Some Scars Are Permanent

The tree needed to come out. The big silk oak had outgrown its allocated space, its branches all but hid the telephone and electric lines running into our house, and its 60 foot-high crown swayed precariously during winter storms. Yet even above that, the tree bloomed profusely, shedding its spiky orange flowers all over our patio--a situation that irritated Jim, who just happened to be the one who had to do the cleaning up.

"I'll take it down myself," said my forty year-old husband. "I'll cut the branches off, leaving stubs to stand on as I go higher, then I'll borrow a chainsaw and cut the trunk down in three-foot sections. It'll be simple. I can have the whole thing done in a couple of days."

But I had this intense foreboding. I suggested calling a professional tree feller, but Jim assured me he could do it, and I decided maybe he was right. After all, hadn't this man completely rebuilt our Volkswagen engine three times?

We were both wrong. Oh, sure, the branches were easy enough to dismember--even with a hand saw. Then came to day when the chainsaw was borrowed and the long, orange electric cord that would give it life was plugged into an outside socket. Jim set a ladder against the tree trunk and used it and the branch stubs to carefully make his way up the tree. Near the top, he tied the chainsaw off with a long cord, then strapped on a homemade safety belt outfitted with a quick release catch.

With his brother on the ground as a helper, Jim began his cuts. The first two went as planned and the severed chunks thudded solidly into the preferred area. But the third cut went wrong. The saw bound up in the kerf, and without thinking, Jim took his left hand off the front handle and reached over the saw to push against the wood, hoping to relieve the pressure so he could finish the cut.

With the pressure suddenly released, the saw teeth spring to life, continuing the job they were designed to do. They cut. Only this time it wasn't the tree trunk they worked on. It was Jim's left arm. And they did their job with shark-like proficiency.

It took the paramedics less than five minutes to get to our house. By then, Jim's brother had wrapped the heavily bleeding wounds in ice and clean towels, keeping close watch on the blood loss and applying his belt as a temporary tourniquet. I was no help at all; after calling the paramedics, I succumbed to hysterical crying.

That Jim had been able to climb down the tree unaided seemed a miracle, as did the fact that he never went into shock. Even more miraculous, said the two physicians who did the 2 1/2 hour reconstruction surgery, was that though there had been multiple tendons and muscles cut to within a hairsbreadth of a major nerve and tendon, no irreparable damage had been done.

For six weeks Jim wore a cast that started at his fingertips and ended just below the elbow. Friends and relatives who came by to visit found him in good humor. In time the chewed-up muscles healed, a nicked tendon encircling the wrist knitted together, and with exercises that were often painful, he finally regained complete use of his hand and arm, with no strength loss apparent.

The scars didn't photograph well, but were highly
visible in person.

Within a year of the accident, the only visible evidence of that infamous day was a maze of ridged, purple scars just above Jim's left wrist and two long, indented purple slash marks on the back of his forearm. Considering that the hand surgeon called in to operate was considered to be one of the best in town, the doctor's both explained that there would be considerable scarring due to the fact that none of the cuts had been clean, but chewed. Jim carried those prominent scars with him until the day he graduated to heaven. We both considered them to be reminders of God's goodness and protection, and while they were unsightly, neither of us ever considered plastic surgery to remove them.

There are times in our lives when circumstances scar us to the point that although we heal on the inside, the reminder of that wound remains forever visible to ourselves and those around us. When those who didn't know how Jim had gotten the scars asked about them, it gave Jim a chance to tell the story--not only of his own foolishness in attempting a job he was ill prepared to do, but the story of how God in His mercy had spared him the loss of his arm.

In time, Jim saw those scars as a vehicle for witnessing to the Lord's care and compassion. I never saw him even falter in telling the tale to anyone who asked. Eventually, we both came to see that what the devil had meant for evil, God had used for good. Not many came to ask Jim about his relationship with the Lord. But they did ask about the scars. It was an opening to sharing Christ that Jim may not have had any other way.

Author's comments:

I hired a professional to finish taking the silk oak tree down, though Jim and I decided to leave the stump as a monument to how the Lord had saved Jim from either losing an arm or his life. We both knew that the events on what we came to call "the chainsaw day" could have turned out so much worse than they had. 


I often see a bumper sticker around town that says, "Be kind to everyone you meet, for everyone is fighting some kind of battle." My heart knows that to be true. Sometimes the trial shows on our face or in our stance or in our walk and is obvious to anyone with an eye to see. Sometimes the trial shows itself in our actions or words. Those who know me well say they can see in my face when I'm having a bad day or week or month. Those closest to me instantly realize when I've been blindsided by the grief of loss. They immediately understand that I'm missing Jim to the point of once again shedding tears and wanting to be left alone so I can sort things out in the Lord's presence.


I have no purple ridged scars across my heart or face or chest. Yet they are there. No one can physically see them, but within me I know the healing isn't finished, for the wound still hurts, causing me pain at unexpected times and unexpected places. Sometimes I think about Jim's chewed arm and marvel at how quickly it healed and I question God as to how long it will take my heart to heal from the wound of losing Jim. I often question the Lord as to how long I will be in this fragile state and if I'm still of this earth, what plan does He have for me? He always answers with the same words: First, you must finish grieving, and then we'll talk."


I often feel as though I am in physical therapy, as Jim was with his hand and arm. Get up, stretch, take a short walk, feel the sun on my face, admire the flowers blooming in my yard, watch the hummingbirds flit from one flower to another. Each day feels much the same; each day is different. Some days are happy and content; others are filled with sobs of sorrow for the mate no longer with me and the absolute knowledge that only half of me remains tied to this world. 

