Count Your Blessings, page 4
We moved back the summer of 2003. Instead of seeing my parents twice a year, we started to see them every week. We all had so many great times together. My dad came to see my son play hockey, played cards with my daughter, and he and I would go out for breakfast a lot—that was one of our favorite things to do. We did all the simple little things there isn’t time for when visits are rushed or pressured and you are trying to fit a million things into one week’s vacation.
I wanted to be there for my dad, and I was. I wanted to have my kids get to know him, and they did. Most of all, as crazy as it seemed, and as hard as it was for me to leave my friends and life, I followed my heart, and for that I will always be grateful.
Because, after four and a half years, it happened. My dad went into the hospital for simple issues with circulation and one night, in front of my eyes, he had a massive heart attack and the next morning he died.
I was shocked, bereft and confused—but I was there.
I did not get the dreaded phone call in the middle of the night. Did not have to fly home and experience all the guilt and regrets that would have gone along with losing him and not being present. I had played that scenario out in my mind, and had done something about it before it happened.
Cut to the day of my dad’s funeral. I was brushing my teeth, staring at myself in the mirror in the daze that comes at such a time. Drained, beyond tired, and cried-out, I caught a little movement out of the corner of my eye. A bird was sitting in the middle of the tree outside the bathroom window. I walked over to the window, turned the crank and opened it. I thought the bird might fly away at the sound—but it didn’t. In fact, it never moved a feather and kept its eyes glued to mine. Suddenly, the world went very quiet, and everything distilled down to the bird and the tree and me. And in that moment, I knew it was my dad, coming to tell me he was okay, and that I would be okay. I felt my deep sorrow lift a little and the bird and I stayed there, our eyes locked on each other for a long time. I finally had to turn away, and when I looked back a split second later, the tree was empty.
Later that week, I was telling the story to a dear friend. She asked me, “What kind of bird was it?” “A robin,” I said, “but he had grey feathers, which is unusual. I don’t know why, but I felt like it was my dad.” My friend grabbed my hand and said, “A robin? Laura, your last name is Robinson.”
And there was one more piece to the story. I got an e-mail from another friend who had been quite close to my dad. She said she had asked a year or so earlier, that when he died, he would send her a sign, and then send the same one to me. My dad had agreed. She was writing to ask me if I had had any “signs” since his passing.
I wrote back and told her my robin story. She immediately replied, “I am covered in shivers right now, because the sign your dad and I agreed upon was a red bird. There was a cardinal on my deck yesterday. He stared at me for ten minutes. I’m sure it was your dad!” I understood then, without a shadow of a doubt that my dad had come to me, was watching over me and would continue to.
It’s always so hard to lose a beloved parent, but what I am grateful for is that I do not have to live with regret: regret that I had moved so far away, that there hadn’t been enough time to be together and to reconnect again after all those years. At the funeral, I said that I knew I had been unconditionally loved every minute of my life. I feel so lucky to have had that blessing.
I miss him every day but I have peace in my heart … and a little bird on my shoulder.
~Laura Robinson
Resilience
Man never made any material as resilient as the human spirit.
~Bern Williams
Shortly after my husband Ken’s diagnosis of kidney failure, we were told the only way to extend his life would be an organ transplant. In the meantime, regular dialysis treatments were to begin immediately. Our “new normal” began with the surgical placement of a port in his chest, and just hours after the surgery, my husband went directly to his first “dialysis run.” That heart-wrenching first day of dialysis was the only time I ever saw my heroic husband weep. Just three weeks later, Thanksgiving Day happened to be a dialysis day, so instead of the usual big family gathering, our family of three chose a simple meal at home accompanied by a simple prayer of thanks, “Thank you dear God for time together.”
In the weeks following, our perspective and our emotions swung from high to low like a pendulum almost daily. While the situation we faced pulled us together as a family, it drained our time and our energy. One possibility that kept us buoyed was the hope of an organ transplant. Suddenly, making memories with family and friends compelled us to set aside the trivial in favor of somehow emotionally extending our life together.
The phone call with news of a kidney match finally came in the early morning hours one snowy December day. The university hospital several hours away meant we needed to leave immediately, and despite a blizzard we arrived at the hospital by mid-morning. While Ken was being prepped for surgery, a nurse brought in a Styrofoam box bearing large orange letters that spelled, “Human Organ for Transplant.” They literally put the kidney, in what looked like a cooler for a six-pack of pop, on the foot of the bed! With shock and suppressed giggles, Ken and I looked at the box and then at each other.
With comical disbelief, I sputtered, “Do you believe this!” A very sobering event was lightened by the sweet sound of my husband’s chuckling. The laughter we shared was a precious gift before they wheeled him to surgery. A few hours after our kiss and saying, “See ya soon,” the kidney had been transplanted and immediately began producing urine.
