enroute365

Acts of compassion, caring

So much has happened since my mother’s heart attack three weeks ago: long days of tests, Father’s hospital admittance for chest pain and 14 days of assisted living for both of my parents. Then, more doctors’ visits. With trips to my folks' hometown three hours away and medical services another hour -- one way -- the effort to cover the bases of work and family has been exhausting.

This is why I like to look past all the subsequent hurdles, back to my father’s miracle … and to the deeds of a Good Samaritan on the night it all began.

One of the First Responders to Father’s early morning 911 call lived a few blocks away in this rural town of 400. In the past Jerry had purchased apples from my parents’ orchard ... deals negotiated by Dad. I use the term negotiated loosely. Not one for haggling, my father typically suggested, “pay me what you think they’re worth.” Sometimes he would further direct his customers to “leave the money on the kitchen table.” On this occasion, however, while preparing Mom for ambulance transportation to the hospital, Jerry recognized that although Dad had performed admirably up to this point, by now he was clearly rattled. He was in no shape to drive. On a good day, my father is now easily confused. And this was not a good day. To ensure Dad’s safe arrival at the medical center 20 miles away, Jerry arranged a ride for him, calling his son out of bed to drive Dad’s car.

After doctors at the small country hospital zapped my mother’s heart rate down to a manageable beat, it was determined that she needed additional cardiac care … at a second hospital an hour away. Jerry insisted that Dad notify my older sister. Insisted that he and his son would drive my father, but -- as Jerry relayed the story later -- somehow my father slipped out of the hospital without him, walker and all.

Jerry knew Dad’s car was low on gas. Knew there were only two filling stations in town. And, luckily, Jerry knew the police chief personally. A few calls was all it took to locate Father … and to have the proprietor stall him with donuts at the nearest service station. There, Dad was surprised, yet relieved, when Jerry showed up to drive him to the hospital to meet up again with Mother.

By the time my older sister and I arrived at the Mason City hospital -- as the sun began to rise several hours later -- Jerry was seated with my father in the downstairs cafeteria, making sure Dad was eating.

Jerry began this overnight journey with my father as a public servant, a First Responder, but by the time daylight had broken through, he had moved far beyond that role, looking after Dad as he might his own parent.

I’d like to think that I live in a world filled with Jerrys; that we all are caring neighbors for each other. That compassion comes of its own accord in spite of inconvenience. And that it is its own reward.

As I related Jerry’s actions to my mother hours later, she turned to me with laughter in her eyes. “You know that Jerry’s married to that girl who beat you up before school, right?” she asked.

No. I've been away a long time.

And now, somehow, Jerry is even more of a hero in my eyes.

Lessons while waiting

Continued from the July 9th post, "Meeting Genie."

Doing what's best for someone else doesn't always come easily. And that was the choice Marla was desperately trying to make. She had gone to great lengths to find new people for her pet as she prepared to start a new life in a new location. But now, when an expected job clearance had not yet come through, Marla struggled over Genie's future.

I saw the signs of an inner battle on her face as Marla fought back emotion. "I don't know what to do if the job doesn't pan out," she admitted. Then, as if correcting herself, she added, "but it isn't really about me, it's about her. It's about what's best for Genie."

Marla is still in her twenties and isn't yet settled. Her life has been in transition for some time now, during which time Genie has been housed by friends and, most recently, boarded at a local vet's. Even earlier, Marla didn't quite have the time she'd first thought she would to care for a cat ... and she feels that Genie has suffered because of this. I appreciate Marla's honesty. It helps me understand why, when Genie first came to our home, she didn't know how to play.

I've walked in Marla's shoes before. I remember how, fresh out of college, I longed for the companionship of a cat ... even when my work hours and social life really didn't make me the best pet owner.

