Greyla, the Rest of the Story

Amazingly, Greyla, our splenectomy survivor, turned 14 years old on May 2!

When last I blogged, she was 2 days post op, at VCA Northview, where she went via our little car, on a borrowed stretcher, for the doggie equivalent of post op intensive care. 

That was on April 24. We had gone to visit her around 11 AM. While she seemed to be improving, she still was refusing food at the hospital. We spoke with Dr. Sisk around 1PM, and he assured us that he would have no problem sending her home that afternoon, since he was of the opinion that she would relax more at home and possibly be more interested in food, as well. 

We knew we weren't completely out of the woods. We had been warned about all possible post surgical complications. But, she had survived! Now, if we could just get her to eat…

We left Northview to see if the local Petco had a ramp in stock. They did. We ran a few errands and around 3:30, returned to get Greyla, her assorted post surgical medications and instructions and then, return to Mountain Top Campground. 

We spoke with our regular Vet, Dr Bennett, early Thursday,the 25th, to fill him in on everything. I explained that my concern was getting nutrition into her. I had cooked some chicken breasts, which she refused. Same with beef, and even fast food. He suggested that we come and get some A/D dog food, which we could mix with water and syringe into her mouth. So, late Thursday the 25th, I picked up some A/D, as well as a Philly Cheesesteak from Sonic, plain, no onions.

Both the A/D and the cheesesteak were a hit! We began feeding small amounts, several times daily. Mostly we used the cheesesteak to disguise her pills.

Then early on Thursday  evening, the 25th, Dr Bennett called while I was on the phone with my brother. Since I have not yet figured out how to answer the cell phone while conducting a conversation, I simply hung up on my brother, saw that the incoming number was AllPet, and returned the call.

Dr Bennett asked if I had heard his voicemail, but, of course, I had not. While he was as happy as we were that Greyla was warming to the idea of eating, his message was even more astounding! The histopathology report on Greyla's mass had come in. There was NO SIGN of ANY NEOPLASIA!!!!!! NO CANCER!!!!! All I could say, was, "Thank You, Jesus!" Dr Bennett was happy at the results, but was himself, amazed. My friend Princess told me that she believed God granted us this miracle because He knew I couldn't handle anymore on my emotional plate. 

I'm not sure what I believe at this point. I just know that I am grateful to still have our girl and grateful that she has no cancer to deal with at this point. 

Now, nearly four weeks after her surgery, she seems recovered. Her staples came out on her birthday, May 2. She has her appetite back, along with a strange, new craving for bread. She seems pretty much back to her old self. She is back to being Greyla, my "Stink", my "Schmoo", my "Sweet baby girl", and Raymond's, "Grey", his "Kiddo". She goes on multiple short walks each day, sniffing each step along the way, she wakes Raymond each morning at 5:45, she greets me at the side of the bed when I finally awaken around 7, she looks at her empty dish each morning when I rise, she squeezes her way onto the sofa with Raymond. All the things we would miss if she were gone, but she's NOT! 

Raymond has declared that Greyla should be up for an award for "Come Back Dog of the Year"!  I am grateful.

The Waiting Continues

2013 April 23 - 24

The Waiting Continues

On Monday, Dr Bennett called after Greyla's splenectomy was finished,but before she was fully out of anesthesia because he knew how worried we were. I was so happy to hear that she survived the surgery! My deepest fear had been that she would die on the OR table, and my extreme superstition would not allow me to voice that fear! They had removed the mass and spleen and ligated all bleeders. The mass was a whooping ten pounds! And as impressive as that is, the thing ruptured shortly after they removed it! Her liver looked "beautiful", to quote Dr Bennett. Her PVC, post surgery, was 34. Not out of the woods yet, but all in all, good news. 

[A splenectomy and removal of such an enormous blood-filled mass, is an equally enormous risk,especially in a dog who is broaching her 14th birthday. We were fully aware of the risks, but elected to do it anyway, because the alternative was to watch her slowly ebb away, in increasing discomfort, with the very real possibility that the mass would rupture causing her to bleed out and die. But the decision was not one we took lightly, for so many reasons, including the financial hit, with no guarantee of success. So, when Dr Bennett called, post surgery, my relief that she had not died on the table was palpable. Unfortunately, we perhaps failed to calculate the full cost of such invasive surgery on the sweet old girl, and we neglected to fully realize how long the recovery process would be.]

Later on Monday afternoon, Dr Person called to say that we should come out to Allpet around 7:30 to see Greyla and to decide where she should go for further post op care, since Allpet does not offer 24 hour monitoring. 

Seeing Greyla that evening, in her still anesthesia induced stupor, we knew that she needed much more care than we could offer her. Our choices were PVSEC or VCA Northview for continuing care. We opted for Northview, basically bc it was the closer place. Allpet kindly offered the use of their stretcher, provided we promised to return it. 

