by jphilo | Jun 11, 2012 | Family
Less than 24 hours until the resident man of steel goes under the knife for back surgery, and I’m not sure which one of us is looking forward to it the most.
Okay, the above statement is false.
Hiram is looking forward to it most, especially in the night when he’s trying to find a comfortable sleeping position, and I’m sawing logs, oblivious to his discomfort. But my anticipation of the surgery which will relieve his pain and speed his recovery is a close second to his.
Why am I so eager for this to be over?
Because men, even those in excruciating back pain and unable to putter around the house or lawn, consider H-E-L-P to be a four letter word. Of course, in a surface level, numeric sense, they’re right. But a man’s deep aversion to asking for H-E-L-P goes far below the surface. In the past few weeks, when we’ve been obliged to ask others for H-E-L-P, I’ve come to believe this male trait is hard-wired. And God agrees with me.
How do I know this?
Because, and I quote Genesis 2:18, Then the Lord God said, “It is not good for the man to be alone; I will make him a helper suitable for him.” Notice, God doesn’t say, “Hey, Adam, looks like that’s more than one guy can handle. Want a little H-E-L-P?”
And why doesn’t he ask that?
Because them’s fightin’ words for Adam, and God knows it. He knows Adam will refuse H-E-L-P when offered. He also knows Adam won’t ask for H-E-L-P when he needs it. So God, knowing Adam did need H-E-L-P, put him to sleep and made Eve indispensable before Adam woke up and had time to object.
And what kind of helper did God make?
Not someone strong enough to do all the heavy lifting, but someone who recognized when a task was more than she and Adam could handle and would ask for H-E-L-P. Yes, it’s true that she looked for H-E-L-P in the wrong place once and caused all sorts of problems. But this post is about men’s defective hard-wiring, not women’s. Though if some guy wants to tackle that subject in a future blog post, I’m more than willing to accept the H-E-L-P.
Any takers?
by jphilo | Jun 4, 2012 | Family
The past two weeks have been tough at our house. The resident man of steel is laid up with back pain that’s tolerable when lying, sitting, or crawling, but excruciating when he takes more than a few steps. An MRI on Thursday revealed a ruptured disk with possible debris floating around. (That’s this layperson’s version of the medical jargon.) Today we meet with a neurosurgeon at 11:15 to discuss treatment options.
The first week, Hiram went through denial, depression, and anger. The second week, he adjusted to using a wheelchair around the house and adapted his activity to minimize the pain. He did research on the internet, created a list of questions to ask the doctor, and is eager to hear good and/or bad news about treatment.
During Hiram’s week of denial, depression, and anger I counted our blessings, stayed strong, rearranged my work to take him to medical appointments, and stayed on schedule with my writing. During the second week, Camp Dorothy, taking care of Hiram, and meeting writing goals kept me too busy to think.
But on Sunday, when the schedule relaxed, my natural impatience and overactive imagination reared their ugly heads during my morning walk. The hours until Monday’s appointment were ticking by with excruciating slowness. My mind wandered to the worst case spinal surgery scenarios, which led to denial, depression, and anger at at Hiram for pushing himself when he ran this spring.
Most of all, I was angry at myself for being angry at Hiram who’s enduring terrible back pain. And angry because my feelings aren’t much different than they were 30 years ago when our baby was in NICU from May 24 – June 8, 1982. How can I have grown so little in 30 years? Why is my faith still so weak? How can God love someone like me? Then I thought of a verse in yesterday’s prayer guide.
If we are faithless, he will remain faithful, for he cannot deny himself. (2 Timothy 2:13)
The verse helped me focus on who God is instead of what I cannot be. The situation didn’t change. The worst case scenario still loomed. But a little peace entered my heart. I hope it’s enough to last until our appointment later this morning. But if I falter, there’s more peace where the first batch came from.
