Good Night, Dear Friend

This morning I received a phone call at 5:45. Could I please speak to Betty? She had been taken to the hospital at 3:30 a.m. and it appeared that she had an intestinal obstruction with necrosis (dead bowel). She had refused surgery, and indeed, she was an extremely poor candidate for surgery as she has had numerous mini-strokes and back surgeries. Betty needed pain medication and had been told that this was a fatal condition that would end her life within hours or days. Before she was medicated could I please have one last conversation with her?

Betty, this is Barbara.
Oh, Barbara....Hello Dear
Are you having a hard go of it?
....yes
You've had a rough night already.
....Yes
Betty, I'm told that this doesn't look good for you.
...No, it doesn't.
Are you afraid?
...No
....Do you feel ready to go?
....Yes...
Betty, we will soon be together in heaven and we can talk together forever. Won't that be wonderful?
...Yes, yes.
I'm going to be there, and I'm eager to see you there, where you won't have any of these problems.
Oh yes. Me, too.

Are you having some trouble breathing now?
............yes........
Betty, I love you dearly. We've had so many good times over the years, haven't we?
Yes, wonderful ones.
But it's time to say goodbye and I'll see you soon in heaven.
..........yes.........(wheeze)


Betty passed to her rest at 11:00 this morning. Her young friends were at her bedside holding her and loving her right to the very end. They told me that she had been smiling right up to the last.


She would have been 87 years old in nine days. I have loved Betty for many, many years now. She has been like a second mother to me. There have been too many conversations and activities to share and I hesitate, because it would be hard to capture the essence of what she has meant to me in just a few words. But there are several things that must be mentioned.
Betty called me every single day for four years while I was alone in Minnesota, getting my doctorate. I knew no one there and it was a quite lonely experience but for her phone calls: "Hello Lovie, tell me what have you been doing today?" And we would launch off on an animated conversation, punctuated by lots of laughter. We had a wonderful friendship and I couldn't have gotten through that experience without her warm support.

Betty knew what it was to be middle aged and single. While my life went in a different direction than hers did in terms of me getting married eventually, she was a tremendous comfort and role model as a woman who had a full life. She was independent, full of pluck--"a brick" as her neice called her. She knew that I struggled financially just as she had, and as a result she provided things for me that I could not have had otherwise. For example, she bought me my first laptop computer when I went back to school, and she sent me to France to a Gestalt Therapy training institute one summer. She also was a constant source of encouragement and spiritual strength to me, which I have written about in an earlier post.

But perhaps what I loved most about Betty was that she was spontaneous and young at heart. One Christmas Eve when I was alone, I called her around 9:30 at night and told her that I had a yearning to drive up to the mountains and smell the pines. "I'll be at the front door in 10 minutes," she said without hesitation. And so off we drove, 30 minutes up into the mountains, chatting happily all the way. Once we were at a good elevation on the Rim of the World highway, we pulled off onto a turnout and shut off the car. With the windows open, we inhaled deeply of the crisp, pine laden air for several minutes. We were exhilirated as we drove back down the mountain to home. I was unprepared for an obligation the next day, but it is the memory of sharing this wonderful experience with her that is so much more important.

We howled with laughter so many times. Once she invited me over for lunch after church and as we were waiting for dinner to heat up in the oven, she complained that the oven door didn't shut very tightly. Seeing a latch under the door handle, I shoved it to the right until the oven door was snugly closed. "See?" I had proudly said. She was horrified. I had just started the self-cleaning feature of the oven which locked it, preventing us from taking out the food, whilst the temperature soared up to 500 degrees. And yet, the caserole and Boston Cream Pie survived it all. We laughed about that for days.

Betty was the eternal optimist. Even though she had struggled with many things during her lifetime, she had never given in or given up. Some people thought she was quirky, but I loved her. Since my own mother is quite negative, it was medicinal for me to be with her.
While I loved my mother, Betty was able to do things and provide for me emotionally in ways that I could not get from Mother. The many shopping trips we took, the laughter, the way she listened to me and cheered me on, the warmth and kindness in her generosity--all of these things were incredibly helpful to me.

I know that Betty is sleeping until the resurrection morning, and I am glad. Her life had become very limited, living in a board and care facility for the last few years. Her speech was garbled almost beyond understanding, and she was starting to experience minor confusion at times. But she always loved my phone calls and an 11 x 14 photo of me hung right over her bed. I know I was loved and as I examine my attitudes and feelings about many things in life, I "bump into" her influence. She was really a gift from God and I am so grateful that I have loved her and been loved by her.

Good night, Betty. Thank you for who you were and what you did for me. I'll see you in the morning, my dear, dear friend.