That Christmas was one of the most wonderful of any I remember. Our son, David, was home from college, Ken was still recovering, and every other day there was a snow storm. The gratitude in our huddled hearts rivaled the warmth in our fireplace. We spent many weeks in a perpetual state of awe. Our future together had been restored because of an organ donation. To this day, our family is mindful of the fact that because someone else’s life had ended, Ken’s could continue. We never take for granted our ability to celebrate an extended future together. Somewhere an organ donor’s family is grieving an empty place at their family gatherings, and every time my husband swallows his medication or has blood drawn, we humbly remember that.
Ken’s doctors told us that the chances of him rejecting the transplant will remain slim as long as he continues to take his medications at precise intervals. Blood samples collected every other month for the rest of his life will continue to be monitored for signs of rejection by the University of Michigan and Mayo Clinic. Gratefully we reflect on the network of a caring medical staff, family and friends who continue to surround us, and we now seek opportunities to walk alongside others going through devastation. Rebounding from life’s tremendous challenges requires resilience, but oft times, resilience requires some assistance. Offering and receiving.
~Linda Tabbert as told to Debbie Harrell
Other People’s Beds
Travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind.
~Seneca
Fourteen years ago, after my husband Mort died, I spent my summers living in other people’s houses, traveling to places where, by invitation, I found myself in a mountain house in Virginia, a lakeside house in Maine, a clapboard cottage at the foot of the Berkshires, and a musty-scented dwelling on Fire Island, overlooking the sea. It was a summer of social gatherings; cocktails at sunset on verandas that spilled over the edge of lush gardens with flowers exploding in color against a pink and orange sky, where finding a patch of cloud was a startling, unwelcome intrusion on an otherwise perfect afternoon.
The rest of the year I worked hard, teaching my classes, meeting my weekly column deadlines and working on my next novel. Friends had offered their homes as healing retreats after the death of my husband. And so, still numb from my loss, I took them up on their offers. I packed an overnight bag and headed off, feeling emotionally wobbly and slightly off-balance.
“You’ll stay with us,” my Virginia friends implored. “We won’t take no for an answer. June in Virginia is lovely.”
Other friends who own a summer house in Maine asked me to join them in August.
“Houses are meant to be shared,” my Lenox, Massachusetts, friends told me in July. “You can hear the music of Tanglewood from our terrace.”
Listening to Mozart waft through the crisp evening air was hard to resist.
Then, there was Fire Island where my children spent their summers. I had an open invitation. Before I knew it, I was filling a suitcase with summer clothes and easing into the role of the rotating house-guest, spending time with my gallery of friends, who introduced me to the rhythm of their summertime lives and the myriad of activities that went along with it.
All that summer, I hiked high up into the hills of the Blue Ridge Mountains to commune with nature and its animal inhabitants, some of which, obviously sensing my reticence, had the good sense to leave me alone. A garter snake slithered by me as I leaned up against a tree trying to regain my composure. My usual stash of bottled water was replaced by fresh water from mountain streams. Here, all pretenses were dropped.
Similarly, the Maine trails whose silence was stirred by bird sounds and rustlings gave way to a silver lake shining in the sun, punctuated with little boats against a landscape of green and purple mountains, providing postcard-perfect settings at every turn.
Fire Island was damp and overcast when the ferry delivered me into the arms of my squealing grandchildren. The afternoon threatened rain as I trekked the beaches and watched as streaks of sunlight tried hard to work their way through the storm clouds. Fire Island is beautiful in any season, and when the winds became fierce, we found seclusion indoors, alternating between games of Trivial Pursuit with the adults and Chutes and Ladders with Andrew and Caroline. One afternoon, I found myself engrossed in play while the parents took leave and put me in charge of four children all under the age of seven. By 5 P.M. I was exhausted. I took them all for treats. We ate ice cream in the rain.
And then there were the naps, where we retired to our respective rooms without the pressure of schedules or the cacophonous ring of telephones or television sets blasting annoying commercials. Reclining on other people’s beds to finish a book seemed at once both comforting and strange. Sleeping on sheets that bore no resemblance to my own—pillows that didn’t caress my head exactly right, were unfamiliar to my touch yet oddly inviting. Blankets smelled differently, and mattresses, unaccustomed to my body’s contour, dipped and peaked as I tried to find a spot that felt secure under me. These were constant reminders I was not home. Once again, the tug of my loss gnawed at me at every turn.
But, friends and family filled the void of loneliness and provided solace during those difficult times. I moved among them all, enjoying their food and partaking of their hospitality. I was grateful that my grieving was accepted, and that I was being nurtured. I did not need to put on airs. Those yellow summer afternoon, filled with light banter and conversation, warmed my soul.
“Do you prefer cold lobster or leftover poached salmon?” were the most difficult decisions of the day. Invitations to take the boat out for a spin, run into town or walk a mile up the road to the general store was about as complicated as it got. It was a time of borrowed books, smearing sun block over a child’s shoulders, dining al fresco, and skinny dipping in the lake in the black of night.
And then, like an unexpected intruder, the winds began kicking up earlier than usual. Sweaters replaced halter tops and the first subtle whisper of autumn was felt. Thoughts of new beginnings took hold as summer began to wane. It was time to put away the porch furniture and throw an extra blanket on the bed at night.
