enroute365

Father's miracle

I have long suspected that beauty can be found anywhere if one looks closely enough. But now I wonder if the same can be said for miracles, that they might exist even during the most trying of times. Perhaps even within a week such a this, one that finds my father lying in a hospital bed inches away from my mother, the original patient, who sits recovering from her heart attack.

Their saga began early Sunday morning when Mother awoke to a puzzling array of symptoms that included non-stop hiccups and a pain under an armpit. Hindered by deteriorating vision, my 86-year old father hurried glanced through the family medical guide before giving up in frustration.

“I said, ‘I think we should call 9-1-1’'” he tells me today as he relays the story with amazing detail. The precision seems especially remarkable in light of his increasing forgetfulness.

“Your mother,” he continues, “didn’t argue.” Dad pauses for effect. Mom is a stubborn German woman; she doesn’t often admit she needs help.

After placing his urgent phone call, my father then stopped to consider how the paramedics would get Mom out of the house. The front entry was the most direct route, yet it hadn’t been used as a port of entry or exit in years; it had come to function more like a side closet. Quickly he cleared stacks of Mother’s quilting fabrics away from the door, then pulled chairs out from what would become the pathway. Dad pulled on his trousers just as the medical team arrived.

Now this might not seem a miracle in and of itself, that an elderly man would have the presence of mind to do what was needed in order to help his wife of 50-some years. That he would remain calm under pressure and mentally navigate the steps required that would speed assistance. But my father struggles with dementia. He often relies on my mother to remind him when to bathe or to dress ... and how to.

“The medics were there within ten minutes.” He concludes the story for what may be the twentieth time in six days ... but I don’t mind.

Tonight the nursing staff moved Mother to a bigger room. After confessing to his own chest pains for the last few days, Dad has also been admitted to the hospital, and to her room, for observation. I think it’s the stress. A sister has a hunch that he is experiencing “sympathy” pains.

Tomorrow Dad will forget the tightness in his own chest while he again recites the story of my mother’s rescue without the slightest deviation. And I will marvel that his mental faculties were razor sharp when it was needed most. From where I sit, that's a miracle.

My Spring Fiction

 We’ve now entered the season where, as Alexander Pope put it, my own “hope springs eternal.” As the temperatures rise and new life slowly emerges seemingly from death -- from faded lawns, sparse trees and decaying leaf piles -- all becomes possible once again!  At least in my mind.

Even now as I imagine blossoms bursting forth from the malformed pear tree that I would have chopped down years ago but for its cheery springtime color, I know that I can perform miracles in my own life.

Whereas yesterday I fretted over when I would find the time to floss (much less, the time to write), today I know solutions will bloom for me. My optimism is not well founded. I’ve run the numbers and know there are not 28 hours in a day. But, Spring has arrived transmuting all known laws of mathematics.

Over the past few months I’ve been keenly aware that making a living in the real world has gotten harder. Springtime, however, is here and the world is resurrected. Can economic recovery be far behind when the robins have returned?

What is it about Spring that renews my spirit … if not my reality?  How is it that any human being can rise above dismal prospects to hope-filled delusions?  And what can be said for those few who translate their impossible dreams into tangible success stories?

So, for today I’ll live in my magical world, the one that fueled my little girl dreams ... where I’d never heard the words “implausible,” “unlikely” or "impractical." That place where denial is the law of the land. Objectivity can prevail another time.

---

Safe within this wish-based space, I now add, "it's good to be back!" Back to this blog ... without a clue of where I'll find the time to write! Perhaps you know the feeling?

The value of uncertainty

Uncertainty paid me a recent call. A wake-up call.

Over the last eight years, I’ve taken family weekends for granted. During this time my sisters and I have lived within a two-hour drive of each other, yet we’ve typically only found the time to make that drive four times a year. Or less.

But change is on the horizon. Now it appears that one family may have to relocate to a different job market. Another family awaits word of how a down-sizing will affect them.

This isn’t fair or unfair. This is life, I remind myself. Life isn’t predictable and those along for its journey cannot expect to remain complacent for too long. Which is exactly what I had allowed myself to become -- too comfortable – and what I pulled back from during a recent family get-together.

The family surrounding me, I tried to stretch each moment of the weekend as if I could keep it always before me in an elastic eternity. The words of my sisters hung in the air as I listened, not only to their shared stories and concerns, but also the tone and timbre of their voices. Even their arguments. In my nieces’ eyes, I relished the sparks of creativity and laughter … and I see these glints still. I cherished every embrace, however fleeting, and marveled at the caring conveyed by a touch.

For once, I was even content to play the observer as my brothers-in-law traded good-natured jabs. My witty repartee could wait.

I would love to see a bright sun mysteriously burst through the clouds that shroud the family's future and shine the light on answers that would keep my siblings and their families nearby. And that is what I'll pray for. Whether or not this happens, however, I am grateful for even the uncertainty of life which has caught me off-balance … the uncertainty that has made all I value precious again.

