This tribute to my late mother-in-law is my last submission to the class on Creative Non-fiction I've been taking through the Story Circle Network.  I've really enjoyed the work and I offer it here as a testimony to the power of love.

THE AMAZING LIFE OF LILLIAN EDITH

How could she know, that petite pig-tailed child, as she waved to her father and watched the train vanish, its sound growing faint?  How could she know that for the rest of her life the sound of a train whistle would evoke such pain within her chest that breathing ceased for a moment? How could she know she would never see or hear from him again?

To back track a bit, the journey of this little girl, rather like Anne of Green Gables, began in a frigid January, 1894, in Grand Rapids, Michigan. The journey would not be an easy one.  For reasons she never knew, her parents divorced shortly after her birth and  Lillian was “given” to her father by her mother for the sum of $100.  It was all very official, a typed page signed by both parents. Why?  She never knew.

Those first few years, she lived with her paternal grandparents in northern Michigan, seeing her father only when he came home from the railroad.  Much of that life was carefree and fun, as she played on the inviting beaches of Lake Michigan.  She adored her grandparents and they, her.  Occasionly she visited her mother in Grand Rapids.  “Mother” was stiff and formal, never giving her the least bit of affection.

At some point, Walter, her dad, remarried and she went to live in Muskegon with her “wicked stepmother”, who made her work like an adult and frequently beat her when dad wasn’t around.  That union produced a son, the apple of his mother’s eye, which didn’t help Lillian’s status.  It was a few years later, when she was maybe 10 or 11, that Walter deserted the family.

Grudgingly, her birth mother, who had married a
stern and hard-nosed German man, took her in, moving her back to Grand Rapids.  These “parents” were financially comfortable and lived in a pleasant neighborhood, but their rules were harsh and demanding, at least they seemed so to Lillian.  And no affection was displayed.

In her old age, she liked to tell how one day at school she talked in class and was sent to the cloak room as discipline.  When the teacher came to check on her and put her arm around Lillian’s shoulders, wondering aloud what she was to do with her, it was the first time Lillian could remember anyone putting an arm around her, ever. Thereafter, she would work to get sent to the cloak room, longing for a repeat of that affection.

Life was soon to improve, however. Following 8th grade graduation, she took a job at the telephone company. One particular day she had terrible menstrual cramps and left work early.  After walking the many blocks home, she found no one there and in misery and some desperation, she went next door. Clara Norris, a tall, thin somewhat severe-looking woman in her mid-20’s, warmly welcomed her and soon she was tucked up on a couch with a heating pad on her abdomen.

Clara, whom everyone called Daisy, was quite alone. When her fiance’ didn’t return from WWI, she never married. Instead, she nursed her grandmother till her death and now lived alone in Grandma’s large, brick house. It seemed Daisy and Lillian were meant for each other.

They spent countless joyful hours together.  Daisy introduced Lillian to culture, music, art, dance and  St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, a venerable old parish in downtown Grand Rapids.  It was there that she had her first taste of God, of unconditional love and acceptance. She hungrily devoured it.

A few years later, with financial help from the church and the support of Clara Norris, she set off for St. Faith’s, a missionary training school for women, on the grounds of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York City.  Imagine her sense of awe and inadequacy, moving alone to that great city, studying with young college graduates, she with her 8th grade education, attending one of the largest and most beautiful cathedrals in the world.

Characteristically, she worked hard and excelled during training, also volunteering at nearby St. Luke’s Hospital.  The record of the 47th Annual Convention of the Episcopal Diocese of Western Michigan states that “Lillian Minhinnick, having completed two years’ study at St. Faith’s School, has been sent to China.”

And so, with the love and prayer support of Clara Norris, she set sail from San Francisco in 1920, a small, attractive, feisty and warm-hearted envoy to the people of Soochow (now Suzhou), a large and beautiful city 100 meters northwest of Shanghai.  Over the next six years, she learned the language, befriended missionaries of various denominations, helped to eliminate eye disease, loved and was loved by the Chinese with whom she worked. Her  name there was Ming Ching Ling.  Her closest friends called her Ming the rest of her life.

