Halfway to 90

I’m halfway to 90 today.  Not that 90 is my goal, really.  

I would say mid-eighties is an ideal checkout time, but just about then, I meet an amazing 91-year-old and others well beyond that, and I feel like a jerk just for thinking it.  A very experienced and beloved coworker recently said, “As long as I can suck a milkshake through a straw and enjoy it, I still wanna be alive.”  I like that, too.  

 I didn’t drink a milkshake today, but I am just home from eating out with my family and topping off with cake and ice cream.  I like to write a blog post on my birthday to see how my perspective changes and what is top-of-mind from year to year.  Kind of like a 2D time capsule with just words, and nothing to open but a website.

Today, I want to remember the questions that are bearing fruit in my life.

“What do you want more/less of?”  and “Lord, what do you want me to know?”  

Answers to these questions in recent months have been…More one-on-one, more quilting, less stomach fat (more exercise), more nature, less Facebook, less supervisor responsibilities, and more education.

So, I’ve…

…started drinking my first cup of coffee on the front porch in the morning.

…stepped out of management and back into the field full-time.

…started doing burpees (again).  It feels like longer, but I timed it today.  It only takes a minute (or so) to do ten.  Even I can commit to doing something for one minute.

…made a table runner, two quilts, and am halfway finished with a third.

…applied to graduate school, and start in 13 days.

Still no 21-and-holding for me.  I love growing older.  So much to wonder at, be in awe of, and grateful for.

It looks like there is a little debate as to what was actually said by St. Iranaeus.  But, I like the version that says, “The glory of God is man fully alive.”  I can’t help but wonder if that man was 45…

Darce Day

This is my favorite thing I’ve written to date.  I am a hospice chaplain.  To me, this story, this woman, our relationship, and traveling the past year with her on her journey has become the picture of everything I could hope for as a hospice chaplain. 

Yes, we can accompany people for a little or a long while, do death and moments of crisis, Scripture, music, and prayer. But, entering into the life of another for weeks turned into months, finding yourself there, adding unexpected joy, and giving and receiving an opportunity to reflect on a very hidden and private 90-year-old life has changed me.  Darce has given me permission to share it with you.  I hope you like it, too.

(A video of me reading Darce’s story to her, here…https://youtu.be/jx5tukDPZuE)

“Darce Day”

Once upon a time, there was a woman who had 90-year-old eyes and 90-year-old teeth.  

On days when she is feeling blue, her daughter cheers her up by saying, “At least you have your own teeth!”

 She passes the days reflecting on all that has been – Amazed that one who so loved golf and gardening, sailing and cooking and tennis, could be so content – looking at the sky and an occasional bird, but not really being able to see either one.

 “Have you ever thought about what it’s like to talk to someone without being able to see them?” she asks.

 

No, I guess I haven’t.  And I’m afraid to experiment in my next conversation, imagining the other person will be unable to listen at all because they can’t stop wondering why my eyes are closed.  So, I imagine it for the rest of the day, and conclude that it would be very different, indeed.

This is the story of Doris Marie Johnson.  Only she didn’t like the name Doris.  So, she changed it.  When she was seven years old.  And no one noticed.  It might have been around the same time she realized she was not “a goddamn little bastard, but a Daughter of the King!”

Whenever it was, after that, she knew she had the power to change things.  Like an “i” to an “e” in Maree.  And that Johnson could be left off altogether.  

Darce was sitting in her favorite spot, communing with God, when she had a new visitor one day.  Well, she had a lot of new visitors, but the visitor I’m talking about is me.

In that first visit, we looked at little paper bags with her artwork on them – made each day for her precious daughter to tote her lunch to school.  Even the doctor’s daughter recognized their preciousness and wanted to buy them.  But, they weren’t for sale.

Not exactly sure what, but something magical happened between lunch sacks, and whatever was said before or after looking at them.  

It was decided that only weekly visits would do, even though monthly visits from this hospice chaplain was the normal order of things.

And Friday would be the best, because Darce’s daughter had to do this thing called work.

So, Fridays at lunchtime became the high point of Darce’s week.  And Heidi’s, too.

———

Oh, my name is Heidi.  I never changed my name, but I did add an “e” to the end of my middle name for a while.  I thought Ann looked better and more sophisticated that way.  I was probably trying to be like Darce even though I hadn’t met her, yet.  

Subway turned into Taco Bell, and how can tacos taste so good EVERY.SINGLE.WEEK?!

