPIRATION
I SAW YOU...
Driving in to town, I saw you, this morning,
peddling your heart out:
white, lumpy thighs,
plain helmet,
inexpensive bike.
A good half course behind the sleek, the muscular,
the swift, the experienced riders, you peddled on,
and I blessed you in my heart.
From my kitchen window, I saw you, late this afternoon,
your stride was painful,
determined,
slow;
barely a jog/walk.
The bored high school volunteers at our gate
merely glanced your way, thankful to be relieved of their
lonely post at the furthest station from the finish line.
I blessed you in my heart.
From my deck, I saw you, on the dirt road, a single mile to go.
Noticeably absent were the fans,
the volunteers offering water,
and fellow triathletes.
Alone, yet brave, you persevered, virtually unnoticed.
But, I saw you. I blessed you and thanked you from my heart;
grateful for your gift to me of...
courage.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Waiting...
Thankfully, we have a private space this visit, set apart from the main Emergency Room, where patients' only privacy is a wrinkled fabric curtain. Tucked up to his chin for warmth with two thin, flannel sheets I found on a cart in the hallway, he relaxes. Elderly and frail, his cheeks are sunken, his parched lips are half open and his eyes are closed. His apnea-induced snorts direct my attention to the monitors: oxygen saturation 92% on room air; blood pressure quite low, but the intravenous fluids will take care of that. Mother has returned home to let the dog out, eat a snack and elevate her aching knee. Alone, keeping vigil and comforting his disoriented awakenings, I wait in this windowless room where time has no meaning, save the monitors' beeping and the fragments of rushed conversations in the hallway.
A young nurse steps in, asking if I would like to leave for a moment while she checks his more private parts. I've see them all, but take my leave, hoping to salvage a bit of his dignity. The day is quite warm outdoors, with a soft breeze ruffling the flowers who appreciatively nod their heads. In riotous summer bloom, the landscaping is beautiful: reds, pinks, blues, yellows and oranges all vying for attention among the greens of their foliage. Quite easily, I could...imagine...myself at an upscale eatery, a charming antique store or a local wine tasting venue, each with their flowers beckoning visitors to stop and stay a while. I notice a pollen- covered bee nestling in a red day lily, while a thirsty Swallowtail butterfly unfurls his tongue in the center of a bright Gerbera Daisy. Finches in the parking lot bicker over a carelessly discarded cookie, scattering in all directions as a car drives by. The world is throbbing with life, but I...am devoid of feeling, it's easier that way.
Turning away, my feet, resolutely, take me back to the little room. Aware of my return, he asks where I've been. Ever my dad, he hopes I've been to the cafeteria for a "good meal." I laugh as I tell him, "good meal and hospital cafeteria can rarely be used in the same sentence!" He smiles, relaxing back into the pillows while I smooth his sheets, tucking them up to his chin for warmth. In the windowless room, time ceases to matter. The monitors' beeping accompanies my thoughts, as I resume my perch on the stool, to watch...and wait. Heartwrenchingly old and frail, he lies there: sunken cheeks, mouth half open, parched lips, eyes closed. We are waiting...waiting together; together...waiting for answers.
A young nurse steps in, asking if I would like to leave for a moment while she checks his more private parts. I've see them all, but take my leave, hoping to salvage a bit of his dignity. The day is quite warm outdoors, with a soft breeze ruffling the flowers who appreciatively nod their heads. In riotous summer bloom, the landscaping is beautiful: reds, pinks, blues, yellows and oranges all vying for attention among the greens of their foliage. Quite easily, I could...imagine...myself at an upscale eatery, a charming antique store or a local wine tasting venue, each with their flowers beckoning visitors to stop and stay a while. I notice a pollen- covered bee nestling in a red day lily, while a thirsty Swallowtail butterfly unfurls his tongue in the center of a bright Gerbera Daisy. Finches in the parking lot bicker over a carelessly discarded cookie, scattering in all directions as a car drives by. The world is throbbing with life, but I...am devoid of feeling, it's easier that way.