I think about how Jim, ever determined, went back to work a week after the injury. He figured out how to tie his shoes with one hand, using the other foot for a helper. He tied his tie, always a double Windsor, and I watched in amazement as he did so by using only one hand and his chin. I marveled at his ingenuity and wished I were half as clever. Had it been me, I'd have stayed in my pajamas and lolled around the house till I was well. But that was never Jim's style. Sitting still drove him crazy. He was always up and about, always finding something to do to keep himself busy. I think about that now and tell myself it's time for me to change my sedentary widow ways and be more like he was--how I used to be before my world changed forever. I've grieved for two years. And while I know within myself that it's not finished, I agree that it is time for me to begin moving again. It's a small change; yet for me it is a monumental endeavor. 


One small step at a time. Next week I'll be planting my herb garden. All that's left of it are those plants that would fend for themselves. The rosemary bush is getting big; the sage has come back from nothing, sprouting anew from buried roots. Time now to plant the basil, the tarragon, the thyme, chives and parsley. I know it's a little thing. But little is all I can handle right now. At least it will get me out of Jim's big maroon recliner and into fresh air where I can feel the sun on my face, listen to the birdsong coming from the canyon across the street, watch the hawks that live there wheeling the currents, inspect the new rash of baby lizards that love to scramble up and down my fence.


It's not a big thing for most. But right now, it seems to be all I can handle. It's my self-imposed version of physical therapy. I suspect the scars of loss will always be with me. I think they are permanent. Yet unlike the scars Jim wore, mine are invisible. To everyone but the Lord and me. He and I alone know where they reside. Even so, I know God will continue to walk with me, one step at a time as I continue to heal. I trust His promise in Hebrews 13:5, and I especially like it in the Amplified Bible, where it says, "...be satisfied with your present circumstances and with what you have; for He (God) Himself has said, I will not in any way fail you nor give you up not leave you without support. I will not. I will not. I will not in any degree leave you helpless, nor forsake nor let you down, relax My hold on you. Assuredly not!"


A big promise from my Big God. The One I have trusted since childhood and Who has never once let me down. It soothes my being, knowing the history we have together and that is what I count on to get me through this dark valley and into the light once again. Thank you, Jesus, for reminding me it's time for baby steps. I can do baby steps--even while bearing the scars of loss.

"We are hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted but not forsaken; struck down but not destroyed--" 2 Corinthians 4:8,9

Dreams In The Night

One night as I was sleeping, my heart awakened in a dream. I heard the voice of my beloved; he was knocking at my bedroom door. "Open to me, my darling, my lover, my lovely dove," he said, "for I have been out in the night and am covered with dew."

"But," I said, "I have disrobed. Shall I get dressed again? I have washed my feet, and should I get them soiled?"

My beloved tried to unlatch the door and my heart was moved for him. I jumped up to open it and my hands dripped with perfume, my fingers with lovely myrrh as I pulled back the bolt. I opened to my beloved, but he was gone. My heart stopped. I searched for him but couldn't find him anywhere. I called to him, but there was no reply. The guards found me and struck and wounded me. The watchman on the wall tore off my veil.

I adjure you, O women of Jerusalem, if you find my beloved, tell him that I am sick with love.   Song of Solomon 5:2-8, The Living Bible

I woke up crying. Tears ran down my cheeks and into my ears, wetting my hair tendrils along the way. My heart was broken and while I knew the whole scenario had been but a dream, the emotions within me were stirred to the point of  devastation. While I'd been asleep, my heart had been searching for Jim for I thought I'd seen him. But then he disappeared, and I followed, looking into every crack and crevice. I searched frantically through the night, hurrying here and there for yet another glimpse of him. But he was gone. My own sobs brought me into reality.


The dream had been so real that even when I was fully awake, it was some time before I stopped crying and more time still before I was able to calm myself.  The Song of Solomon came to mind and while it's not been a book I've studied or even spent much time reading, I knew my dream somewhat mirrored the Shulamite woman's story and nothing would do but to get up and read it for myself.

That was the last dream I had concerning Jim. But there had been dozens before. Most had been horrifying: watching Jim die again and again; Jim, back from the dead, covered with dirt and filth, walking like a zombie; Jim, hampered by Parkinson's, fighting me for the car keys because he had decided he was able to drive.


One night I woke myself up with screams.

Only two of the nightly dreams had been good ones: Jim, dressed in a suit, rescuing me from an unknown attacker, suddenly showing up and fighting the bad guy off, then holding me tight, making sure I was alright, then disappearing from sight. Jim, sitting on the edge of a couch, smiling at me as I entered Heaven, looking up with that shy grin of his and saying, "I've been waiting for you."


Since ever I can remember I've had vivid dreams. Always in full color. And with few exceptions, always remembered upon waking. But now, after so many weeks of terrible dreams, my body changed its schedule. I don't remember when or how it happened. I don't even know if it was subconscious. I just quit sleeping.


I might doze a bit in the recliner during the day, but for the most part, nights were spent knitting or reading or watching old movies. After a while, I was beyond exhausted. But to sleep meant giving entrance to those horrid dreams and emotionally, I could no longer handle them. Dozing during the day brought no dreams. I thought that was odd, but it was a fact.

By the time six weeks had gone by, I was beyond sleep deprived, beyond being able to concentrate for long periods of time. I found bills I'd forgotten to pay, just like right after Jim passed away. I discovered errors in the checkbook. I found business mail that should have been answered but had been forgotten. 


During my Bible reading one morning, I came across Proverbs 3:24. "When you lie down, you will not be afraid; yes, you will lie down and your sleep will be sweet."

I put my finger on the verse and said to the Lord, "Do you see this verse, God? I need this kind of sleep. I know you always keep your promises to your children. Please take the frightening dreams away and let my sleep be sweet. And if I can't have good dreams, then let me have no dreams at all."


