Existence versus Life

As I write this, my mind and heart is a jumble of myriad tangled feelings, thoughts, memories, and pain – each competing with the other and yet co-existing and draining my strength as they fight their constant battle. This battle? This war? This is grief. This is love when arms can no longer hold the loved one.

Less than 48 hours ago, my brother Ben passed away from septic shock combined with pneumonia that he developed from an infection in a tube-site for his gall bladder. The tube was initially inserted in February 2017 and his surgeon hesitated to remove both it and the gall bladder for fear of him experiencing a coronary on the table. He had atherosclerosis (with a total of 3 stents in various heart arteries, for which he was taking a blood-thinner since the last heart attack on February 14, 2019.)  He also had insulin-dependent diabetes, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, nephrolithiasis, and chronic renal failure, and he was on dialysis three times a week.

In fact, that’s how I found out that he was in trouble. His dialysis nurse called me and said he didn’t show up for his Monday morning appointment. After trying to reach him, thinking he had overslept, I called a relative and asked them to go check to see if he was at home. His car was, but he didn’t answer. After that, I called 911 who patched me through to the RCMP. They went to his house, saw him awake on his bed through his (main floor) bedroom window, and he was unable to get up. They broke the door down and called the EMT people. That would have been around 3 pm or so. The EMTs came and got an IV started. They took him to the local hospital who assessed him and intubated him as he was having difficulty breathing. Then they ambulanced him to the hospital where he normally did his dialysis. They got him there around 7 p.m.  Three hours after he got there, he took a turn for the worse, and went into septic shock. The nurse called me and asked me or someone to come to the hospital right now. They tried to revive him three times but to no avail. At 10:15 pm, he was pronounced dead.

And that is what the doctor told me ten minutes later, over the phone, as I was getting my coat on to make the two-and-a-half-hour trip to see him. Such pain I had not felt in over six years since my youngest daughter died at the age of 21.

My night-time trip was cancelled, of course. I made plans to pack up the next day, and go to the homestead to assess the damage and the mess. I might have slept four hours that night. The next night, with the help of some Melatonin, I slept for six hours, although there was one interruption at five a.m. when Ben’s alarms went off to remind him to get up for dialysis. Hopefully, tonight will be better.

During my waking hours, I have been doing a lot of thinking about the difference between existing and living. For most of his life, Ben just existed. He grew up thinking that he was a nuisance to his parents. He bore the inner scars of physical and psychological abuse by his mom and abandonment by his dad who never stopped her, and the bruises of an older brother who criticized everything he did and regularly pounded on him. He bore other scars too: a marriage that lasted only 14 years before it ended in divorce, alienation from his sons, rejection from an endless string of women, as well as being used by women who befriended him only for his bank account. His was a lonely life. He battled the loneliness with his art: he could draw landscapes, animals, and people just by looking at pictures of things. He composed so many songs and sang them with me and with that older brother when we were all so young (I was 16 at the time, so he was 22 and the other brother was 26) – gospel songs that were so beautiful you could hear a pin drop when we were done.

Yet he suffered. I remember him coming home from senior high school and sobbing as he begged me never EVER to judge a man just on his appearance. I never EVER forgot his words. 

Yes, most of his life he was a melancholy man. He existed; he created beautiful things and appreciated beauty in nature and in people, but his existence was spent waiting for the next good thing to happen, and being disappointed time after time after time. 

After his divorce in the early 1990s, he moved in with Mom and Dad. He was there for Mom after Dad passed away, and he made sure he was there to look after things for her. Others would come in and see him lazing around, as they called it. He rested because he couldn’t breathe if he got up and moved around. He had so many ailments: his lungs, his kidneys, his heart, his gall bladder, his pancreas,… people didn’t understand and he felt a lot of condemnation come from them. Nobody understood him, he told me, except me. And sometimes even that wasn’t enough to tame the monsters of hatred and bullying that he experienced – whether real or imagined – from others.

Once, he even tried to commit suicide. He had finally learned how to love unconditionally, and his girlfriend stole from him and used the money to get high. 

A few months later that girl died … and it took him months to make peace with that.

Photo "Eye" by graur codrin at www.freedigitalphotos.net

But by that time, he had learned to live. To REALLY LIVE.

