Yesterday, Jim and I flew to LA. Fortunately for us, the sunshine followed our plane. LA has been under water for about 6 straight days with torrential rains. Today is beautiful.
Before we flew out yesterday, I went in for my 17th treatment. I am now over halfway. I am very glad that I am missing two treatments this week. Flying out seems to have taken it's toll on me. Despite packing my own healthy food and drinking lots of water and taking Ai/E10 every hour, I am still flaking out on the couch today. Hopefully, I can balance my energy usage so that I can enjoy being out here with two of our daughters and two of our sons, plus two grandchildren, our great son-in-law, Brad, and Ryan's fiancee, Celeste. We are looking forward to a wonderful time. Meg, our youngest daughter is somewhere over the North Pole as I write. She is flying in from Germany. Ryan and Celeste will be flying in from Salt Lake City tonight. David, our youngest, lives here as well as our oldest daughter, Katie. (She and Brad are the ones who are holding our precious grandchildren, Mivvi and Jack, captive out here in LA. Just kidding...kind of!)
I am kind of surprised at how my energy level dropped between the time I was in Birmingham yesterday morning and now. I have found myself heading for the couch by about 9AM - just for a little rest. I had been warned that flying was tough on the body anyway, but I guess that being in the process of radiation treatments elevated that stress.
We are continuing to pray for God's grace in Jim's mother's life. She was not well on Sunday when we saw her. I can only pray for her comfort and God's mercy. Ro, Jim's sister, is keeping an eye on her while we are gone.
Well, I want to get back out into the kitchen to help Katie make some lunch. I think a nap will be in order after that. I have to be a little more energetic when the other two arrive this evening.
If I don't write again before Christmas, may your Christmas be a blessed day. I pray that the true essence of Christmas will be the center of your celebration.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Weekend Highs and Lows
This weekend was at both extremes. We started out on a high, but ended up rather low.
Saturday night, we got to go to the SEA, Inc Christmas party. This is the new company that Jim just started working for two weeks ago. It was great! LOVE the people! Jim's boss, Steve Sain, is a great guy, and his wife, Elena, is delightful. Totally first class gathering at The Cafe DuPont http://www.cafedupont.net/. The food was spectacular! Loved every bite!
Sunday morning, we slept in. This is most unusual for us. Mornings are harder for me these days and Jim was sick. He had been up most of the night. His stomach had been in knots since midnight. I think we finally got up around 8:30.
We wanted to go up and visit Jim's mom since we are going to be flying to LA on Wednesday for Christmas. We got showered and dressed, and at about 11:15 we were ready to go. That is when Jim walked into our room holding the thermometer. He had a slight fever. We debated going, but finally decided that if we could make it, we should make the effort. (I felt his head on the way up, and I think his fever was gone.)
Drove up and got there about 1:30. Jim's mom was in bed. The room was warm and dark. Jim went over and awakened her and she responded, but I am not sure she recognized him right away. I gave her a kiss on the forehead. She has deteriorated a lot since last week. Her eyes are dull, she doesn't talk much, and she is so feeble.
We decided it might help to just get her out of the room, so we moved her to the wheelchair with great care. Her hair was wild, so I got her comb and gently combed her hair. Surprisingly, it is not gray, but more of a strawberry blonde. It is really beautiful. I think it made her feel a little bit better to just have her hair combed.
We got her in the wheelchair and took her around the halls to look at the Christmas decorations. She responded to some of it, but everything takes so much energy. Finally, we wheeled her back to her room. She is so thin...
When she talks, she is hard to understand because her words are kind of muffled. But, she asked us if she could rest. We helped her back in to bed. (I couldn't help but think about how challenging it would be to try to do all this in one's home. It is a whole new ballgame to have to take care of ALL the needs a person has when they are as incapacitated as Mom is.)