Turning away, my feet, resolutely, take me back to the little room. Aware of my return, he asks where I've been. Ever my dad, he hopes I've been to the cafeteria for a "good meal." I laugh as I tell him, "good meal and hospital cafeteria can rarely be used in the same sentence!" He smiles, relaxing back into the pillows while I smooth his sheets, tucking them up to his chin for warmth. In the windowless room, time ceases to matter. The monitors' beeping accompanies my thoughts, as I resume my perch on the stool, to watch...and wait. Heartwrenchingly old and frail, he lies there: sunken cheeks, mouth half open, parched lips, eyes closed. We are waiting...waiting together; together...waiting for answers.
Neglect
I glance at him and realize I haven’t seen him move his left arm all afternoon. It sits, comfortably ensconced in his lap, where it has sat for hours. He is as happy as a clam, sitting on the patio with me, deep into another competitive game of Scrabble. His left-brain logic is just fine, thank you, and he is darn comfortable with it.
Earlier, he had asked for today’s newspapaper with the unfinished crossword puzzle. “I do my crossword puzzles in pen, Sweetie,” he said, waving away my pencil with the good chunk of eraser on top. “Can’t you find me a pen?” I shrugged and found him a pen. And, back to the present, come to think of it, that left leg hasn’t moved an inch, either. “I’m sorry,” he says sheepishly, when I bring it to his attention. “I'm bad!"
"Would you stop that," I laugh as I whack him with the Scrabble score pad.
Neglect: a medical term describing, simply, a manifestation common among stroke patients wherein they are unable to, or prefer not to recognize body parts affected by the stroke. Some patients lose both movement and sensation in the affected extremities, while others have almost a kind of hypersensitivity, yet no movement. My dad falls into the latter category. I have heard humorous stories from rehab therapists regarding this phenomenon. They related tales of patients who thought the affected extremity belonged to their spouse or who thought the limb was missing. One justifiably terrified patient thought his arm was a wild animal in bed with him! Most patients, their lives turned upside down and inside out, just tend to ignore the affected extremities. How else to cope with the loss of functions taken for granted: mobility, a myriad of speech, taste and swallowing abilities, emotional stability, bowel and/or bladder function, to name but a few?
In my dad’s case, along with his left sided hemiplegia, his right-brain function was invisibly altered. His ability to self-cue is diminshed, he struggles with emotional instability and he is unable to explain himself when he is not feeling well. How on earth must that reality feel in the depths of one’s self-awareness? Pensive, by nature, my personal sphere of reality is often influenced by a right-brained “muse.” My muse perpetuates uninvited feelings, scattered emotions, and a keen awareness of emotional and physical pain in those with whom I interact. Actually, there are times when I would like that muse to cease. When feelings or intuitions threaten to overwhelm, I want to shut it down, and please, please, let my logical, Spock-like, left-brain have its say!
As I am writing, clarity dawns. Possessing adequate portions of left-brain logic, I compently function where God has placed me. My mix also contains heaping portions of right-brain flexibility, compassion, responsiveness to beauty, a tendency towards the illogical, intuitive understanding and creativity. NEGLECT! How very often have I neglected my own persona, instead of receiving it as a gift? Abba, Father...of course, you knew.
We sit out on the patio today, our two brains forming a terrific whole. He can beat the heck out of me in Scrabble remembering obscure crossword puzzle gems, and I remind him to move his arm, his leg and work his tongue for a stronger swallow. He regales me with explanations about the inner workings of the wireless modem on his laptop computer and I patiently explain, yet again, why his diminished right-brain function would make him dangerous in the driver’s seat. Yes, we flow, flow in synch, out here on the patio...blessed to be together...for one more day.
Earlier, he had asked for today’s newspapaper with the unfinished crossword puzzle. “I do my crossword puzzles in pen, Sweetie,” he said, waving away my pencil with the good chunk of eraser on top. “Can’t you find me a pen?” I shrugged and found him a pen. And, back to the present, come to think of it, that left leg hasn’t moved an inch, either. “I’m sorry,” he says sheepishly, when I bring it to his attention. “I'm bad!"