And so, I officially bade a fond farewell to those summers: to sand in my shoes, damp hair that curled exactly right when exposed to sea air, and to the sounds of motorboats putt-putting me to sleep. My legs bore a slight coating of suntan. Mosquito bites were reminders that we lingered too long on open patios. Children’s voices echoing in the evening air still reverberated in my ears: “Can’t we stay outside and play a little longer?” Mental snapshots of my grandchildren jumping the waves and building sandcastles, eating corn on the cob, and catching fireflies in discarded jelly jars filled my memory bank for months to come.
Lying in other people’s beds reminded me I was not alone. Loss had been buffered by a season of friends, and I had a chance to begin to heal. But, in the end, it was my bed that knew me best. Nothing could replace the lure of familiarity. Arriving home, my cat, Annabelle, curled up next to me, and feeling safe, dared to close her eyes. She had traveled with me, but only now, like I, felt at home. A faint hint of my favorite shampoo’s aroma now lingered on my pillow. I ate crackers in bed (my late-husband’s pet peeve and I giggle at the thought of his disapproval) without the fear of getting crumbs on other people’s blankets.
2008: Another summer had come and gone. I am re-married now and home in our house, Mark’s and mine: the place of intimacy, where I can relax and be completely myself. I stretch and curl up in all the right spots, as I drift off to sleep on an early December night, recalling the bittersweet memories of summers past, and all the future summers spread out before us, yet to be lived.
~Judith Marks-White
We Didn’t Know
My cancer scare changed my life. I’m grateful for every new, healthy day I have. It has helped me prioritize my life.
~Olivia Newton-John
“When you feel up to it, we’ll get two claw-foot bathtubs, put them in the backyard, climb in and hold hands. Then we’ll give you a Cialis pill and see what happens,” I said, referring to that television commercial where the couple looks longingly into each other’s eyes.
“That’s not funny,” my husband deadpanned.
Throughout this whole thing, I’ve tried to maintain a sense of humor. Richard was now a cancer patient. And his cancer was in his prostate.
Before the diagnosis, Richard had endured tests that made him increasingly uncomfortable. “Why do they have to mess around down there?” he fumed. A few years ago, blood work indicated his PSA level was elevated. The doctor said he probably had an enlarged prostate. Then his PSA level spiked. “I need to have a biopsy,” Richard said. I could hear the trepidation in his voice.
“That doesn’t surprise me. You get up every few hours to go to the bathroom.” I had a feeling the doctor suspected something.
A week after the biopsy, Richard phoned. “The bad news is I have cancer, the good news is it’s treatable.”
I expected it, I think more than he did, but it was still a blow.
“I can’t have cancer,” he almost shouted through the phone. “I take good care of myself. I go for all my checkups. I get my blood work done. How can this happen to me?”
“Honey, we’ll deal with it. Don’t panic.” I put all the reassurance I could muster into my voice. “You’ll be fine.”
“You have to come with me to a consultation.”
“I’ll be right beside you.”
In the doctor’s office, my strong, 200-pound-plus husband looked like he was going to collapse. I asked most of the questions and cataloged in my mind all the answers. “Okay,” the doctor began, “this is what we’re dealing with.” He showed us a chart of Richard’s elevated levels. “The prostate is three times the size it should be and one quadrant shows an aggressive cell.”
Radiation was an option. That would zap the prostate and the cells but the downside was that it was so close to other tissues that could also be damaged. Surgery would remove the entire prostate with minimal chance of damaging surrounding tissue.
I asked the big question. “What’s the downside of surgery?”
The doctor looked directly at Richard. “You may have loss of manly function.”
Richard turned white as a piece of paper.
I thought I’d have to carry him out of the doctor’s office. “That’s not important to me.” I took his hand in mine. “Let’s get rid of the cancer. We’ll cross that bridge later.”
The doctor said to let him know what we decide.
“What’s happening to my body?” Richard asked when we were home. He was perfectly healthy, except for the cancer that he could not see and could not feel.
I tried to lighten the mood. “Honey, you can live without your prostate.”
A hangdog look accompanied his next words. “I won’t be a man anymore.”
“Yes, you will.” But I could tell he wasn’t convinced.
It was difficult to relate to Richard about a part of the body a woman doesn’t have. Girlfriends discuss details of childbirth, episiotomies, sitz baths, and those unsightly stretch marks. We talk to each other about heavy bleeding, hormone changes, mood swings and hot flashes. But ask a man about his nether-region and he’ll shut you down like a light switch. Heaven knows Richard wasn’t used to his private parts being probed and poked.
The next morning on the way to work I called my best friend. “It finally hit me that he has cancer,” I told her. “But for him, it’s not just that he has cancer—it’s where the cancer is.”
Richard opted for surgery. He came home from the hospital with a catheter to drain urine, a tube running from the incision to drain his wound, and staples from his groin to his belly button. We inched to the bathroom to empty the bag, then inched our way back to his comfy recliner. That’s when we looked at each other and said, “Where are we going to hang it?”
“I’ve got it!” I said, and grabbed the fireplace tools, removed them from their standing holder, and hung the bag on that. “Perfect.”