 But, they do.

 I think it has something to do with the way I put the sauce on while she holds the taco open.  And the way all of the stuff falls out and we pick up the pieces with our fingers, and shove them into our mouths afterwards.

The large drinks were always too big and heavy, so I poured them in a smaller glass for her.  But, the smaller glass is getting too heavy, too.  

The days are getting longer for Darce.  Getting into bed at night requires heroic effort and has become a task to dread.  Fortunately, her daughter doesn’t mind lifting her tired legs up and in, and her big panda is waiting there for her when the work is done.  Like receiving prize money at the end of a marathon.

The panda helps her tell time, too.  When you’re tired and taking a lot of naps, it is easy to forget if it is daytime or nighttime.

 Well, the panda knows.  If it is daytime, he sits up on a pretty bed, with the covers all nice and neat.  

When it’s night, he lays down and waits for you.  Mr. Knightly, the cat waits on your pillow, too.

——

When every part of your body is 90-years-old, it is easy to feel like your parts are falling apart, if they haven’t fallen off completely. 

But, you know something?

You can always feel good on Fridays. 

When your daughter wakes you up and says, “It’s Heidi Day!”, you feel better.  

When you wake yourself up, and you remember it is “Darce Day!”, you feel better, too.   

When you’re 90-years-old, you can forget it is 100 degrees outside and summertime, because you never leave the house, but you know more important stuff, like what it means to be really alive.

It turns out, it is the simplest recipe around.  Only takes three ingredients.

1.     Discovering new things.

2.     Contributing.

3.     Connecting.

Learning this from Darce over a year after meeting her for that very first time, I’m beginning to understand the magic that is us.  Not that I really need to, but we find ourselves trying to explain it and come up short.  (I guess we always will.)

We enjoy this sweetest-of-dishes every Friday along with the pecan toffee bits we savor for dessert, if we haven’t already eaten them all.  We like how they get stuck in our teeth, so we can enjoy them longer.

When Darce looks at me, she says, “You are who I used to be – DOING. BEING. ALIVE.”  She seems to admire me in a way she was unable to admire herself.  I doubt she ever asked herself, “Do you know how special you are?”

When I look at Darce, I see who I hope to be, 50 years from now.

Darce greets me with an eagerness only akin to those who love me for my own sake.  She even remains interested in me, long after I take my seat.  She asks great questions and laughs in all of the right places.  She’s a great listener and thinks I’m a great listener, too.  And we laugh at how much people talk and talk and talk, and at what they can’t hear us saying. 

Maybe we got the same superpower when we were 16 – when her Mom died and mine stopped walking.  Maybe something is born in you when you become a teenage mother for your own Mom.  Maybe that is why she “walks around more in the world of other people than in her own world,” and why I do, too.

We wonder aloud what dying will be like.  She is even fascinated by it, when she is not too tired to hold it away from herself to give it a good look.  She thinks she is closer to knowing for sure, and I think she is right.  But, she remains unafraid and in moments, would “welcome it, even.”

I imagine my Fridays without her.  It makes my eyes sting and my throat lumpy.  I imagine eating tacos by myself and wondering why TGIF doesn’t resonate the way it used to.

I imagine writing a story to tell the tale of Darce and Heidi Day, and a desperation to share it with her.

So, I stop imagining and I start writing.  Because there’s still time.

I wrote the first page in the Taco Bell parking lot and read it to her yesterday.  I asked for her input, but she wanted it to be all mine, so I’m finishing it this morning in my favorite spot.  As we tried to remember the name of Paul Harvey at our last vist, I told her I would read her the “rest of the story” next Friday.  

I hope she likes it.

 

Unwashed Strawberries

Standing in front of the coffee pot, I just refilled my second cup.  The strawberries are still sitting where they’ve been sitting for the last couple of days.  I bought them to cut up and put on ice cream, but didn’t use them all.  

This morning, it occurred to me that perfectly good food can go to waste, if any effort is required to consume it.  If I had washed the strawberries and put them in a bowl, they would have been eaten.  If I had cut them up with the others, they would have been eaten.  But, these remain locked away in the plastic box they came in, rotting on the counter in plain sight.  

This, in a home where boys scavenge the pantry, counter, and refrigerator day and night.

Seems like a metaphor for all of the things that could be enjoyed, if we weren’t so afraid of work or tiny inconveniences.  It reminds me of the old children’s story, where the housekeeper’s bonus was hiding under the rug.  If she did her job thoroughly - and swept under the rug - she found the treasure that was hers.