The drive to Northview, through the northern suburbs of Pittsburgh was stressful, but we arrived without mishap and Greyla seemed a bit more aware. They settled her into a double cage, with loads of quilts and blankets, and even a folded towel as a pillow for her head. She, for the first time since the surgery, lifted her head and looked at Raymond & me with possible recognition. The road to recovery was beginning. The doctor, Dr McKlveen, assured us that us that we would only hear from her during the night, if there was a problem, and/or Greyla needed a transfusion. She also told us that Dr Threadgill would be coming in at 7 and he would be in touch sometime around 9AM, to report Greyla's progress. We drove home cautiously optimistic.

Dr Threadgill did indeed call in the morning, around 8, with the update. Greyla was not yet able to stand or walk. Some of that inability may be a result of her old arthritic limbs and joints. She exhibited some abdomen tenderness. Her liver enzymes were down a tad. The white blood count was elevated slightly. Her pack cell volume was stable. She was alert, aware and responsive. We could visit around 11. She could probably be discharged when she was able to arise and walk.

Our visit to see Greyla went well. She was brought into the room on a stretcher, but was alert and responsive. After a time, we put the rubber backed rug we brought with us on the floor and coaxed her to try and get up, hoping the rug would give her purchase that the floor alone did not. Her initial attempt was a failed one, but her second try got her onto the rug, under her own power, where she walked a single circle, then laid back down on the gurney. It wasn't a lot, but for us it was an extremely BIG deal! We also offered her several varieties of wet food, but she wanted none of them. When we return to visit in the evening, we'll bring other things to try and tempt her to eat.

Upon returning home, we each set about our tasks for the day. Mine included at trip to the laundromat. AS I was finishing up there, my phone rang. It was Dr Threadgill. He reported that one of the techs told him that "his friend" was standing up in her cage & had made a couple of circles. They got her out, and the tech then walked her through the treatment area, out the back door and outside, where Greyla peed, then walked back! All on her own! No coaxing and no assistance! I was beside myself with joy! And, Dr Threadgill, bless his Tennessee heart, was too! He said, " I was so happy and I knew you would be too, so even though I'm almost ready to leave, I knew I had to call and let you know." I called Raymond & we were both happy! The plan was to visit sometime after 7:30.

We called Northview to be sure the timeframe for visiting was good and the tech we talked to suggested bringing any food we thought she would eat, regardless of it's nutritional value. So, on our way, we made a stop at McD's and got nuggets, which she usually loves, as well as a plain burger, to compliment the assortment of bread, treats and dog food we were bringing from home.

I was expecting Greyla to be similar to how she had been in demeanor earlier in the day, with the added benefit that she could get up and walk. So, when the tech walked her into the room to visit with us, although I was thrilled that she was walking, I was disappointed by her demeanor. She seemed dull eyed, compared to earlier in the day. There was no attempt to make eye contact. She whimpered. To me, her gums seemed pale. She had 2 small areas of fresh pale blood on her blanket. We offered food, she refused it. Although, at one point in the vista she opted to eat 2 or 3 very teeny bits of one nugget. When Dr McKlveen came in, I asked about her gums and the whimpering and the blood, and was told that her blood values were stable, the blood from the incision site was not a concern and that Greyla whimpered when she needed to go out to the bathroom. I do not think it was the Dr intention to be dismissive, but that was how I took it. The difference between Greyla at 8pm and Greyla at 12 noon was crushing to me. And had I had my wits about me, I would've shared the pictures I took when we visited earlier in the day with Dr McKlveen, and perhaps she would've seen it too.

We left and in the parking lot, I broke down in tears, yet again. This time tears of lose for what little progress had been gained and now seemed gone. Yes, I want my girl to be able to get herself up from a resting position and walk, but I want her to do it with a light in her eyes and spirit. 

So, we wait a bit longer…

This morning we got a call from Dr Sisk, the daylight Vet today, reporting that he is changing Greyla's pain meds to address her arthritis problems better. He said she is still able to rise and walk and go outside. She is still refusing food. He feels that she will progress, but due to her age it will be a long rehab period. We will visit around noon. We will allow her to stay until Dr Threadgill comes on duty at 7PM and reviews her condition. We will visit agin in the evening, talk to Dr Threadgill and depending on why he has to offer, either leave her another day, or bring her home tonight.

In either case, we will try and get some kind of ramp together this afternoon, because when she does come home, we're concerned about how to get her into the car, as well as in and out of the motorhome. 

Waiting

2013 April 22

Today, in fact, right NOW, Greyla Girl, our almost 14 year old Labrador Retriever, is having surgery to remove her spleen and the huge mass attached to it.

She has been diagnosed via radiographs and ultrasound. She has had blood work and additional x-rays to ensure that her lungs are healthy, as well as her heart.

We mulled and considered and prayed before making the decision. And after making it.

This morning we took her at the Vet Hospital,where she has been four times over the past three weeks, got back into the car without her, and cried. Then we came home, worked on some RV related issues, called the hospital and asked them to please call us when she was going into surgery, so we would know when to be really stressed. They called about an hour ago. Oddly, I don't feel more stressed right now. I do feel weepy. It will be at least another hour before we hear anything, maybe as long as two. The surgery itself will take 90 minutes, at least, barring any complications. And they will monitor her for vitals, possible bleeding, and general well being for maybe an hour or more before they contact us. 

