Happy Birthday to Me...removing barriers, moving toward 60

A couple of days ago I drove north  from Ann Arbor, Mich to our home on Bois Blanc Island.  The air conditioner in my VW doesn't work so  I arrived four hours later at the ferry in Cheboygan  dripping wet,  eager to jump in Lake Huron.  Ahhh...heaven.

The high the next day was a refreshing mid-70s, perfect hiking weather.  As I left the house I spotted a dead tree across the driveway.  It was a hot, still night, but the landscape here is so rocky  it doesn't take much prodding for a tree to fall.  Roots here typically sprawl out among the rocks rather than work against them to go deep.

I had a few options to deal with the tree.  I could wait for my husband and friends to arrive tomorrow and have the men take care of it.  There are neighbors nearby who would have helped.  Or, I could find a saw in the barn and do it myself.

With the tree across the driveway I am trapped here.  I had planned to drive eight miles to the general store/pizza place/ice cream stop (our version of a mall--one stop for everything)  and celebrate my 59th birthday with my beloved island community.  

As I  reflect on my life--the good, the bad and the truly mysterious-- the bad times pale in comparison to my immense blessings, which are far more than I deserve.  I do not take those things for granted.

One year until that landmark number sixty.  As I consider the past, contemplate the future and celebrate the present moment, I understand that I sometimes allow self-imposed barriers to prevent me from trying new things, taking chances, taking risks.

Singing?  Love it, but only last winter was I brave enough to join a women's chorus, after decades of wanting that.  The spring concert was a dream come true for me.

Writing for others?  A passion, but I stop short of trying to get things published.

Optimal health?  Sure, in theory I want that.  In practice I have some serious changes to make.

Dance lessons?  On my "to do" list for years.

And, the list goes on....

So TODAY I begin my quest to tackle barriers--real, imagined, self-imposed.

With an old rusty saw in hand, I conquered the first one.  It took an hour.  My muscles ache.  And I am smiling like a kid with a new bike.

Now...who's going to buy me a beer?

Food Legacy: Recipes for Life

What will I remember about this  4th of July week-end? Without a doubt it will be Adele's gazpacho--the best I have ever eaten, and Adele. 

The next day she gave me a gift that will also help me remember the meal:  fifteen people working together to prepare a holiday meal in a beach house on Lake Huron--ideal weather, a few lightweight fireworks, tons of laughter, a bit of teasing, young folks flirting, older ones remembering, some political opinions, sun-burned backs, sangria.....

The gift? Her gazpacho recipe, handwritten that morning, in her elegant 90 year old penmanship.

I started collecting recipes about 40 years ago.  The clippings from magazines and newspapers, the recipe cards from friends/family and yeast packets with scrumptious sounding breads, all used to be neatly organized in a long  basket.  A few years ago  I  dropped the basket, which dumped everything onto our farmhouse kitchen floor.  The  sections "Favorites from Grandma's Kitchen", "Fun Things to Make with Sara", "Early Garden Harvest" etc. were instantly homogenized.   I scooped everything into a grocery bag and planned to reorganize them soon.  But I got distracted by the convenience of looking  up recipes online. 

Last year I discovered the bag in back of the pantry when we moved from the farm.  Again, I  vowed to restore order to my collection. Someday.

When I received Adele's recipe I pulled out my bag and began to sort.   Within minutes I felt like old friends--many of whom are deceased--were sitting around my kitchen table. 

 I spotted my sister's handwriting on a card labeled "Kathe's Chocolate Mints".  She loved fanfare and drama, and created Martha Stewart-like celebrations for even the most mundane occasions.  She introduced that recipe to our family when she was a young mother, determined to create the perfect home, complete with homemade bonbons.  Kathe died in 1999, but her special sweet treats are made every Christmas by my daughter, Sara, who started making them years before Kathe died.    Even before her illness, the chocolates were part of her legacy.  