"Would you stop that," I laugh as I whack him with the Scrabble score pad.
Neglect: a medical term describing, simply, a manifestation common among stroke patients wherein they are unable to, or prefer not to recognize body parts affected by the stroke. Some patients lose both movement and sensation in the affected extremities, while others have almost a kind of hypersensitivity, yet no movement. My dad falls into the latter category. I have heard humorous stories from rehab therapists regarding this phenomenon. They related tales of patients who thought the affected extremity belonged to their spouse or who thought the limb was missing. One justifiably terrified patient thought his arm was a wild animal in bed with him! Most patients, their lives turned upside down and inside out, just tend to ignore the affected extremities. How else to cope with the loss of functions taken for granted: mobility, a myriad of speech, taste and swallowing abilities, emotional stability, bowel and/or bladder function, to name but a few?
In my dad’s case, along with his left sided hemiplegia, his right-brain function was invisibly altered. His ability to self-cue is diminshed, he struggles with emotional instability and he is unable to explain himself when he is not feeling well. How on earth must that reality feel in the depths of one’s self-awareness? Pensive, by nature, my personal sphere of reality is often influenced by a right-brained “muse.” My muse perpetuates uninvited feelings, scattered emotions, and a keen awareness of emotional and physical pain in those with whom I interact. Actually, there are times when I would like that muse to cease. When feelings or intuitions threaten to overwhelm, I want to shut it down, and please, please, let my logical, Spock-like, left-brain have its say!
As I am writing, clarity dawns. Possessing adequate portions of left-brain logic, I compently function where God has placed me. My mix also contains heaping portions of right-brain flexibility, compassion, responsiveness to beauty, a tendency towards the illogical, intuitive understanding and creativity. NEGLECT! How very often have I neglected my own persona, instead of receiving it as a gift? Abba, Father...of course, you knew.
We sit out on the patio today, our two brains forming a terrific whole. He can beat the heck out of me in Scrabble remembering obscure crossword puzzle gems, and I remind him to move his arm, his leg and work his tongue for a stronger swallow. He regales me with explanations about the inner workings of the wireless modem on his laptop computer and I patiently explain, yet again, why his diminished right-brain function would make him dangerous in the driver’s seat. Yes, we flow, flow in synch, out here on the patio...blessed to be together...for one more day.
More...from the heart...a difficult time
Driving…request denied
He said, “Let’s go for a drive.”
Watching the breeze play with our napkins. I replied, with feigned ignorance, “Sure, where would you like me to take you?"
He knows I know what he means, but it is our game.
Smiling ruefully, he says, “I only need my right hand to drive, anyway.” He knows my answer, quickly retorted in jest, “Request denied!” Laughter covers the grief, the pangs of which stab deep in the places we dare not often go. We know, and we both know that we know.
Inevitable, of course, was this decline and, eventualy death. Surely, death would be swift; a non-fulfillment of his fear of suffering and becoming a "burden". Perhaps out on the trail, alone in the Sierras or atop his beloved Valencia Peak in Montana de Oro; maybe after chopping wood or taking Rascal up the hill for their twice daily expedition, he would, in one breath, fly to Jesus. No debilitating illness, lingering, or dependency. The sudden sadness would be swift guillotine to our hearts, but, later, a peace would settlle, knowing this was what he wanted. Yes, of course, this was how it was supposed to have happened...
In his red power wheelchair, shaded from the bright sun, he gamely grinned at my answer. Peering with rheumy eyes over the rim of his sunglasses, he reached across the Scrabble board, he glancing my way, triumphantly. “Watch this!” he said, plunking the tiles on a triple word score complex.
“You’re killing me!” I screech.
He smiles and thumbs his nose at me.
The fateful call came the evening of July 4, 2008. At home, we were sitting down to tri-tip, grilled to perfection by our son-in-law. On the phone, my mother’s voice was frantic, “I’m at the ER and they think your dad has had a stroke.” Hmmm, laughing and squeezing lime into my drink one instant and the next instant…well...there are...no words. A small stroke, they said: a vertibrobasilar ischemic attack in the right hemisphere. A small area of ischemia it was, with a huge pay-off: the loss of bladder function, the use of his left leg and arm, along with changes in his right brain emotional and judgment faculties.