Once we got her in bed, Jim sat down and asked her if she would like him to read from the Bible. She told him that would be fine. He asked her if there was any particular passage. "Corinthians" she whispered. Jim opened to I Corinthians 13 and started reading "If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels and have not Charity, it profits me nothing..." (Last week when Jim read this passage to Mom, she would finish many of the phrases. This week, she just had her eyes closed and showed virtually no response.) As Jim got to the end of the passage, his voice began to break. He has been through so much in this past year. His dad died in July, I have had three cancer-related surgeries, and his mom is now quickly fading away. All this plus financial challenges and then a job change. No wonder he is sick!
I went over beside him and rubbed his back as he finished the passage. Then, he asked me to pray for Mom, which I gladly did. Then, Jim told her goodbye, I kissed her on the forehead and told her we would see her after our trip. We then quietly left in silence, holding one another's hand. Jim drove until we got to the interstate and then asked me to drive the rest of the way. Fortunately, he got a little sleep. When we got home, he went straight to bed. I ache for him.
I am worn out. My cancer is nothing compared to this. Watching Jim's folks deteriorate this year has been horrendous. One thing I am realizing is that it is very difficult to talk about what it is like to see someone decline and slowly disappear. It is so overwhelming that one is dumbfounded. That is the right word. For example, I am not sharing some of the really hard things we observed while we were with Mom these last few weeks. One loses one's dignity and independence with growing physical weakness. The reason I was so appalled that there was valet parking at the cancer center was precisely related to this fear - "I am going to lose the ability to take care of myself. I am going to end up being dependent on others for things I would rather handle myself." As I have watched Mom go downhill, I have been struck speechless. There are no words to describe what I have seen.
While the negatives have been profound, there is something very real about all this. I remember when we would take Jim's mom to see Dad before he died, they would always part with Mom saying "You're my darling." And Jim Sr. would reply "You're my sweetheart." Those precious exchanges are seared into our minds. They are sacred phrases from a 65+ year relationship between a husband and wife.
Now, as we have prayed with Mom, and Jim has read I Corinthians to her on several occasions, I will never hear I Corinthians 13 and not think of Jim at her bedside, quietly reading to her. While I am dumbfounded at this process, I am also more human as a result of having passed through this place.
Life is SO full of distractions. But, in times of suffering, there seem to be these very essential moments that lack the noise, the foolishness of busyness. They are quiet moments that are filled to the brim with poignancy. I know my husband better and I love him more because we have suffered together.
We are not through. I know there will be more sorrows ahead, but there will also be the blessings - the moments of celebration with family and friends, the beauty of sunsets and sunrises, the gentle breezes of the beach, and the grace gifts that God blesses us with along the way.
I ache, but I am grateful. Pray for Jim. He is a very good man, and he is carrying a very heavy load right now.
Saturday night, we got to go to the SEA, Inc Christmas party. This is the new company that Jim just started working for two weeks ago. It was great! LOVE the people! Jim's boss, Steve Sain, is a great guy, and his wife, Elena, is delightful. Totally first class gathering at The Cafe DuPont http://www.cafedupont.net/. The food was spectacular! Loved every bite!
Sunday morning, we slept in. This is most unusual for us. Mornings are harder for me these days and Jim was sick. He had been up most of the night. His stomach had been in knots since midnight. I think we finally got up around 8:30.
We wanted to go up and visit Jim's mom since we are going to be flying to LA on Wednesday for Christmas. We got showered and dressed, and at about 11:15 we were ready to go. That is when Jim walked into our room holding the thermometer. He had a slight fever. We debated going, but finally decided that if we could make it, we should make the effort. (I felt his head on the way up, and I think his fever was gone.)
Drove up and got there about 1:30. Jim's mom was in bed. The room was warm and dark. Jim went over and awakened her and she responded, but I am not sure she recognized him right away. I gave her a kiss on the forehead. She has deteriorated a lot since last week. Her eyes are dull, she doesn't talk much, and she is so feeble.
