Different at Night

She's different at night. 

The daytime people don't know her. When there is no one to smile at or sing to, she goes far away, stands on top of the world and looks down to feel the largeness of space and brevity of time. Her face tells the story even when words are far from her mouth.

When they do come, she confirms what you thought you heard her say... It's almost over. My heart is giving way. Jesus will take care of me and he will take great care of you too.

In an hour or so, she wants to brush her teeth, shave her whiskers, and yes to wiping her face. Her friends are coming in a few hours. 

She sinks back to sleep, right up until her friends walk through the door. 

She pinks up and smiles. 

Kisses and hugs and stories fill the room followed by more and more people with their own kisses and hugs and stories. Like a movie of her whole life where the characters from different chapters bump into each other for once and for all.

She performs her favorite song surrounded by an audience of a lifetime. Her head nods and she sports a knowing smile. Her hand taps and the words stumble out or go quiet when they get confused or don't match what that guy is singing so well.

In the middle of the night, I go walking in my sleep...

Chips and dip and margaritas, and they left as they came. Slumber returned before they made it to the end of the hall.

When she goes, she said we'll know she made it to heaven when we hear a big crack of thunder.

Her room is dark, except for the light escaping from the bathroom so we can see her face. She sleeps in her wheelchair, determined not to get back into bed. 

The rumble of a storm approaches with an occasional flash of light. She is laid back and covered and her breathing is slight.

She parties by day but she is different at night.

Don

Mom decided to turn around halfway to the restaurant. She wanted to sit in the shade and wait for me to bring her dinner. 

A good idea, really...

I placed my order at the bar and sat next to a disinterested guy wearing overalls - Just my type. 

I made my move.

Just waiting on his dinner, he said. 

Taking it home to someone or eating alone and just don't want to do it here?

His wife was in the car.

They were just on their way home from the emergency room. She fell between the toilet and the tub a few days ago and the pain continued to worsen.

Find out what's wrong? 

Found out what wasn't wrong...

Yeah, that's definitely how it goes sometimes.

She's 90 and he's 91. Been married 71 years.

Do you give marriage advice?

He laughed. You made a commitment - keep it. Life happens, and you adjust.

Person of faith? 

Not really. 

But his wife saw their 16-year-old son walk into and out of a room through a wall to let her know he was alright, some time after he was killed in a motorcycle accident.

And Don just sold his motor cycle last year. At age 90. Wife only minded it some.

We're made of trillions of parts, the universe goes beyond the stars, and their two other kids are sicker than they are.

Apparently, William Shatner has a show worth watching called Unexplained. And make sure it's the one with William Shatner. Either there is life after death or there isn't, and worrying about it isn't how he chooses to spend his time.

I thanked him for the visit and hoped I helped him pass the time, and said hello to his wife on the way out. 

It's taking too long, she said. 

I couldn't disagree as she waited-in-the-car-on-the-way-home-from-the-emergency- room. But, it kind of seemed like perfect timing to me.

The Haircut

The haircut. 

It came up again tonight at the dinner table. 

Nothing can make my eyes sting and shut down my ability to speak like the thought of it.

Ironic, because I wanted it to be cut so many times before now. 

But not now.

When that hair is cut, I will see the man we are sending off to bootcamp. Our Marine. Off he will go after he graduates high school. Less than two months from now.

The long-haired boy that lives in our home will leave with short hair. He will be a visitor in our home from then on.

I could feign surprise, but I've known it was coming. 

He handed me something when he was 12-years-old. "Here, you're going to need this." 

A Proud-parent-of-a-Marine sticker. I tried to explain all of the other options and he just looked at me with pity. 

He was only 12, but it was already years in the making. If there was an opportunity to dress up, he already knew what he would be wearing. I think he is 9 here...

As his mother, I can only support his decision, and try to soak up the early mornings and late nights -  when he is still of a mind to eat breakfast with his Mom, lay on my lap, and be tickled like the little boy he once was. I have countless pictures of these times, lest I forget...

When he was two-years-old, I came home from work to a little boy who had a haircut by his well-meaning Daddy. Little blond curls off and short hair on. 

I cried. It was a terrible surprise. I still have those locks in a ziplock baggie somewhere. Not sure if that is sentimental or just gross at this point. Probably both.

But I learned something. Surprise haircuts are bad (for me). 

Another haircut is coming and I have to face it head on. Probably need to watch it happen. And cry. 

But whenever it is, I hope not to be surprised. 

It occurs to me that I have never dreaded something for so long. I'm pretty sure that makes me one of the lucky ones. There are a lot worse things than haircuts, of course. 