You see, in October 2016, Ben had been diagnosed with stage one colon cancer. And in January 2017, he underwent a six-hour procedure to remove the cancer along with a 5-inch section of bowel. And when he woke from that surgery, while he was still recovering in the hospital, he was listening to the radio and a singer Skip Ewing was singing, “How can he be a king? He’s just a kid.” And God spoke to him in his heart, and said, “Are you listening, son?”  And he responded, tears streaming down his face, “Yes, Father. I’m here. I hear You.”

From that moment on, Ben started to really LIVE. He had some setbacks and some heartaches (like the death of that girlfriend). And he was living on a very limited income, never knowing if he would need to starve in order to be warm, or to freeze in order to eat. It was hard. It was REALLY hard. But he was finally LIVING. We would talk on the phone – and I would let him listen to music that he liked – and he would cry tears of beauty and joy. He never forgot how God rescued him, miraculously let him live, and would look after his every need. Even if he misplaced his car keys. Or his needles. Or his wallet.

Last year, on Valentine’s Day 2019, he suffered a major heart attack. The paramedics found him and the emergency team had to put an intravenous shunt through his shin bone to give him liquids. He screamed in pain and then his heart went into atrial fibrillation. They had to use the paddles to get him back – and he was “gone” for a few seconds there.

He remembered those few seconds. He felt completely at peace. He couldn’t see anything, but he knew that he was loved, cared for, and safe. And from that time onward, he lost his fear of death. He lost his fear of living, too. And the living he had been doing up until then just intensified. He could not keep silent about God’s love for him. Anyone who knew him heard him talk about higher things, spiritual things, wonderful things like love and joy and peace and goodness. He touched so many people that way: people in dialysis, people in drug stores, people at church, in grocery store lineups, everywhere.

That’s not to say that he didn’t have questions. We would talk for hours at a time as he tried to understand some spiritual concept or other. We talked almost every day, for up to two or three hours at a time. (It’s a good thing I have such a good cell phone plan that includes free long distance!) But every time we talked, he would not hesitate to tell me what he had been learning, what God showed him or how He helped him find something he needed. Or met a need in his finances. Or let him talk to someone about his experiences in the Lord.

And now this week, I have been living in his house without him here. Memories galore. Yet it feels so surreal: not quite right, like he should be here laughing and joking with us, listening to YouTube videos, or talking about how wonderful Heaven is.

And yes, he could not let a conversation go by before he mentioned how deeply he longed to see his Master’s face, to walk the shores of Glory with Him, to hug Dad, and to jam with friends and family gone ahead.

And now he is there. And he is LIVING beyond his wildest imaginings – and he could imagine a LOT!!

Good night Ben. See you in the Morning. Keep a chair for me by the hearth, and say hi to Dad for me. I love you beyond measure. 

And … I will miss you. I’ll never forget what you taught me about how to live life in a positive way and not just exist expecting the worst.

Thank you. Thank you SO MUCH.

Light Enough

It's been about six weeks since my plans for the future hit a major snag (which I talked about a couple of posts ago) and I realized that I needed some help to deal with it all. With my doctor's assistance, I've taken steps toward getting a therapist to help me deal with my childhood issues, and I have also started to take a medication that gives me more energy during the day. 

During that time, I've moved back to my home province, back into my own home with my husband and daughter, and have arranged an updated work-from-home routine that has me going into the office one day a week. I must say that it felt good to go to a work environment where people smiled when they saw me coming, where I felt (and feel) welcome, and where there was a sense of recognition and respect for my talents. 

Photo "Blooming Snowdrops In The Spring" by radnatt at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

I'm also looking forward to my upcoming volunteer activities, which I have scheduled to start this coming Wednesday, at a local non-profit organization aimed at helping pregnant and new mothers who are facing challenges (financial mostly, and mostly single moms). Hopefully I will be able to get outside of myself and gain some much-needed face-to-face experience with people in need at the same time. The director of the organization is someone I feel that I can "click" with - she has never been anything less than kind and approachable - an ideal mentor for me. Although it seems a crazy time of year to start such a venture, as the Christmas season seems to highlight the great need of people at risk, I believe that it will give me a sense of doing something that will make a difference to people's lives. And I need that tangible sense of purpose and accomplishment in my life, especially in the beginning of a season that for me is so depressing because it's so cold and dead outside and will remain so for many months. Who knows? maybe I'll even find some Christmas spirit laying around somewhere. ;)

As I think about my future goals, all I feel is confusion. Six months ago, I had it all planned out. I knew what I was going to do, when it was going to happen, and how I was going to get there. Now, I am questioning everything. So finding one thing that I can do gives me a light in a dark place in my life. It's like lighting a candle when the electricity goes off at night. It gives you just enough light to see the next step or two, nothing more. And you need to go slowly or you'll put out the light. But there is light enough for that one or two steps. 

