Enroute 365

Acts of compassion, caring

2009-04-19T17:35:15-05:00

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.

Father's miracle

2009-04-03T20:26:08-05:00

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.

A preventable injury

2009-03-29T06:30:00-05:00

Why would a woman who openly strives for mindfulness -- exhorting others to do likewise -- need a cordless phone, technology specifically designed for the multi-tasker?

Perhaps I should have asked myself this question six weeks ago, before I rushed to answer the device.

On that particular evening I slid into my office chair, tucking my leg underneath me, as I reached to pick the phone out of its cradle. It was my nephew Max and -- not for the first time -- he needed money. Max had quite a story to tell and seemed not to hear me interject that I didn't have the funds to loan him. He obviously didn't remember that he hadn't paid dime one since the last time my husband and I bailed him out.

As he words droned on, I marveled at that fact. That he felt no compulsion to ask for another grand when the first thousand had gone unpaid for over a year. I was angry at Max. Angry at myself for holding back those feelings. And, oddly enough, I was even mad at my situation ... that I hadn't the funds to help him. My internal struggle played out for several minutes while Max recited a litany of reasons why he needed the money.

"I'll have Frank call you," I finally interrupted. "I don't know what your uncle can do, but I can't help you," I insisted while rising from my chair. I cannot remember where I was headed in my agitation, but phone still in hand, I took a step toward the office door, then another. Suddenly I was falling! Time slowed as the realization hit that my right foot was asleep ... that it hadn't obeyed my brain's command to take another step ... and that my ankle was now moving in a direction I didn't think was physically possible. That's when I heard it, craack-crack-crack-craack-crack! And, finally, a wave of great pain.

"Max, I'm sorry. I have to go now," I gasped before clicking the phone off. Marveling at my composure, I pulled myself along the desk back to the safety of my chair.

Soon enough I got the diagnosis I'd been dreading: a broken ankle.

As of Friday, it's been six weeks. Forty-some days of being chauffered around. Of struggling to do the simple tasks around the house that I can ... and of watching those things go untended that I cannot reach. And, yet, I'm lucky. A friend pulled a similar stunt the very next day with worse consequences; her fracture required surgery.

I've pledged that when my leg is unbound once more, I'll never sit on it in such lazy fashion again. I've vowed to close the bank of Brenda and Frank. By most importantly, I've made a promise to handle frustrations in a mindful manner, to actively listen to my body ... and to avoid doing both simultaneously. After all, I reason, I bet old Buddha never cracked his ankle while agonizing over his cordless!

Taking the high road

2009-03-28T16:22:47-05:00

I have come to understand the need for fiction writing in a whole new way.

When I began blogging over a year ago, my goal was to share slices of life and observations from my own experiences. In essence, to share truth as it presented itself. I fully anticipated that at some point I'd run up against one specific problem with that plan: I am intricately connected to others. When I reveal bits of my journey, very often I'm also exposing the struggles of those whose lives touch mine. In doing so, it's easy to invade others' rights to privacy.

This is one of the reasons I decided to take a break last fall, the need for integrity above all else. The daily dramas I was entering into were not mine to share ... even if they captured many a valuable life lesson.

Now, don't get me wrong! I'm still awash in tales of my own foibles! In the coming days I'll fill you in on my recent lapse in mindfulness and the broken ankle that resulted. But just for today I wanted to acknowledge -- perhaps even celebrate -- the reality of human inter-connectedness and the bonds of trust that need to be protected ... even if a great story is buried in the process!

Some day I will delve into fiction to tell those truths that would somehow be lost in a "tell-all" accounting. The truths that would somehow be rendered sordid or exploitive if I spared no detail. But today's not that day ... and this site is not the right forum.

But, be forewarned! For Enroute 365 to continue as a "life travelogue," I may deliver fewer stories and more brief insights, especially during those times when my days intertwine deeply with those of a family member or friend. It's a conscious decision to take the high road ... on this site and in my life.

My Spring Fiction

2009-03-20T06:54:00-05:00

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?