We must stop here, though there are countless stories of Lillian’s life adventures.  She came home in 1926 to marry Cliff Ingells, a widower with two young children.  In 1933, much to their surprise, she bore a son whom she named Norris, after guess who?  That son was my husband for 40 years, his mother my delightful mother-in-law, Daisy his surrogate grandmother.

Once, years later, I watched Lillian stand wistfully in front of a steam engine at Henry Ford Museum, the train’s whistle playing over a loud speaker.  She stood there quite a while, maybe remembering the day the train took her father away forever. Then she sadly turned away, a stoic look of determination on her strong and care-worn face.

On Being a Hospital Chaplain

I was a hospital chaplain for almost 15 years.  My mother didn’t think I’d last; not the right temperament. Somehow I did.

Chaplains don’t evangelize or preach at people.  We are just there.

I was frequently amazed at the outpourings of gratitude from folks--patients, family members, and staff.  Why, I wondered.  I didn’t do anything.  In some cases, I said a prayer, but often I just sat, holding hands, listening if they wanted to talk, being quiet if they didn’t.  I always smiled and wished them well.  

One of the mysteries of life in the hospital is how little interest the ill have in controversial subjects--politics, religion, etc.   Is it the basic human desire to live? Life definitely takes on a different perspective.  We sort out what is truly important and basic to survival.

My colleagues and I were Christians--an Episcopalian, a Lutheran, a Methodist, a Roman Catholic.  Seldom did anyone--patients, family members, even staff--ask our religion or our denomination.  I prayed with Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, atheists, Christian Fundamentalists, even Wisconsin Synod Lutherans, and they don’t normally pray with anyone not their own.  

The Catholic church had local parish priests assigned to each hospital in town.  Our priest, Father Ray, ministered with a gentle, no nonsense, attitude. I admired him.  His work load was horrendous, yet he always smiled and seemed at peace.

As I remember it, once when we appeared simultaneously at the bedside of a elderly Hispanic man, whose large family was fiercely protective, Father Ray explained to them that he couldn’t come back for a couple of days.  He put his arm around my shoulders and said, “But don’t worry, you’re in good hands with Carol.” That family welcomed my presence even as their father was dying.  

A few years later, I was privileged to sit with Father Ray as he lay dying.  We shared an easy closeness and comfortability.  When it came to life and death, the “oughts and shoulds” melted away. We all worked together.

Often there is little a chaplain can offer in the way of comfort or reassurance. After surgery, beds in ICU are raised up, allowing nurses and others to easily work with patients.  There is much to attend to following major surgeries. I remember standing on tip toe beside elevated beds, assuring recovering patients that they were still here.  On a respirator, unable to talk, the patients were uncomfortable, frequently anxious.  I reminded them that the tube down their throat was temporary;  it would come out soon.  And I smiled. I smiled a lot, often thinking how grateful I was that tube wasn’t down my throat.

One of the most poignant experiences came one late afternoon when I was called to ER.  We’ll name the “players” Lois and Roy.  Lois, an elderly woman, had a burst aortic aneurysm and would bleed to death unless it could be closed. Doctors decided to try, though her chances of survival were slim.  However, family wanted to wait until Roy, Lois’ boy friend, could get there. He was coming from out in the country, several miles away.  We waited and waited.  Finally we could wait no longer.  The surgery must happen, now or never.  

I decided to stay in ER to await Roy’s arrival and let him know the situation.  No sooner had the elevator doors closed, taking her up to the OR, than an elderly man, nice looking with a head full of beautiful white hair, hurried breathlessly into ER.  Oh my, what bad timing.  

Without giving it any thought, I quickly introduced myself and told Roy to come with me.  As we went up in the elevator, I let him know what was happening and that things didn’t look good.  It might be too late for him to see her. He looked shocked and bewildered. The OR staff also looked shocked as we charged into the holding area.  I frantically told them who Roy was and asked if we were too late.  Well, no, they hadn’t started.  We’ll ask if Roy can go in.  The answer was yes, as long as he wore all the protective clothing--gown, gloves, shoe coverings, head covering, and mask.  Well, said Roy, chuckling, I’ve never done anything like this before.  He seemed rather excited as he donned all the yellow paper clothes.  