I still have a lot of things to sort out. Having the time to do that without the extra burden of assignments and other school-work has been helpful. I have been doing a LOT of thinking, reflecting, meditating, and just resting. There is much that I just don't know yet. I don't know how long this process will take, or what I will end up doing with my life. All I know is that I need to use these next few months wisely. There have been opportunities for me to consider, and I am weighing these as well. But no major decisions set in stone. 

After all, I still only have light enough for the next step. Once I take it, I might be able to see where the next one will be.

Quelling the voices

I love my life. Sometimes the events really suck, but this new life that I'm building since I got into recovery is scads better than the one I started to leave behind when I finally admitted that I needed help. 

Occasionally though, voices from my old self rise up and accuse me. At least it's in my old self's voice - though I'm inclined to believe it comes from another quarter that's more sinister. Be that as it may, the voices do come in and tend to mess up my thoughts, make me sour and sometimes even bitter, and I experience a good deal of discontent as a result. Peace leaves. The waters of turmoil start to come to a boil.

It's the discontent that usually alerts me to the fact that something has gone awry. When I step back and take stock, usually I find that it's a voice or two from my prior lifestyle that has crept in unawares and wreaked havoc in my thinking. My focus has shifted; I am no longer living life from the inside out, but from the outside in... allowing what others say and do - and even what they might think or believe (and it doesn't even have to be about me; I'll MAKE it about me) - to get the better of me. 

Inner statements like, "They like her better than they like me" or "What did he mean by that?" or "How dare she imply that I would think / do that?" or "How come I am always the one to give and give some more and this other person just sucks me dry?" rob me of precious joy. 

Thanks to nuttakit for this photo,
"Barbed Wire" which I got at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

When I finally realize that the focus has shifted from maintaining my center to reinforcing the barbed wire fence in an attempt at self-preservation, that's when I need to quell the voices, the ones that accuse me, the ones that tell me I'm no good, that I'm not worth anyone's time or effort, that nobody will ever like me for ME, only for what I can DO for them. 

I start with the basics of recovery. Being responsible for my own actions but nobody else's. Letting go of the need to control what someone says, does, or thinks. Setting boundaries that prohibit others from controlling what I say, do, or think. Reminding myself that I have just as much right to exist and to occupy space as the next person does; and so do they. 

Then, the truth about the situations I've been struggling with becomes clear. I can return to enjoying my life; the voices fade into the background. The thoughts and opinions of others about me, or of others about other people as compared to me, or even of others about my choices or my beliefs, matter less and less the closer I get to my center - the part of me that is key, that makes me who I am. 

I know the voices are likely to return. I've accepted that. I can only hope that the length of time that it takes for me to realize that they've returned, gets less and less as time goes on. 

In the meantime, I can enjoy each day as it comes.

Tommy

When I was fifteen, I went to see a movie that, had my parents known what it truly was, I would never have been allowed to go to. It was the original rock opera, "Tommy" - featuring Elton John. Basically, it was the story of a young man (Tommy) who was deaf, mute, and blind, and who finds his niche playing pinball, to the point where thousands of young people wanted to emulate everything about him - even putting plugs in their ears and covers over their eyes and mouths.

I was completely weirded out by that movie - it seemed so chaotic and surreal to me (which I guess was the idea). I was most freaked out by the scene of Elton John wearing a rhinestone white suit and three-foot-high elevator shoes and falling off the stage into the crowd... but we won't go there today.

Of course, what made it an opera was the music. The songs were somewhat memorable; everyone who went to this thing remembers "Pinball Wizard" of course, but the thing that stuck with me most was just a line in the middle of all that chaos, the internal voice of Tommy, singing "See me. Hear me. Touch me. Feel me." 

Tommy didn't care about the fame and acclaim. He didn't want anyone to like him or hate him. He didn't want to be "fixed" or to "fix" anyone else. He just wanted to be seen, heard, touched, related to. He didn't want to be what everyone else thought of him as being. The one who was known only as the Pinball Wizard soon became a one-trick pony, trotted out for everyone's amusement. Nobody thought of him as anything more. Deep within, though, he longed for some semblance of humanity, of connection. He, like everyone, wanted above all to know and to be known, to matter for who he was, not for what he could or couldn't do. 