Would you pray that I can find it?
by jphilo | May 31, 2012 | Family, Three Thoughts for Thursday
Mom’s here for the week, so Camp Dorothy is in full swing. Hiram’s missing all the fun, laid up as he is with sciatic nerve problems. Therefore, this week’s three thoughts are a complimentary gift from the camp nurse activity director.
- Between shower time at Camp Dorothy and running for Hiram’s, I am very thankful for a 25 year career in teaching rather than nursing.
- As a kid, I would have begged Mom to let me watch shows like America’s Got Talent and Judge Judy. Now, thanks to Alzheimer’s, she’s hooked on them. All I can think as she watches her shows is, “Where do these people come from?”
- Every night during Wheel of Fortune, Mom announces, “They don’t allow close ups of Vanna anymore. She’s over 50, you know.” Whoever “they” are, I’d like to hire “them” to enforce the same restrictions for me.
Gotta go. It’s time for a hot game of Uno.
by jphilo | May 28, 2012 | Family
Camp Dorothy opened for business on Sunday which means Mom and I are painting the town red. We’re having so much fun, what with hot Uno games, Judge Judy and Wheel of Fortune, drives around town, reading library books, and decorating family graves, time is short for blogging. So today’s post is something I wrote after a Memorial Day several years ago, when Mom still lived in her own home. Every time I read it, it makes me smile.
You Have To Stop Somewhere
Hats pulled down and coats buttoned up, gloves hard at work my mother, sister and I shivered all the way to from where we live in Boone to my father’s hometown of Nevada.
“More like March than May 12,” Mom commented as we pulled into the grand, old cemetery, its lush grass surrounded by stone walls. The huge shade trees creaked and swayed.
“It’s a blessing that Gladys and Ginny aren’t here,” Mom added. “This wind would have blown them away.”
My sister and I knew it was true, but we missed our ancient great-aunts. Gladys and Ginny, ages 102 and 96 respectively died last year within months of one another. For decades, the responsibility of decorating the family graves had rested on their thin, stooping shoulders and they bore the weight well. My mother often drove to Nevada on a warm May day, tucking the tiny great-aunts in her car amidst the boxes of artificial flowers.
“We’ll decorate and then go to Dairy Queen for a treat,” my mother, Dorothy, promised.
“Let’s go to Mama and Papa’s graves first.” Love saturated Gladys’s high, cracking voice. “Mama made the best bread.”
“The very best. She was such a good mama,” Ginny agreed, the memory of her parents dead now for eighty years, fresh upon her face.
Mom eased them out of the car. “Next, let’s do Grandma and Grandpa’s,” Ginny suggested.
“Grandpa was in the Civil War, Dorothy, did you know that?” Gladys asked my mother.
“He was such a nice man. He always had time for us,” Ginny added. “Oh, Gladys, don’t forget Aunt Lettie. She died so young, such a tragedy.”
As kids we heard of Lettie’s early end whenever we held sharp objects. “She was running with scissors and stabbed herself in the eye. Then she developed an eye infection and died.” I always walked when carrying scissors.
Slowly they moved from grave to grave. All three decorated their husbands’ graves. Then, Gladys paused at her infant son’s headstone, and Ginny where her soldier son, one of the first killed in the Korean War, lay beneath his veteran’s marker. They stopped to visit my grandparents and mourn again the early loss of their sister, my Grandmother Fern, after her long battle with colon cancer. They tucked flowers around the headstones of brothers Guy and Lee and Lee’s wife Stena. At one final stop, they left a bouquet for their oldest brother, Willie, who left farming because of a nervous condition. “He was so nervous he couldn’t keep the rows straight when he plowed,” Ginny explained.
“So he became a barber instead,” Gladys added. “We’re ready for Dairy Queen now.” They hobbled toward the car.
“What about Roy?” Mom pointed to the resting place of their other brother Roy. He died in the swine flu epidemic of 1918 before he could take over the farm after Papa passed on and left the sainted Mama with young daughters to raise. Roy’s death forced the aunts, orphaned teenagers, off the farm and into the homes of relatives.