You can go in, but only for a moment, he was told.  I followed him to the OR door and as I peeked through the small window, I saw the surgical team stand back respectfully as he walked to the operating table, bent over Lois and gently kissed her.  

Had I not intervened, Roy could not have delivered that final good-bye.  I walked away, tearfully, grateful to my core for the privilege of being a “healer” in that healing place.

This is my first post in a long while.  I like my essay, written for an online class I'm taking in Creative Nonfiction.

(A couple of caveats:  I have changed some names and locations to protect privacy and to make the essay work better.

Also, I know the part about "old black ladies" may seem politically incorrect, but it is true that I often sought and found solace from older African-American women and I tell this story with the intention of deepest respect.)

I MOVE ON: Life as a Hospital Chaplain

Rag socks and Birkenstocks

I wear to work each day

I come in and I smile

I sit down for a while

And before I exit, I pray.

This way of poking fun at myself developed as I entered

hospital chaplaincy in 1991 at age 48. I introduced myself to each unit, new to everyone and everything.  I was a lay person, not officially trained, bringing a new discipline to a mid-sized hospital which had never had a pastoral care program.  The staff had no clue what a chaplain should do.  Neither did I.  In time, we all learned.

* * * * *

Surgical ICU

I sit quietly in a small, darkened room, hearing beeps and gurgles from machines, tubes, and monitors.  There’s the stale, familiar odor of illness. This patient has been here for weeks, the chances of her recovery growing slimmer by the day.  Suddenly, not knowing why, I get up and move toward one corner of the bed.  I lay my hands on the blanket-encased foot for a few moments.  I move on to the other foot, then each hand.  As I caress her extremities, I imagine healing energy flowing into her body.  Will it make any difference?  I’ll never know.  

I move on.

*****

Cardiac ICU

Jessie is only slightly responsive this morning.  His heart is worn out.  I hold his hand and gently caress his bare chest.  “Jessie, it’s Carol. Can you hear me?”  He nods.  “It’s going to be OK, Jessie.”  He nods and smiles weakly.  “I will stay with you.”  Again he nods and smiles.

I stay all morning. I have a headache. I don’t feel like making “cold calls”.  And Jessie has no one else.  He is dying alone. 

A beautiful African-American man of 40, he is an inmate at the nearby state prison.  What crime did he commit?  No matter today. Usually the prisoner patients have a guard 24/7.  Not today.  I wonder why. A colleague stops by.  She says I’m “wasting my time” sitting there.  I don’t know how to explain.  

Jessie becomes unconscious.  

I think about his life. 

I wonder why the officials won’t let his family come. 

I sing a little, my hand on his chest.

I’m silent. 

I move on. 

Jessie dies, alone, several hours later. 

*****

Medical-Respiratory ICU

I check in with the staff.  One of my favorite nurses, speaking of her patient, quotes Emily Dickinson: “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the song without the words and never stops at all.” In each of the eight rooms resides a seriously ill patient.  Where should I begin?  Maybe Lou.  He’s been here so long, he’s like an old friend.  Because his lungs are giving out, we can’t talk much.  He has said he doesn’t believe in God.  That’s OK with me.  

He has decided to stop treatment. This is the day he will die.  He asks for blueberry pie with ice cream.  As we wait for the pie, he breathlessly asks, “Do you think it will be cold there?”  After a moment I say “I don’t know, Lou, but if it is I think you’ll be given a robe of the finest Ermine to keep you warm.”  Where did that come from?  Anyway, he seems satisfied.  When his daughter and the pie arrive, 

I move on.

*****

Peds

Four year old Tillie, with her mass of brown curls, sits beside the unit secretary.  She’s the “assistant” today and loves bossing everyone around.  Tillie has cystic fibrosis and is what we call a “frequent flier.”   We are all in love with her.  