One thing we all have in common, beside the fact we will all die, is that we all eat. Nurturing our bodies with nutrients sustains life. Part of our self-identity comes from our relationship to food. 

Do you cook/bake?  Grow your own food?  Buy local?  Prepare certain foods for certain occasions? 

Do you identify as a healthy eater?  A compulsive eater?  Someone who occasionally splurges on a favorite food?

We will leave behind perceptions of who we were, always with an element of mystery. Our family and friends will regret that they didn't ask  for more  details and stories that only we could have told.    A food legacy -recipes, stories, favorites--is only one way to share important aspects that make you uniquely you. 

I am not suggesting we give up the Internet, but these treasures that surround me tonight--handwritten cards or printed recipes with personal notations--will always mean more to me than a  Google search result.

I want my grand-children to know that their ancestors produced food by working  in gardens and fields.  And to eat some of the same foods that were always a part of special occasions.

A man who I did not know well, but admired for his kindness and generosity, died last week.  Tonight I found the following recipe that he wrote for me a couple of years ago.   

Bill's Apple Cake

Spread 1 can of apple pie filling in 13x9" cake pan.

Mix together in a separate bowl: 2 c. flour, 1 c. sugar, 1 tsp salt and 1 1/2 tsp soda:  then sprinkle over pie filling.

Beat together: 2 eggs, 2/3 c. oil, 1 tsp vanilla, 1/2 c. nuts.  Pour over dry ingredients and even out batter.
Bake at 350* for 40-50".    

Caramel icing:  melt 2/3c. butter or margarine and 1 c. firmly packed light brown sugar.  Stir in 1/4 c. milk.  Bring to boil and simmer for 3 minutes.  Remove from heat and let cool before spreading on cake.   Enjoy the fruits of your labor!!

Farewell my friend. Thank you for the recipe.  You will not be forgotten.  

Patients as Teachers

Patients are often my best teachers. Many years ago, as a young idealistic nurse, a 40 year old  man named Richard taught me more than any professor could have about embracing mortality.  He was admitted to the neurology unit for diagnostic tests due to persistent, but vague symptoms.  During the night shift prior to his exam he asked me to call a priest before he was taken to the operating room. 

He explained to the priest and me that he felt he was going to die from the procedure.  We tried to reassure him, but he calmly said "I want to be prepared to face the music".  He talked about how hard it would be for his family, that he didn't want to leave them, but he just had a gut-level feeling that he couldn't ignore.

During the procedure a massive brain tumor was diagnosed, requiring emergency surgery.  He died several weeks later, at the start of my night shift. He never fully regained consciousness.

I wrote the following poem shortly after his death and have continued to be influenced by the lesson I learned from him: listen to the message--no matter where you think it comes from. 

When we face the fact that we will die, instead of avoid admitting that, we can learn more about our lives and  that can allow us opportunities to prepare ourselves and others.


Music


The night before surgery
You told me
My heart knows I need to
To face the music


Life just unfolding
Wife and kids
Hopes and dreams
Music to your ears


I am a new nurse
A young bride
Dreaming of longevity
And happy endings


Now you are dying
You know and I know
Though we speak
without words


I want to run
Not death, not now
Not like this
I am not ready 


Hand in hand
Death claims you
The warmth of your hand
Lingers on mine


I have not broken news like this before
Your family arrives
Our tears flow
I no longer want to run 

Pet Loss: Good-bye Dear Jake

It is good to be back in Michigan!  In December Peter and I  loaded Jake, our 15 yr old Lab/Shepard mix, in  the car and drove to our new winter home: Tucson, AZ. 

We were concerned about Jake's comfort and ability to make the trip, but he tolerated it well and seemed revived soaking up the sun in our new yard. 

It was hard to watch him lose the strength to get in the car, the ability to manage stairs, the comfort of being around other animals.  As his senses faded his anxiety escalated.

Our vet helped us assess his  condition and needs.  We had hoped he could make it back to Michigan, but by April we knew it was time to euthanize him.

We have had other pets euthanized--it is never an easy decision.