While planning nothing in the order of cleaning or hard work on this Saturday morning, and prioritizing relaxation almost always, I am just wondering how many little joys we miss when we heed the lazy voice in our head.  The one that urges us not to bother with the strawberries and to sit back down.

Lego Dads

Yesterday is just one example among thousands of what a father might be doing on a Saturday, or any day.  In this example, he’s examining the streamlet of water running down the curb and the patch of grass around the water meter that is greener than all the rest.  He’s calling the City to see if this little situation is their’s or our’s.  But “ours” really means “his” because I.know.nothing. 

It’s ours.  So… Lowe’s, water off, repairs, line cleared, water on, no hot water in the tub, water off, bathroom panel removed, water on, still no hot water, water off, glue extraction, polish tub knobs, water on, and we’re back in business.  

 I tell him thank you, and wonder how much I would have paid a plumber to do all of that.  He’s sweaty and dirty and relieved it only took half of the day, and not the rest of it. 

On this Father’s Day, I’m thinking about how fathers spend most of their time.  A handful of words come to mind…Fixing. Providing. Teaching and Hiding (and Napping w.h.e.n.e.v.e.r. possible).

Fixing.  Yesterday - water pipe.  Last week - washing machine.  Week before - neighbor’s bike tire.  Before that, truck brakes.  To do - Van upholstery, re-side the rest of the house, remodel bathroom. 

Providing.  Preparing to go to work. Time spent at work.  Recovering from work.  A friend once told me it is easy to forget that our husbands feel like they’ve been pulling a long train behind them all day when they walk through the door at night. I think she’s right. 

Teaching.  My boys love to imitate my husband yelling, “BOYS!”  This is usually followed by some instruction on not leaving plates in the living room, or what it means to “clean the kitchen”, or how you put something back where you found it when you’re done using it, or some small detail about spray painting things, like PUT SOMETHING UNDER IT!

Hiding.  Sometimes, fathers have to hide to get some time to themselves. The bathroom and garage are popular places.  But, they’re good at hiding other things, too.  Like little irritations, back pain, fear, fatigue, and how hard they are working.

Napping.  Well-deserved, men.  Nap away.  

What is amazing to me, is that the two fathers in my life, my father and my husband, had no long-term in-house model.  My husband was only 5-years-old when his Dad died.  He dreamt he lived in the attic for some time afterward.  My father’s in-house Dad was abusive or absent.  And yet, these men continued to move forward through life like self-constructing Lego people.  Observing the best of what they saw in the other men in their lives, and building those things into themselves.  They are unrepeatable, irreplaceable, and so very.very.good.

Happy Father’s Day to my Lego Husband, my Lego Dad, and to all of you Dads out there. Thanks for being who you are, doing all that you do, and paying for dinner.  

A Gentle Disintegration

Yesterday, we took our first daytrip to the beach without all of the boys.  The oldest was working. Today, the middle one drove solo for the first time.  He got his driver’s license on Friday.  He’s the really busy one and his busyness always necessitated a ride in the middle of my free time.  So, we celebrate this new freedom right along with him, rather than validate the pit in our stomach provoked by the thought that “this is really happening.”    

As a wise friend’s wise mother used to say, “Only sick birds don’t leave the nest.”

So, I don’t ask for time to stop or slow down because it is all well, and happening as it should.  I’ve mentioned it before, but my friend calls the years your children are home, before anyone can drive, the “sweet spot”.  Everybody is home, safe and secure under a loving and watchful eye.  My sweet spot is disintegrating, but I am grateful that it has been slow and gentle.  Measured in days and years, not seconds and minutes.  

These past two weeks, many young people have lost their lives to murdering madmen.  I get lost in trying to accompany their parents in their grief.  I don’t know any of them, but I obsess, pray, and force myself into the present.  And repeat.  I see social media posts of people continuing to smile and live their lives like nothing has happened.  I am amazed at this, at first.  And then I join them, because I need the distraction.  It is refreshing to see and share the good, as well as the bad, I reason.  Like some weird balance in this land of unrelated-but-loosely-connected people.

Though social media wasn’t born, yet, Dr. Haim Ginott in “Between Parent and Teenager” describes the benefit of these loose connections, well. “Many teenagers are tormented by terrors they think private and personal.  They do not know that their anxieties and doubts are universal.  This insight is hard to convey.  Each teenager must attain it on their own.  It takes time and wisdom to realize that the personal parallels the universal, and what pains one man pains mankind.”