Waiting, that's the hardest part. 

Curve Balls

2013 April  18

Life has thrown so many curve balls lately, that I am feeling completely turned around.

Initially, in mid February, when I called Pittsburgh and found that my Daddy was very sick, then found that he needed emergency surgery to correct a bowel obstruction caused by a hernia he choose to ignore, I thought that was the extent of things. Then, while he was in the hospital, they discovered a tumor in his lung. Then, the tumor turned out to be cancer. Then the cancer turned out to be metastasizing. Those were curve, after curve, after curve.

We arrived in Pittsburgh just one week after the emergency surgery took place. The only campground open and available was at the top of a former slag heap, now covered with grass, near Tarentum. It was more expensive than resorts we had stayed in in Florida, but it was open and within 20 miles of my Dad. Weather in Pittsburgh in February and March can be wildly unpredictable. This year choose to be very wet and often very cold, and because we are at elevation, very windy. It also meant that the wetness translated into mud! And it continued into April. Small curve balls, here I suppose. Like when the power went out on our electric pedestal in the 20 amp outlet where the heated hose was plugged in, and our water froze. Like the fact that we've been hauling dirty laundry to my brother's house since February, only to find out last week, that there are laundry facilities here, but no one ever mentioned them. (They are in a locked area beneath the owner's home and she "forgot" to tell us).

A visit to my family doctor to discuss some medication changes, turned into numerous tests, including an ultrasound which led to a specialist, which is leading to a procedure. Curve ball, curve ball, curve ball, curve ball. Good grief!

Then came the curve balls related to our Greyla Girl, who is nearly 14, and a mostly labrador retriever. She was having occasional bouts of being off her food, which we put down to her age and being finicky and the major change of being in the cold for the first time in 18 months. Then she threw up a couple of times. Again, she bounced back, so we didn't fret too long or hard. Then, one evening, she simply collapsed. All four feet went out from under her and I panicked. She refused to let me help her up, but simply laid on the floor for over an hour. Then, she managed to get up, with assistance, and go outside outside by means of us using a towel to sling her and asset her down the steps. The next morning I called the Vet. The vet saw her that afternoon and was of the opinion that she had arthritis. Dr Person gave her medication which seemed to help with her gait. However I neglected to share the information about her appetite and her occasional vomiting. To be honest, I was so overwhelmed by Greyla's collapse that I never even thought about these other things. Perhaps I threw that curve myself.

After two weeks on Rimadyl, we went back to the Vet, for blood work and a refill on the drugs, which seemed to be working. Here comes another curve ball. Greyla's blood work showed elevated liver enzymes. Now, it occurs to me to tell Dr Person about the lack of appetite, which comes and goes, and the occasional vomiting. We establish a plan of action. If Greyla doesn't eat in 24 hours, bring her in. In the meantime, stop the Rimadyl, consider beginning Tramadol for pain relief, and plan to recheck her blood work in a month, if she is eating normally.

Unfortunately, there is a nagging little voice in the back of my mind telling me to get her checked immediately. In spite of the fact that as soon as I hung up from Dr Person, Greyla ate very morsel in her dish. The nagging voice continued, until I called in the morning to request a recheck and abdominal X-rays. I was expecting an enlarged liver. What we saw, instead, was an enormous mass in the middle of Greyla's belly. It is so large, that it is displacing portions of her small intestines, and obscuring visualization via X-ray, of her liver, stomach, and spleen. Major curve ball! Especially curvy, because her physical exam was exceedingly normal. Dr Person suggested that an ultrasound guided aspirate or biopsy was probably the way to proceed. So, tomorrow sometime, Greyla and I will meet Dr Rodgers who will do the ultrasound.

In the meantime, additional curve balls have been lobbed regarding the ultrasound. One, by my dear husband, who questions spending the money on something diagnostic, which "isn't going to make her live longer". And then, the curve ball from a friend who talked about "the inevitable". 

I just want to do the best thing I can for Greyla. At this point we don't know if the mass is connected to any organs, or if it is benign, or cancer. I'm praying against any other curve balls, unless they involve a miracle, and the total disappearance of that huge mass. That would be a curve ball for which I would give thanks.

Another shared post...

February - March 2013

Sometimes the simplest things alter life in major ways. In mid February I made a phone call to my brother in Pittsburgh, from Fort Pickens Campground. That simple call changed everything about what we've done and plan to do from that point to this, and beyond.

During that phone conversation, it was revealed that Dad was sick, in pain, vomiting and refusing to go to the Emergency Room. After threats to Daddy, made by me, he finally agreed to allow my brother Vinny to take him to the ER. Turns out the old guy had a hernia, which he had been ignoring, that in turn, was causing a bowel obstruction. The ER admitted him to the hospital and surgery was scheduled for Saturday morning.