We decided it might help to just get her out of the room, so we moved her to the wheelchair with great care. Her hair was wild, so I got her comb and gently combed her hair. Surprisingly, it is not gray, but more of a strawberry blonde. It is really beautiful. I think it made her feel a little bit better to just have her hair combed.
We got her in the wheelchair and took her around the halls to look at the Christmas decorations. She responded to some of it, but everything takes so much energy. Finally, we wheeled her back to her room. She is so thin...
When she talks, she is hard to understand because her words are kind of muffled. But, she asked us if she could rest. We helped her back in to bed. (I couldn't help but think about how challenging it would be to try to do all this in one's home. It is a whole new ballgame to have to take care of ALL the needs a person has when they are as incapacitated as Mom is.)
Once we got her in bed, Jim sat down and asked her if she would like him to read from the Bible. She told him that would be fine. He asked her if there was any particular passage. "Corinthians" she whispered. Jim opened to I Corinthians 13 and started reading "If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels and have not Charity, it profits me nothing..." (Last week when Jim read this passage to Mom, she would finish many of the phrases. This week, she just had her eyes closed and showed virtually no response.) As Jim got to the end of the passage, his voice began to break. He has been through so much in this past year. His dad died in July, I have had three cancer-related surgeries, and his mom is now quickly fading away. All this plus financial challenges and then a job change. No wonder he is sick!
I went over beside him and rubbed his back as he finished the passage. Then, he asked me to pray for Mom, which I gladly did. Then, Jim told her goodbye, I kissed her on the forehead and told her we would see her after our trip. We then quietly left in silence, holding one another's hand. Jim drove until we got to the interstate and then asked me to drive the rest of the way. Fortunately, he got a little sleep. When we got home, he went straight to bed. I ache for him.
I am worn out. My cancer is nothing compared to this. Watching Jim's folks deteriorate this year has been horrendous. One thing I am realizing is that it is very difficult to talk about what it is like to see someone decline and slowly disappear. It is so overwhelming that one is dumbfounded. That is the right word. For example, I am not sharing some of the really hard things we observed while we were with Mom these last few weeks. One loses one's dignity and independence with growing physical weakness. The reason I was so appalled that there was valet parking at the cancer center was precisely related to this fear - "I am going to lose the ability to take care of myself. I am going to end up being dependent on others for things I would rather handle myself." As I have watched Mom go downhill, I have been struck speechless. There are no words to describe what I have seen.
While the negatives have been profound, there is something very real about all this. I remember when we would take Jim's mom to see Dad before he died, they would always part with Mom saying "You're my darling." And Jim Sr. would reply "You're my sweetheart." Those precious exchanges are seared into our minds. They are sacred phrases from a 65+ year relationship between a husband and wife.
Now, as we have prayed with Mom, and Jim has read I Corinthians to her on several occasions, I will never hear I Corinthians 13 and not think of Jim at her bedside, quietly reading to her. While I am dumbfounded at this process, I am also more human as a result of having passed through this place.
Life is SO full of distractions. But, in times of suffering, there seem to be these very essential moments that lack the noise, the foolishness of busyness. They are quiet moments that are filled to the brim with poignancy. I know my husband better and I love him more because we have suffered together.
We are not through. I know there will be more sorrows ahead, but there will also be the blessings - the moments of celebration with family and friends, the beauty of sunsets and sunrises, the gentle breezes of the beach, and the grace gifts that God blesses us with along the way.
I ache, but I am grateful. Pray for Jim. He is a very good man, and he is carrying a very heavy load right now.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Suffering redeemed
It feels like forever since I posted last. I guess it was only Monday, but it seems like forever ago.
After our trip up to see Jim's mom on Sunday, I continued to be very concerned about her care, so Tuesday, after my treatment, I drove up to Huntsville. So glad I did. I got to talk to the caseworker at the rehab center where she is staying. She had been moved to a private room, she had been up and had gone down to lunch and had therapy. All good things. However, she slept most of the time I was there and was still very dehydrated. I tried to get her to take more water, but she just said "Please. No more." She needs it so much, but it is hard to press her on it.