The reason I decided to write about Jake's death here is this:  Reactions to the loss of a beloved pet is  as multi-faceted as any other loss.  Everyone is entitled to view their animals, and the loss of them, however they want.   I caution you though to not make assumptions about what that loss is like for others.

Some of the comments people made when Jake died offended me.  Really, really offended me.  Some of them were made by the professionals who were assisting us with the process, some by friends.  

Here are some examples:

---Referring to Jake as my "child".  NO...he was my loved and valued pet.  He did not come close to being in the same category as my child. 
--Questioning our decision to euthanize--some thought we waited too long, others thought we were too hasty.  It is not their business, unless their opinion has been requested.
--Telling us their personal stories of pet loss (often the re-telling  proved traumatic for the person and they would then need comforting).  In the midst of trying to make the right decision no one needs to have things complicated by a tearful story.

Pet loss, like other grief, is a personal journey.  Let the person take the lead in conversations.  Listen.  Listen well. 

We were lucky to have many, many people do just that.  Let us guide the conversations. 

I especially want to thank Dr. Lee Fike (Tucson) http://www.leefike.com/ : thank you for your compassion, wisdom, guidance and  patience. Your  method  of euthanizing in stages allowed us the opportunity to see Jake at peace to be able say good-bye in our home, as we listened to music that comforted us. Thanks also to our dear friend Helen Costa (Ann Arbor) who was always just an email away, willing to answer questions and help us explore options. And, many others who said just the right thing, at the right time.

Today we will spread Jake's ashes in Michigan and celebrate his awesome, sweet spirit.

I am glad he is home.



 

Living With a Terminal Illness

I woke up today thinking about my dad, born on this date in 1916. He died in 1999, but I still learn from him.

He faced his death the way he lived his life: as a practical thinker with a curious mind, who was quietly stubborn with a huge generous heart.

Dad was diagnosed with multiple myeloma on his 80th birthday. During the next three years he paved the way for others to talk with him about living with a terminal disease as he went through a range of treatments, hospitalizations and kidney dialysis.

He kept detailed records of doctor visits, lab results and weight/appetite changes. Education and compliance were as important to him as chemotherapy. The more he understood his condition, the more empowered he felt to make informed decisions and suggest additional treatments to his health care team. He was determined to live as long as possible, but didn't deny his own mortality.

"Death is a natural part of life", he told me one evening as we reviewed his most recent physical changes. He was hospitalized for kidney failure, which necessitated starting dialysis. The day I had feared had come. My heart was broken.

"I've had such a good life" he said, as he listed the things most important to him: his family, his home, his friends.

I asked him how we could help him now.

"I want to be home, to be comfortable, to be with my family."

We hoped he would tolerate dialysis well. From home, he went three days a week to a clinic where he endured a four hour procedure in order to survive. Due to his advanced cancer the treatments quickly became more than he could handle.

When the decision was made to stop dialysis we knew he would die within a few days. The night before he died a steady stream of family, friends, neighbors came. He extended his thin, frail hand to all, smiled and thanked everyone for visiting him.

I watched in awe. In his own quiet way he had maintained control over the end of his life. He knew what he wanted from the time he was diagnosed three years prior to his death. He must have spent a lot of time imagining the end, preparing himself emotionally and spiritually. His willingness to talk with others helped prepare us too.

The next morning he was no longer conscious. It was clear that death was close.

In his own bed at home, surrounded by family, he peacefully took his final breath. He died the way he had hoped he would.

Happy Birthday Dad....Your wisdom and grace taught me how important it is to live fully, live honestly, live facing death instead of fearing it.

Pregnancy/ Newborn Loss

My wise and wonderful niece reminded me yesterday of the need to recognize the loss that is felt when a pregnancy ends in fetal/newborn death. Her sensitivity comes from personal experiences several years ago. Today she has two beautiful, healthy children and there is no doubt she cherishes those little darlings. She and her husband remember and acknowledge the losses they experienced, as part of the fabric of their lives.