While Daddy was being prepared for surgery, during his chest x-ray, it was noted that he had a mass of some sort in his lower right lung. It was decided that this would be addressed after the hernia / obstruction repair.

Daddy's abdominal surgery went well. This fact is astounding, given his frail physical condition, and advanced age. In prime health, he weighed around 150 pounds. When admitted to the hospital, he weighed in at a mere 116 pounds. The hernia repair was accomplished and the obstruction was not severe enough to require a resection. Thank you, Lord! 

 A couple of days after the emergency abdominal surgery, Daddy had a CT scan of the mass in his lung, followed by a biopsy. The biopsy confirmed that the mass in his lung is cancer. 

All of these events took place before Raymond and I returned to PIttsburgh from Florida. My brother Vinny was the primary person dealing with all of these events. Perhaps a little background is in order.

Vinny owns the home in which he, our Dad, and two of our other unmarried brothers live. When Daddy was discharged from the hospital, it was to return to Vinny's house. In addition, Vinny had, at the end of January, retired from his 30 year gig at the USPS. His original plan had been to take a couple of weeks, head off to the beaches of NC and simply relax. For whatever reason, he didn't go, and I thank God that he didn't. He stepped up and became Daddy's primary care giver in those first days of Daddy's release. The other two brothers living in that house did what they could, but Vinny bore the weight of it. He's a good son, and a wonderful brother.

Raymond and I arrived in Pittsburgh on February 22. We were blessed to find the ONLY open campground in the PIttsburgh area, in the Tarentum area, about 18 miles northeast of where my Dad and brothers live. We drive and live in our motorhome, but have no other means of transportation, so we had to obtain a rental car. And let me just say that IF we had suspected that we would EVER be camping in PIttsburgh in February/March, we certainly would've opted for a motorhome with an arctic package! But that's a tale for another time, as is the whole experience related to our stay at Mountaintop Campground. This is the story of Daddy, which I will continue.

Shared Post

This started out as notes. I wasn't sure if the notes would be for a blog post on Mind Flotsam or on Me And Ray And A Dog Named Grey. In the end, I decided to simply post it as is, on both blogs. Yes, I am lazy :) But, the longer post I have been trying to work on for weeks detailing Daddy's illness, surgery, discovery of cancer, and our journey back to Pittsburgh, just doesn't seem to be coming together. So here is something, anyway. ~jm

2013 Apr 7 Notes for possible blog post

One of my Facebook friends is Jamie The Very Worst Missionary. I also subscribe to  her blog posts. Today her blog led me to the website of her church, Lakeside, in Folsom CA. That in turn led me to blog posts by the pastor. Which led me to sobbing at my table as I read about the pastor's Mom and her passing.

The posts were poignant and funny, to use the pastor's word: Bittersweet.

One reason I was so touched by the posts, is that my own Daddy is dying. And to quote Brad, "we're all dying, but this is different". Very different when it is someone you've loved all your life. 

Selfish: he's 87 I have friends who lost their Dads at much younger ages. I don't care! I want my Daddy! (I seem to fluctuate between the bossy former nurse, the oldest child organizing things, and the terrified eight year old. that exclamation came from the eight year old.)

Selfish again: he told the oncologist, "Doc, I've been around long enough" He seems to accept his mortality. I have trouble with that.

Selfish & guilty: well meaning friends ask if my Dad knows Jesus. My response has become: in a Catholic way. Cop out? Truth? I fear bringing up the topic of Jesus, redeemer and salvation, because I don't want to alienate my Daddy.  We are talking more than we ever have in all our years. Not just about sports & superficial stuff. For the first time, Daddy is sharing with me stories about his feelings, things he loved doing, his friends, his interactions with the parish priest, Fr Matthew Kebe, when Daddy was a teen & an adult, and lots of other personal insights. I do not want to approach him in any way that will close off this flow of  interaction. I fear if I say something about Jesus, he will shut down on me and all opportunities will be lost…

Trying to maintain trust in the Lord: perhaps I  am grasping at straws, but I see this mornings sequence of Jamie's post and where it led, as a sign that God has it all under control. I also saw that same sign in Daddy's sharing stories about Fr Kebe with me on Easter. 

(Partially because when I was having difficulty, many years ago, accepting my former pastor's declaration that he would not baptist me, my friend Martha shared something she had written regarding not re-baptising an adult who had been baptized as an infant. She sighted the work of the Holy Spirit, and how we can never really KNOW, which caused me to think about Fr Kebe. I had not thought of him, maybe ever!  Yet, after reading Martha's paper, he came to mind. And somehow, knowing what a godly man, priest, he was gave me peace that even if my parents were having me baptized at 3 weeks old out of Catholic convention, the faith and dedication of the priest bringing me before the Lord, and HIS connection through the Holy Spirit were enough to allow the Spirit to work in me.)