From a local hospital, he was transported to a rehabilitation facility in Santa Barbara, two hours away. With God as my Solace, my Touchstone, during the next five weeks, I became his advocate, his watch-dog, his company. My parents' new vulnerability cut to my soul as I functioned on automatic pilot at full speed, unable to do anything less. My own family was infinitely supportive and helpful. We were all optimistic…we heard many stories of “complete recoveries”. My dad just knew he could “beat this.”
Months pass in blurs of doctor appointments, skin breakdowns, medications, bowel regimens, urinary infections, poor appetite, pain, anxiety and depression. A shadow of her former self, my mother lovingly attends to my dad around the clock, day in and day out, never wavering in her commitment to: “in sickness and in health.” Much time is spent with them, affording my mother a break, helping with the care giving, keeping my dad occupied with pleasant activities, while feeling greatly blessed to have him still with us.
And so it was, on that sunny, warm day, deep into our game of Scrabble, he gazed, with longing, at his faithful white pick-up truck.
“I don’t know... if I can live...with the thought of never driving again. I don’t need my left side to drive.”
“Request denied!” I laugh back.
We pick up the game where we left off, as if nothing happened, continuing down to the last tile. Hours later, exhausted, on the long drive home, I'm alone with my thoughts. The lonely road is dark and…my steering wheel is wet with tears.
He said, “Let’s go for a drive.”
Watching the breeze play with our napkins. I replied, with feigned ignorance, “Sure, where would you like me to take you?"
He knows I know what he means, but it is our game.
Smiling ruefully, he says, “I only need my right hand to drive, anyway.” He knows my answer, quickly retorted in jest, “Request denied!” Laughter covers the grief, the pangs of which stab deep in the places we dare not often go. We know, and we both know that we know.
Inevitable, of course, was this decline and, eventualy death. Surely, death would be swift; a non-fulfillment of his fear of suffering and becoming a "burden". Perhaps out on the trail, alone in the Sierras or atop his beloved Valencia Peak in Montana de Oro; maybe after chopping wood or taking Rascal up the hill for their twice daily expedition, he would, in one breath, fly to Jesus. No debilitating illness, lingering, or dependency. The sudden sadness would be swift guillotine to our hearts, but, later, a peace would settlle, knowing this was what he wanted. Yes, of course, this was how it was supposed to have happened...
In his red power wheelchair, shaded from the bright sun, he gamely grinned at my answer. Peering with rheumy eyes over the rim of his sunglasses, he reached across the Scrabble board, he glancing my way, triumphantly. “Watch this!” he said, plunking the tiles on a triple word score complex.
“You’re killing me!” I screech.
He smiles and thumbs his nose at me.
The fateful call came the evening of July 4, 2008. At home, we were sitting down to tri-tip, grilled to perfection by our son-in-law. On the phone, my mother’s voice was frantic, “I’m at the ER and they think your dad has had a stroke.” Hmmm, laughing and squeezing lime into my drink one instant and the next instant…well...there are...no words. A small stroke, they said: a vertibrobasilar ischemic attack in the right hemisphere. A small area of ischemia it was, with a huge pay-off: the loss of bladder function, the use of his left leg and arm, along with changes in his right brain emotional and judgment faculties.
From a local hospital, he was transported to a rehabilitation facility in Santa Barbara, two hours away. With God as my Solace, my Touchstone, during the next five weeks, I became his advocate, his watch-dog, his company. My parents' new vulnerability cut to my soul as I functioned on automatic pilot at full speed, unable to do anything less. My own family was infinitely supportive and helpful. We were all optimistic…we heard many stories of “complete recoveries”. My dad just knew he could “beat this.”
Months pass in blurs of doctor appointments, skin breakdowns, medications, bowel regimens, urinary infections, poor appetite, pain, anxiety and depression. A shadow of her former self, my mother lovingly attends to my dad around the clock, day in and day out, never wavering in her commitment to: “in sickness and in health.” Much time is spent with them, affording my mother a break, helping with the care giving, keeping my dad occupied with pleasant activities, while feeling greatly blessed to have him still with us.