God bless all who serve, their mothers, their fathers, their barbers, and all who love them. 

Dying Alone With a Tiny Rainbow in the Sky

My eyes are welling again and I was wondering if I could just tell you something? I don’t feel like I can get anything else done unless I get it out and separate it from the rest of life which will eventually blur together. 

I think I said goodbye to two friends yesterday. They came and went during the conversation, in and out of sleep or consciousness-it’s not always easy to tell. But they were there long enough to tell me I was a beautiful person and that I’ve been a wonderful friend, and I told them the same thing. 

For me, it’s a little easier to be with the dying when they are closer to death. When they can no longer look into your face and tell you that your eyes are beautiful and they love you. When they express their love and deep appreciation for knowing you, you can’t pretend it is one-sided or that it’s all just part of the job. But the hardest parts are also the best parts.

It was easier earlier in the week when I got to be alone with a dying woman I’d never met before. Her spirit felt far away and her body was trailing close behind. I sat at her bedside for a couple of hours—praying and singing and feeling as observant and objective about death as I’ve ever been. There was no conversation nor grief to distract me from bearing witness to the sacred act of dying—the rise and fall of peaceful breaths with space growing gently between them…

But there was a rainbow. 

And that little rainbow reminded me that sometimes I don’t believe dying alone is necessarily a bad thing. Because how alone are we? 

There is wonder and stillness which becomes the thin place where heaven and earth meet. Death is personal and private, no matter how many people are in the room.  When my time comes, I think it will be hard for me to let go if someone is holding my hand. I feel certain I will try to stay for them, even if I’m past ready and feeling impatient. I might have to wait until they go to Whataburger or the bathroom.

But it’s not my time to die. It’s my time to write and to let you know that it’s not your time either. But when the time comes, you should know that there might be a tiny rainbow in the sky, even if no one else is around to see it. 

When Christmas Isn’t the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

I thought I’d be better by now. I don’t know why it’s so hard this year. I feel like I’m on a ladder whose bottom has been chopped off and I just can’t get out of this pit…

Christmas seems to be the most horrible time of the year if it isn’t the most wonderful, like the song says. 

As I continue to accompany my grieving friends, it makes sense to me that a Christmas list once fulfilled in a time that has passed, is very heavy indeed. Especially with well wishes, short days and long nights, wistfulness for love and burning hearths, romantic and cheery songs, and Hallmark movies doing their darndest to keep everyone but well-paid actors in miserable shape. 

I took this picture on Christmas Eve. It captured well what I have been pondering. The task at hand.

 Knowing that life has ended (and how) or that it will end one day, will you still choose to celebrate? Can you? 

The painful ending is already known and displayed for all to see in the background. In the foreground, the Christmas tree urges us to celebrate the beginning, the present, and the future. Each seems to be in its rightful place. Background. Foreground. Past. Present and future. Grief and joy seem to insist on co-mingling.

I’ve noticed a temptation to hold on to sorrow. It seems more honoring of the one who has gone or our painful pasts. To leave sorrow behind seems to betray depth of love and pain and grief, especially if it is perceived to be a lessening in any way. But does one emotion honor love or pain better than all others? Perhaps, we can choose. 

This day, I will honor you with my ________________.

Sadness. Joy. Laughter. Tears. Creativity. Memories. Adventure-seeking. Christmas lights.

I took this picture on my walk tonight. I can’t help but wonder about the atmosphere inside this home outlined by Christmas lights-just enough to separate it from the surrounding landscape. What do the lights mean for those who hung them? 

I don’t know and will probably never knock on that door, but I know what they mean to me. And since I am writing this post and nearing the end, I’m going with faith - that when the sun has set and light is waning, we can continue to remember the light of day and lives well-lived and keep them burning until the sun rises again in the morning. With joy and sorrow and whatever the day may bring.

Chick Fil A-nniversary

Today is our 21st wedding anniversary. If our marriage wanted to publicly consume alcohol, it may legally do so now. And I think it may.

But not today. Today our marriage wants to celebrate by staying in and eating this. Pictured together, but eaten separately.

My husband of 21 years is sick with one of those bugs going around. But I dressed up for work just in case he was feeling better and wanted to go to dinner when I got home. He was willing but common sense prevailed. 

I gave him his gift in the plastic bag I brought it home in, changed into my sweats, and thought about what I would make of this anniversary with no flowers, dressing up, or dinner out. After shrugging off disappointment and completing a quick mental review of other disappointments (because we do that, don’t we?), I will tell you my conclusion is different than ever before. 