Defining middle-age my way

Contemplations on aging.

Last night I woke to a thunderstorm. But it was the storm in my brain that wouldn’t let me return to slumber. Because I desperately need to get a good eight hours tonight, I finally dared ask myself the questions weighing on my mind, “Am I feeling the years … those years that have brought me to midlife? Am I wearing down?” The answer was simply “No.” In many ways, I feel that I'm just now really digging in to life and it's possibilities! I am, right now, my best self!

So, I probed deeper. “Am I feeling the fear … the fear of stereotypes? The fear of being defined, limited by a number.” A pause. Then an admission, “yes." Some people "out there" have lumped me into a category that I don't much care for. One that sees me as past my prime, based on ... what? I do not know.

Finally, unexpectedly, my soul offered this revelation, "... and the fear itself is limiting me, narrowing the opportunities I see.” It's creating boogey-men where there may be none.

At 47, I am young. I’m the “cool” adult with a Playstation game and unconventional ideas. The one who cranks Nickelback while speeding down the road to work. Yet, at the same time, I’m as old as my silvery hair. I always buckle my seat-belt and, if you’re riding with me, you will, too, sonny!

I enjoy the company of peers 20 years younger. And, yes, I consider them my peers, for as much as I teach them, they (in return) instruct me. Through their youthful eyes I see familiar sights in new ways. In me, they gain the perspective that only comes with experience. And together we create synergy.

Time spent with those my own age and older is also relished, however. These folks know what I’m going through and the life passages that lie ahead. I respect their wisdom, their journeys, their stories. Together we explore our purpose.

The young. The old. The in-between. Just who am I afraid can hold me back? Together we all make up society. We create conventional thought! Who is there to limit me to my age or their perceptions of it? Even well-entrenched stereotypes can be shaken. And my generation is quite capable of shaking things up!

Today I ask myself what has changed since I was 27. Is it just that more years have passed by? No, I am different. I’ve gained an inner calm, a deeper honesty and a broader perspective. I’ve learned that I lose nothing by giving; by sharing the credit, offering encouragement or letting someone else have the limelight. I wouldn’t want to turn the pages back, even to once again claim that lanky frame or brunette curls.Of course shedding ten pounds (if not ten years) would be nice! Still, I now have more to give ... and one would be hard-pressed to dismiss that lightly.

I used to imagine that at some point in my life, I’d have more answers. But these days I only have more questions. I don’t even know how to age gracefully. Then again, I’ve never done anything gracefully in my life; I go at it with all thrusters on … or I don’t go at it at all. And perhaps that is exactly how it should be: life is so short that I don’t need time for fear. I’ll simply have to define middle-age my way … making up the rules as I go along. That’s really the only way I’ve ever lived.

Hearing voices (in the blogosphere)

I’m hearing voices … again! More than whispers, these are the words born of beautiful minds … great writing that lends originality, honesty and humanity to the blogosphere.

But I’m behind the times … again. So forgive me if some of these posts are a bit dated. They remain messages that deserve to be heard.

I’m referring to the Progenitor who is finally a father. Hear the love that’s been awakened in him in a recent poem to his newborn daughter:

Baby girl…
Expanding our world.
Perfection in a soft cheek,
The curve of your spine as you lie on my chest …

Your reality completes…
Our home,
Our lives.

At the other extreme, I’m hearing the voice of Mimi at Mimi Writes who recalls the miracles of her grandmother:

I don't know if she was gifted with a healing vibe or just knew how to get things done. All I know is that my great-grandmother … had many old fashioned cures for whatever ailed us…

Inquisitive and annoying child that I was, I asked her all the time to tell me her secrets. She would not …

Perhaps her gift to me was a knowing and silent belief that sometimes wisdom lies in things that cannot be explained.

I hear the the message of Sarah at My Life as it Was, Is, and Will Be who reminds us to participate in life, even as we grow older:

The water broke a path behind her as she raced onwards. There were whistles and hoots and hollers on the lakeshore.  She continued, oblivious to the cheers. Her path reflected a straight line across the bay. She was riding her jet ski.

And she was 91 years old.

I’m also hearing journeyers who are taking a closer look at their worlds. Writers like Linda at Uncommon Adventures who recently found new appreciation (then life-and-death drama) as she explored her world by bicycle:

Because I see my usual bike route more often than others, it can sometimes seem boring or uninteresting. But if I pretend to be new to the area and unfamiliar with the rolling to flat hills, straight country roads, weathered barns, fields of who-knows-what-yet... corn, beans, alfalfa... I can see the plainness exude a mercurial beauty unlike the scenery presented by a mountain view or an ocean-scape.