"Woman Hand With Microphone" photo
courtesy of thawats at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

I've sung that song inside of my spirit for many years since. There have been times that I felt that some people hung out with me only for what they could get out of me, that either they stayed away from me because they thought they couldn't do what I did (especially in the singing area, even though that gifting was not of my own doing) or they flocked to me and wanted me to trot out my one trick for their enjoyment. 

Even in the area of regular interpersonal relationships, I've often felt like poor Tommy, seen as two-dimensional - nothing but appearance - with people playing out their own agendas on me rather than actually taking the time to know what I'm about. I've frequently caught my inner self singing that melancholy plea, "See me. Hear me. Touch me. Feel me." 

Thankfully, a few precious people have done just that. I've been blessed with friends who, even if they don't understand fully, at least try, and by them trying, I know that they care about me, not just the surface - and that they respect me too much to give me trite answers that follow whatever party line they (or I) adhere to. 

When I share a problem or open my heart ... I'm not asking for someone to mount their white charger and ride in to rescue this damsel in distress. I already have a White Knight; I find the One sufficient. 

All I'm seeking is to be seen and heard, to have a touch-point, to know that there is someone who can relate to me or to my situation, to have someone acknowledge my feelings and to tell me I'm normal for feeling them. 

That's all I can ask for.

Catching my breath

From the look of my blogger interface, it looks like folks are stopping by more often, which is good, because I've not been doing much writing - at least for me. 

Life can get busy. The urgent can crowd out the important. 

Appointments (dental, bank, and physio - mostly physio) have been occupying my thoughts and my schedule for the last two weeks. I've been trying to make a little extra money, so overtime has been in the picture; fortunately it has been offered to our group of late. I've been going "flat out," trying to pair my extra time at work with times that my husband has other commitments so that I don't sit at home and wait for him to come home. I've been pinging around trying to find new ways to bring in some more bacon - by trying my hand at some Internet sources of income. So far, I've made a total of a buck forty-eight, which falls just short of slave labor. Frustration and panic have been building. 

In the midst of all that, my body was sending me messages: slow down! I didn't listen. So it rebelled. I developed a recurring muscle tear in my lower abdomen, probably associated with my back problems ... and the extra weight of course. I guess that the tear in my belly would qualify as a hernia, I don't know; I know it's hard for me to take a full breath when I'm in certain positions. (And yes, I've thought about having it checked out - and no, I'm too chicken to have a doctor poke around down there!) Add to that a 24-hour 'thing' this past Monday where all my joints hurt and I spiked a fever, and it just added to my stress because I felt that I should be up and about. After all, I'm the primary bread-winner since hubby's retirement and the realities of that are weighing down on me more and more. 

So when i woke up this morning a lot earlier than what I would have liked, I had a choice: rail against my ebbing hormones or go with the situation and use it to take some time for me - to catch my breath, to use the skills I preach and actually practice them. Accept. Pray. Take care of myself. Set boundaries. Rest. 

Breathe.

Now there was a guy who knew how to relax!
My dear old Cody - God rest his soul.

Even if my mind is going in fifty different directions, forcing it to focus on one thing - this thing - allows me to stop long enough to catch my breath and see where I've been spinning my wheels and where I just don't need to waste my time. It helps me to think about what I really want at this stage in my life and how I can be kind to myself while trusting God to do what I can't do for myself. 

It's harder than it looks. ;) But I have a few examples I can look up to, and I am learning. I don't have to be do, do, doing all the time; being precedes doing. 

One of the side effects of spinning those wheels has been the way I have been interacting with some of my friends; I've been kind of a jerk at times. I hope that they know it's that drowning sensation talking - the feeling of being trapped, flailing around in fear with no way out. 

There is a way out, of course. I just haven't found it yet (I've been too busy flailing around!)  It's like what they told folks on a commercial many years ago in case they fell into the water ... don't splash around. Swim one, long stroke. Relax into it; you'll rise to the surface.  

I can trust God. I can accept what is. I can trust myself: my real self, not that frantic reactive person that pings from crisis to crisis. I'll figure it out, as long as I make it a point to look after myself. In so doing, I will have enough of the best of me to share with those who count: my family, my friends.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll have the courage to change what I can, and also to know my own limitations and stay within them. 