Wood Floors

We have wanted to put laminate flooring throughout the house for a very long time. This vacation provided just the opportunity to do that. So here you see Sam after he's placed the moisture barrier/underlayment down on the cement livingroom floor. This is the phase of work after the carpet and padding comes out (and after the flooring is leveled).

It goes in pretty well, but that right arm of mine got awfully tired, not to mention my knees.

This is what I was able to do in about six hours. I will definitely not give up my day job yet!

It's looking pretty good now. Just have to put in the baseboards, which we tore out so we could install 4-inch molding. Can't wait to get rid of the "moving look" that we've had in the house for weeks.

Hopefully, the job will get done tomorrow and my muscles can go back to normal again.

Update on the Boys

We are loving our puppies! Here is an update so you can see how they have grown and what they look like now. This is Baxter. He is such an emotional guy--whining, begging, and pleading was never so earnest nor unremitting as when he is crying. And he can really pout, just as much as he can charm and weasel his way into my heart.

Not to be outdone, Charlie often sits on my legs with his back feet on my tummy and his head resting on my ankles (yes--he is a very long dog when stretched out). Here you can see him peeking at me around my laptop screen as if to say, "Can you puh-leese pet me?!"

These boys love Mother. When she comes to visit she tries to sneak into the house before they go nuts barking and jumping all over her. She has finally gotten them settled down in this picture and true to form, Baxter looks darling and snuggly (and martyred, somehow), and Charlie is smiling as he often does.

Charlie just loves Mother. After her cataract surgery, she came to our house and collapsed on the couch for several hours. While she was asleep the boys climbed up onto her and slept with her for quite awhile. Mother slept so deeply that she didn't feel their 23 lbs (apiece) climbing onto her.

When Charlie was only a couple months old he developed an ear infection, so the vet prescribed antibiotic drops that were to be administered via syrringe twice a day. The boys love to suck on the syrringe full of water. I think they feel special, which is quite funny.

So yes, I just love my boys.

And so does Sam. Thought you'd like to see for yourself.

Therapists--IV

So how then do family therapists (MFTs) intervene with their family members? Are they always "on" and looking for something to fix? Do they ever relate to their family members as just that: relatives? Do MFTs cross boundaries that they shouldn't? Should they completely avoid being helpful if they are able to help other families with similar issues?

Here is what some MFTs had to say about this:

I was seeing 65 people (clients) a week. Now that's frightening, right there. If a therapist sees more than 30 clients per week, assuming that each session is an hour apiece, that is bordering on emotional and mental burnout. I once saw 40 clients a week while I was still an intern, before I realized the truth of the advice I had been given not to see over 20 clients weekly. But this guy--seeing 65? He'd been at this for over 40 years. I wonder though, since he called one individual, "...a little s***" Sounds like burnout to me, which is a cause of and is caused by, boundary violations.

I do offer advice...when [my husband] runs into a people problem he runs them by me and we talk about them.

... sometimes the unresolved stuff from [my wife’s family of origin] gets in our way and then I will say, “this is what’s happening”. [Quoting his wife] “Well, you know you’re therapizing”, and I’ll say, “You know, you’re right, cause it’s affecting me and I need you to do somthin about it”.

This one always makes me laugh: ...If somebody will ask me about someone who looks like they’re having a break[down] and, you know, they’ll describe to me and I’ll say, “It sounds like they’re having a break you need to call somebody.” Well, actually, if I have a relationship with that person I’ll tell them what I think. Um, if I don’t have a relationship with that person, I don’t know how they…or what it is that they are asking me for, and I’m much more apt to suggest that they try seeing somebody professionally. Before I say much, yeah…cause, I mean, people can be really weird about that and very weird people can ask you about their very weird relatives. …people can want you to diagnose their relatives; that’s one weird. People wanting you to diagnose their relatives, all the while you’re looking at them and diagnosing them and that’s weird.


Most of the therapists talked about their family members in highly discipline specific jargon: My husband has a emotional dysregulation problem. I have to be very cognitive and [not] flood his amygdala.

Like I said, I think [my brother has] got some attachment issues um, and some beliefs, some core beliefs about himself that he really needs to take a look at.

This one is a classic: My seventeen-year-old daughter was ADHD, very strong willed, and so I did the behavioral chips system with her and she came home and was really upset and misunderstanding, thinking about that she was going to drive the [family car], my husband saying that she was not. She ...just totally threw a fit, and hated us and ran upstairs to her bedroom, and she was going to have her boyfriend taker her and run away. So I talked my husband into letting me handle it. He came in with me and sat down next to me, as she sat there and said what horrible parents we were and how we didn’t understand her, we didn’t care… So, I said, “So, what you’re saying is that you think we’re horrible parents, we don’t understand, we don’t care” [Start to laugh again]. She just went on and on, I just kept validating and, not agreeing, but feeding back where she was coming from. He watched her just calm down right in front of me, and ever since then he’s really started using the technique himself…

So perhaps there are times when it is helpful to be a therapist when interacting with some family members. Clearly, there are those who abuse the trust family members put in them, expecting that they will be regular type relatives who relate to them in ways that are typical of family members.