As I was leaving the facility, I looked around at all the residents who were at various stages of need. This whole aging process really gets to me. When Anne had asked me that morning if I was afraid of death, I think that I probably am. But, I am also angry at the process. There is a part of me that rears up and refuses to be "okay" with it. Every time I see sickness or attend a visitation at a funeral home I think "This is not the way it was supposed to be. God designed us for life and death and decay are contrary to the perfect design." It makes me that much more grateful for Jesus and for his solution to our problem.
I keep thinking of Sam's comment to Gandalf in Lord of the Rings when, in the final scene he asked Gandalf "Is everything sad going to come untrue?" Because of Christmas and Easter, our deepest needs are met, our sorrows will be redeemed and all things will be set right.
This is my greatest hope.
Yesterday, a dear friend of mine was over here. She was encouraging me to remember to be thankful in all things. She lost her son in a car wreck several years ago and she was furious with God about it. But, she said she took her anger to God and He enabled her to say "thank you". In no way did she gloss over her loss, but she saw the loss from a new perspective and was able to be grateful. Only God can do this kind of work in the heart - a transformation that brings healing out of great sorrow.
One of my favorite verses is "The moon will shine like the sun, and the sun like the light of seven full days when God binds up the bruises of his people and heals the wounds he has inflicted." Isaiah 30:26.
We never call evil good, but the good news is that all things can be redeemed. That is our greatest Christmas gift. His presence is our greatest present.
After our trip up to see Jim's mom on Sunday, I continued to be very concerned about her care, so Tuesday, after my treatment, I drove up to Huntsville. So glad I did. I got to talk to the caseworker at the rehab center where she is staying. She had been moved to a private room, she had been up and had gone down to lunch and had therapy. All good things. However, she slept most of the time I was there and was still very dehydrated. I tried to get her to take more water, but she just said "Please. No more." She needs it so much, but it is hard to press her on it.
As I was leaving the facility, I looked around at all the residents who were at various stages of need. This whole aging process really gets to me. When Anne had asked me that morning if I was afraid of death, I think that I probably am. But, I am also angry at the process. There is a part of me that rears up and refuses to be "okay" with it. Every time I see sickness or attend a visitation at a funeral home I think "This is not the way it was supposed to be. God designed us for life and death and decay are contrary to the perfect design." It makes me that much more grateful for Jesus and for his solution to our problem.
I keep thinking of Sam's comment to Gandalf in Lord of the Rings when, in the final scene he asked Gandalf "Is everything sad going to come untrue?" Because of Christmas and Easter, our deepest needs are met, our sorrows will be redeemed and all things will be set right.
This is my greatest hope.
Yesterday, a dear friend of mine was over here. She was encouraging me to remember to be thankful in all things. She lost her son in a car wreck several years ago and she was furious with God about it. But, she said she took her anger to God and He enabled her to say "thank you". In no way did she gloss over her loss, but she saw the loss from a new perspective and was able to be grateful. Only God can do this kind of work in the heart - a transformation that brings healing out of great sorrow.
One of my favorite verses is "The moon will shine like the sun, and the sun like the light of seven full days when God binds up the bruises of his people and heals the wounds he has inflicted." Isaiah 30:26.
We never call evil good, but the good news is that all things can be redeemed. That is our greatest Christmas gift. His presence is our greatest present.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Tough weekend
I love writing "significant" things, but this is just a journal entry. This weekend was tough.
The last two Saturday mornings, I am just not rolling out of bed as usual. Kind of dragging. I told Jim over my second cup of coffee "Either the radiation is beginning to get me, or I am just plain lazy." Honestly, it could be either one. I got virtually nothing done. At least the sheets got changed, but half-finished chores are everywhere.