Breathe, Judy.

Middlin'

It's a common expression in England.  Ask someone - especially an older person - how they are and you're likely to get the answer, "Oh, middlin', lad [or lass]".  

It means they're doing about average.  Nothing to write home about, nothing to complain about - well, a few aches and pains, but who wants to listen to that?  Just the same old same old.  Middlin'. 

One of the things I say to people when they ask how I am is "Okay" or "Not bad" - it's the truth, it's much like, "Middlin', lad."  Yet I've lost count of the number of times some zealous optimist has said, "What? you're not GREAT?  you should be FANTASTIC!" (...usually followed by some religious or positive thinking platitude, sorry folks but that really gets me going.)  Lately, if I get that response, I have been known to come back with, "So, I should lie.  Hm."  Which usually gets them backpedaling - hee hee.  (Ain't I a stinkah?)  Honestly.  Don't you mistrust a salesman who's ALWAYS grinning? 

Most of the time, I'm middlin'. I'm okay.  Life is throwing an equal amount of pleasant and unpleasant things my way.  It all evens out (as they say around here) "in the warsh."  

That's a whole heckuva lot better than it was just a few years ago.  Life sucked.  It just did.  Every day was a drudge, more reasons to be upset because nobody would do things my way (which, of course, was the right way!)  - and I had this huge happy-faced facade up so nobody would suspect how miserable or how incredibly lonely I was.  

When I started living my new lifestyle of respecting boundaries: my own and others', and started taking care of myself and taking responsibility for my own actions and expecting others to take responsibility for their own actions... such a weight fell off my shoulders!! My stress level was reduced by at least 75%.  And I began to trust my "feeler."  I'd always been taught to distrust my emotions, taught that my feelings were somehow evil.  When I started paying attention to how I was feeling and letting that alert me to those things in my life that were out of balance, my life and my relationships started to improve.  

So now, when I get to feeling really awful inside, and I can't shake it or seem to deal with it - even with the new tools at my disposal - that's when I'm no longer middlin' and then I know it's high time to pay attention.  

Like a couple of months ago.  I slipped into a bout of depression that made me doubt my own sanity.  People who remember what I was like during that time frame will remember how concerned they were for me. I wasn't sleeping well at all, losing on average three hours a night of sleep, perhaps a bit less on the weekends when I could nap in the afternoons.  I was bone-tired-weary all the time.  Everything ached. I dragged myself around. I was paranoid, fearful of everyone. My self-confidence was non-existent. I seriously doubted my own judgment, my own thinking patterns. I didn't want to do anything or go anywhere, especially work and church. It was a herculean effort to even get out of bed in the morning. I was on the verge of either tears or an outburst of rage nearly all the time. I lost my temper more.  And I cried.  A LOT.  

When I finally did ask for help, and started to get it, I realized that I had allowed certain things to go on far too long without dealing with them.  I had permitted things to build and accumulate until I was convinced that some people were just out to get me.  My perceptions were clouded by my own inner reality.  When I started looking after myself more, and got the rest I needed to get, things slowly righted themselves.  I'm so thankful that they did; I know that some folks aren't quite so lucky. 

Even with that, it took nearly a month for me to start feeling more like myself, getting back to middlin'.  Just to wake up in the morning and not dread putting my feet on the floor is worth more than I can express.  I might not look forward to this or that thing that I will have to do that day, but it all balances out.  That's a good thing. 

Middlin' is okay. Okay is good.  I like it.

Carried along

The landscape was peculiar; rocks and trees jumbled together in a nearly impossible to navigate path before her.  She'd been told that the creatures in the wood could take her to where she wanted to go - but it meant letting go of her need to be in control.  All around her, inside her head, she could hear the voices of those who had urged her to go and stand in this place.  

She pondered her decision.  She could go back.  She could choose the safety of what she'd always known.  Or she could decide to call upon those foreign creatures she'd only heard about, who, surefooted as they were clever, would take her safely there - if she held on tight.  She wondered how they would know how to find her. 