Therapy is an interesting business. Being a therapist is even more interesting. Thought you'd be interested to see what people other than me have to say about it all.

Therapists III

How do family members relate to their therapist sibling, child, mother, or father? The MFTs had some interesting observations about this and identified at least four patterns of behavior that they had experienced:
1. Silencing. One woman stated, It’s okay if [husband] wants to make observations about people, but if I do, I’m therapizing!
The family turns to me in crisis to sort things out, but they also keep secrets [from me] because I’m a truth teller . . . It matters to me to find the truth . . . they would probably say I’m the problem maker because I’m the one that points out things that nobody wants to hear… This therapist had watched her family go through some very difficult times around the event of their mother's suspicious death while in the care of one of her siblings. The therapist asked questions that no one was willing to answer. As a result, she was shut out and only given a guest pass to family membership. While this example is a more extreme family situation, other therapists reported the same kind of experiences. It seems to be a way that family members maintain some type of control over the unknown of the MFTs contributions to the family. This feels very odd, but it is a common dilemma.
2. Some therapists pointed out that their family members did not understand the legal and ethical issues that undergirded their therapeutic practice. Various family and friends expected that the therapist was "on" at all times and would provide therapy services for anyonee--particularly their friends and neighbors. …my husband…said “Come [to the house] and talk [to my MFT wife], if you want to talk about this.” And I said, “You know, I can’t do that because… that puts me one step closer to an unethical position.” It's an honest mistake on the part of our loved ones and a common situation that most of us have experienced.
3. Several of the therapists reported that their family members were interested in learning more about their insights and the theoretical underpinnings of their professional opinions. Once they began to understand these things, the family members began to apply them to relationships in their circle of friends and ask for the MFTs input: [My husband] will spend hours talking with me about this family or, or my family’s similarities or differences and that kind of thing...”
Other family members took an interest in the general psychological areas of study that the MFTs had; began their own study and then felt that they understood more of human nature and clinical issues than the MFT: I had a brother-in-law, my husband’s brother, who [laughs a little to herself] ...um, he’s always floundering about--in telling about the books that he’s read, and the “great insights” that he has had. Many of them are some “pop” psychology, without a lot of footage. As far as he’s concerned... I’ve never heard any remarks out of his mouth that I might know anything... Because popular psychology, Oprah and Dr. Phil shows are the extent of many people's psychological/relational education, it is hard to know whether citing these are a way to engage with MFTs whose work family members often don't understand, or if they feel that what is viewed on TV is all there is to family therapy. Many people seem to believe the latter.
4. Unhappiness about how the MFT engages with the family. One woman related how her fmaily asked her to be part of a family process for their alcoholic relative: Well, the whole family is going out for dad’s intervention meeting or whatever, and it would sure be nice if you could be there so that you could help us along.” I said, “Well, I’ll be there if you want me to, but I’m not helping anybody along. This is his treatment. These are the people that he’s working with; it’s not me.” It didn’t please a lot of them. Most of them have kind of, um, [Long pause]. I’m a little beyond tolerated, but I’m sort of the-I didn’t quite do what they thought I should have and there’s a lot of them that haven’t totally let go of that. Basically, I’m tolerated. No, it’s more than tolerated, but it’s not like… it’s okay for me to be not in the inner circle. The result of that has been that my husband isn’t in the inner circle like he used to be either.
Another MFT described what she thought was just a conversation that turned out to have been perceived as much more than that: We had a discussion one time about [his brother’s wife’s dysfunctional family that impacted brother’s marriage] cause she brought it up, and she has never liked me since and tried to keep my brother from connecting with me, and that was a real painful one.
An MFT whose extended family had a member with serious difficulty with the law made a suggestion to his father about what he would do if the family member in question was his son. He was pained by the response: and he said to me, “Well, doctor um, I-I understand what you’re trying to tell me”...you know, if he had said my whole name or something like that, that would have hurt me in a different way cause I would have felt like I was a twelve year old or a ten year old, but “doctor” was that then smelled of, “Your degree doesn’t matter. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You, you know, don’t have any real business of being a doctor anyway, and here you go riding in on your moral high ground, telling me what to do”, ...I felt really undercut. I felt deskilled, and I felt that he was going right for-right for the heart.