A few months later, she dies.  I invite the devastated staff into their break room.  We stand in a circle, holding hands.  I pray, I guess. I have no idea what I said.  

I move on.

*****

Six South

Everyone on this unit is really old, really sick, or both.  If I can find

an “old black lady”, I visit her when I’m most sad or discouraged.  Almost invariably, these women tell me their stories of unimaginable burdens and pain.  Then they tell me about their faith.  This happens over and over.  Today my “lady” has two women friends visiting.  They ask me to pray.  I tell them they are so much better at that than I am.  They laugh and one of them says, “That’s OK, honey, we’ll help you. “

And they do. 

I move on.

*****

Emergency

While in my office for a little respite, my pager goes off.  It’s ER.  This is never good.  As I walk the considerable distance to that hard place,

I silently repeat “In You I live and move and have my being,” over and over, dreading whatever awaits me.  A young man has been shot.  He is dead.  No family has come yet.  I enter the chilly room where an almost naked, 25 year old man, lies on the table.  I think of covering him with a blanket, but why?  He looks perfect except for two small holes in his chest.  I pray silently.  I wait for family.  No one ever comes.  

I move on.

Later, staff tell me a “cousin” came in briefly.  In a few days they recognize his picture in the paper.  He is the main suspect.

*****

The Chapel

Every Friday my colleague and I spend 15 or 20 minutes in the Chapel praying.  We include requests people have anonymously left in a bowl we keep on the altar.  Sometimes other staff members join us.  It is precious and sacred time.

This day, however, we’re having a wedding. Jennie and Sam have asked us to marry them as soon as Jennie finishes her umpteenth heart catheterization this morning. They are in their late 40’s.  Jennie’s time is running out. 

My colleague, John, and I quickly pull something together.  When Jennie arrives in her wheelchair, she’s adorned with a lovely bed jacket, makeup and a corsage. After the brief ceremony, we return to her room where the staff has managed a reception, complete with cake from the cafeteria, confetti, balloons and champagne. Shhh!  Don’t tell anyone. Jennie invites her elderly, pleasantly confused, roommate to join in and the room overflows with laughter and joy.  

I move on.

In a few months, she receives the heart of an 18 year old girl.  In spite of many ups and downs, she is still living a good life with Sam, these many years later.

*****

Four North

Every time I see her, Jean the RN, gives me a hard time, as in what use are chaplains, anyway etc..  I think she actually likes me, but she’s a crusty young widow, mother of three, an excellent nurse, but may have some deep wounds.  

Today I chat with her, leaning on the counter above the recessed nurses’ station.  She gives me her usual good humored guff.  After a bit, I very slowly and deliberately, trying to look as solemn and “holy” as I can, raise my right hand and flip her the bird.  She looks aghast and then laughs hysterically.  She never gives me any trouble again, but delights in telling others what I did.  Somehow today I lost my “halo” and became “one of the gang.”

 I move on.

*****

Later, I sink into bed, weary to the bone.  What grace has allowed me the honor of intimately sharing in the lives of these wonderful people?  I sleep peacefully.

A Privileged Death? 

The diminishment of my health these past months has brought the certainty of death up close and personal. It has expanded my view, expanded my compassion for others. It connects for me with the deaths of people I’ll never know.

Last year Robert and I went on a border trip to Arizona with others from our church. What we witnessed there shook me to the core, bringing awareness and feelings I’m still processing.

One day, about 20 miles north of the border, we walked from a woman’s remote home out into the desert. Even with walking sticks, I struggled to keep my balance on the uneven terrain, dodging dangerously prickly vegetation. As we walked, we occasionally saw a forsaken back pack, a shoe, a jacket, sun glasses. And then we came to the first memorial. Caring volunteers scour these trails regularly, leaving jugs of water and searching for human remains. Sadly, they find them. They put together crude piles of stones and crosses and tokens of who they think that person might have been.