Finally she thought, "Yes.  This is where I would like to go.  I need to find one of those crea-"

Immediately, she felt a gigantic, broad beak darting between her legs from behind, and scooping her up.  She slid on her buttocks, terrified, down the long, narrow, stubbled neck and onto the broad, feathered shoulders.  From atop her perch, the dangerous rocks below looked so far away and she was gripped with a sense of panic.  This was too soon.  This was too high.  She didn't know the way.  And what (God forbid) if she fell off? She slid back a bit, and tucked her legs under its warm wings.

Instinctively she gripped the bird-creature's torso with her legs.  It squawked and began to move, deftly navigating with its sturdy, long legs the sharp rocks that would most certainly kill her if she fell on them from this height. The speed was so much faster than she imagined.  She gulped, and grabbed the base of the wings with her hands to help her balance.

No turning back now.  She leaned forward to compensate for the bird's rapid acceleration, blinking rapidly to release the tears that the wind brought to her eyes.

It was two weeks ago. 

"Yeah, you'll make a good one, that's a great idea!  Why don't you go for it?" this one person urged me. 

I was still unsure, wondering about this scenario or that one.  "You could always ask the 'what if' questions.  You'll never know unless you try." No matter how I tried to escape it, that logic kept coming back.  Finally I decided to at least ask my questions.  They were all answered - patiently. My co-worker didn't push me and respected my right to make a decision on my own. 

Thus began my reluctant induction into the halls of representing my colleagues before management - also known as being a union rep or in the organization's jargon, a steward.  I had no idea what I was getting into.  But I had asked my questions and objection after objection had disappeared.  I was faced with one question - whether I thought I could make a difference to my peers in improving their work atmosphere.  

When I finally decided to 'go for it' - I was surprised at how quickly the wheels started turning after that. I was invited to meeting after meeting - all in the space of a few weeks.  It was all a little - well, not quite overwhelming, but almost.  My short description, above, describes many of the sensations I felt.  

This is way outside my comfort zone.  I am not by nature a confrontational person; I know some who thrive on it ... but I am not one of them.  Having to "raise concerns" before people who have the right to have me dismissed, is all a bit much for me.  However, I am confident that what my guides tell me is true, and that we will eventually arrive at our destination.  

I know that this experience will stretch me.  Of course, "stretching" hurts.  I'd briefly (and conveniently) forgotten that.  Yet I have the assurance that this process will give me a unique perspective, help me see the big picture and be involved in some frank discussions with senior executives without fear of reprisal. 

I must admit, that assurance of equality does intrigue me.  I wonder if I'll be able to overcome my fears and act appropriately on behalf of those I represent.  I guess I do need to remember that I'm not in this alone.  I have the support of those stewards who have gone through this before, and I also have the support of my peers.

I know that this is but one more step in becoming all that God has been leading me into the last few years, and that He will continue to be faithful, to be with me, to continue to lead me one step at a time, one day at a time.

I just wonder when - or if - or even where - this particular ride will end.  But I'm willing to give it a go. 

No way out but down

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.  Beep.   The measured noise of the heart monitor almost blends into the background except for one thing - it is reassurance that he still lives.  I wonder how long even that will last, even if he survives this time, whether he'll try a fool stunt like that again.  

A medicine cart rattles by, pushed by a nurse doing the morning rounds in this open ward.  There must be about two dozen people lined up in hospital beds, side by side, with just enough room for a chair on one side and a heart monitor on the other. Some have the curtains drawn for a bit of privacy - but nobody can get away from the sterile, no-nonsense activity of this place. 

My mind goes back, unbidden, to the events of the last 24 hours.  The trip to the emergency room, the chest pains that started right in front of the registration nurse.  The blood tests, the intravenous drip to rid him of the poison he ingested. The concern on the doctors' faces as they talked to each other in hushed tones about numbers and letters that would mean nothing to anyone but them.  Occasionally I would catch a snippet I understood - like 'organ failure' for example - and my heart would jump into my throat. They weren't sure they'd transfer him to a hospital in the next province, but if it looked like there was the possibility of endocrine system shut-down, they'd not hesitate to ambulance him over. The words became a blur.  Everything felt somehow out of phase, as if I was there but I wasn't really there.  This couldn't be happening. 

I barely remember the four-hour drive to the second hospital, just that I was on edge the whole time, praying with all the love in my heart, "Please God.  Please."  It was all the prayer I could muster; the Almighty could understand the pain of fear, of panic deep in my heart.  The ambulance had gone on ahead of me and I was going separately in our vehicle with our two children, then aged 17 and 14; we had hastily had packed a few belongings and made arrangements for friends to come and house-sit with the dog.  I kept thinking that I had forgotten something.  What was it?  yet my mind was racing ahead to where I was going, not behind me to where I had been. 