Then, Sunday morning I got up, took my first sip of coffee and my teeth were kind of sensitive. Then, I noticed that my mouth felt a little raw. Weird. So, naturally, I Googled it, and it seems that at the end of the second week of radiation, you can get mouth sores. Great. So, I am even more serious about taking all the supplements Alex suggested. I REALLY want to cruise through this. (Probably unrealistic, but I would rather anticipate good things than sit around waiting for things to get tough.)
But, the real kicker of the weekend was when we went up to see Jim's mom in the new place she is in. After her surgery last Sunday night, she was in the ICU for four days. On Thursday afternoon, she was moved to a room, and Friday afternoon, they discharged her to go to a "rehab" center. (Just as a side note - for those of you who don't know, I have worked in two in-patient facilities. One was with adolescents in treatment for drugs and alcohol. The other was a residential eating disorder center for women. Having worked in a full-care facility, I know that no place is perfect, but there are some basic standards of care that should be met - in my humble opinion.) I don't want to get in to all of it, but I was less than impressed. She had no water cup and she could hardly talk she was so parched. There is no way the nurses could hear her and she has Alzheimer's, so she doesn't know she has a call button. Okay, that's enough. There's more, but let's just wrap it up by saying it was a rough afternoon.
I have to admit that when I am mad at the nursing staff, it is really hard to "see" them. I would much rather strangle them!
The best part of the day was when Jim asked me to read an article to him while we drove up to Huntsville. It was a Mars Hill interview with our favorite friend and mentor, Dr. James Houston. Jim Houston Interview - 1996 Dr. Houston has taught us more about relating to God than anyone we have ever known. (NOTE: Dr. Houston is the most loving human being I think I have ever been around. If there is anyone that I want to be like when I "grow up," it is Jim. BUT, he is also the most brilliant man I have ever been around. I probably spent the first two years of our friendship only being able to understand about 1/10th of what he he said. BUT, it was well worth the effort to just glean those little bits. If you decide to follow this link, pat yourself on the back if you glean just one or two nuggets of wisdom.)
Here are a few of the quotes from the article:
Our society looks at people statistically, functionally, programmatically, instead of dealing with them personally. But the Good Shepherd knows each of his sheep by name.
The limit to which one has self-understanding is the limit to which you can understand others.
One of the other points that Jim Houston makes in this article is that an attitude of gratitude must be an essential part of our lives if we are to live life fully. To have a heart of gratitude fills life with joy. It also is the very opposite of living in fear and anxiety. When the Proverbs say "A cheerful heart does good like a medicine" that is literally true. For, one of the primary causes of the breakdown of our immune system (which is like opening the door to illness) is stress. Stress is ultimately a mind-set. It is a world view that anticipates the bad, not the good.
I think I want to write more about this later, but for tonight, I think it is enough to be challenged with what I can be grateful for. AND to not consider myself helpless in my mother-in-law's situation, but to intercede for her before the Father. He can do her more good than those nurses anyway!
The last two Saturday mornings, I am just not rolling out of bed as usual. Kind of dragging. I told Jim over my second cup of coffee "Either the radiation is beginning to get me, or I am just plain lazy." Honestly, it could be either one. I got virtually nothing done. At least the sheets got changed, but half-finished chores are everywhere.
Then, Sunday morning I got up, took my first sip of coffee and my teeth were kind of sensitive. Then, I noticed that my mouth felt a little raw. Weird. So, naturally, I Googled it, and it seems that at the end of the second week of radiation, you can get mouth sores. Great. So, I am even more serious about taking all the supplements Alex suggested. I REALLY want to cruise through this. (Probably unrealistic, but I would rather anticipate good things than sit around waiting for things to get tough.)