“Hmmph.” Ginny sniffed.
“You’ve got to stop somewhere,” Gladys announced, and the sisters continued their feeble march to the car.
“Will we decorate Roy’s grave?” I asked my sister as we headed toward the family plot.
“Of course we will. It’s time to let go of old grudges, don’t ya think?”
We stopped in front of his grave and helped our mother out of the car into the wind and cold of our May morning. We planted silk flowers in front of his headstone, maybe a few extra to wipe out any former neglect. “We forgive you, Roy,” my sister said.
We decorated every family grave we could find and lingered at Gladys and Ginny’s. Clear as a bell, I heard a high, cracking voice, “Jolene, you have to stop somewhere.” Tears filled my eyes, and I smiled with joy and sadness. “Not yet, Aunt Gladys, not quite yet.” I replied as the cold May wind settled the comfortable weight of their family memories upon our shoulders. “See you again, next year,” I whispered and walked slowly to the car
by jphilo | May 7, 2012 | Family, Out and About
Life takes unusual turns now and then. We’re reminded of this daily during this visit our daughter and new son in Ohio. Every day, when we drive from the relatives we’re staying with (they have a big house) to our daughter and new son’s digs (a tiny apartment), we drive by an impressive, three story, turn-turn-of-the-century brick building. A prominent “for lease” sign graces the large, grassy front yard, and another proclaiming “office space to let” covers the space where I suspect the original name of the building is engraved in stone.
After driving by a few times, I asked Hiram, “Do you think that’s the old orphanage where your grandma took your dad and his brother Cassius to live?”
Neither of us were sure, so we asked Hiram’s step-mom when we saw her. “Yes, she said. “That big three-story building on Wooster St. That’s where those boys lived when their mother didn’t have the means to care for them.
This morning, when we drove by the former orphanage, the words from “It’s a Hard Knock Life” came to mind…
It’s the hard-knock life for us
It’s the hard-knock life for us
No one cares for you a smidge
When your in an orphanage
It’s the hard-knock life
It’s the hard-knock life
It’s the hard-knock life!
…and thought the lyrics aren’t nearly as carefree and humorous when you know someone who was an orphan. Like Hiram’s father. Who had a hard time his entire life demonstrating love to others. Partly because he was a quiet, non-demonstrative man. But also, perhaps, because he was sent to an orphanage when he was ten. And he felt like no one cared for him a smidge.
I think of my father-in-law, and I think of our children as we drive the few short blocks between the orphanage he entered at age 10 and the grad school apartment where my daughter and new son live. My heart aches to think of that lonely man who felt unloved. But it delights in our children who know we love them dearly.
Why this strange turn of events?
Perhaps to remind us of the blessings God has rained upon our family.
Perhaps to create compassion for a man who never knew them.
Perhaps to make me realize “widows and orphans” aren’t theory but fact.
Perhaps to make me cry.
by jphilo | Apr 9, 2012 | Family, Reflections on the Past
The lilacs are blooming,
Blossoms purple against deep green leaves.
Their scent rises in greeting this morning
As I walk down the lane.
I welcome these old friends,
Who visit briefly each spring,
Then wave good-bye in the wind,
With never a backward glance at the branches that bore them.
My daughter loved their circle of branches,
A fairy ring just big enough
For one small girl and her dolls
To hold a tea party on summer afternoons.
I look for my sweet, shy daughter
And the circle of branches
In the lilacs,
But both are gone.
The fairy ring is overgrown,
Filled with tender, new lilac shoots.
My daughter is grown,
Filled with tender love for her new husband.
Still, the lilacs blossoms
Return each spring.
My daughter and her husband
Return when they can.
When they turn into our lane,
The lonely branches wave
To greet the shy, sweet girl
Who once nestled in the safety
Of a fairy ring.