Anyway, I am trusting that through the same Holy Spirit, God will give me words when the time is right, to talk to my Daddy about the redemption offered to all through Jesus death and resurrection. Perhaps our shared remembrances of Fr Kebe will be the door that leads to that conversation...   

2012 Sept 2 a Dream...

A Dream…

Early this morning, I dreamed of an odd mix of people and places. Some of it directly attributable to links to current Facebook friends and their moving. Some of it just strangely attributable to the chaos that swirls in my brain and is responsible to the name of this blog.

I dreamed of New Hope Church, in a sort of removed from the action way. I guess that perspective is expected, as it has been a few years since I was an active member there.

I dreamed of Ken Hale, and peripherally, of Annie Miller, both of whom are friends and neighbors from the New Hope period. I dreamed of my Mother, who has been dead for thirty six years, but who, in the dream was much as she was back in the mid 1960s. I, on the other hand, was NOT, in my relationship with her, as I was back then. I was kinder, more relaxed, and more loving toward Mummy in the dream.

In the dream, I wanted to blog about New Hope Church, because it was closing its doors, due to the inability to attract a new pastor. What I wanted to blog about was the whys of this apparent mission failure. I was living in a very small space, with my Mom, and kept telling her that I needed some time to think and write.  

Part of the "thinking" process involved talking to Ken, since he and his family were leaving Pittsburgh to move to Asheville, North Carolina. In talking with him, I asked why everyone (apparently, other New Hope leaders were also moving away, since the church was closing) was abandoning the neighborhood, and the professed mission to the Marshall - Shadeland area. My question was: Why is it necessary to have the church building? Can't the outreach continue without a church building and EPC affiliation? Ken's answer, which made absolute sense to me in the dream, was that there was no one qualified to preach the gospel.  Also, that there needed to be an affiliation to some governing body, like the Evangelic Presbyterian Church, as a sort of failsafe.  He also mentioned that in moving to Asheville he would have the opportunity to grow as an artist, better opportunity to grow his business, and provide for his family. It all was so reasonable, in the dream, that I mentioned to him that I might have some names of folks I had met over the years who either were artists, or  had businesses in the Asheville area and might prove helpful in networking.

Annie Miller and I had been having a conversation in the dream, which I rudely ended to go and speak with Ken. Sorry, Annie.

After talking with Ken, I was anxious to get my thoughts down and was trying to explain to my Mom that I needed to get to the computer and have some quiet time to think, reflect and write. Mainly, because my perspective had suddenly, after talking with Ken, changed, so that I was able to see the issue of closing the church from both side of the problem, and I wanted to get all my ideas down while they were still clear in my mind.

The odd thing, is that the very statements that seemed so completely reasonable in my dream, now seem hollow and untrue to me.  No one qualified to preach the gospel? What? Were a bunch of fisherman, a tax collector, or the rest, whose occupations are unknown, somehow more qualified to preach the gospel? OK, granted they all had firsthand experience with Jesus, but weren't they all just regular people, chosen by God. And, as believers, don't we, too, have first hand experience with Jesus? And the need to be affiliated with some governing body - well that can be a positive, but it can also be very limiting. That one seems like a 50-50 proposition, at best.

In my dream, one of the thoughts that kept recurring had to do with the disposition of the Cafe and Creamery. Although it never came up in my dream conversation with Ken. I wondered why the Cafe and Creamery couldn't remain and even be used as a "church" when there was need for a building. I had thoughts, rather amorphous, that the former church elders could preach, until such time as any individuals felt called, and that praise and worship could be held outdoors at Horace Mann Field, or at the Cafe. No need for a big church building with all its upkeep and maintenance.

[It occurs to me, that someone reading this may have no idea what "The Cafe and Creamery" is. New Hope Church's 501C3 organization,which was interested in community development, bought a property down the street from the church which had been a nuisance bar. It was converted into a cafe and ice cream shop, initially. Since then, it has expanded to serve soup, sandwiches, and to offer a place for local musicians and performers, as well as a safe haven for neighborhood kids.]

Of course, intruding on this aspect of the dream was the knowledge that when I was still at New Hope, the mortgages of the church building and the Cafe were linked, and that the demise of one, might preclude the demise of the other. Another troubling aspect of my dream was that on the last day, at the last service, the former pastor, from my time at the church, was the keynote speaker. He was also, unashamedly, still trying to woo the leading people of the parish, to "don't give up". But only people he was engaging,  were two leading African-American doctors, who seemed to be at their wit's end with him. The former pastor followed them as they left the church, continuing to cajole them for donations to keep the mission alive. This I realize is a manifestation of my own belief that the former Pastor was more adept at community development, that he was at shepherding.