But, the real kicker of the weekend was when we went up to see Jim's mom in the new place she is in. After her surgery last Sunday night, she was in the ICU for four days. On Thursday afternoon, she was moved to a room, and Friday afternoon, they discharged her to go to a "rehab" center. (Just as a side note - for those of you who don't know, I have worked in two in-patient facilities. One was with adolescents in treatment for drugs and alcohol. The other was a residential eating disorder center for women. Having worked in a full-care facility, I know that no place is perfect, but there are some basic standards of care that should be met - in my humble opinion.) I don't want to get in to all of it, but I was less than impressed. She had no water cup and she could hardly talk she was so parched. There is no way the nurses could hear her and she has Alzheimer's, so she doesn't know she has a call button. Okay, that's enough. There's more, but let's just wrap it up by saying it was a rough afternoon.
I have to admit that when I am mad at the nursing staff, it is really hard to "see" them. I would much rather strangle them!
The best part of the day was when Jim asked me to read an article to him while we drove up to Huntsville. It was a Mars Hill interview with our favorite friend and mentor, Dr. James Houston. Jim Houston Interview - 1996 Dr. Houston has taught us more about relating to God than anyone we have ever known. (NOTE: Dr. Houston is the most loving human being I think I have ever been around. If there is anyone that I want to be like when I "grow up," it is Jim. BUT, he is also the most brilliant man I have ever been around. I probably spent the first two years of our friendship only being able to understand about 1/10th of what he he said. BUT, it was well worth the effort to just glean those little bits. If you decide to follow this link, pat yourself on the back if you glean just one or two nuggets of wisdom.)
Here are a few of the quotes from the article:
Our society looks at people statistically, functionally, programmatically, instead of dealing with them personally. But the Good Shepherd knows each of his sheep by name.
The limit to which one has self-understanding is the limit to which you can understand others.
One of the other points that Jim Houston makes in this article is that an attitude of gratitude must be an essential part of our lives if we are to live life fully. To have a heart of gratitude fills life with joy. It also is the very opposite of living in fear and anxiety. When the Proverbs say "A cheerful heart does good like a medicine" that is literally true. For, one of the primary causes of the breakdown of our immune system (which is like opening the door to illness) is stress. Stress is ultimately a mind-set. It is a world view that anticipates the bad, not the good.
I think I want to write more about this later, but for tonight, I think it is enough to be challenged with what I can be grateful for. AND to not consider myself helpless in my mother-in-law's situation, but to intercede for her before the Father. He can do her more good than those nurses anyway!
Friday, December 10, 2010
How you know you have finished treatment...
I was thumbing through the familiar magazines in the women's waiting area when Sissy came in waving a piece of paper. "I am finished! I got my official certificate of completion!"
Sissy is a lovely woman in her seventies that I had talked to a couple of times in the past. She had had non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Today was her last day of treatment, and she was proudly waving her certificate, complete with her name printed in large script. Until this moment, I hadn't even thought of how you would mark the end of 33 radiation treatments. Now I know! When that day comes, hopefully on January 17th, it will not be marked with a guarantee that the treatments have worked 100%. Instead, it will be recognized by a piece of paper, bearing my name, that says I have finished the course.
I had several reactions to all this. First, I was really happy for Sissy. She was all smiles and so glad to have finished treatments. No more long drives from Hoover, no more fighting the traffic and changing into cute gowns every day. What a great Christmas present!
But, as Sissy was putting on her jacket, she mentioned that she had had breast cancer in the past. I don't remember exactly what she said about it, because my mind was only focused on "She had breast cancer before. Now, she had something else that required radiation. How often does that happen? Will it happen to me?" Honestly, I don't think so. But I have to admit that I didn't hear the rest of her sentence because I had that alarm going off inside my head.
A piece of paper doesn't guarantee full recovery. As my oncology radiologist had said the first day "I only ever offer a 90% recovery." (I am still not in to the percentages. When she said that, two things went through my mind - 'It is still called the practice of medicine' and the other was 'CYA'.) But, there is no doctor that can guarantee cancer will never come back, and it would be unethical to do so.