Our little group stood silently in the January sun, hot even then, as we gazed upon all that remained of someone’s life--someone whose name we didn’t know--and we read poems and prayed, tearfully paying respect to this lost one. And on down the trail there was another, and another, and another.

As these usually desperate men and women, boys and girls, scurry across some of the most inhospitable environment on earth, they swelter during the day and freeze at night. Somehow they have gotten across the border, but must now navigate the torturous route to Tucson, hoping against hope they won’t be caught, that someone will help, that they can melt into the city, become invisible to the authorities, find work, a place to live, make a life again. Many survive; some do not.

I have read that over 10,000 immigrants have died in this process since the United States built the wall. THE wall. When we approached it I was aghast. It is so tall, so long, so formidable, so red, almost like blood! We crossed into Nogales, Mexico, a sad little town, poor, dusty, garish, with many barking dogs. All along the wall were memorials and signs of protest and anguish. I felt sick and terribly sad.

We visited a humble, cement block building where deported Mexican citizens await transportation back to where they came from. At least they have a place to shower and sleep. There is no place for those from other countries to rest. Two of our group spoke Spanish and asked questions of the half dozen or so men and women sitting outside, who shyly shared their stories.

After a while, a middle-aged man sitting on a bench across the yard from me began telling his story, in perfect English. He had been in America for years and now through a series of mis-steps he had been deported. How true all of it was, how “innocent” he was, seemed immaterial to me. He was a human being who had been separated from his family and had little prospect of legally re-entering the US. The fear, the depression, the exhaustion, the sense of hopelessness, permeated the air. 

Our hearts were heavy as we made our way back to the
country we love, to the country whose practices of inhumanity and exclusion fill us with disappointment and anger. Surely there is a better way. Surely all persons deserve a chance to live and love and work and finally die at the end of a long life.

Which brings me back to my mortality. I admit to fear. I don’t want to leave. But I can expect to die with some dignity, surrounded by those who love me, looked after by compassionate care-givers. Even in death I realize I have enormous privilege. I’m not likely to die in a wilderness, my flesh eaten by scavengers, my scattered bones left to bleach in the sun, my identity unknown, my loved ones unable to find me.

I don’t want this for any human being, no matter how complicated or confused or cruel that person may be. I want to use my voice, as long as it lasts, to say no. The God I love, a loving God, does not want this and as a humble little creation of that God, I feel called to bear witness to the evil and use whatever power I have to combat it. What this will require of me? I have no idea. I hope I have the courage to find out.

TURNING TOWARD HOME 

Recovery from a stroke was not a bend in the road I could refuse. There was no turning around, no shortcut or alternate route that I could discern. I did, however, have choices. How hard was I willing to work? Would I even bother to try or be content to be dependent, weak, unable to really be me?

So here I was in the rehab unit of the hospital. As is characteristic of me, I was warm and polite to my caretakers there. This, after all, was not their fault. They were there to help me grow strong, if I chose to do so. 

I admit to some grumpiness during late night calls for help to the bathroom. Here is the typical nightly scenario: I woke up, realized this couldn’t be put off, rang the bell for help, then waited. Eventually someone came and there followed the ritual of putting on the hospital socks and being harnessed into the dreaded safety belt. I despised that belt! But its presence around my waist was required. Some care givers were more adroit at “belting” than others. One young man, very large and not very friendly, yanked so hard I lost my breath. 

Meanwhile, the call of nature became increasingly demanding. Finally we walked slowly to the bathroom and I sat. The helper left. “Call when you’re ready.” I did my thing, pulled the call chain, and waited. And waited. Now, my bladder relieved, I longed to snuggle back into my bed. After a while, the dear helper returned, helped me off the toilet, flushed it, aided me in minimal hand washing, and off we shuffled. Ah! Belt off, socks off, hospital gown and covers adjusted, and with any luck, I was back to sleep until the next urge or the 6 a.m. medication or the 6:45 call for breakfast.