As a young, single, idealistic nursing student I expressed an interest in writing about pregnancy loss to my obstetrics clinical instructor. Peering over her bifocals she suggested I choose a more positive topic, perhaps "Bonding with your newborn" or "The Health Benefits of Breastfeeding"

I persisted.

She reluctantly agreed.

I was allowed to informally talk with women who were hospitalized following delivery of a healthy infant, but who also had a history of fetal/newborn loss.

During the time I taught tips on newborn care I managed to ask some version of the following questions: How were you supported when you experienced an earlier loss? What was your grieving like? Did others acknowledge your loss/grieving? How did your health care provider meet your needs?

The responses ranged from dismissing the loss as a legitimate reason to grieve, to profound sadness, feeling alone, isolated and misunderstood. Many reported that family, friends and even husbands/partners, did not view the loss as a significant one. Often they were encouraged to move on emotionally and begin planning for the next pregnancy.

The women were eager to talk, surprised they were being listened to and have the loss acknowledged. They often expressed shock at their tears as we talked, sometimes saying "I shouldn't be feeling this way, after all I have a new healthy baby now".

As health care providers, family, friends, partners, we need to be sensitive to parents who experience fetal/newborn death.

If you have personal experience with this type of loss, I send you my condolences.

The resources for coping with fetal/newborn death are plentiful, and at your fingertips. Please consider exploring websites (try searching fetal death/grieving/support or other related terms), local support groups, talking with health care providers, sharing your feelings with a trusted friend, meeting with clergy, journaling, creating music...or whatever moves you along in your recovery process. If you meet with resistance or denial, please don't let that stop you from trying another avenue. Please feel free to write to me.

If you know someone who has experienced a fetal/newborn loss (perhaps even a long time ago), gently acknowledge it and listen closely to the response. Be available and let her take the lead.

We can't fix it. But we can be part of the healing that comes through healthy grieving for any loss.

Many years after my nursing school experience, when I was a young mother, a friend experienced a first trimester loss.

When I asked her about it, she described the private ceremony she and her partner had--she wrote a poem, he sang a song, by a fire on a beach. They decided it was too early in the pregnancy to name the baby, but felt a strong need to acknowledge it and it's death.

We both cried as she related the story. She said I was the first to ask what it felt like, and she appreciated an opportunity to talk.

In this season (just a few days before Christmas) the miracle of birth and the joy of children shapes the actions of many of us.

Please remember those who are mourning for children whose lives were so short that they are often not acknowledged.

Take a chance: let someone know about your loss, be ready to share your feelings.

Or, ask a question, hold a hand, lend an ear.

Make this Christmas special in a new way.

Tears

Before moving from my hometown, Columbia, Missouri, I worked as a psychiatric nurse in a small private hospital. I was young and inexperienced, but fascinated by the power of the mind, body, spirit connection to health.

I called Dr. Anderson one evening because I was concerned about his new patient--a young woman with three small children. Her family had visited her. When they left she fell on her bed and dissolved into tears--crying longer and harder than anyone I had ever encountered.
I asked him is there was something I could give her to ease her sadness.

He explained she was overwhelmed by feelings of loss--her family was experiencing unwanted/unplanned changes.

She was grieving.

"We don't want to take away her tears. She needs them in order to heal. " he said calmly. We talked about the difference between healthy sadness (grieving) and clinical depression.
"Just be near to let her know she is not alone, but allow her to feel the pain and don't mask it. That gives her a chance to move through the grief and be whole again."

Dr. Anderson's lesson that evening has stayed with me for more than thirty years. Sometimes guiding my nursing practice, sometimes comforting me in the midst of my own grief.

Today is Dr. Anderson's funeral. His death was a shock and tragic loss to his family, friends and community.

I believe he would remind everyone to feel the pain, be near each other and let the tears flow.

Grief is personal, intense and a necessary part of healing.

Don't let anyone take your tears away.