Another thought was that I was glad Sissy got a certificate. This is not the easiest thing in the world to do. To come in daily to the hospital, to be marked up for treatment, lie down on a board, look up at the eye of a radiation machine that is designed to kill cells in your body.... I can think of more fun things to do. So, it seems appropriate that, if a 100% money-back guarantee can't be given, at least you should be recognized for your perseverance!
So, I look forward to the day when I get my certificate. But, yesterday was Sissy's day. I rejoiced with her as I helped her get her coat on.
"Congratulations, Sissy, and have a wonderful Christmas!"
Sissy is a lovely woman in her seventies that I had talked to a couple of times in the past. She had had non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Today was her last day of treatment, and she was proudly waving her certificate, complete with her name printed in large script. Until this moment, I hadn't even thought of how you would mark the end of 33 radiation treatments. Now I know! When that day comes, hopefully on January 17th, it will not be marked with a guarantee that the treatments have worked 100%. Instead, it will be recognized by a piece of paper, bearing my name, that says I have finished the course.
I had several reactions to all this. First, I was really happy for Sissy. She was all smiles and so glad to have finished treatments. No more long drives from Hoover, no more fighting the traffic and changing into cute gowns every day. What a great Christmas present!
But, as Sissy was putting on her jacket, she mentioned that she had had breast cancer in the past. I don't remember exactly what she said about it, because my mind was only focused on "She had breast cancer before. Now, she had something else that required radiation. How often does that happen? Will it happen to me?" Honestly, I don't think so. But I have to admit that I didn't hear the rest of her sentence because I had that alarm going off inside my head.
A piece of paper doesn't guarantee full recovery. As my oncology radiologist had said the first day "I only ever offer a 90% recovery." (I am still not in to the percentages. When she said that, two things went through my mind - 'It is still called the practice of medicine' and the other was 'CYA'.) But, there is no doctor that can guarantee cancer will never come back, and it would be unethical to do so.
Another thought was that I was glad Sissy got a certificate. This is not the easiest thing in the world to do. To come in daily to the hospital, to be marked up for treatment, lie down on a board, look up at the eye of a radiation machine that is designed to kill cells in your body.... I can think of more fun things to do. So, it seems appropriate that, if a 100% money-back guarantee can't be given, at least you should be recognized for your perseverance!
So, I look forward to the day when I get my certificate. But, yesterday was Sissy's day. I rejoiced with her as I helped her get her coat on.
"Congratulations, Sissy, and have a wonderful Christmas!"
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
A Disturbance in the Force
I understand that Elizabeth Edwards died yesterday of breast cancer. It was interesting how different my response was to that news now that I have entered the community of breast cancer survivors. In the past, I would have acknowledged it and felt nothing more than sadness for her family and relief for her from her pain. It was more of a news story than anything else.
As I read the posting on Facebook that told of her death, I had a much different reaction this time. I had a sense that we had lost someone in the community. A community of which I am now a part. While I am rather hesitant to embrace New Age images, I cannot help think of Avatar and the emphasis they put on the connectedness of things. In Avatar, it was focused on Nature, with people being a part of Nature. In reality, it is the PERSONAL first. The way God created us, it was from the outset for communion and connection. He is personal and relational in his essence. We were made to share in the joy of who He is.
In our culture, it is so easy to isolate. This is a personal issue for me. I am a very introverted person. I do not entrust myself easily to others. I admit I verge on paranoia when it comes to sharing anything on the internet. Case in point - I do not have my last name listed with this blog, no personal information and I have settings that keep it from being broadly available.
So, it has been a huge step for me to be willing to share my thoughts with you in this way. And yet, I am hearing back that others are appreciative of my sharing. I have opened up and connected. I have taken the risk of letting myself be known.
What has this got to do with Elizabeth Edwards? It is this - my life experience has given me a greater connection to her story. I feel the loss more now than I would have felt it two months ago. I have an identification with her. We have a shared experience.