And so it was, on that sunny, warm day, deep into our game of Scrabble, he gazed, with longing, at his faithful white pick-up truck.
“I don’t know... if I can live...with the thought of never driving again. I don’t need my left side to drive.”
“Request denied!” I laugh back.
We pick up the game where we left off, as if nothing happened, continuing down to the last tile. Hours later, exhausted, on the long drive home, I'm alone with my thoughts. The lonely road is dark and…my steering wheel is wet with tears.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Seasons of Change
The past few years have brought seasons of enormous changes. Some embraced with joy, some fought and kicked against with all my strength. For anyone with the patience to read through any of these posts, please know they are from my heart. Should God use them to encourage you on your journey, I would be thrilled. The help and encouragement I have received along the way, has brought forth a fount of creativity in a voice and spirit which is fully ME and not the me I always thought I should be.
After this initial deluge of posting, due to some free time, the posts will be sporadic and in proportion to the amount of courage I have regarding knowing others might view my writings!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
BLISS
Running gear on, my shoes all laced up,
My poor body groans, I’m not a young pup!
Thousands of worries clutter up my mind,
World news, finances, my own daily grind.
But, a dirt road leads to an arm of the lake.
Anticipation grows with each step I take.
My senses enlivened by scent, light and sound,
I halt in my tracks to gaze all around.
A giant blue heron, disturbed, now take wing.
An amazing orange oriole flutters and sings.
Among the acrid marshes, little ducks dive and glide,
And birds flee the bushes as I chuff along side.
This evening so magical, so poignantly sweet,
Draws me into this moment, this second so fleet.
My spirit is grateful and I pause to look up.
I am choosing rich blessings from the Creator’s cup.
Choosing this very moment…
Bliss.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
MID-LIFE
She wears a straitjacket,
quite neatly hidden under an acceptable facade.
She wears a straitjacket,
a perfect fit; snugly and comfy from years of wear.
She wears a straitjacket.
The straps are labeled: control, fear, shame,
criticism, unmet expectations, guilt.
She wears a straitjacket,
so very neatly hidden under a perfectly controlled,
always acceptable facade.
No one knows...know one ever guesses...
and she would never admit...beneath her facade,
all she wants to do is...
dance...Create...and...SOAR!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
AFTER ALL...JOY
May I remind you? Have you forgotten?
You are undeserving, you know.
Others may deserve joy, but, after all,
you are not what you should be and you know it.
Just look at the rubble you've created, after all.
Remember the unmet goals,
unfinished projects,
unfulfilled expectations,
imperfect emotions...
and you expect joy?
Really now, who are you kidding?
After all, only the powerful,
the driven,
the successful
deserve joy.
Yes, you may have some noble attributes:
intuitive compassion,
sensitivity,
empathy,
a passion for beauty.
Nothing stellar,
mere signposts on the road to nowhere.
As for joy, you have to earn it!
I falter...I...Stop!! Stop right here and breathe!
Touching the silence in my soul,
the glowing core of my very being
strengthens with each breath.
The Past is enveloped by Present light. And,
after all,
my accuser does not have the final say.
In the accuser's silence, my soul allows God-words;
words of unconditional love, compassion and healing.
Words whispered in spirit language flow through my senses,
leaving healing in their wake. I listen and I choose.
I choose joy...after all.
After this initial deluge of posting, due to some free time, the posts will be sporadic and in proportion to the amount of courage I have regarding knowing others might view my writings!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
BLISS
Running gear on, my shoes all laced up,
My poor body groans, I’m not a young pup!
Thousands of worries clutter up my mind,
World news, finances, my own daily grind.
But, a dirt road leads to an arm of the lake.
Anticipation grows with each step I take.
My senses enlivened by scent, light and sound,
I halt in my tracks to gaze all around.
A giant blue heron, disturbed, now take wing.
An amazing orange oriole flutters and sings.