Seeing Marla's dilemma, I realize that I must be as selfless as she is trying to be. So, after meeting my husband's eyes from across the living room, I offer a proposal. "Frank and I have found that when something is right ... when it's meant to be ... circumstances fall into place of their own accord. We don't need to force it. Maybe adopting Genie is right for us ... maybe it isn't," I begin. The next words are more difficult to utter, but somehow I get them out. "Why don't we proceed this way," I continue. "Why don't Frank and I continue to keep Genie in our home until mid-July when you'll have an answer about the job." "That way, you don't have to pay boarding fees, Genie continues to enjoy a home-atmosphere and you can visit her whenever you'd like." If the job doesn't pan out and you decide to keep Genie, Frank and I will consider this time our kitty 'fix' ... a time to reintroduce us to cat ownership ... or cat servitude, as the case may be! No hard feelings. But if you decide, for whatever reasons, that we can adopt her, we'd like that very much. She's a very special kitty so this can't be easy, but know you'd be welcome to visit her whenever you're in town to visit your mom."

As I speak these words, I think back to some nine months ago when I found a stray kitten dashing around in a busy parking lot on a rainy night. To keep her safe, I'd taken her home and spent the next week alerting various rescue agencies, the area's postal carriers and every vet in the city. I blanketed that suburb with bright yellow flyers. After seven weeks I was ready to claim her as my own ... just as her owners finally spotted one of my flyers in a grocery store. Relinquishing that adorable bundle of fur was difficult ... and made all the more so because it seemed that her owners had put forth very little effort toward finding her. Even upon her return, they had few questions and not a single word of thanks. Yet, Jazz (as they'd fittingly name her) wasn't mine, so I tearfully handed her over.

This, I reminded myself, was a very different situation. Genie was very much loved by Marla. Still the prospect of losing her -- even after so short a time together -- tugged at my heart.

Marla agreed to my proposal. She recently stopped by to see how things are going. Since our first visit, Genie has discovered how to play. She loves chasing a felt streamer that we dangle enticingly before her ... and already has a favorite toy, a catnip mouse.Genie has also become a bird lover, strategically placing her twitching body behind a large potted plant beside the sliding glass doors.

I'm not a patient person by nature, but as these last two weeks have passed, I've learned a thing or two about patience as a virtue. I've seen that I can conquer my impatient tendencies by accepting not only the realities before me, but by accepting the other people who share that reality ... by respecting them, respecting their journeys. But mostly, I think I've learned about love ... and how intricately those virtues are tied together: I'm beginning to love this cat and therefore I can be patient and will be accepting of the outcome.

Marla continues to prepare for her big move to Texas. She's impressed with how Genie has progressed and seems content with allowing us to keep her. But her decision is, no doubt, bittersweet. Per our agreement, Marla still has several days to change her mind. While I feel confident that the adoption will proceed, I continue to reign that feeling in; I need to delay it for just a few more days. After July 15th we'll have our final answer.

To be concluded with PART 4 in this continuing series on July 16th.

Earlier posts:

• July 6th, "Of a Pet Lost and a Pet being Found"
• July 9th, "Meeting Genie"

The beauty behind her bruises

Penny has ample reason to dread family get-togethers, and -- with a holiday creeping closer – her fears again rise to the surface. Seated with me, Penny hikes her trouser legs up, exposing her milky calves; I have never seen a whiter woman. “These legs haven't seen the sun in years,” Penny laughs. But she wonders what extra dots of color she'll see in the coming weeks. "By next week these will be covered in shades of purple and blue, in assorted sizes of toe tips," she assures me.

You see, Penny has a slight problem with impulse control and, on occasion, she'll call someone out for comments made under the pretext of polite dinner conversation; comments born more from prejudice than facts, for instance. When others are in attendance, Penny's challenges often make for a good show. I, for one, am never adverse to seeing someone squirm ... someone else, not me, that is! But, as a result of her outspokenness, Penny often gets kicked under the table by well-meaning family and friends who would rather leave well-enough alone.

Penny's tone suddenly changes. “Maybe the bruises are worth it,” she says.

When I fail to understand her shift in thought, Penny explains. “It used to be that my parents would bring their bigotry to the family table at get-togethers and I alone would counter it. I don't want my kids exposed to that. So I'd say, 'Mom, I don't know where you get your info, but the Hispanics I work with are hard-working. The African-Americans next door make for the best neighbors. My Muslim friends aren't terrorists.' You know ...”

I do know. I know that a huge gulf separates prejudice from reality. “Go on,” I encourage.

