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. 

Six months gone, I know not where.  No writing here, for sure.  So easy to ignore it, resist it, forget it.   

Today I came alive to it once more.  I met a new person, someone who is needy, longing, confused, lonely, desiring to change the life they've lived.  And suddenly, I heard myself saying things I'd almost forgotten, about how God desires our freedom, about how everything we do and are, as we connect deeply with God, is about Love.

And so again today I write.  How often I do it doesn't really matter.  What matters is that I be willing, willing to be present to someone, willing to give generously to someone, willing to care though my heart aches, willing to keep hope alive even when all seems hopeless.

I give thanks for this reminder of God's Presence in and around me!  

May you have a new revelation today!

Don't forget to breathe and laugh.  
Thanks for checking in.

    

Starting again

As I begin this "new beginning", I've decided to re-read old posts and share a few.  This is the first one I wrote in the fall of 2008.

Friday, September 26, 2008

Welcome!

Welcome to "Prayer, Play and Politics"! Other words come to mind: paradox, pontificate, percolate, pet peeves, punctuation, purpose...I expect this blog to contain examples of all of the above and more. Since this is my first posting, I can't say where it will go, but I hope a few folks will check it out from time to time and give me some feedback. I'm happy for you to share it with others in your life as you see fit.

Having been involved in matters of the Spirit for most of my life, though not always "within the box", I've decided to share some of the thoughts, perhaps wisdom, of my 65 years, as befits a modern-day crone!

I've learned a lot from animals, including the three who currently share my home: Tessa, the little dog; Nellie, the sleek black cat, and Willie, a young, large tiger cat and the only male in the house. Nellie preceded the other two and has had to adjust. She and Willie, who used to compete and fight, are now allies in the struggle for use of my home, against an 11# dog, who in 3 months of residence, has kept both cats in the basement most of the time. The cats have claws; they are larger than she is; and there are two of them. Still, when Tessa lunges ferociously to the head of the stairs, they run for dear life.

Sometimes we are afraid of people and things which, in fact, have very little power over us. Only in our heads do they loom large--that person who might break into the house or rape you in the night or act in some manner you see as inappropriate or get some of your share of the goodies. The fear of those persons (or groups, or religions, or government systems) is often an illusion, which we perpetuate by our decisions, attitudes, life style, or loud barking. Funny thing! Tessa doesn't have the claws!

Until next time, thanks for reading. Breathe, listen, look, participate and love!