Among the acrid marshes, little ducks dive and glide,
And birds flee the bushes as I chuff along side.
This evening so magical, so poignantly sweet,
Draws me into this moment, this second so fleet.
My spirit is grateful and I pause to look up.
I am choosing rich blessings from the Creator’s cup.
Choosing this very moment…
Bliss.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
MID-LIFE
She wears a straitjacket,
quite neatly hidden under an acceptable facade.
She wears a straitjacket,
a perfect fit; snugly and comfy from years of wear.
She wears a straitjacket.
The straps are labeled: control, fear, shame,
criticism, unmet expectations, guilt.
She wears a straitjacket,
so very neatly hidden under a perfectly controlled,
always acceptable facade.
No one knows...know one ever guesses...
and she would never admit...beneath her facade,
all she wants to do is...
dance...Create...and...SOAR!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
AFTER ALL...JOY
May I remind you? Have you forgotten?
You are undeserving, you know.
Others may deserve joy, but, after all,
you are not what you should be and you know it.
Just look at the rubble you've created, after all.
Remember the unmet goals,
unfinished projects,
unfulfilled expectations,
imperfect emotions...
and you expect joy?
Really now, who are you kidding?
After all, only the powerful,
the driven,
the successful
deserve joy.
Yes, you may have some noble attributes:
intuitive compassion,
sensitivity,
empathy,
a passion for beauty.
Nothing stellar,
mere signposts on the road to nowhere.
As for joy, you have to earn it!
I falter...I...Stop!! Stop right here and breathe!
Touching the silence in my soul,
the glowing core of my very being
strengthens with each breath.
The Past is enveloped by Present light. And,
after all,
my accuser does not have the final say.
In the accuser's silence, my soul allows God-words;
words of unconditional love, compassion and healing.
Words whispered in spirit language flow through my senses,
leaving healing in their wake. I listen and I choose.
I choose joy...after all.
Painting...With Words
Pastels and soft brushes repose in their drawers.
The easels now folded and stacked in their place.
Pencils, by color, stored neatly together,
All snuggled up with a bunch of art paper.
Oh, where is the artist whose thoughts make them sing?
Where is the artist whose hands make them live?
Where is the artist who paints soulful eyes,
Whose hand creates animals, flowers and more?
She…is…joyfully painting, painting away!
She is painting and painting and painting with words!
Using splashes of color straight out of her soul,
She daubs and she brushes with vowels and with verbs.
Words from God’s spirit, words from her heart,
All flow through her fingers and onto the keys.
Words finely crafted and beautifully shaped,
Esthetically pleasing to lips, eyes and ears.
Words struck with joy, entwine with the angst.
Words starkly truthful, nudge words hiding pain.
Words laced with magic or poignant with grief,
Her muse now made known, the logjam is free!
Oh, the clothes are unfolded, the garden has weeds.
The mop and the vacuum are begging her…please!
No matter, the dozens of chores to be done.
She’s painting away with a tappity tap.
Ever so blissfully,
Painting
And
Painting
And
Painting…
With words!
The easels now folded and stacked in their place.
Pencils, by color, stored neatly together,
All snuggled up with a bunch of art paper.
Oh, where is the artist whose thoughts make them sing?
Where is the artist whose hands make them live?
Where is the artist who paints soulful eyes,
Whose hand creates animals, flowers and more?
She…is…joyfully painting, painting away!
She is painting and painting and painting with words!
Using splashes of color straight out of her soul,
She daubs and she brushes with vowels and with verbs.
Words from God’s spirit, words from her heart,
All flow through her fingers and onto the keys.
Words finely crafted and beautifully shaped,
Esthetically pleasing to lips, eyes and ears.
Words struck with joy, entwine with the angst.
Words starkly truthful, nudge words hiding pain.
Words laced with magic or poignant with grief,
Her muse now made known, the logjam is free!
Oh, the clothes are unfolded, the garden has weeds.
The mop and the vacuum are begging her…please!
No matter, the dozens of chores to be done.
She’s painting away with a tappity tap.
Ever so blissfully,
Painting
And
Painting
And
Painting…
With words!
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