It is probably unsettling at times for family members to be related to someone whom they feel can "see right through me", or who is analyzing the daylights out of them all the time. Indeed, there are MFTs who do these things and who don't know how to turn off the therapeutic/analytical brain. But this is not typical of most of the people with whom I work. Newbies do this as well as those who seem to have no life of their own.

Therapists II

Everyone who goes into the helping professions seems to feel that they would like to somehow give back to the families who have supported them throughout their education. There is an unwritten law that states, "Children with expertise in various skills feel that they owe their best efforts to their family members." Realtors help their families find the best properties, physicians provide medical advice and help in numerous ways when their loved ones are hospitalized, and police officers run background checks on potential brother and sister-in-laws (even if they're not supposed to).
This is an issue of personal ethics: we take care of our own. But how are MFTs to interact with family members if the law and professional ethics dictate that we avoid bringing our professional knowledge to bear in our families? Our ethical standards state that we should not (a) unduly influence others due to our professional viewpoints, (b) have dual relationships with those with whom we have therapeutic relationships (dual relationship refers to being a friend plus a therapist), or (c) telling people what they should do in a definitive way regarding life choices. So how does a family therapist interact with their family when they reflect on these ethical standards, yet feel the pull of their personal ethics that urges them to offer therapeutic help?

Some MFTs lean toward the professional ethical stance and exercise great care in the way they interact with their relatives:
“…from day one I’ve said, “No families, no friends,” and that’s how I’ve put it to [my family]. They’ve gotten to the point where none of them have asked anything of me for years in that way.”

“I think that people who analyze…or therapize, it gives them a sense of superiority, so it’s just “No!””

On the other end of the spectrum, those who are very concerned about the wellbeing of their family members had found ways to address their concerns without becoming their therapists:

“I can speak to woundedness… without doing therapy… not to be their therapist.”

“It’s not that I won’t do anything. I’ll say, based on my judgment, you need to deal with whatever burden you’re carrying…with a different person, and I’ll give you a list of names.”
These MFTs were able to flexibly interact with their family members without ignoring their dilemmas and without becoming their therapists. Yet they utilized their skills and knowledge to at least identify problems or attend to their loved ones by urging them to get help from someone else.

Another interesting dichotomy emerged from my analysis: MFTs either identified themselves first and foremost as a therapist, while others identified themselves as members of a family or community who just happened to be a therapist. They reflected on the surprise of others who seem to think that a therapist's experience is somehow different from everyone else's, and that because of this, their behavior should be of a particular insighftul and well-modulated character:

“My kids had mean parents instead of always understanding and perfectly appropriate parents. …[They’re] not going to be forever damaged somehow because I acted like a human being. “
“It’s okay if [my husband] wants to make observations about people, but if I do, I’m therapizing! I…get angry…and respond to him in a very human way, and he’ll say, “And you’re a therapist?!””
Therapists had a wide variety of responses to family members who held high expectations for their behavior and criticized them when they didn't meet these expectations.

MFTs whose identity as therapist seemed to loom large on the horizon for them and they seemed unable to move away from this identity. Rather, their family conceptualizations and interactions were described in theoretical and clinical terms. They seemed proud that they could somehow practice their art with family members:

:I think my own knowledge gives me a real peace with my own family…that I can look at them and know which ones to leave alone and which ones to work on them, with them.”

“…my brother [said], “We’ve been seeing a therapist and you did more in three days than he’s done in the last year.” that’s why I feel good about what I’m doing…this is a very collaborative process consultation.”

This latter statement was shared whilst the speaker crossed her eyes at me to emphasize key points she was making. I was utterly taken aback. I hope she doesn't do that with her clients!

Amd so my analysis continued on. I'll say more about it in the next post.

Therapists I

How do family therapists negotiate their relationships with their own families?
What do family therapists do when their families ask for professional opinions, or when they see their family members make choices or manifest behaviors that will probably have negative repercussions? How do family therapists figure out how to respond to family requests for professional opinions or therapeutic advice, even though the law in every state stipulates that therapists do not maintain dual relationships (ie., provide therapy to people with whom they have friendships or to whom they are related)?
These are questions that I have had for a long time and that I tried to find answers for through research interviews. In order to get these answers, I interviewed 15 practicing family therapists and analyzed their responses. The results came together in the most interesting ways.
In order to come to an understanding of the way that therapists negotiate their family requests, all of the interviews were recorded and transcribed. Themes that were recurring were coded and subthemes were identified. I'll explain what I found by quoting the research participants. Their comments illustrate the major findings from the study and I will explain these over the next couple posts. A word that came up over and over in the participants' remarks was Therapize so I named my developing research article, Don't Therapize Me! Family Therapists as Family Members. Here is what I found:
Marriage and family therapists (MFTs) reported distinct ways that they responded to family requests for professional input.
1. Some therapists gave overt advice to their family members and friends:

“I find that my family comes to me with a lot of questions…I’ve been able to help with a diagnosis or two. A lot of the interventions that we use with our children are…kind of strategic" (strategic family therapy--a clearly delineated approach).