I went about my day. In truth, I'd forgotten about that prayer. Until bedtime. I was spent to the bone so I took my bath, brushed my teeth, and crawled under the covers. It was then I remembered what I had requested of the Lord. "Please, God," I said, "allow me sweet sleep. I pray you send your Holy Spirit through all the rooms of my house and clean out all depression of losing Jim, all fear of bad dreams, everything that resides here that isn't of You."

I laid down and slept. I didn't wake up until 2:00 the next afternoon. I'd had no dreams of any kind. Nor any since then. I am more than grateful to the Lord for many things, but especially for the absence of  the horrific nightmares. Looking back, I wonder why I didn't ask sooner-- because sweet sleep is affording healing to my grieving heart. I know that for a fact, for I have started laughing again.




Comments:


I know the Song of Solomon is a picture of married love and more deeply, a picture of Christ's love for His church. But because of the dream I'd had being so like that of the Shulamite woman, I took the scripture at face value, and in doing so, I gained an understanding of how broken-hearted she was at not being able to find her beloved. 


These past holidays were harder than I had expected them to be. It was then that the dreams began. Not being a psychiatrist, I can't explain why they settled in as they did nor why they grew from bad to worse. My guess is that the second Thanksgiving and Christmas without Jim was harder than I'd expected it to be, for I thought I was doing better than I was. Being a widow is so hard I find myself wondering how those who do not have the Lord to hang onto make it through.


Blessings,


Sandy

One Widow's Journey: Holiday Ambushes

One Widow's Journey: Holiday Ambushes: These past holidays have been difficult for me. I suspect you figured that out when you saw no new postings. I simply wasn't prepared for th...

The Wedding Ring Dilemma

The department store jewelry case was lined with rows of diamond-studded wedding ring sets, some so brilliant they seemed nearly able to refract themselves into tints of gold, green, and blue. Jim stood beside me, asking which ones I wanted. I questioned if there was a price point, but he shook his head no. "I want you to have the rings you like the most," is what he said. "You'll be wearing them for the rest of your life."

I have never been a showy kind of person. My roots go back to WWII rationing and being thrifty had been the motto my parents had instilled in my head. For fun, I tried on a set with a large diamond in the engagement ring. It had looked so enticing sitting in the case, but on my small hand, it looked ridiculous. At least I thought it did. I tried on a few more sets, but once on a hand with short fingers, they appeared almost clown-like.

Then I spied an intricately carved set with small diamonds, chips mostly, and a single quarter-caret stone set in the center of the engagement ring. I asked to try them on. Perfect for me. Perfect for a tiny hand with short fingers. I thought they cost too much, but Jim insisted he could afford them. He bought them and took them home toward the day we'd be officially engaged and then married.

Over the years, time and wear took its toll on those rings and while the diamonds stayed clear and sparkling, the gold wore through and eventually broke into pieces. Jim said I should have the stones put into a new setting so I looked here and there for weeks, but found nothing I liked as much as my original rings.

My local jeweler suggested I have the rings re-cast. I gave her a couple of 24-caret chains and bracelets to be melted down and the gold reused, but in the end I had to purchase a bit of additional gold.  By the time the wax mold was finished and approved by me, the new rings were cast and the stones set. Even I couldn't tell they weren't my original rings. I brought them home so Jim could slip them back on my finger. They are still there. Even though he isn't.

I have read so many different books that deal with grief and one of the major questions always concerns the wedding rings. Should the widow put them away, move them to the other hand, wear them around her neck, have the stones reset, or keep the rings on her wedding finger? I am friends with a widow who has put them in her jewelry box and brings them out on special occasions. I propose there is no one way to do things. Each widow must do what feels right in her own heart.

My heart maintains that I am still married. My husband may have moved into heaven, but my heart says that while I am still so much in love with him, the rings stay where he put them so many years ago. Perhaps the day will come when I'll move them to my jewelry box. Maybe. About a hundred years from now. Maybe then. But not today.

There are other reasons why I continue wearing my rings. They are protection for me. As long as strangers think I'm married, nobody bothers me and that's how I want it to be. I learned that lesson the hard way. Several months after Jim died, I had an appliance that started acting up so I called a repairman. He fixed the problem and as I was writing the check, he asked a question that I no longer remember. What I do remember is that in answering, I mentioned I was a widow.

"So you're available now," is what he said. My mouth dropped open and I'm sure my eyes must have been wide with shock. My mind began questioning myself as to what on earth I had said that made him think he could ask such a thing. I do remember that I told him I was not available and then I listened to him apologize over and over for having spoken as he had. I handed him the check, ushered him out of the house with my dog, Bonnie, right beside me and double-locked  the door behind him. He was the last person who would ever come into my home to repair anything that would know I was a widow.

I continue wearing my rings for yet another reason. I have two very good friends my same age who have never been married, never had children, never seen a man's eyes light up when they walked in the room. I listen to their heart's longings and I understand how much they wish someone had loved them enough to say they could not live without them and place a ring on their finger. Through their unspoken words, I listen to the longing for the life they wanted to live and never did. I hear the sadness in their words. The hunger for what they wished had been. It is then that I realize how much God has blessed me with a husband who loved me unconditionally. So it is that I continue wearing my rings. They say that some man wanted me. They say that I was loved. Life never gets any better than that.



Author's comments:


Wearing my wedding rings feels normal. Right now, it is the only thing in my entire life that feels that way. It's been said that it takes a while after the death of a loved one to "return to normal." My consensus is that normal is gone--vanished into thin air, along with Jim's presence. For me, normal is a thing of the past--the glory days when Jim and I sat visiting over coffee or taking a ride to the mountains just because we wanted to or planning a cruise to someplace we'd always wanted to go.