“Well, as soon as I open my mouth, my brothers and sisters start directing little kicks my way.”

“Under the table?” I question.

“Precisely,” she responds.

Lately, however, a subtle change has taken place at Penny's family table. Different feet have taken aim at her legs. And for different reasons.

“Last Easter I let my parents voice their prejudice without interruption,” Penny said. “Maybe I was tired. After all, they always offer up the same arguments; we never cover new ground.”

“So ...” I prompt.

“So the children started tapping me under the table with their feet,” Penny said.

“Your kids?” I ask.

“Well, my oldest and my brother's. So I turn to them and ask if there was a reason for the fancy footwork. They look at me like I'm crazy and ask, 'Are you going to just let that go? Aren't you going to say something?'”

“I'm tired, so I ask, 'What do you think I should say?' Avery chimes in right away, 'you should say that sounds like gossip and we don't gossip.' Then Annie says I should question the motives of their sources. Back and forth they go, spouting every argument I've put up against my folks' discriminatory statements for the past five years  ... and I think they added in a few new ones: let's not give in to paranoia; don't buy-in to anonymous hearsay; avoid blanket judgments.'”

“'Good points,' I say to the children. 'Consider them spoken,'” Penny concluded.

“Well, friend,” I finally say, “maybe you could view those bruises differently ... from here they might very well be badges of honor. And you're my favorite hero!”

“Well ... it's a war worth winning," she smiles.

“Still, you might consider sitting at the kiddie table,” I advise. “Smaller feet, smaller bruises.”

Still in the game

A week ago I was reading  Nina Munteanu's blog, The Alien Next Door. Nina's posts frequently make me think and that's why I'm a fan. My mind still keeps traveling back to her April 7 article, however. It was one in a series of posts about climate change. This particular article delved into the "dark optimism" of James Lovelock, a respected (albeit maverick) British scientist who believes environmental "catastrophe is inevitable," and that it doesn't make any difference what you or I do.

While I'm very concerned about the state of the environment, I can't conceive of sitting back and doing nothing. And that's what I indicated in my comment:

Unlike Lovelock's take on ethical consumption, my attitude is that no right deed is ever [done] in vain. Maybe more technology is the answer, but I don't have control over that. I do have control over what I purchase and how I consume energy.

Nina agreed, saying "I think that there is an awful lot we as individuals can still do. Let's not give up!"

Even before I read Nina's response, my mind wandered back some ten years or so, back to a seemingly unlikely memory ... when my young nephew J.D. was learning to play board games. He was not much more than a tadpole and we had Chutes & Ladders spread across the living room floor. J.D., his older cousins and I were having fun ... until J.D.'s luck began to run out. As he watched the other players pass him on the board, his eyes began to water, his chin to tremble. Finally, after one more unlucky turn left him trailing far behind, J.D. burst into tears and announced, "I'm not playing anymore!"

I called for a break and sent the other children for juice. Then I sat with J.D. until his sobs subsided and told him I needed him to finish the game. "I understand," I assured him. "You're in last place, but you've still got to try."

But I want to win," he insisted, the tears beginning again.

"Well, if you finish the game, maybe you will win and maybe you won't. As long as you're playing, you've  got a chance," I pointed out. "But if you quit now, you're choosing to lose. And I will not play games with people who choose to lose," I concluded.

"Not even Candyland?" he asked. "Not even that," I replied, folding my arms across my chest.

When J.D. realized that I was serious, he reluctantly agreed to continue playing. Miraculously for him, the next few rounds dealt each of the other players serious setbacks and slowly J.D. regained the lead. It wasn't long before he emerged the winner and celebrated with shouts of jubilation!

I'll bet almost every parent, grandparent, aunt, uncle and child has a tale like this one. Of how victory was snatched from the jaws of "inevitable" defeat!

I'll admit that our current environmental worries are more significant than a child's game. But the lesson is the same: this is no time to give up. It ain't over yet.

I chatted with J.D. last Thursday as we drove home from a concert. He is now a high school freshman and already thinking ahead to his career. He's trying to figure out what he can do to make the world a better place. J.D.'s still in the game.