One morning the nurse left me gripping the bathroom sink while she attended someone else’s need. I managed to wash my face and shakily brush my teeth. The nurse didn’t return and there I weakly stood. What could I do? My legs weren’t going to hold me up much longer. In what seemed like a monumental moment of wisdom and courage on my part, I carefully maneuvered my body over to the

close-by toilet and sat down. Sounds like such a simple thing now, but making that decision and acting on it was a major step forward.

Another turning point was leaving rehab. I longed to come home, counted the days till freedom, but was terrified. Functioning there seemed formidable. I was afraid to even enter the house. Though using my walker, the one step threshold felt dangerous. How could a place so familiar, which I had helped to create, seem so overwhelming? Every move had to be thought about. Nothing could be done automatically, especially when it involved standing or walking. I felt so vulnerable.

There was lots I could do, like talking and sitting and eating. Yet the weakness in my left side meant that even an ordinary fork felt heavy and I had to “tell” my arm how to move smoothly from the plate to my mouth. The need to be aware of such formerly automatic things made attention to other stimuli, such as casual conversation, difficult and tiring.

The home health care providers were a great encouragement. How thrilled I was then my PT said I could try using a cane. Or when I told the OT I felt trapped in the house and she immediately taught me how to get out the door with my walker. I did it alone. With a walker! Down the step and back up again--twice. It was awkward, but I could do it. Now I no longer felt like a prisoner in my own home.

Perhaps mentors are not limited by time or space. Reflecting back, I believe my mother was a mentor on this part of my journey, though she died in 1998. I inherited some of her inner grit, sense of humor, and resilience. Her stroke left her with major deficits the last five years of her life. I watched her accept her situation with grace. She was pleasant, even funny at times. She was, after all, in her late 80’s and a widow. She was ready. By contrast, it’s as though she’s telling me, “You aren’t ready. You have Robert and lots more life to live. Do it, dear!” 

THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH

THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH


So there I was, driving home from Albuquerque, having seen Melissa, my daughter and 
only child, off at the airport. As she headed back to Michigan, I wept, knowing how much I would miss her. Otherwise, all seemed normal as I returned to the Santa Fe home to which I had moved three years ago. That was a major journey when I chose to move in with the man I love. It was a good decision and following major adjustments, I was settling into a rich and love-filled life with Robert.


The following day I wondered why I needed to grab hold of the furniture as I moved through the house. Yes, I am 73 years old and certainly not in great physical condition. I would much rather read or talk with a friend than exercise. Yet this felt much different. By the end of the day I mentioned it to Robert, who took note, but didn’t seem concerned. However, when the next morning the clumsiness continued, he gently suggested I call the doctor. I called. No appointments  were available till late afternoon. “OK. I’ll be there,” I said with more than a little trepidation. 

Immediately upon hearing my story, the doctor sent us to the emergency room at Christus St. Vincent hospital and before I could settle into the waiting room, I was whisked off in a wheel chair. Deposited in what passes for a room in ER, I began a very long journey indeed. I had had a stroke! 

The next days are a blur. I was taken here; I was taken there. Chest x-rays, a CT scan, a cardiac ultrasound, a coratid artery ultrasound; finally an arterial CT scan. Hours passed and eventually I took up residence in a semi-private hospital room. A bedside commode was my toilet, that being as far from bed as I was allowed to travel. My left hand looked like a claw, the fingers curled up and unable to move. Hospital food came on schedule. My minister came and prayed with me. I couldn’t pray. 

The one constant was Robert. If he wasn’t there beside me, I knew where he’d gone and when he would return. He notified my daughter, my sister, and several close friends that I had suffered a ‘small, but serious” stroke.
 
How can I do this, I thought? I have no control. I am being “done to” and all I can do is float along. As when I went into labor with Melissa, I desperately wanted to turn back. But the only way out is through, one of my favorite spiritual teachers used to say. 

In three days I was admitted to the hospital’s in-patient rehab unit, where I would reside for two weeks, two weeks that felt like two years...in a prison. Yes, a nice prison with kind and capable staff, but a prison nonetheless. 

I would emerge from that prison a different person, one who not only had to regain the use of her left side, but her self-confidence, her identity, and her faith.