I suspect that in time, a new normal will surface, one that works with the person I am and the personality God gave me. For now, I have set being "normal" aside, content to leave it in the Lord's hands, for I know that if I try to effect some sort of new standard for myself, it will likely fail miserably. You know the tale of the best laid plans of mice and men. They never work. So it is that I save myself the trouble of pushing my way into some sort of new normalcy. I let it go willingly, for concentrating on change when I still have grieving to do is more than I can handle right now.


My widow friend who has been alone two years longer than me says that she would like to marry again. She claims she is the type of person who needs someone to take care of her. I suspect that for her, having someone to carry all the burdens and make every decision is normal. From what she tells me, it is the way her husband was and what she's used to and what she wants again.


I can't envision myself ever getting to that point. As much as I loved Jim, I've always been self-motivated, opinionated, and decisive. They are traits I low-keyed as a wife yet allowed to run full bore as a writer with a freelancing business. And while in the beginning, shortly after Jim's death, I didn't believe I could survive without him beside me, I've come to see that God knew me better than I knew myself. I know I can go on. I've even come to the place where I am willing to do so. There is still much sadness within me and with the holidays approaching, I find I am ambushed by tears more often than not.


My intent to go on and have a good attitude about the whole thing came as a surprise to me. Perhaps you are doing a double take too. The change inside me came about last week and only the Lord could have done it because it happened so spontaneously. It was a day I was once again sitting in Jim's big recliner, teary-eyed by memories of holidays past and dreading those that are almost upon us. For some reason, the sense of loss seems bigger right now, for this will be the second year that Jim won't be sitting at the head of the table on Thanksgiving or Christmas.


That day I especially felt alone and bereft. I felt limp with grief, as though all the starch God had put within me these last months had been washed away. It was then that the oddest thing happened. I saw my grandma. Not visibly, but mentally, and she was smiling. I considered that for a moment and then it came into my head that grandma would have understood exactly how I was feeling. Her long-time spouse had gone to work one day and while sitting at his desk, suddenly claimed he didn't feel well. Before the other employees in the real estate office could even think what to do, grandpa put his head on his desk and died. He was sixty-two.

Five generations of my
family, from great
grandma to my son.

Into my head came this thought: You come from strong stock. "If grandma could live thirty plus years alone, so can you." Believe it or not, I felt starch come back into my soul. I was still saddened that these holidays would be lonely, yet I looked back at my genes and knew I came from a line of tough and determined women. Great grandma lived alone for untold years, running a small farm by herself, the house heated only by a wood stove. She lived to be ninety-eight. 


My grandma went back to work a year or so after grandpa died, walking the six blocks to and from a large department store every single day, eventually becoming the best sales lady in her department and later on, the best sales person in the entire store. She lived to be ninety-four. My own mom, all her life as healthy as a horse, succumbed to Alzheimer's at eighty-two. Every so often I wonder how long she would have lived had her body remained whole. My best guess is well into her nineties. It seems to be our "normal" pattern on my mother's side. 


As for me, I think I'm going to find the bumper sticker that says, "If I'd known I was going to live this long I'd have taken better care of myself" and put it on my car. Jim always refused any kind of sticker on any of his vehicles, but now that I'm in charge, I can do as I wish. I say that with absolutely no animosity. Honest. I didn't choose to go on without him, but if I must, then I will make my own choices, knowing that the Lord is guiding me along the right path.


I will allow my stubborn nature to say "no" when need be and I'll let my decisiveness make decisions without wringing my hands. As for my opinions, I'll say only this. The wedding rings stay put. Death ends a life, but not a relationship. Others may disagree with that opinion. I understand. None of us are alike. Yet that is my opinion and no matter what anyone says, I'm stickin' with it.

Holiday Ambushes

These past holidays have been difficult for me. I suspect you figured that out when you saw no new postings. I simply wasn't prepared for the way grief came back on me just when I thought I was doing so well. I never even saw it coming. Not until it hit me between the eyes, resulting in intense emotional pain. The 2x4 seemingly came out of nowhere to deliver it's agonizing blow. The worst part was, once was not enough. More would follow, usually when I least expected it.

Jim and Debi were soul-
mates from the very beginning.

It started with my oldest granddaughter getting married the middle of November. I'd known the date for a long time but the week before the ceremony, I began thinking of how much Jim would have loved to be there. She was our first grandchild and while I loved her, Jim adored her. They became soul-mates, always together whether it be playing or walking or bike riding. She was our only grandchild for four years and Jim spoiled her rotten every time she came to visit.

Thinking how much Jim would have enjoyed the wedding is what started my whirlpool of sadness. After that, I was downhearted most of the time. I often cried  during the classic movies I have always enjoyed watching. You know the old black and white ones that are always on the movie channel. The ones we've all seen a hundred times and still watch over and over. Those movies where the man always loves the woman more than life and promises to care for her forever. And even if the guy gets sick and dies or goes off to war never to return, the women left behind remain sturdy and strong and if they cry, it is only a single tear that trickles down the face.

I cried when I heard the old, familiar songs that reminded me of years past when my family was all around me. Today, my kids are grown; the grandkids too. Jim is gone. And even though I am surrounded by a big dog and four comical cats, it isn't the same. And even though I understand that I cannot live in the past, it is the past that evokes the tears. It seems a vicious circle.

I've resolved to go on alone, even though I don't like it. That resolve is still inside me as I continue walking through what feels like the worst winter of my life. From time to time, scattered memories bushwhack me. Those memories will always be within me. I figure tears will abate after some years of grief. Maybe in about ten years. Or twenty. I'm not sure when. Is it easier when the widow is younger and somewhere in the back of her mind she allows that she may again find love and marry? I don't know the answer to that. Seems to me losing a spouse is devastating, no matter what your age.