It’s different because yesterday my grief support group for spouses learned that one of our newest members took her life. She missed her husband so desperately and could not imagine living even one more day without him. She received ongoing and tireless love and support from our members: Phone calls, texts, visits at her house and theirs, lunches, dinners, and walks with people who have been there and are there—and yet we could not take away the one choice she chose.

Today, we grieve together and ask ourselves all of the same questions. What a comfort we receive in one another as we face the limits of our power but never, ever our love.

Marriage is not Hallmark movies and walks on the beach. At least not always or even most of the time.

Sometimes it is being left behind and losing yourself afterward. Sometimes it is weeks (months?) of ships-passing-in-the-night dotted by fleeting moments of profound connection. Sometimes it is caregiving or being disappointed. Sometimes it is splitting up so you can cart kids to different places at different times on different planets. Sometimes it is being grateful for Alzheimer’s disease because it gave you the opportunity to be together 24/7 for 15 years, along with the realization that without it you would still have been working (and apart). Sometimes it is years of living together followed by years of living alone. And sometimes it is eating chicken noodle soup by yourself from a cardboard bowl on your 21st anniversary. 

When you do life with married people who have been left behind by their spouse, you’re grateful for however you can get it. You know how profoundly interwoven two lives can become and you know how separation leaves every thread bare and aching. 

And because you know this, you can be content on a rainy anniversary—knowing that not grieving the one you love is gift enough. Except when you’re wishing for a little bit more, at which time you can remember he de-bones the chicken every time without being asked and a hundred other things just like it, because he loves you every day and not just on the special ones.

Pushing The Call Button

Our mom has been in the hospital for nearly a week with a severe infection. The antibiotics they thought were treating it weren't touching it. The correct and apparently the only antibiotic that could treat it wasn't started until the fifth day after admission. 

She woke up long enough to answer questions and hopefully take two bites of something. I have never seen her so sick nor been so afraid for her life. I spent four nights with her in the hospital and have a new appreciation for that little red circle with a white cross in the middle. When you push it, someone comes.

The call button.

Some nurses and aides were great, some weren't.  None of them took the time to learn or use my name. But someone always came.

The antibiotic worked within a couple of hours and returned Mom to herself. She is being discharged today. I am filled with awe and gratitude and am thinking about call buttons--how they show up and when they show up in our lives. My premature conclusion is that we should all have one. 

One push. No need to dial 911. That's too many separate actions for someone who is really in trouble. Physically, mentally, emotionally, or spiritually.

However, based on recent experience with a patient that should be too young to die by today's standard, I know that having a call button doesn't mean that it is easy to push. In this case, I am not talking about muscle weakness but that can be true too. I am talking about pride and expectation.

When you spend 65 years walking to the bathroom and wiping yourself, pushing a button for someone to come and help you is one of the hardest things there is. Unless you count pooping or peeing in a diaper before you push the button. You can call it a brief if it makes you feel better. Hopefully, we can find comfort in language when we can't find it anywhere else.

Pushing a button for someone to come and help you for any reason—unless you are a boss with a secretary or personal assistant-- requires a conscious acknowledgment and willingness to admit that you are no longer independent every.time.you.push.it.

Unfortunately, this is how we define death in our culture. Just not openly. 

As a wise woman in a nursing home once told me, it is a good thing we don't have an on/off button, or we would push it way too soon.

As I was returning to my mom's hospital room after getting some dinner, I saw an elderly man in the lobby. He had a highly bandaged leg whose signs of seepage indicated that it might be time for a dressing change. But he wasn't there for himself. He was trying to get a wheelchair to get himself to his wife's room as she had just had brain surgery. 

The man working the front desk said he could get him one but it would be a minute. The elderly man insisted he could not wait, as he told his wife he would be there at 8:30 and he did not want to be late. He limped off in the direction of her room. 

By the time I signed in and caught up with him in the hall, he was leaning with his head against the wall to rest. I sidled up beside him and offered my arm. He eagerly accepted, thanked me, and leaned into every other step. 

At the long-awaited door on the third floor, I told him he made it. He looked at me and said “we made it.” I said okay, and smiled. He introduced his wife and we shared a little small talk. As I closed the door behind me I heard her say “Who was that?!” I laughed as I recognized myself in her.

I just had to put words to all of these things because that's what happens when my head and heart are full. Plus, I like how it all goes together.

 Sometimes, we have to push the call button and sometimes we get to answer it. That’s how call buttons work.