I'm still not sure what to take away from the dream, if anything. I did like that I was nicer to my Mom in the dream. I also liked that I kept my opinions to myself and let other people express themselves freely. I liked that I was able to see what was happening and appreciate both sides of the events. I like that my waking self thinks it unnecessary for someone to be "qualified" by degrees and doctorates to preach the gospel of Christ. ( If one reads Matthew 22:35 - 40, doesn't Jesus give us the distilled and concentrated message of the gospel: Love, first God and secondly our neighbor and ourselves?) I wish that my unconscious had a kinder view of my former pastor.  I wish that I hadn't been so rude to Miss Annie in my dream. First and foremost, I am glad I remembered so much of the content and nuance of the dream. I think that somehow it's important. I'm just not sure in what way. But I trust that God will make his/her will known and allow me to continue to decipher any meanings that are important.

Marriage...Divorce...Commitment

2012 August 15

Yesterday on my Facebook feed was a post from a traveling friend, in which she asked for support, because her husband of 17 years had announced to her that he wanted a divorce. She was devastated. In this particular situation, there have been struggles, but my friend never saw the "divorce card" coming until it was played. It got me thinking about marriage, divorce, and communication.

Every marriage has periods of struggle, poor communication, and stress. But I am continually surprised by instances where one or the other partner is suddenly blindsided by the other's desire for divorce. It seems duplicitous to me to approach a lawyer and/or others (like older children) before ever mentioning to your partner that you feel irrevocably unable to continue on in the marriage. I mean, I understand that people change and that goals and desires flex and morph. But here's what bothers me: Do you TALK as the changes are happening? And do you disregard the solemn vows? 

It seems to me, if there is minimal communication taking place, nobody should ever be blindsided by their partner's desire to dissolve the marriage. If there are areas of dissatisfaction, the only way to facilitate resolution is to communicate, talk, yell if  necessary, and work together. When a partner suffers in silence they are being dishonest, both with themselves and with their spouse. Too often, the suffering in silence is an excuse to find fault with a partner and then come at them completely unaware with a divorce request. Part of the problem is dishonesty, another part is that we, as a society, accept divorce as normal.

That's where my question regarding the solemnity of the taken vow comes into play. Our wedding vows said, "for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death due us part ."  We didn't say, "till we get sick of each other, until depression, infertility, or alcoholism makes life hard, until something better comes along, or until one of us just wants something different"! 

It seems to me that we have become a society of people who lack the ability to commit. It worries me as to what impression we leave on our children when we give up without a fight, or lack the fortitude to address issues forthrightly. And it makes me wonder about the kind of people we are deep down in the recesses of our souls. How do we live with our spouse day to day, while managing appointments with lawyers, before ever mentioning our dissatisfaction in the marriage to our spouse?

So that I don't seem like I'm taking the moral high ground here, let me confess that I was one of those immature people, lurking in shadows of dissatisfaction, who suddenly asked for a separation. It was in a previous marriage. I'm not proud of my immaturity. But, that experience lead to a more grounded attitude when approaching our current relationship and marriage. My husband and I discussed the meaning and fulfillment of our wedding vows before making that final commitment. We have been together for 32 years, married for 27 of those and we have had highs and lows. But, I think one of the things that makes us able to survive even stormy seas, is the fact that we have told each other throughout the marriage that we are both in it for the long haul. We talk through the tough times and the easy times, as well. We realize that we are individually responsible for our own happiness, as well as for each other. We try to practice easy give and take. We try to be responsive to each other's needs. But neither of us expects the other person to be able to read our mind! Everyone says that communication is essential, and it is! What no one tells you is that sometimes that necessary communication is hard, sometimes it's embarrassing, sometimes it's hard to hear, sometimes it hurts, but it is always necessary. 

Some people mature early. I've met couples who married when they were teenagers, and have remained committed to each other through six decades.  My guess is that they talked to each other a lot and about everything.

Perhaps I've strayed from what originally motivated me to write today, but it has reminded me that R and I should have some time together to talk. And so should you and your spouse. About the trivial and the important.

Happy Birthday, Raymond.

2012 July 1

Hope this day really is special for you. Sometimes I feel as if there is nothing really special I can do for you on special occasions, because you ask for so little anytime. So, you get to choose your birthday dinner, that hardly seems like much. So, I am going to tell you some of what I love about you.

I want you to know the things I appreciate about you. 

Your kindness and generosity are inspirational to me. Rarely have I ever heard you, in the 35 years I've known you, say that you wouldn't give something to someone. Unlike me, you have an open hand and an open spirit of giving. Your mostly even temper is a far cry from my angry yelling. Although, as time goes by, I think your even temper is growing to encompass me, since I confine my yelling to hockey and when I am behind the wheel, in traffic, and even that seems to be mellowing some. I admire that you hardly ever use salty language; I can't remember the last time I heard you cuss. I love that you always make my friends welcome, even when you don't think you will have anything in common with them. I love that you are a genuinely nice guy. I love that you always give people the benefit of the doubt. I love that you think Greyla loves me best :) [she doesn't, you know]. I appreciate that you put up with me through the good times and bad, through my emotional highs and lows, and provide perspective when I need it. I am glad to know we share a commitment to each other, regardless of circumstances. I am grateful for you, even in those times when I seem not to be. You are good, kind, generous, fair, just a little left of center. I love you.

Dreams.