One of my widow friends dropped by a week before Christmas, saying she was lonely and didn't want to be home by herself. I understood. Yet when I told her I too was lonely and sad and then began crying, she continued sitting in the chair and never said a word except to ask what plans I had for the holidays. When I told her my daughter was having Thanksgiving and Christmas at her house this year, my friend informed me that she had no where to go. No kids. No family. No friends. For some reason I got the impression that she was trying to tell me that she had it worse than I did. Maybe I was wrong. Probably so. But maybe not.

Being a widow is only for the strong. Sissies need not apply. And I've learned this much. If you aren't strong when widowhood strikes, you'll become strong as you walk the lonely road you've been dealt. There is no other way to survive. I've learned that the hard way. All those friends and family who surrounded me at the beginning have gotten on with their own lives. I understand that the world goes on. For everyone else but the widow. For us, time moves in slow motion. Only others like myself truly understand what I'm saying.

I've read that to get through the holidays the best way possible, change things around so you aren't doing what you've always done. It's supposed to break the cycle. My family changed things around during the last holidays. It didn't break anything except my heart. This year we changed things around again. I'm here to tell you how well breaking the cycle works: it doesn't.

Despite my family's endeavor to make this second Christmas without Jim different so that I might not slip into sadness and tears, I found it of no consequence, though I love them for trying so hard. I found it mattered not whose home we met in or what we had for dinner or when we opened presents. So obvious to my heart was my missing spouse that I came to the conclusion that no amount of change would ever make up for his warm hand, his gentle touch, his lazy smile, his sturdy presence in my life.

Through these past two months, the Lord has been ever faithful to me, saving up my tears in His bottle, restoring my spirits times and times again, and comforting me when I gave in to despair and let the tears fall. He continues to urge me to go on with the grieving till it be finished. He continues to urge me to press on with life. He continues to tell me I'm loved. Even when the tears run in rivulets down my face. Even when they spill over in torrents. Even then I feel Him near. He understands that these past couple of months were painful to walk through.

What I have come to understand is that if anyone knows about grief, it is the Lord God. What father amongst us could watch His Son die while nailed to a cross and not know the agony of a broken heart? As awful as this sounds, it gives me great comfort to know that God understands my tears and railings. While on the cross, Jesus cried out, "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?" Christ paid it all. For my sorrow. My tears. My broken heart. My continued grief. It was during these past two months that I saw the truth of Hebrews 13:5 where Jesus says, "I will never leave you nor forsake you." In the Amplified Bible, that verse ends with, "I will not, I will not, I will not." Jesus felt forsaken--something I will never experience.

Yes, the holidays were difficult. But I have hope my life will get better. I am content with that for now, for I know I ride on Jesus' shoulders, the place where He carries the sick, the weak, and the wounded. If that doesn't describe me at this point in my life, I don't know what does.

As always,

Sandy

The Death Of Dreams

Although Jim and I were happily married, there was one year in particular when I thought we might split up. We argued all the time. The year was 1986 and it was becoming more and more obvious to me that there was something drastically wrong with my husband. His typical "sailor on a ship" walk had changed to one of short, straight steps. Along with that, his arms would no longer swing as he walked, but hang motionless at his side. What's more, his left leg trembled uncontrollably during parts of each day. The symptoms grew worse if he became stressed.

He was a regular jogger, every day coming home from work, changing clothes and hitting the streets for at least an hour. One day he informed me his left leg had been cramping up, so he was going to switch from jogging to riding his bike. I tried to get him to see our long-time family doctor but he stubbornly insisted nothing was wrong and I started to wonder if my mind was inventing problems that didn't actually exist.

About six months after the left leg began seizing, his left shoulder started hurting and since Jim never complained about pain, I took him seriously. "Go to the doctor," I told him. He finally did, though for no other reason than to get me off his back. He came home with a good report. Nothing wrong. The leg was cramping during jogging because of a pulled muscle; the shoulder was hurting because Jim had strained it helping our son-in-law moved a large couch into a second story apartment. Jim and our family doctor had come up with a reason for everything. Case closed.

But I had this growing suspicion in the pit of my stomach that said the diagnosis was wrong. Jim's left leg began trembling more often and so did his left hand. I suspected a neurological disease but didn't want to speak the words out loud. Months passed. We continued disagreeing on whether Jim was alright. By the time 1986 was almost over, Jim's leg spasms had become nearly uncontrollable, as had the trembling in his left hand. He got to the point where he could no longer ride his bike around town, and a couple of times, ended up having to walk it home. Because Jim used exercise as a stress relief from his job, he wanted a stationary bike. We began looking around and finally bought one. When I suggested he should see the doctor again, he fought me, insisting I was hunting for problems where none existed.

We went on like that until early in 1987. Never in our married life had we had so many disagreements and it took a toll on me and I'm sure it did the same to Jim. Our easiness with one another suffered. Our hours-long chatting nearly ceased. A few months into that year, I called our doctor and questioned him about the diagnosis he'd given Jim. He explained exactly what Jim had told me. I listened politely, then told him he was wrong. "I've been married to this man for over thirty years," I said, "and I know something is wrong with him. If you can't diagnose it, then send Jim to someone who can."

Late that afternoon, I received a call from a well-known neurosurgeon's office. The doctor wanted to see Jim the next day. I instantly felt sick to my stomach. I went ahead and made the appointment without consulting Jim, then called our family doctor for added information. He told me he'd conferred with the neurosurgeon and the specialist's consensus was that Jim could be suffering from either a fast-growing brain tumor or Parkinson's disease.