“There are times when [my wife] really does need some direction from me. I’ll just take over, and now... "I’m not your son or your husband. I’m…in charge here, so let’s do this.”"
“[my sister] called me for some just brotherly advice, which really became professional advice from a brotherly person.”

These MFTs didn't appear to think twice about giving professional opinions regardless of the law or professional ethics. Compare this with the individuals who opted to give covert advice to family and friends:

“I mean, there are some little things I’ll do but …people won’t know that I’m “doin’ them” therapeutically.” (This gave me the creeps!)

“I’m not nearly as obvious that I’m therapizing” with reflective listening. I’m a little more covert, when I’m parenting or rephrasing…When I’m therapizing I’m probably not as verbal, …and in regular conversation I have a tendency—I can interrupt sometimes.”

“We might give a book that we found so helpful.”

So obviously, therapists in this group decided that they should give some help to family members but didn't feel right doing it outright. Perhaps they were "just being helpful" vs. "therapizing." That certainly seemed to be what they thought they were doing.

Then we have individuals who flatly refused to provide any insight, advice, or discussion about issues that might provide useful to family members or friends:


“I could save my kids some grief and heartache probably by directing them in a different way, but I don’t do that.“

“ …I am a firm believer from doing years of therapy that … it’s more damaging to try to help them when they don’t want to be helped. So you just have to figure out how to live with the pain, which is a lot of what life is: figuring out how to live with the pain.” This last comment was particularly poignant and the man's gaze lingered on me for a long time. "You know what I mean, don't you?" he asked.

The fourth group of therapists were your everyday people whose relational style with their family members was without therapeutic overlay. Their focus was on just playing the role of a brother, sister, mother, or father:

“I would say, as your brother who loves you and is concerned about you, do you know what you’re doing?”

“So my children…sometimes ask me what I think about things…I have to keep it simple and only talk about what they ask. If I give my reasoning process or what I think is the background on the issue, it’s “Ma, you’re therapizing!”” This latter form of relating to family strikes me as the more healthy and the least disruptive for everyone involved, regardless of the way the therapists think or the insight they have.

Are therapists able to turn off their brain and just be average people? I'll talk more about this in the next post.

God's Annointing

Yesterday evening we held an annointing service for Olga. I was taken aback when I saw her waiting outside the church office. Her belly is enormous--full of fluid that has collected because her liver is no longer able to function and her blood protein is therefore seriously depleted. She is beginning to look a bit jaundiced and she was breathing hard. I believe that her heart has become fibrous as well as her liver, since she has all the symptoms of heart failure. Her legs are enormous: fluid backed up that her heart can't pump through her body. But she has faith that she will survive.
In speaking with her and hearing how gravely ill she has been, I asked her if she had considered being annointed. The book of James (in the Bible) indicates that anyone who is sick should call together the elders of the church and be annointed with oil in the name of the Lord. "And the prayer of faith shall raise up the sick and they shall be healed." And their sins will be forgiven them. Olga had not considered this before, but four hours before I suggested it, her choir chaplain had spoken to her at length about it.
For days I have been reduced to tears when I think of Olga, struggling along, so sick, wishing she can live to see her grandchild grow. Her life has been one long continuous series of brick walls that she has slowly ambled over or around, at great cost to herself. But she has never become hopeless, skeptical, or ill-natured. Olga's persona has been one of optimism, hope, cheerfulness, and kindness. I have been deeply impacted by her. So just the thought of her dying has been very hard to consider. And yet just to look at her one can see that her health is almost completely gone.
I have prayed for her recovery and for her peace of heart for many weeks now. As she suffers on, trying to negotiate a healthcare network that has a reputation for running patients around in circles and in general, being inefficient and more interested in cost than patients, I have been impressed at how she has pressed for what she needs. Olga has spent hours on the internet researching her condition, her medications, and the latest studies on treatment. Her doctors just look at her when she asks for changes in dosages or for various tests. "Everything about them says to me, "You're going to die, so why do we need to do this?"" she tells me. So Olga has been praying about how she should take care of herself. She tells me that she often wakes up in the morning thinking about a particular herb or vegetable that she should eat more of. In researching these items, she finds that they have medicinal qualities, and inevitably, she is greatly helped by eating them. For example, she was waking up covered in blood from nosebleeds--a common endstage symptom of liver disease. Her platelets had dropped to the point where she could bleed to death. But she felt impressed to start taking honey and something she calls Propoli--bee pollen. Within a week all her bleeding stopped and her platelets had improved dramatically on her weekly blood draw. Additionally, after taking a particular herb tea, she could breathe easier and she was able to eat three meals in a day--something she hadn't been able to do before due to belly pain and a sense of fullness.