2011 October 15

[written while on vacation in NC with my DH, SIL, nephew and two brothers, before getting on the road, in our motorhome]

Over the last few nights I sensed more than remembered working out some lingering "stuff" in my dreams. Perhaps because I am away from the day to day preparation for getting on the road, my mind is finding it easier to sort through some of the complex relationships that have been neglected in the chaos. I found myself dreaming about people from New Hope Church. I haven't retained many details, but the overall sense is that I have disappointed some whom I call my friends. Is that truth, or just a reflection of my perpetual guilt? I suppose one way to get to the root would be to talk to the people I can remember dreaming about. I am not sure either they or I can really do that, though.

There is a veil of sadness that seems to envelope my relationships with many at New Hope Church. Whether that comes from me, from them or from a combination of us, I don't really know. Perhaps both they and I felt abandoned. After all, I simply disappeared from the community and the very few folks who did reach out to me, I avoided because I couldn't find an honest way to tell the story without edging it in anger toward Rodger Woodworth. Even now, it's hard to say that the reason I left New Hope Church was because my then Pastor suggested that "perhaps it's time for you to find another church". Granted, I could've mentioned that if we were truly a church based on reconciliation, telling me to find another church because of personality differences between myself and the lead pastor was hypocritical. But, at that point I could no longer sit under a man for whom I had so little respect, so I welcomed the escape. It didn't occur to me that to simply leave the fellowship without explanation would hurt me so much. Neither did it occur to me that many in the body would simply continue on without any thought as to my departure.

There were some folks who knew the whole story. They were ones whom I thought were close enough to me to be confided in without worry about gossip. Perhaps I was wrong. It seems that there may have been some sharing, but how much I don't know for sure.

All of this is moot at this point in time, I guess. I have since returned to New Hope after encouragement from one of the Elders. Rodger is no longer lead Pastor. Yet there still seems to be some unfinished business. Yet I have no clue how to address what I feel is unfinished.

So while I am away from my daily routine, my sleeping self is addressing some of this unfinished business. Each night I dream about different people and different relationships. Sometimes I remember only the people in the dreams. Other times I awake with only a general sense of what I dreamed about and an even more general feeling that my sleeping self is working out whatever needs to be addressed.

I am slowly coming to grips with the idea that life in all its aspects is fluid. Perhaps nothing lasts forever. When I initially came to New Hope, I was certain that I had come "home". And, indeed, for a while I had. Yet, the dynamic of the church changed and the change had a negative affect on me. And that's OK.

What hasn't changed is the fact that Jesus is Lord. That is the most important lesson to have taken away from this whole episode. And there are lesser examples of insights and morals uncovered as well. And as my brain works through the layers of my subconscious, I am learning to trust that all will be fine, eventually.

Happy Birthday, Bobby

2012 May 24

Happy Birthday, Bob

No, not Bob Dylan. 

My brother, Bob, or Bobby, as we more often call him. He is baby brother number 2, born when I was five years old. He was named after our cousin, Bobby Rase, for whom our Mom had real affection. Bobby Rase may have also been my brother's Godfather, but those details have long since slipped from my memory.

I also have no memory of when Bobby was born, except that when our Mom was in the hospital, in those times, for about 5-7 days, she sent notes home for me and Billy regarding our new addition, as well as those little jellies that come with hospital toast. Other than that, I can't remember anything about that time, which would've been spring of 1955. No memory of the homecoming, nor of who cared for me and Billy while Daddy worked and Mom was away. Strange isn't it, what the mind hangs onto and what it allows to disappear?

I remember Bobby as a toddler and a pre-schooler, although we didn't use those terms in the 1950s. I remember him as a surly child with most people, although I also remember that he lit up around our Mom. I don't recall much interaction with Bobby, and the few vivid memories I have are of unpleasant situations. Sorry, Bobby. Perhaps that is as much my brain's fault, as it is your surliness as a kid.

One of the incidents that stands out in my memory was from a summer holiday, maybe Memorial Day, or July 4th, when Bobby was about 4 or 5. My Dad took us kids, who probably numbered five at the time, (although we may have only had four of us at home, if Billy had been relocated at that point. Another memory gap), to his sister's house about a half mile away. I am sure we walked there, because we didn't have a car. It was uphill over a cobblestone road, not heavily traveled at that time. At Aunt Barb's there was a huge (to us) grassy backyard and a very large covered porch. I remember Uncle Joe squirting us with a hose. It was nice to be with my Dad's family, aunts, uncles, cousins, but it didn't happen very often. 

At some point in the course of the day, Bobby took it upon himself to leave. Again, the memory doesn't exist as to why. But, he left, and walked the half mile home alone. Not sure what he told Mom. What I most remember is the huge fight between our parents when Daddy brought the rest of us home later in the day. Mom was livid that such a small child was "allowed" to walk home alone. Daddy was just as livid that Bobby would take it upon himself to leave without saying a word to anyone. That argument is the thing I most remember about that day.