I was too stunned to cry. I was too stunned to pray. I sat down at the kitchen table and told the Lord I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how to pray. I didn't know what to think. I didn't want Jim to have a brain tumor. I didn't want him to have Parkinson's disease. Why were there only two choices?  And both of them bad? Jim had just turned fifty-two. Too young to be stricken with any disease, let alone what many, including myself, had long considered to be an old person's complaint. Parkinson's. The worst was, it was what I had secretly suspected for a long time, all along hoping I was wrong.

The neurosurgeon put Jim through a battery of tests. No brain tumor. No other neurological disease. That left Parkinson's, diagnosed only by ruling out everything else. The surgeon recommended Jim see a neurologist. We went together, asked every question we could think of and the doctor started Jim on Parkinson's medicine, stating that if the diagnosis was incorrect, the meds wouldn't make any difference in Jim's symptoms. The meds dramatically changed Jim back to near normal. We now knew what we were dealing with. It was the beginning of a more than twenty-year uphill battle fighting a progressive and incurable disease that Jim determined would not take charge of his life.

The first thing that dawned on me is that when one of the mates has a debilitating disease, both have it. I wasn't the one dealing with the off-times leg shaking and hand twitching, but the disease affected me in ways I'd never thought of. I read everything I could find on Parkinson's disease. It was slow moving. It was medically treatable, especially in the early years; less so in the latter years. It was a disease that would eventually lead to impotence, slurred speech, loss of body function control, possible Lewy Body dementia, a wheelchair, and in the last stages, bedridden. The stages would come slowly. And not in perfect order. But they would come.

I kept a stiff upper lip for a long time, encouraging Jim that there was nothing we couldn't handle together. I continually reminded him that the Lord was in control and wanted only the best for Jim as His child and us as a couple. I saw him cry only once and that was shortly after the diagnosis. He was sitting on the couch; I was in the chair opposite him. We were casually chatting when he suddenly put his head in his hands and began weeping. "All of our plans to travel when I retire are gone," he said. "I'm so sorry, Sandy. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to leave."  I went to sit beside him and put my arms around him. "I will never leave you. I promise," is what I said. Tears silently rolled down my face. It was so like him to always think of me first. How could I abandon the one I loved most in all the world? "No matter what, you're stuck with me,"  is what I said. It would be my mantra for the rest of our lives together.

I held myself in check for a long time. Jim was still able to work and as he traveled for the company on occasion, there was a trip to Portland, Maine on the schedule. We decided to make it a vacation and Jim's secretary booked my flight along with making the arrangements for Jim's hotel and transportation for the three days the conference would be held. After that, Jim and I were on our own. I was excited to be headed to the east coast. I'd not been there since childhood. I had great plans for everything we would see and do. I never knew whether it was the travel writer in me or the wife who wanted to show Jim around someplace he'd never been.

Jim and I flew out of San Diego, changed planes in Philadelphia and just as we were coming into Portland, the oddest thing happened to me and to this day I still can't explain the why of it. As our plane began leveling out to land, the full force of how much Jim's disease would eventually affect us landed on me. It rose up inside me like a volcanic explosion, nearly uncontrollable. I felt great, gulping sobs forming inside me. Mental anguish overtook my feelings and spread into my whole being. "Why, God?" I prayed silently. "Why now in a plane filled with strangers? Why does this come upon me here and now?"

I didn't receive an answer. I still don't know why the full knowledge of how Parkinson's would alter our lives dawned on me at that particular moment. What I do know is that the Lord helped me keep things together all through de-planing, car pick-up, and hotel registration. I held myself together till we were in our room. Then I told Jim that I felt so travel weary that I thought I'd take a long, relaxing bath before supper. He turned on the television to catch the news. I went into the bathroom, turned the faucet on full blast, and sobbed until there were no tears left.

That was the day I fully understood what this disease would cost us as a couple. That was the day I began mourning the death of our dreams.

Author's comments:


Dreams don't necessarily die all at once. When a disease is slow moving, dreams fashioned together as a healthy young couple, begin expiring along the twists and bends of the path one is forced to walk. For as long as I could remember, we'd planned on travelling six months out of every year, stopping where we wished and for as long as we wished. From our first days together, Jim had been a saver, relegating every penny possible into stock in the company he worked for. When he retired, he would receive his own contributions, plus the company would add fifty cents to every dollar saved and upon retirement, the whole package would be Jim's  to do with as he pleased.


We were pleased to see the world. But that isn't what happened. In the end, much of the money went to pay for caregivers, for the time came when I was too exhausted to carry on alone and in addition, I'd become ill myself and had ended up in emergency surgery--not once, but twice. All in the period of one year.

I distinctly remember when our first dream died. It was the day I realized that if we wanted to travel, it would have to be before Jim could no longer drive or get around easily. I knew the time would come sooner rather than later and I sat on the couch late one night and cried myself nearly to sleep. With Jim still able to work, I knew vacations would be spent in week or two increments and while we did take a cruise to Alaska, our intents to travel the globe were gone. I'd planned on that almost my whole married life. We both had. If it hurt me, I knew it hurt Jim. I showed it; he didn't. My conservative husband, always staunch. Was he strong for me or is that just how he was? I never knew for sure.

The day intimacy died is still emblazoned on my heart. How we loved one another and with the disease progressing, more medications and stronger doses were the game plan to keep Jim moving. By now, he'd had to go off on sick leave from work, turning his job over to his next-in-charge, whom he'd worked diligently to train. Jim and I sought out a specialist in all things pertaining to intimacy and after a long examination, the doctor's suggestion was to cut back on Jim's meds. That would resolve the problem. It wasn't an option. Jim could either get around, walk, feed himself, dress himself, or sit in a chair completely Parkinsonian, unable to move or do. I left the choice to him. He chose to live an active life. I agreed. We took a cruise to Mexico. We took our three oldest grandkids with us.