My oldest sat beside me, tight-lipped, pale and fearing to speak aloud what her naturally worrying mind was screaming. "What if he dies?"  The other, full of faith (for she has always been so) simply quipped, "He's going to be fine.  I don't know why you guys are so upset."  I envied her trust in a God she barely spoke to on a regular basis ... but I knew that when she did, God listened. I allowed myself to be comforted - if only a little - by her words. Throughout the whole trip, silence hung over us like a thundercloud. We followed the directions that the doctor had given us to reach the infirmary, and found ourselves - at last - in the parking garage, able to get out and find our way into the place where only the most exhausted ones sleep.

He was vaguely aware of my presence, but unaware of anything at the same time - in and out of consciousness, not even knowing where he was - I knew that he would never remember this.  But I would always remember.  I would never be able to forget.  I stayed as late as I possibly could - the nurses promised me the doctor would see him at ten pm (after which he would call me) and then again in the morning - and I withdrew into the cold February night, leaving the number at my friend's apartment, my friend who opened her small place up to the three of us to stay the night - or however long it took.  I thought how grateful I was to have a friend like her.

And now it is the next day, although the light level inside has stayed the same and one loses all track of what time it is.  I sit by his side in a chair provided by the nurses, holding his hand, listening to the beep of the heart monitor, watching the numbers on the blood pressure monitor hover dangerously high (now I know what I forgot at home! his blood pressure medication!) listening to the noises of the other monitors, the medication carts, the code yellow announcements, and the voices of nurses nattering on about their normal lives.  All of these sounds are miniscule darts that pierce into my soul again and again.  Time seems to have slowed, or my perceptions have quickened.  

My friend is looking after the kids; she is taking them to a birthday party for her granddaughter.  I tear up again - and there have been many such episodes - at her acceptance and her love.  

The curtain parts.  It is the doctor on duty, a young man with a slim physique, black hair and blue eyes. I briefly wonder how fresh out of medical school he is.  "We were thinking about sending him home today ... but there are some concerns.  One is his blood pressure.  Is he on any medication? did he bring any with him?"  

"No-o. I mean yes, he takes medicine for his blood pressure, but I forgot to pack it."  I smile miserably. "Everything happened so fast, I - "

"Do you remember what he was on?  perhaps we can order it at our pharmacy and see those numbers come down..."

"Of course, yes, that's a good idea," I blabber, so weary yet so relieved that the end was in sight.  And I tell him what the medications are, and give him the dosage instructions.

"Very good. We'll get that probably within the hour.  Now.  One more thing."  He takes a deep breath.  "He ingested a known poison. We are treating this as a suicide attempt.  We can't allow him to go home without some sort of assurance that he will get counseling."  He saw my hesitation, the fear, the doubt in my eyes.  "We can refer him to a psychiatrist in your city if you like - or you can go to see a counselor of your own choice, but he would have to be registered."  

"Well, someone did recommend a counselor ..." I gave him the man's name. 

"Ah yes.  I am familiar with him.  Very good then.  We'll get that blood pressure medication in here and then monitor his numbers.  If they come down, we'll release him.  We took him off the drip last night around midnight.  He'll still be a bit groggy (you may have noticed he's a bit more alert today) so he shouldn't drive for the next 24 hours, just to be safe."  He looks at my face, searches my eyes in what is as close to compassion as I have seen from the bustling people in this white, antiseptic place.  "This was a close call, ma'am.  Too close.  Please get him some help."  

"You can count on it, doctor."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over six years have passed since that day.  We know so much more about what really happened then, and much of it was harder to hear than the original crisis was to experience. But it was the truth, and the truth does set free - albeit through the fire.  

He had never tried to commit suicide.  He had only told us that to hide his addiction problem.  Three years would have to pass and it seemed that every time we ended up in emergency care, things were a little worse.  The monster of addiction took more of his life, affected more and more relationships, even the ones at work, eventually took his job from him.  But those things (hard as they were) needed to happen.  They buffeted him, and pointed out to him how he was trapped in an insane pattern from which he could not escape on his own.  

