On Winter and Spring

Shout out to my writing group friends. 

I have a confession, y'all.

It will not be a surprise for those of you who are regulars around these parts.
I am burned out and uninspired.
I need a new spark.

Since just before Christmas, I've been in this place where I barely have anything to say. I can barely even think. I just think and write the same thing over and over.

You know why?
Because I'm hiding something.

I don't like to be a Debbie-downer.
I was the captain of the cheerleaders in high school, y'all.

But here's the deal.
It's getting better now - but it was rough.

One of the main things I like to do with this blog is to reach out to other wives/girlfriends of guys in wheelchairs, because I want you to know you're not alone. I want you to know that I am here, too. That I warrior on with you and beside you.

I think of all of you other wheelchair-pushers out there. All of you husband-transferers. All of you bread-winning, dinner-cooking, hard-working, list-making, allen-wrench rocking, van-driving, ramp checkers. I know you are with me. I know I am not alone.

And yet, I let myself feel that way.
It got dark.

There was the pressure sore.
And the UTIs.
And the broken wheelchair.
And the broken van.
And the home health aides that disappeared.

I was on duty full-time for about two months.
The same two months my dad was fighting for his life.
I remember saying to my husband when my dad went into the hospital, "The less I have to worry about you during this time, the better."

Boy, did things not work out the easy way.

It was Groundhog day.
Caregiving and working and cooking grocery shopping and cleaning and visiting my dad in the hospital. Over and over and over and over.

And I got so over it, I wondered (again) if I can do this forever. I cried many tears. I got madder at Michael that ever before and I said ugly things.

There are some of you sitting in my inbox that I haven't ever written back. You e-mailed me because you found this blog, and you are newly in love with a quadriplegic and you want to ask me questions about what life is like and what sex is like and how to have good wedding pictures with a wheelchair.

And all I wanted to do is to tell you to politely run away.

That if you don't, you'll be stressed out, strung out from sleepless nights filled with turning him in bed, and getting pills and cleaning up accidents and stretching the bank account, and maxing out credit cards so that you can get your van fixed. That you'll miss out on things because you can't get in. That your back will hurt all the time. That you'll miss your old life. That you'll wonder why you signed up for this in the first place. That you'll feel like no one in your life understands, even him. That you'll always feel like the things that have to do with you don't matter, because how can you not put him first?

I didn't write you back and I didn't say all of that because I know that there are seasons with this life.
Where I've been - that's Winter.

Where I am now, sitting across from him at a random Starbucks while he works on his web project, and I prop my feet up on his wheelchair, writing this blog post, this is Spring.

We have a reliable home health aide again.
My dad is doing better.
We got the van fixed.
The wheelchair has new tires, still has issues, but he's working on getting it fixed.
We have a plan for the pressure sore.
Three trips around the antibiotic sun, and I think the UTI is at bay.
Our budget is back to normal.
I feel like I belong in my own house, and in my own bed, pretty much.

We aren't fighting.
I can look at him on the other side of these two MacBook Pros, and see that guy I fell in love with.
I know I can do this.
I want to.
It IS worth fighting for.

And, so I will write you back.
I will tell you about the seasons, though. Because you'll definitely need to know about that. So you don't give up, just because it's Winter, and then miss Spring and Summer.

This post was a project for my little writing group. We are a group of women who are working together on our craft. This time, we chose a topic to all write about, and link up, so please check their posts out, and share!

Winter vs Spring Story by Laura Oliver

Winter Blues by Brayden Emerick

The Endless Winter by Stacey Michalak

The Spring of My Content by Stephanie Cooke

Seasons of Weight by Lauren Hope

After the Storm

I spotted a ladybug on the van, after paying an astronomical amount of money to get it fixed. 

I'm kind of afraid to say this, but life feels like it's getting back into a normal groove. I feel like myself. I feel genuinely happy.

Last weekend, I cleaned my whole house. I cleaned the carpet in our bedroom. I even vacuumed out my car. I paid all the bills.

I cooked all week. I went to the gym twice. We got the van back. (We're not going to talk about how much it cost to fix, I'm still recovering from that panic attack.) I didn't leave work Friday with a giant list of things that I haven't done yet.

I still worked too much. I still didn't sleep enough. I still ate three brownies and a donut. Oh, and I had my first Shamrock shake, which I really shouldn't have. It felt like an Eve in-the-garden moment. Now, I have the evil knowledge. I was definitely better off when I didn't know what that tasted like.