I do believe that our sufferings connect us to others. As one of my dear friends said this morning, "I don't really need God when all is going well, but I do need Him when things are hard." In life, we need both the connection to God and the connection to others. Suffering can unite us, sharing can unite us and shared suffering can REALLY unite us.
Suffering forces our hand to connect. But, it is possible to choose connection. One more story:
Last year, at that annual Christmas party I mentioned previously, I was standing by the stove in the kitchen, catching up with my dear friend, Mary. We have been friends for over twenty years, but she doesn't live in town and I don't see her all that much. A few years ago, Mary had had a very tough struggle with breast cancer, but she had won. When I asked Mary how she was doing she said "I have been diagnosed with Stage four cancer. I have four tumors in my body." I immediately teared up. I was grieved and angry (anger seems to be my initial reaction to fear and suffering). As Mary told me more about her situation, I was especially grieved that I had not kept up with her so that I could have known this was happening.
That night, I made a commitment to make a greater effort to get in touch with the people I love. I will share more about that later, but my point is that we ARE connected to one another. We can be enriched by engaging in those connections, or we can be impoverished in our isolation, without even knowing that we are experiencing loss.
Elizabeth's death shows me that I am more connected now, than ever before, to others with breast cancer. I have a new "connector" to others, and it appears that it is producing many, many more connections to life than I ever could have imagined.
As I read the posting on Facebook that told of her death, I had a much different reaction this time. I had a sense that we had lost someone in the community. A community of which I am now a part. While I am rather hesitant to embrace New Age images, I cannot help think of Avatar and the emphasis they put on the connectedness of things. In Avatar, it was focused on Nature, with people being a part of Nature. In reality, it is the PERSONAL first. The way God created us, it was from the outset for communion and connection. He is personal and relational in his essence. We were made to share in the joy of who He is.
In our culture, it is so easy to isolate. This is a personal issue for me. I am a very introverted person. I do not entrust myself easily to others. I admit I verge on paranoia when it comes to sharing anything on the internet. Case in point - I do not have my last name listed with this blog, no personal information and I have settings that keep it from being broadly available.
So, it has been a huge step for me to be willing to share my thoughts with you in this way. And yet, I am hearing back that others are appreciative of my sharing. I have opened up and connected. I have taken the risk of letting myself be known.
What has this got to do with Elizabeth Edwards? It is this - my life experience has given me a greater connection to her story. I feel the loss more now than I would have felt it two months ago. I have an identification with her. We have a shared experience.
I do believe that our sufferings connect us to others. As one of my dear friends said this morning, "I don't really need God when all is going well, but I do need Him when things are hard." In life, we need both the connection to God and the connection to others. Suffering can unite us, sharing can unite us and shared suffering can REALLY unite us.
Suffering forces our hand to connect. But, it is possible to choose connection. One more story:
Last year, at that annual Christmas party I mentioned previously, I was standing by the stove in the kitchen, catching up with my dear friend, Mary. We have been friends for over twenty years, but she doesn't live in town and I don't see her all that much. A few years ago, Mary had had a very tough struggle with breast cancer, but she had won. When I asked Mary how she was doing she said "I have been diagnosed with Stage four cancer. I have four tumors in my body." I immediately teared up. I was grieved and angry (anger seems to be my initial reaction to fear and suffering). As Mary told me more about her situation, I was especially grieved that I had not kept up with her so that I could have known this was happening.
That night, I made a commitment to make a greater effort to get in touch with the people I love. I will share more about that later, but my point is that we ARE connected to one another. We can be enriched by engaging in those connections, or we can be impoverished in our isolation, without even knowing that we are experiencing loss.
Elizabeth's death shows me that I am more connected now, than ever before, to others with breast cancer. I have a new "connector" to others, and it appears that it is producing many, many more connections to life than I ever could have imagined.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Update on Jim's mom
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| Jim and his mom - Rosalie Tutwiler McCool |
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