That process took over three years AFTER that hospital stay was done.  And when he was finally down to his lowest ebb... (and it's hard to imagine anything lower than that experience six years ago, but that's exactly what happened) when he was at his "bottom" - he finally asked for help.  And God stepped in and ever so slowly started to transform his life.  It's not anywhere near perfect; there are still significant struggles and doubts - but the addiction problem has been removed.  

As damaged as he thinks he is ... he's back.  And I am so very grateful.   

Un-belief and faith

"... Jesus could not do many miracles there, because of their unbelief."  
(Mt. 13:58)  

The scene in Nazareth at the synagogue (where Jesus read Isaiah 61 and said "This day is this scripture fulfilled in your ears" - and then the people started saying, "What? this is just Joseph's son!!" and then the statement that Jesus couldn't do many miracles there because of their unbelief) has always plagued me as holding more than just the lesson, "If you don't believe, you won't receive."  And of course, "He came to His own and His own received Him not..."  

We think we know what belief looks like.  To some, it's the mental assent or acceptance one gives to a philosophy or a doctrine.  To others, it's a system, a code of conduct.  But for me and for thousands like me, it's throwing one's whole life's weight onto something - or someone.  Building one's whole life on it.  

But what exactly is UNbelief?  After looking at the Matthew passage and studying some of the other more well-known texts concerning faith and doubt, belief and unbelief, and drawing upon what I know from experience, I think I might have stumbled on something.  

First let me say that the unbelief referred to in the story of the man with a son who threw himself in the fire from demonic possession, is not the kind of unbelief I am talking about here.  The man (in saying, "I believe, help my unbelief!") referred to a certain element of doubt, which (if we're truly honest about it) we all have to some degree or another.  It's my contention that it doesn't matter how much or how little faith we have.  The important thing is where we place it.  I'll get back to that thought in a bit.  

To try to figure out what unbelief is (the kind that blocks what God wants to do in a life) I had to go back to an incident that happened during the wanderings of Israel in the desert during that 40 years.  Oversimplification : the people had been bad. To teach them a lesson, God sent poisonous snakes into the camp to bite them - people started dying.  Some cried out to Moses.  Moses asked God what to do.  God told him to make a bronze serpent and put it on a pole and lift it up so that the people could see it if they looked.  All they had to do was look at the serpent and they would live.  Many did, and were cured.  But there were those who didn't.  And they died.  

These people showed the same kind of attitude as the folks in Nazareth did that day.  It's not that they didn't have the faith to believe.  EVERYONE has faith.  Everyone!  It's that they WOULDN'T believe.  They chose to believe what their eyes told them - that the snakes were there, the tooth-holes were there, the poison streaks were creeping up their skin. They refused to believe (call it an overt act of UN-belief or ANTI-belief) that just looking at a bronze snake on a pole would make that situation better.  It's just the same as the people in Nazareth.  They saw this guy that had grown up in their community, they knew him, they knew he was "Joe's boy."  They knew his brothers and sisters, cousins and classmates.  They had seen him working in the carpenter shop beside his dad.  So they said, "Yeah.  Right."  They refused to put their belief in this person's claims that he was the Chosen One.  

And they missed out. Big time.

They had faith up the wazoo.  They did!  They firmly believed that Messiah would come.  They KNEW He would come.  They just didn't - refused to - believe that Jesus was the Messiah.  That this was their time.  That history was being made before their eyes.  

Contrast that with the man to whom I referred earlier.  He didn't have a whole lot of faith.  His faith had been eroded, year after year, prayer after prayer, faith-healer after faith-healer.  Nothing had worked.  His son was still sick.  Not even Jesus' disciples could do anything for him.  He was ready to pack it all in.  And then Jesus shows up.  Desperate, he asks for help.  Again.  In spite of his doubt.  

"Believe," he heard.  That re-opened a very old wound.  He'd been told nearly all of his son's life that the child wasn't delivered of his demons because the father didn't believe enough.  (Isn't that still the message believing people still get when they face this or that incurable illness and it doesn't go away?)   Honestly, making himself vulnerable to the same accusation, he confesses, "I do believe!  help my unbelief!!"  And I find it intriguing that instead of berating the father for his lack of faith, Jesus saw that the man was putting whatever faith he had left ... in HIM.  That was all it took.  All his faith from before had been placed in the faith-healers, in the doctors, even in the disciples.  And now - his faith had found a resting-place.  

And his boy was delivered.  Just ... like ... that.