But - I feel like we're getting there.

Storm clouds out my dad's hospital room, yesterday. He's doing better, by the way.

It was 70 something degrees yesterday, before the storms rolled in. And even though it was cooler after the storms, the sun came back out.

So, maybe that's where I am now. The sun is coming back up. It's not as it was before these storms, it's different.

But the blue skies are peeking through, and you can feel Spring coming.

I'll take it.

A Different Kind of Valentine's Day Celebration

You know, the thing about Valentine's Day is that it changes.

It's always on February 14th. But the shape it takes in a relationship changes. If you've been married, or in a long-term relationship, you probably know what I mean.

I have a core value that is this: If it feels forced, it's probably not what you should be doing.

I could have gotten Michael a card and a bottle of wine. He could have rolled up to Kroger and gotten me roses and chocolate.
But - we didn't.

And you know what? It's totally okay. All we wanted was rest, together. And we got it. I just woke up after sleeping for 12 hours.

Life since last Summer has been one heavy challenge after another. Life has tried to tear our love apart and tear our teamwork down.

But we stand. Strong enough that all we need is a text message to mark the holiday about love. This morning, I looked back through previous Valentine's Day posts and I love each of them. This year, we'll celebrate five years of marriage. And already, you can see our seasons through those posts.

Our rule for Valentine's Day is homemade gifts only. So I guess the wine and chocolate I mentioned above wouldn't have worked anyway. When Michael asked me to marry him, he posed the question, "Will you spend the rest of your life making memories with me?"

My answer: yes.
So - this Valentine's Day, that's what we do. Homemade valentines. We make memories.

Previous V-Day posts:
2013
2012
2011
2010
2009
2008
2007

The One with the Update on my Dad

You can tell I've been back at work, because I haven't written a word in a week.

Well, that's not true. I've written news scripts and e-mails. But every time I go to work, the blog dies a little.

Anyway. We received the news about my dad not long after I wrote that post at the Starbucks last Saturday. He has irreversible lung disease. The scarring that has already happened won't heal, but they can treat him to slow it down and the goal is to get him home. He's made awesome progress in the last week. He graduated to a regular oxygen cannula. Yesterday when I visited him, he sat up in a chair beside the bed for more than an hour, soaking up the sunshine.

My brother will be home Monday. I know my dad is looking forward to seeing him, and has worked hard to get stronger for Chris.

This roller coaster is intense. I'm glad for every moment we have left together. No matter how long that is.

Last week, when I was crying and writing at the Starbucks, I saw this little girl and her dad.

I wanted to grab her little hands, hold them tight - and tell her to stay as close to her dad as she can. Love him, lean in to him, learn from him, and be friends.

Hope Floats Up In The In-Between

Over the Summer, I read Jeff Goins' The In-Between. Great book. Get it.

The In-Between is right where we are right now. My dad survived a risky lung biopsy on Thursday. He came back off the ventilator yesterday.

Now, we wait.
Until Monday, at least, that's what we are thinking.

That's when the pathology results are expected. So that we can know what it is that appears to be quickly destroying his lungs.

It's hard to think about anything else. It's hard to stop googling and reading medical journals and studies.
That's because we are in-between.

Jeff writes, "There are no throwaway moments - not when it's easy, not when it's hard, not when it's boring, not when you're waiting for something to happen. Throw those moments away and you will look back someday, bereft at what you missed, because it's the good stuff, the best stuff. It's all there is."

So, we wait.
My dad's room in the ICU is filled with laughter and memories the past couple of days. For now, that seems better than quiet and beeps, so I'll take it.

Each moment of it.
As I brace myself for what is next - whatever that may be.

My sweet, giving mother-in-law is in town, taking care of Michael and baking cookies and taking Brokaw for walks.

I've been able to enjoy time with my sister and my brother's girlfriend and my sweet baby nephew, Caplin.

I've had deep, tearful phone conversations with my mom.

All in the in-between.

Meanwhile, the amaryllis my mom gave us for Christmas is like two feet tall, and the pound of coffee I bought my dad for Christmas sits in the cabinet.

And when I have a moment to sit and think and pray, I'm blessed with verses and book quotes and movie quotes that pop in to my head.

I love this one right now, too - from Hope Floats:

"Beginnings are usually scary, endings are usually sad, but it's what's in the middle that counts. So when you find yourself at the beginning, just give hope a chance to float up. And it will."