If not for the Lord's faithfulness, I would never have learned how deep and abiding love can be. I thought I knew. I didn't. What I learned is that laying next to one another, touching, kissing, speaking love to each other's ears, gave a comfort to each of us that I would never have learned had it not been for the impotency. I believe God worked in both of us, showing us that although intimacy was given of the Lord, when it was no longer possible, God would make a way where there seemed to be no way. For the last six years of our life together, we remained close and loving. Only the Lord could have effected that in both Jim and I.


Little by little, we gave up our dreams and goals, letting them die by the wayside. One day I questioned Jim if he ever felt anger concerning the direction his life had taken. He looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "Why would you ask that?" he said. I mentioned the disease and the things we could no longer do. He shook his head, turned those blue eyes on me and said, "I don't wallow in it. I can't change it. I can't do anything to fix it. I use all my energy to get on with the life I've been dealt and live the best way possible." I wondered if I would have come to that had it been me. Probably not. I'm a complainer. Jim never was.


As I look back at those Parkinson's years of our life together, I see God's wisdom taking hold of our days and years. He knows my way and He knew it while I was yet in my mother's womb, so He says in scripture. He knows I am a wimp, falling to pieces when stress overcomes me. He knows I can't handle more than two things going wrong at the same time. He knows that others see me as being strong but the truth is that only as I hold onto Christ can I face any kind of trauma. He knows I constantly flunk the life testings sent my way and only get a passing grade when I give up going my own direction and purposely set my face toward the Lord.

As Jim and I faced the death of our dreams, he got A's. I didn't. In my heart, I believe Jim was ready for heaven. I wasn't. I think that is why I'm still here, writing what I've learned on the journey I've been assigned. Perhaps when I stop dragging my heels, I'll get passing grades. Perhaps when I have taken hold of the stubbornness inside me, I'll graduate to heaven with Jim. In the meantime, I plug away, day by day, trying to share that which I know with anyone who wants to learn without having to deal with it the hard way. It's what I always told my own children: "If you'd do as I say, you wouldn't have to learn things the hard way." They never listened. What on earth ever made me think I was different?

"But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellence of the power may be of God and not of us. We are hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed." 

 2 Corinthians 4: 7, 8

He alone knew I could not face the death of my dreams all at once. One at a time was hard enough. I will always be thankful that the Lord never laid on me more than I could bear at any one moment.

Knowing Who I Am

Since childhood I'd carried a secret that few knew about. I'd kept it a secret because when I'd told my parents, they had laughed. Not only had they laughed, but they'd teased me about it in front of their friends. Looking back, I think maybe I misunderstood their levity, looking at it as ridicule when perhaps it was never meant as such. I only know that once laughed at, I took my secret underground, hiding it in my heart and never telling another soul. Not even Jim.

By the time our kids were in school full time, I felt as though I needed to talk with Jim and bring my long-held secret into the light. I felt like that because I so badly wanted to follow my heart's desire and knowing Jim as I did, I didn't think he'd laugh at me. Even if he did, I told myself, at least my wishes would be out in the open. That's how it came about that on a day when he was off work and the kids were in school that I told him I wanted to talk with him about something important to me. He was more than agreeable. It was his nature.

We sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, me talking and Jim listening. "I've always wanted to be a writer," I told him. "Now that the kids are in school all day, I'd like to take some adult education classes and learn how to do it right." Jim reached over and took my hand and with seeming concern, he asked why I'd never told him this before. I detailed my story for him. The laughter. The seeming ridicule. The fact that I'd written stories since grade school and hid them where nobody would find them, simply because I was so sensitive to being teased. By the time I was fourteen, I told him, I'd written a whole book. It was out in the garage, packed inside the box with my other high school trinkets--the whole thing stored up in the rafters where no one would find it.

Always on my side, Jim looked me in the eyes and told me to go for it. "If that's what you want," he said, "then you should pursue it. Take all the classes you want and as long as you're home when the kids get out of school, you'll never hear a complaint out of me." I threw my arms around him and gave him a long kiss. My secret was out. He hadn't laughed. He'd been supportive. I loved him for his caring attitude.

A few days later, out of the blue, Jim asked what I might be needing to pursue the career I wanted so badly. "A typewriter would be nice," I suggested. He told me to start looking for a used one. That made perfect sense. Like all young couples, we lived pay check to pay check and I knew a used typewriter would be all we could afford. I found one in the classifieds a few days later. I sounded perfect.

That night Jim and I went to look at it. The big old Underwood was exactly like the machine I'd had in school and at my parent's home. The keys were fast; the type clear. Jim handed the man $25 cash and carried the heavy metal typewriter to the car and later, into the house where it sat atop the desk. I was thrilled. And while I never knew where Jim had gotten the money, I suspected that he had saved it up over months. He took $20 at the beginning of every month to use as he wished. My best guess was the typewriter money was the accumulated leftovers he'd hoarded because I knew it hadn't come out of the budget.

A few days later, Jim told me that I should concentrate on my goal and not to worry about where the money would come from. "You learn to write," he said. "I'll pay the bills. I'll buy the paper, the typewriter ribbons, pay the postage, whatever you need, I'll take care of it till you're earning enough for the writing to fund itself." I was grateful beyond description. I had his full backing. And not one smirk, not ever.