We met at the church yesterday at 4:00. There were 10 of us all together, all of whom shared with her how much she means to us, as a way to affirm and encourage her. Then we discussed what it means to be annointed with oil: it is a sign that we believe God can heal her, and that the Holy Spirit is present to heal physically, spiritually, emotionally, or in all these ways. God invites us to do this in James 5, so we can come boldly to God in faith, asking that He will heal Olga in whatever way He deems best. By looking at her it is clear that she will die within a short time without God's healing. And it might be that He will allow her to die rather than to live. But we have presented her to God by faith and have asked fervently that she will be healed--if this is God's will.

It seemed to be a very affirming and hopeful time for Olga. She tells me that she feels a flood of peace at least twice a day. "I feel that everything is going to be okay, and that i am going to be okay," she says. She told me that she once had a very vivid dream soon after she was diagnosed with Hepatitis C. In this dream she was given the news that she had this dreaded disease. She looked straight into the face of the person who gave the news and said she was going to fight this and that she felt that she could. Olga said that she felt someone else was standing by when she said this and that she couldn't be sure but that it was a heavenly person: an angel or God. When she said she was going to fight the illness she said she felt the immediate and very strong sense of approval from this person in her dream. This seemed to her to mean that she would be able to overcome the disease. Her faith has not flagged since then.

I know God can heal people miraculously, and it is my fervent hope that He will do this for Olga. Over the years I have worked in ICU as a nurse, I have also seen many people with strong faith that they will survive, die. From a human standpoint, her case is hopeless. But we do not know what God's will is for her life. He didn't choose to heal her outright yesterday. Perhaps her condition will improve slowly until she is back to normal health. There is some indication that God does this at times. For this, I pray.

So i am awake at 3:30 this morning, thinking what I might do were I the one dying. To whom would I send letters and what would I say? (I woke up dreaming this). I am also glad that Jesus said that if we have faith as big as a grain of mustard seed, He will cause great things to occur. I know that I have at least that much faith--faith enough to allow her to die or to survive. The annointing service was extremely difficult for me to participate in. I cried through the entire hour and a half experience. Olga's two sons were there, and although both have seemed to have lost an appreciation for God, both prayed and joined in with the service. I know Olga would happily die if her death could be the means of bringing her sons closer to God. I am continuing to pray for Olga day and night. If she is to die, we will bring her to live with us for her last days and give her a dignified death. if she is to live, my life will be incredibly impacted by this manifestation of God's power and grace. It is hard sometimes to allow God to have the last word when we want something so badly. But I am grateful that He invites us still, to ask Him for what we need and for what will be the best witness for Him. Please pray for Olga.