Holding Hands and Holding On

It's dark in the living room right now. Brokaw is sleeping beside me. Michael is still sleeping in the bedroom. I'm up by the light of the competition on the television, having a cup of coffee and half of a cannoli.

The fog is back.

I spent yesterday at the hospital. We got no good news from the doctors about my dad. The tall Indian doctor leaned over his bedside, looked into my stepmom's eyes and said - loudly and clearly - to make sure she understood - that things are very serious. He said they were "running out of options."

I sat in that hospital chair that reclines, off to the side. My sister's mom held my hand that I had crossed across my body, and squeezed it. I couldn't stop the soft, slow, warm tears.

Not long after that, my stepmom and my bonus mom went to lunch. And it was just me and Dad. It's so dark and quiet and calm in his room in the ICU when no one is in there. There are predictable sounds. The ventilator going up and down, the occasional beep. The wheels of carts being rolled by, just outside the door.

I sat there, holding his warm hand, with one hand.
He had a tight grip that pulsed - like a muscle spasm.

With my other hand, I texted my brother and sister all of the information I was able to absorb from the doctor. I copied and pasted my updates in another text - to my husband.

---
What's happening is so hard to understand. He was doing better, it appeared. He was sitting up beside the bed. Yesterday, he was supposed to have a swallow test. Now, here we are.

The doctor mentioned, kind of off-hand to us that Dad is his most stable patient right now. That slammed me up against the wall. I cannot imagine having that kind of stress in my life! Since he said that, I have not stopped praying for that man!
---

Thank you for your prayers and support and your offers to help in any way that you can.
Know this: There is peace. There is quiet. There is calm. There is strength among the women of this family who sometimes have nothing in common - except for the love they had or have or will always have for my dad.

I want him to pull through.
I'm not giving up, yet.
I'll head back up there today, and grab a hold of his hand again, and squeeze.

Life Under The Heavy Things

2013 wasn't my favorite year. And it really didn't end well, with my dad getting so sick, out of nowhere.

Now, it's February 2014, and it feels like 2013 just won't leave me alone.

I feel like I used to be a blogger.
I used to be a CrossFitter.
I used to cook.
I used to read.
I used to have clean carpets.
I was working on a book, remember?

My resolutions for 2014 were to live in the restoration (1 Peter 5:13), to work less, to continue getting healthier. I want to be content.

I am so weary.
Almost nothing is going well.
I go to work - to relax. There is nothing healthy about that.

I miss my little normal, so much. I need that routine. I want my dad to get better. I want Michael to find a home health aide so that I'm not constantly on duty. I want to have time to blog and go to the gym. I want to have motivation to not eat fast food, and to cook the healthy, fun meals I buy ingredients for.

There have been really great and fun moments in 2014, don't get me wrong. And every weekend, I think "this week - it will be better."

Then - a setback.

Listen, I'm used to juggling.
That is my life - working in a demanding job that I love, managing my home at the level I like it to be managed, working around my husband's special needs.

I know how to juggle.

But when there are a couple of REALLY HEAVY objects out of balance - forget juggling. The heavy things just sit there in your arms. I'm carrying a lot right now.

I miss all of you. I miss pouring my heart out in my writing. I miss lifting heavy things and seeing my friends at CrossFit. I miss doing fun things with my husband. I miss seeing friends.

There are things I'm incredibly grateful for in this season - like my husband, my mother-in-law, my co-workers, my family, my friends and of course - Brokaw.

I don't really know what I'm writing, here. I'm just exhaling. Next, I'll inhale, and get back to those heavy, hard things that are my 'now.'

I miss the light things.

My Dad is Back

What a roller coaster. In a few days, I went from wondering if this was goodbye, to teaching my dad how to use an iPad.

He is making an amazing recovery. Everyone in the ICU is talking about it. The day before yesterday, my sister went to lunch and for a little retail therapy at TJ Maxx, and on our way back to the hospital, I saw this on my phone.

I had a voicemail from my dad.
Of course, it was an iPad question.

But you guys, I had a voicemail from my dad.
This is one of those little things I thought may be over.

This little thing blew my mind. I love my dad. I wasn't ready to say goodbye. I'm just one in a whole team of women who will help him work his way back to life.

It's going to be a long road, but he is back and we are committed.
I am so profoundly grateful for more time. And that we live here in town so I can help him.

My dad has helped me with a million things over the years.
It's my turn.
Cheerfully.