I invite you to take a moment to listen to the voices with me by reading full posts via the links provided. See if these bloggers' words resonate within you!

Meeting Genie

Continued from the July 6th post, "Of a Pet Lost and a Pet being Found."

While my husband was reluctant to seek out a new pet -- strike that ... a new companion -- life seemingly was finding a way to bring her to us.

I received the call from my neighbor Lois last week. Her daughter was moving down south and wouldn't be able to take her cat along. Did I know someone? They were running out of options.

My interest was piqued. As Lois described the feline, a Persian, my spirits dropped. While Genie sounded perfect for us in every other way, I had to consider my husband's allergies ... and I had serious misgivings about a long-haired pet. Still, I told Lois that I'd ask around, then -- on a lark -- went to the Internet to conduct research. There I learned that a long-haired pet may be no more of an allergy source than a short-hair; it all depends on which potential allergens trigger your symptoms. One may react to one cat and not another. It's complicated and -- as you find whenever you seek out expert opinion -- no two experts ever agree entirely. So the best advice was to spend time with the cat in question and watch for allergic reactions.

When Frank got home, I recited my findings to him in an out-of-breath litany of sorts. I told him that this might be it; this might be our cat. After all, I was working normal hours. Our finances were in good shape. And this little feline was in need. I stopped for a deep breath.

And before I could exhale, Frank agreed.

Lois and her daughter Marla brought Genie over to meet us the next day. She was beautiful (pictured to the left) and, as Marla described her little idiosyncrasies -- how she loved to be held like a baby and needed a gentle touch and a calm, loving home -- my husband and I realized that she sounded right for us. We decided to keep her over the weekend to see how Genie would adjust to us ... and to see if Frank's sinuses might somehow behave.

I was especially concerned about that latter point. A friend of Marla's had been caring for Genie for the last month or so. This long-haired beauty hadn't been groomed in some time. As Marla passed the cat's brushes to me, I worried that we had the added allergy-risk of accumulated dust mites which would be released once we started brushing her. I'm not typically much on prayer, but I made up for that deficit over the course of the weekend! By the time Monday rolled around, Frank and I had removed a kitchen trash bag's worth of fur and, while Frank did suffer some sinus headaches, it was nothing more than what he usually experiences this time of year. Success!

Marla returned to our home Monday to assess Genie's progress and was happy at what she found: Genie's coat was once again silky to the touch. More importantly, however, Genie was beginning to make herself at home! Marla seemed hesitant, though. After all, she'd loved and cared for this cat for five years. But ... there was more to the story than that. As we spoke with Marla, Frank and I learned that it was possible that Marla might not be moving out-of-state after all. Even though we had surmounted the challenges that lay before us from the start ... there was no guarantee that Genie would join our family. We had not arrived at a happy ending. Not yet, anyhow. And still, as I write this, this story's conclusion is far from certain.

To be continued with PART 3 in this continuing series on July 12th.

Of a pet lost and a pet being found

This story does not yet have an ending ... but I've decided that's no reason to not to tell it. As life always does, this saga will unfold in its own way and its outcome will be whatever is meant to be ... even though it almost began with a little white lie.

You see, I had toyed with the idea of telling my husband that I wanted a baby ... when, at age 47, I didn't want a child at all. So why would I be willing to tell such a seemingly pointless lie? Because what I really wanted was a cat and that plea had fallen on deaf ears before. Because, although I knew my husband wouldn't believe this teensy fib, I desperately needed leverage in our negotiations. And because, even when it wouldn't work, I knew I'd have gotten Frank's attention. Finally.

Two years earlier, we had put our 19-year old cat Bear to sleep and it took some time to recover from that loss. Time to move past the echoes of his morning wake-up calls and past the shadows of his once lithe body racing down the hall. Most of all, however, we needed time to rediscover the courage needed to risk our hearts again. But when that time came ... when we were emotionally ready and I brought up the topic of a new pet, Frank demurred. And, darn it, he typically had common sense on his side.

I had just started my own business. Frank was taking classes and working full-time. Time was scarce and cash flow was strained. Even when income levels rebounded, I couldn't guarantee it would remain so. And responsible pet ownership comes with a price tag.

Eventually work became steady and lucrative, but Frank still hesitated. He didn't want to actively seek a pet. You see, these were days of magical thinking, days when my husband would blithely assure me that when the time was right, a cat would -- for all intents and purposes -- manifest itself in our lives. This from a man who scoffs at The Secret, arguing that the marketing has never been so keen for a secret before. I understand about the gimicry, but how can a gal argue about synchronicity?  Especially one who has come to believe that there is a timing, if not a purpose, to life beyond her understanding.

So, while the baby lie remained untold, just a joke among friends -- “That would be some hairy baby! Ha! Ha! Ha!” -- during that time, life was, apparently, finding a way.

To be continued with PART 2 in this continuing series on July 9th.