My other vivid memory of Bobby happened during the late spring of my senior year in high school, so it was 1968. Our Mom was in the hospital having her gallbladder removed. In 1968, that was major surgery, involving incisions and drainage tubes, so I'm guessing that Mummu was in the hospital for at least a week. One evening, Daddy had gone to the hospital to visit Mummy and we kids were home on our own. I was eighteen, Bobby, thirteen, and the other player in this memory, our brother Dave, was ten.

For some reason, Bobby and Davey had gotten into a yelling match, in the kitchen, that was becoming a fist fight. Since Bobby was older, bigger and heavier than Dave, I felt like it was my responsibility, as the oldest kid, to step in and put a stop to it before anybody got hurt or bloodied. I stepped between them, and got Bobby away from David. In his rage, Bobby proceeded to knock me to the floor, on my stomach, sit on my bottom and pummel my back with his fists, until Vinny, (our 11 year old brother) pulled him off me. After that experience, I was always a bit afraid of Bobby and kept some distance between us. In fact, I left the house that night and sat on the porch until Daddy got home from visiting Mom. I was too afraid to go back into the house with Bobby in there.

Years have gone by. Bobby has had plenty of ups and downs, and I have tried to be there for him, but there has never been the connection that I feel for most of my siblings.

Bobby was the first person in our family to become a Christian. Then, he met and married a woman who shared his values.  

Then I came to faith in Christ, as my savior. I thought that finally Bobby and I had some common ground. Well, we do, but it isn't enough on which to build a friendship. We have too many personality differences and too much history. Not to say that I don't love him, because I do, but not in a way that makes me look forward to spending time together. I am sure the feeling is mutual. Bobby loves me, but not in a way that makes him want to spend time developing a relationship. 

Bobby, I know you'll never read this, because of your seizure disorder and your inability to use a computer, but I had to write it anyway. I don't want you or me to feel guilt because we are not close as siblings. We both are who we are. I appreciate the poems and scripture you've shared at times when my life was a rocky path. I like remembering the times I came to hear you sing at your church, and the times you came for poetry and worship ant mine. I hope that in time, those memories will help to displace the older, less pleasant ones. 

Perhaps one of the reasons we are not close is that we are too similar, carry too many of the same burdens. We each, in our own way, carry the burden of Mummy's mental illness and her tendency to play favorites among her kids. But know this: I do love you, as my brother in Christ and I do wish you a Happy Birthday. 

Mother's Day

2012 May 13

It's Mother's Day. Not one of my favorite pretend holidays. My own Mom died in 1976, of lung cancer. I was 26 years old, and the oldest of eight kids. The youngest, Jimmy, was only 5 when Mummy died. 

When R and I married, we assumed we would have children. But that was not to be.

R's Mom was very much alive for many years, so I suppose I had a surrogate Mom in Adelaide. Unfortunately, because I still bore so much anger toward my own Mom, it wasn't until much later in our relationship, that Adelaide and I became close. 

I've had other surrogate mom people in my life over the years: Pauline, who was my neighbor for 20+ years; Marlene, who is probably my age, or younger, but has such a warm, maternal spirit, that when I met her she just seemed like "Mom".

But Mother's Day, in general, makes me sad. Sad for what could've been, both with my own Mom, and in my life. 

My Mom was adopted in 1927, when she was 6 months old. Her name at adoption was Virginia ___________. All I know of her birth name is that it began with a "B" and that according to my paternal grandmother, it sounded Lithuanian. My mom was dark haired, dark eyed and had a slightly olive complexion. And although she spoke of being adopted sometimes, I don't think she ever really shared how deeply she longed to belong and to have something that was hers, except with her close friend, AnnaMae, and with my Dad.

Whatever her origins, she was born at Rosalia Foundling Home, that much she shared. She supposed that her own birth mother was a young, unwed woman. Beyond that, she shared nothing. 

Whether her insecurities or her genetics, or some combination of the two were the cause, my Mum was a sad, depressed woman, coming into her own in a time of repression. The 40s & 50s were not the time when one analyzed ones feelings, and sought treatment for such ailments. 

She and my Dad managed to produce eight kids. Not very long ago, a family friend told me that my Mom once shared with her that the happiest times in her life were when she was pregnant. No wonder she was pregnant so often. I often wish that she had lived longer. Mostly for selfish reasons, but also because, the times are different now and maybe she could've been treated and actually had some degree of peace and happiness with medication to balance whatever imbalances were part of her makeup.

And, I wonder how she would've counseled me when I faced my own crisis of depression and infertility. 

Years of therapy helped me to dispose of my anger toward my Mom for what I viewed as her shortcomings. Now, I am simply sorry that none of the good Christians who were among her in-laws and in her own adoptive family, reached out to help her. Instead, too often, they criticized her behind her back, and in front of her children, made her out to be the bad guy.

I am sorry for the scars inflicted upon her by the community and times in which she lived, and by her on some of her own kids. Families are complex organisms and even more complicated when some form of mental illness is present. 

Mom, Happy Mother's Day.