We have so much to learn from one another.

I sat with her again on Friday.  She was asleep at the dining room table and came to with a touch on the shoulder and mention of her name.  We flipped through her book, looking at the pictures.  She didn’t remember writing it, seem to recognize her name on the cover, nor think it odd that if someone else wrote it, they sure included a lot of pictures of her family.  

I was grateful again that she has given us so much to talk about in these pages of hers.  Laugh-out-loud moments with her children, layers of loss, years of sacrifice, and joys beyond all telling.  If we didn’t have them, I fear the shallowness of what would remain in their absence.

It is my ability to share her story with her (because she had written it down for herself), that I do the same.

One day, I may be dependent upon a stranger who visits frequently to tell me again who she is and what is this, again?  Hopefully, hearing the stories will pluck the strings in my soul, releasing all of the chords to my favorite song.  I will remember how we all “survived being alive”, and marvel at how whole and integrated I feel after a long life of unhurried and gentle disintegration, and a visit from a stranger.

One Night in an Inconvenient Hotel

 Writing from a broken chair in Guthrie, OK.  Trying to wake up and waiting for a storm to clear.  Looking at the only thing to love here…A neon heart and an ice cream cone floating in the sky.

I dried off with a hand towel and the A/C is broken, just like my chair.  But, after trying two different rooms and opening the door to two someone-has-just-been-here-and-the-sheets-are-still-twisted-kind-of-dirty at my first stop, I’m lingering in my upgrade.  

Completely grossed-out by the old smoke-and-chlorine greeting in the lobby, the “great room” where I was to enjoy my complimentary breakfast from 6:30-9:30, and the generational fingerprints covering the elevator, I wondered what my expectations should be.  Mostly, I just wanted a place to sleep… 

But, our brothers and sisters in the Ukraine keep coming to mind, and I ask myself how dare I experiment with any feelings but gratitude.  

They’re right, of course. 

So, thank you, Guthrie, Oklahoma.  If I don’t see you again, take care.  I will always remember you fondly as the place where I asked for my money back for the first time in my 44 years of life.  And thank you for the reminder that I love that little saintly saying…

When we get to heaven and look back on our earthly lives, it will seem like but one night in an inconvenient hotel. 

Competitive Suffering

If only awareness of another’s suffering made our own disappear. 

A week ago, my Mom had her leg amputated and an inch of collarbone removed.  Even the pain between the two seems to be in competition.  Her shoulder, the clear winner in the beginning, is now falling into a tie, but only because second place is catching up.

An elderly father is hospitalized for the third time in a month.  A daughter wonders what is next and how to care for him, while working full-time to make ends meet.  A marriage ends and arbitration begins.  Someone receives a terminal diagnosis.  A husband watches his wife of 50 years linger in her last days of life and he feels like he is “going to a funeral every day.”  

The Ukraine is being invaded and bombed by Russia.  Death and terror abound, and a 90-something can’t stop looking at the spots on her hands, ashamed they concern her at all - with all of the “real suffering” going on in the world.  

If only awareness of another’s suffering made our own disappear. 

If only...  

A friend with a broken ankle decided to “stop whining” after listening to my Mom talk about her amputation.  But, her ankle is still broken and 8-weeks of healing and rehabilitation are still ahead.

As much as we wish it were different, being privy to another’s suffering doesn’t erase our own.  And sometimes, perhaps most of the time, we feel shame about that.  

But, if greater suffering vanquished lesser suffering, all who suffer less would have no suffering at all, and those who suffer most would be huddled together - suffering, without anyone who could understand or sympathize with them.  

I think it is a noble instinct, though. To consider our own suffering as nothing the moment we hear of something more uncomfortable, tragic, or grandiose.

But, whatever suffering existed before awareness of a greater suffering, isn’t nothing.  It still exists, and is perhaps even a greater suffering than before because it does exist and remains uncomfortable.

What then?  My hope is that suffering “less” than another can bring not shame, but awe. Awe at greater suffering borne bravely, with a side of fruit.  Abundant fruit.  

Inspiration.  Compassion.  Patience.  Perseverance.  Gratitude.  Goodwill.  

Ankles can break, legs can be lost, and hands can grow concerning things in times of war, as well as peace.  May sufferings great and small bring that mysterious grace which allows one to rejoice in them.

…we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.

Romans 5:3-5