Recreating virtues from flaws

One of the surprise blessings of my life is that I cannot carry a grudge for long. It's not that I have a forgiving nature. I'm just too forgetful!

I realized this 'fault' early on in my life. I had inadvertently angered a girlfriend by speaking to a former buddy ... one who had more recently become seen as an enemy. "Brenda," my friend growled, "don't you remember? We're not speaking to her anymore!"

Oops! I'd forgotten.

I forgot again, years later, when giving a boyfriend the cold shoulder for some slight, real or imagined. He wasn't too bright. Either that or he was willing to risk life and limb as he taunted me. But who could blame him? My snub had faltered after only some 20 minutes.

Back then, my memory lapses left me humbled. But today I see them as a gift and am grateful.

The older I get, the more I understand that my relationships often depend on letting go of past grievances. So my forgetfulness has, on occasion, become purposeful. Even healthy bonds sometimes require that I intentionally forget negative memories that stick in the crawl spaces of my mind.

This selective amnesia became important when I decided that I could not live my life based on the actions of others. Once again this wasn't due to any character strength on my part, but a lack of patience; I rarely have the energy to stand in judgment of anyone else, so I save it for special occasions (and hope the favor is returned!) Think of the effort required! First one needs to access each instance of imperfection; each hurt and horror inflicted. Then for each failing, the underlying character flaw needs to be identified and thoroughly bemoaned. Chances are, the 'accused' has some redeeming qualities that must be considered. And, finally, there's the defensive case to be made for one's own misdeeds.

So standing in judgment was out. And I certainly wasn't going to go to all the trouble of trying to change others. Changing my own bad habits is hard enough. I don't need the added burden of someone else's behavior modification. If I believed in corporal punishment I might think differently, but I've never met anyone who's actually had sense knocked into him. So I was stuck.

Surely a more satisfying approach would be to focus to the actions I could control: my own actions.

Reigning in my own behavior means "doing right," even for others that haven't always done right by me. When I throw off old hurts or allow them fade, I become a better person ... the person I want to be. I can improve life for others, and what's more, I'm happier.

Still, releasing that angst isn't always always easy.

I struggle to control my tone as I speak with the relative at the other end of the phone. Our relationship has always been rocky, but we're family. And she needs me. She'll need me increasingly as she navigates the perils of later life. I hear the frustration in her voice as she deals with a world that has outpaced her ability to change with it. I can't change her realities or perceptions. I can't remake our past. In this moment, I realize that I must -- again -- relinquish my hold on old wounds. Its not for the first time and won't be for the last. Now I must forget, because I can't empower anyone if I'm playing the victim. I can't help us move into the future if I'm tethered to the past.

Lessons in quilt-making

Fall house-cleaning continues. Blame it on the new home organization trend (I do), but I've been busily sorting through my closet and drawers, throwing out anything that I don't enjoy wearing. This is nothing new for me -- I've waded through outdated blouses and under-sized slacks for years as I struggle to clear out an accumulation of wishful thinking in the form of clothes. Still, it's an emotional struggle for me.

My mother has made the letting go made easier. As I pull another top from my dresser I am confident that it is going to a good cause, my mother's quilts.

"The church ladies said Mom was making her quilts 'too pretty.'"

Grown men cry

My husband lost his sister to cancer last week. As we recounted stories from her life, I remembered why I had fallen in love with this man. Although he stands like a modern-day Paul Bunyan at 6’4”, this peaceful giant has never been afraid to shed a tear.

Some men flee from teardrops as, legend says, the elephant runs from mice. But Frank doesn’t run from the strength of his feelings. He never has.

Viewing the climatic scene of my “chick flick” Frank’s hazel eyes glisten and his lashes darken with moisture. His emotional shift has been orchestrated by Hollywood. Still, it is okay to be sensitive. It’s a gift to be vulnerable with those you love. We laugh and hug and cry together.

Hearing his nephews’ solos at their musical recital, Frank lets the tears roll down his cheek without apology. He is moved. Proud. Frank wears his love on his face for all to see. I hand him a tissue and he slowly dabs his eyes.

“I believe Frank's tears make him strong.”