Wrestling with God

Tonight I had a long conversation with my friend, Olga. As I've posted before, she is dying of liver disease. I learned tonight that her kidneys are starting to shut down and she is producing dark brown urine in small amounts. She is blowing up like a balloon, however. Her legs are puffy and numb clear up past her knees. How she has been able to maintain her faculties in the face of what she has had to endure is beyond me.
Olga tells me that she had five liters of fluid taken off her abdomen last week. Apparently, she was having trouble breathing with all that acites. She wonders why the doctor hasn't tapped both sides of her abdomen because she feels that something is terribly wrong with the left side of her belly: it growls and squeals. Sometimes it looks like she is pregnant and a baby is kicking her, so violent is the movement emanating from her. It has been this way for four years.
The doctor says she has severe, advanced cirrhosis that results from the Hepatitis C that she contracted as an infant after a transfusion. She almost died then, but for some reason she has been able to survive.
She survived a painful young life taking care of a hypochondriac mother since the age of 13.
She survived an emotionally and verbally violent relationship for 20 years.
She survived a divorce that left her completely broken.
She survived graduate school and the loans that came with it.
She survived motherhood of three children who now will hardly talk to her.
She survived being let go from her church responsibilities because her presence (as a woman who divorced her husband) was too much drama for the church.
She survived her credit being completely destroyed by her husband before he left her.
All of this, she survived in the hope that she would one day have someone who loved her, someone whose "shoulder I can lay my head on when I'm dying."
But she has almost nothing, her sons are overwhelmed by her illness, and there is no one to lean except a few of us from church.
I suppose I have been hit rather hard by the responsibility that I have as a friend, to stand by her in a most unfixable situation. She is in end-stage liver failure, and her kidneys are starting to shut down as well. She doesn't want a transplant because she doesn't have anyone to care for her--a requirement in order to get a transplant. Olga knows that she will have to take immunosuppressants for the rest of her life to avoid organ rejection, and that this will also make her body a fertile breeding ground for the Hepatitis virus inside of her. So how long will she live post-transplant? Will it be worth it?
Meanwhile, she comes up short at least $700/month, but can't get out of her lease until June. She can barely keep her two part-time jobs, what with her legs and all her recent trips to the Emergency Room.
We are poised to take her in when she needs to come. We can give her a quiet place to live out her last months, or to recover from a transplant. She can relax here without financial concerns, hold our puppies, nap with the cat, and abandon her cares. And we have shoulders for her to lay her head on when she is dying.
It breaks my heart.
I asked Olga tonight if she has ever considered being annointed according to the Biblical injunction in James 5. She recently spoke with a pastor about it at length and they prayed together. During the prayer she said she had an "unexpected experience." She had a vivid image come to mind of her walking to a door and seeing a room full of very bright light, and people were seated at a table having a wonderful meal. She could not get herself to go inside, yet she felt drawn to the door. Is it because she feels that she is going to beat this thing? Possibly. In fact, Olga reports that several times during the day she feels a wave of peace and hope that everything is going to be okay.
Olga doesn't know what this vivid image means, but she feels that she doesn't deserve anything just for her that is as good as what she saw. She asked that she have one more week to think about being annointed so she can pray about it and consider what that would mean for her. I encouraged her to take some time (but not too long) to prepare for this. It is my prayer that God will see fit to bring some kind of healing to her. If not physical healing, then spiritual healing, peace, and readiness for whatever lies ahead.
It leaves me with a very heavy heart, knowing how gravely ill my friend is. But mostly, knowing the level of emotional suffering and how unfulfilled her hopes have been. It is very hard to live in the not-knowingness of an unfixable situation. She has been living with it for most of her life, and I am just coming into it.
Please, if you have any extra prayers, remember Olga. She is in great need in just about every way.

And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding,

will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Phillipians 4:7

Charlie

Yes, this is Charlie offering his bandana to me, hoping I will want to play with him. He often runs around the house with one toy or another in his mouth. When I ask him if he wants to go out to potty, he scoops up a toy and runs to the door, carrying it out while he squats in the grass. I wonder what his toys mean to him. I don' t know, but he is cuter than cute.
We noticed that he had an eye infection last weekend, so as of Monday we are having to instill ointment in his eye and drops in both ears. He acts like we are murdering him: crying, pushing against us with his front feet, looking fearfully at us. At least, that is how he was the first day. Now he just runs into his kennel and tries to hide until Sam hauls him out and sits down in the recliner with him "in position." I descend on him, sweet-talking the whole time as I put the ointment in his eye. That is usually not a big deal. It's the ear drops that he hates. After one set of drops goes in, Sam carefully rubs his ear to work the drops down into the canal. Then Charlie gets rotated to the other side for the next set of ear drops. He'll whine and press into Sam's chest, trying to get away from me. But he never snaps or growls. Then he wags his little tail weakly while I get him a "cookie."
He's never angry at us, never spiteful about what we have done to him. Contrary to how a human would react, Charlie leaps with excitement the moment he hears us coming down the stairs in the morning. We get wet kisses and cheerful barking as soon as we get within range.

God, make me like our puppies--who takes what is given with only a short whine, and never retaliation!

Goings On

Baxter

Since we got our puppies our whole world has become less tidy, less predictable, and exponentially more noisy. I expect that once we are past puppyhood, life will be at a new, more dignified level. But for now we have writhing, growling, cat-chasing, yipping and yapping, punctuated by heart wrenching whines and crying. How can this be possible?

Why is it that every time I open the gate going into the kitchen, I have four little feet up on my leg and pleading faces begging for immediate attention? (They are learning what Down! means, btw). Why is it that when I'm cooking at the stove I will suddenly see two furry little grey feet up on the oven door handle, and there is a little body stretched up as high as it can go to see what is on the stove? Why is it that when I let them out to pee, that they do their business and then continue working on the tunnel to China that they have out in front of the lemon tree? And what could possibly make them think that the livingroom carpet is the place to pee rather than the grass outside?

What possibly could be so entertaining as to dig under my legs (when I'm sitting on the floor) and whine and yip at each other underneath my knees? It is a most hilarious sight--both of them wild-eyed, mouthing each other, showing their teeth and whining for all their worth.