Thanks be to God and thank you to all of you who prayed for him, supported us, and wished him well. Please keep the prayers for Charlie Brown coming!

On Writing. And Feeling It. At Starbucks.

I had grand plans to jump start my writing in 2014.
I joined Jeff Goins’ 500 Words-A-Day Facebook group.
I downloaded Storyline’s productivity schedule.
I looked forward to regular sessions with my writer-girl pals.
I have a million little lists.

But then my dad got sick, the fog ensued, and I have honestly been running from writing.

Because I’m the type of writer who must face her fear and vulnerability when she writes.
Writing is cathartic for me, which can feel good, but it can also be scary, because I write so honestly that it forces me to face the hard things.

I’m at Starbucks this afternoon, and I feel very writer-y.
I have my black coffee and my macbook at the corner of the big picnic sized table by the window. The afternoon sun is shining in at my back.

There is a girl here, over by the pick-up counter who I’m pretty sure is my friend Nicole and my friend Shoshannah’s friend, Sara. I recognize her from Instagram. This makes me feel like a complete social media weirdo. I kind of want to go say hi to her, but I am self-aware enough to know that’s just weird and just because you recognize someone from Instagram doesn’t mean it’s okay to come out and talk about it.

I am realizing that I’m noticing things.
That’s a very writer-y thing to do.

Like the woman with the red curly hair and the teal peacoat. That color is magnificent with her hair. Her husband looks like a doctor. They wait for their drinks, and browse at the current Starbucks line of stuff that is designed to make you spend money while you wait for your latte. Right now it’s all about caramel lattes and caramel desserts and the signs make it sound like it’s completely okay to order a carmel latte AND a caramel dessert, which it is completely not okay to do, and the mugs are cream colored and gold colored. The whole thing just makes me want to jump in a pool of warm, swirly caramel and spend $20 I don’t have on a tumbler that I don’t need.

I don’t have to worry about this of course, because I order black coffee.

But these people do. And I notice how her husband puts his hand around her as they look at the caramel stuff. And I miss my husband for a moment. Those little touches are so nice.

I go back to thinking about how he looks like a doctor. I’m basing this on his hair that is very much combed over to the side but not in a balding, comb-over sort of way, and his well-trimmed beard. He’s kind of Indian-looking and he has an identification badge on this pocket.

If he is a doctor, I wonder if he can fix my dad. Definitely not going up to him. That would be even weirder than the Instagram-recognition thing.

A woman and an older man just sat down at the picnic table beside me. They stopped to pray over their coffee. The old man prayed, and thanked God for his caramel frappuccino. I love him. He is wearing a polo shirt and a tweed sport coat. After their prayer, which I may have joined in on, just because if I’ve been anything over the last three weeks, I’ve been a pray-er, he talked about how he hasn’t been to church in more than 8 months. I relate.

I can’t hear them now, even though they’re next to me, because the Starbucks is filling up. There is jazz music playing, and espresso beans grinding, and a woman teaching another woman Spanish, and two girls in magenta North Face fleeces in front of me, putting cream and sugar in their drinks.

And just like that, 631 words.
That was easy.

Side note: Is it even weirder to write about the Instagram girl than it is to just say hi?
I'm going to think about it and write about it and not say anything.

Because like I said, I'm feeling writer-y.

The Starbucks has cleared out and now Jamie Cullum's "All At Sea" is playing. I love that song.

Fog

Yesterday was January 11th. I didn't even realize that until I looked at my phone just now. I know it's Sunday.

It's been a month and a day since I've written anything. I've received messages from people wondering if we are okay. We are.

Last time I wrote, I wrote about Michael's pressure sore. It is healing. We found some amazing patches that cost a ridiculous amount of money, but they work.

You can't always buy healing.
But these we can buy, so we do, and they are working, so I couldn't care less how much they cost.

I wish more than anything I could order a patch to heal my dad right now. It's a long story, but he has been in ICU since Christmas night and the last two and a half weeks have been such a roller coaster.

I don't know what to write.
To think.
To say.
To want.
To pray.

I feel like I'm in a fog. Like I'm watching a movie about my life, my dad, my family.
This is so strange.  So sudden. Too soon.

There's a light in my kitchen my dad took down the Saturday before Christmas. There's a note on my counter in his handwriting that says the weird type of fluorescent bulb that needs to be ordered. He is coming back to fix it.

I can't wait for the light to work again, and for the fog to clear.