I collected rejection slips for a year before making my first sale. I'd written a short story and sold it to a church publication for their children's take home magazine. My check came to $15. My next check, many months later, came from a children's publisher who dealt with nature. My short story about the Joshua tree earned me $150. I was dumbfounded. Jim grinned and said, "I knew you could do it. You're able to do pretty much anything you put your mind to."

My husband continued encouraging me to branch out and there came the day I submitted a travel story to a newspaper. They bought it, plus some of the photos I'd submitted. My check was $125 for the package. It wasn't so much the money that intrigued me but the fact that I'd only sold one-time rights and could market the same story again and again. I sold that one piece to ten different newspapers all across the states. I'd found my niche. Travel stories it would be from then on and with only a few exceptions, that is where I stayed.

By the time twenty years had gone by, I was Sandra L. Keith, Travel Writer. By now I'd become well enough known that publishers called me, gave me a subject matter, a deadline, and a decent salary. In the ten more years before I retired myself to spend all my time with Jim, I'd written six books and more magazine and newspaper stories than anyone in their right mind would ever want to read. No one was more proud of me than Jim. And while my parents bragged to all their friends about their "famous" daughter the writer, I laughed at them, telling them outright that if it wasn't for Jim, their so called famous daughter would never have had the nerve to venture into the unknown.

How grateful I was that Jim had always encouraged me to be me. I sometimes felt like I was many different people: Jim's wife, the kid's mother, the Cub Scout den helper, the school reading helper, the PTA cookie maker. I was like every other mom I knew, with a family to care for and obligations in the neighborhood. But I was also Sandra L. Keith, author. To this day I give God the glory for gifting me with an affinity for words. And I still give Jim the credit for pushing me into putting them on paper.

Author's comments:


An awful attitude took over inside me when Jim died. Looking back, I believe it invaded my heart the moment I saw his head fall back and a deathly gray pallor replace his usually robust color. The best way I can think to describe what happened inside me is "Who cares?" Those two words became my motto for the next ten months. 


I refused to care for myself. Who cares if I brush my teeth twice a day? Who cares if my hair is clean and tidy? Who cares if a filling came out of a tooth? Who cares if I pay the bills on time? Who cares if the kitchen is full of dirty dishes? Who cares if the carpet hasn't been vacuumed for a week? Who cares about anything?


That attitude was where I lived and slept. I knew the Lord was beside me, yet I couldn't summon up the wherewithal to take care of the body God had given me or the house I lived in. I had finally agreed with the Lord that I was meant to live. Wasn't it enough that I no longer prayed to die? The few things I did do every day were to bathe, wear clean clothes, and feed my animals. I thought that was sufficient. I didn't eat regularly and when I did, it was usually something I could microwave. I didn't care if the bed got made or if the bare floors were swept or groceries were purchased. I did the laundry only when I ran out of clothes and rather than go food shopping, I ordered online for home delivery.


I began losing weight; my skin erupted into blotches. I looked in the mirror and puzzled over how a 70 year old woman could suddenly pop up with acne. Only when the itching became unbearable did I seek medical help. For the most part I lived in Jim's big recliner, watching the television without really caring what was on. I tried reading, but couldn't follow the story. I tried knitting but ended up in tears because it reminded me of the last two years I'd spent sitting beside Jim during his immobile times.


I have one widow friend who has been alone two years longer than I have. She is still in a whirlpool of not knowing who she is. I try to help her but she isn't interested in changing. At least not yet. How thankful I am that even in my "who cares?" modus operandi I knew who I was. I've always known who I was. I knew I had talents that I would eventually care about bringing to the fore. I knew I was competent. I knew how to run the house. I knew all about my finances. I knew how to re-program the thermostat and the sprinkling system. I knew everything I needed to know to live on my own. Jim had made sure of that. Yet the thing was, I just plain didn't care.


I did not have to search for who I was without Jim, as so many of the books on grieving claim the widow is forced to do following the death of her soul mate. I can't totally explain in words the feelings that took up residence within me, but suffice it to say that I understood I was now a widow. Yet I was still Sandra L. Keith. I began wondering how long I'd been two people: the loving wife and the writer. It puzzled me. It still does. I felt in my heart that circumstances had forced me to give up being Jim's wife. I grieved and am still grieving that I've lost that part of me, for Jim was my life. Even so, little by little, I see my other self emerging. The writer puts my feelings on paper, illustrates the gut-wrenching facts of losing a loving spouse and in doing so, helps the widow in me heal. In many ways, it's nearly symbiotic.


Many of the books I've read concerning widowhood suggest there is nothing wrong with conjuring up your spouse, talking to him regularly, even asking questions concerning things the widow needs to know. I've discovered even some supposedly Christian books talk about writing letters to the loved one while other books now in my library tell the widow to ask the departed for advice or a supernatural visit. I find no scriptural references for such acts. For me, talking to God about everything that touches my life takes precedence over any other avenue.


Last week I was trying to put a new roll of paper in the adding machine and couldn't figure out how it worked. I tried and tried to no avail. In desperation I said, "God I don't know how to do this. Please show me."  It immediately came to my mind that the paper loaded from the back. I looked and sure enough. There it was. I set the paper in the slot and pushed the load button. Done. 


So I ask myself, "Would I have received an answer had I asked Jim how to do it? As I read my bible, I can find no passage that tells me the dead can communicate with those of us on earth. I prefer going to the One who spoke the worlds into existence; Who gave every star a name; Who runs to my aid in time of trouble; Who owns the cattle on a thousand hills; Who promised in Hebrews that He would never leave me nor forsake me. If I'm going to bet on who's listening to me, I'm going to bet on a sure thing. That's a major part of who I am.

"For I know the thoughts that I have toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not evil, to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon Me and go and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. And you will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart." Jeremiah 29: 11-13