Why must Charlie scoot across the floor on his bottom right in front of company? (and no, he most assuredly does not have worms!)

Today I took the boys up the hill for a walk. We've been taking them both at the same time, which is an exercise in upper body strengthening in itself. Both pull at their lead and me alternating a good firm jerk on the lead and a strong "Wait!" followed by a "Good Wait!" all the way up the hill. They are doing better. The problem though, when you have two dogs is that they attune to each other and not the humans. So they are eyeing each other on the walk and almost completely ignore me. A good jerk on the collar brings them back to their senses and they might look up at me. Or, they sit down immediately. On the way back down the hill, Baxter took off like a shot. He's so fat and short-legged that he seldom is out in front. But here he was, running along, close to the ground. I gave him a good jerk on the collar with the repetitious, "Wait!" and the collar snapped off and fell to the ground. Flimsy little thing. Off Baxter shot, out into the street, as fast as he could go, with Charlie pulling to run after him. I was frantic. He wouldn't come back to me and there he was, buggety-buggety-bug, pell mell across the street and then circles right in the middle of the street. We came to a stop on the sidewalk and I crouched down like I had a treat. He rushed over to me and was had. Whew. Baxter didn't seem to mind being carried all the way home, like a little prince. He nestled all 18 lbs. into my arm and looked over at me like I was his lackey.

This afternoon he got a one-inch wide, bright blue collar. Charlie got a new black collar. They'll not be pulling out of those anytime soon.

Charlie with Brianna

We also have some very exciting moments in regards to Otis and the boys. For some reason, they just love him, but they get so excited about him that they bark and he shoots off across whatever is closest, just to get away from the noise. For the first two months Otis was rather depressed and stayed upstairs on our bed most of the day. Slowly, he has been coming downstairs and now he is actually sleeping on the couch in the den where the savage-breathed, licking, disgusting dogs plague him every now and again with a leap up next to him. I'm not sure why they want to stand on top of him and lick him, but he likes that like a death sentence. I'm not at all worried that they'll hurt him, but they are a bit rough at times. When that happens, Otis will reach forward and grab the shocked dog on either side of the face and grimace at him. The puppy will be so stunned that Otis immediately has the upper hand. They stop their foolishness and sit down. But as soon as Otis walks off, they nose him in the bottom as a parting shot and his dignity askew, he leaps over the back of the couch.

Last evening I decided that they needed baths. It has been raining here for a week and between the wet grass and their tunneling activities, they were a mess. They have not yet been allowed upstairs, so just bringing them upstairs to my bathtub frightened them. I did one at a time, needless to say. They'd cling to me and look miserable. When they saw the bathtub they allowed themselves to be put in it but they looked so awful and bedraggled. Afterward, they loved when I wrapped them in a couple towels and ran them downstairs to dry them off on my lap. It was a case of traumatic bonding for us, I'm sure. There was whining and Baxter looking up at me through his long eyelashes with a pained expression. How can you do this to me? Today they are bouncing around and driving Sam to distraction with their sparring, humping, and chewing of everything. They are babies still--just five months and a week old. Very sweet and I wouldn't trade them for anything. We are sleeping through the night now, and they are somewhat responsive. Otis is beginning to relax a bit. Life is on track once again. But I look forward to them being adults!

Home Improvements

Found here

This is the flooring that I have been installing in our upstairs bedrooms. Last night the last room got finished up. It is really nice laminate flooring and everything looks very different now that it is installed. All that is left is to finish putting the quarter round all the way around the baseboard to finish it off and to cover the gap between the wall and the flooring.

There is definitely an art to installing this kind of floor. I think I've finally got the knack of it because the last bedroom--our room--went in very fast. Now the living room-dining room needs to be done and all new baseboard needs to be installed. We are paying someone to come out and install the wood on the stairs and upstairs landing. That would be just too much for me to try to do. Then after they tell me how much space I need to leave them for the stair installation, I'll do the downstairs.

I think I've saved us about $10,000 installing this myself. In the process, I've been able to buy a couple nifty saws and get much better using a coping saw. I've learned how to install baseboard and quarter round. My right arm feels pretty strong now from hammering it all into place with a rubber mallet. The instructions say to "tap it in place." My eye. I have had to whack it into place almost without fail, for three bedrooms.

So this project is halfway completed now. I wish it could all be done at one time, but for now, I am content with it. Last night we stood at one end of our bedroom and looked across the length of it. We could hardly recognize our own room. The floor is shiny and feels very solid under foot.If we're wearing socks we can run and slide for several feet. I just hope not to do that in the middle of the night. For now, it is a good feeling to be halfway done.

An average day

School has started at last. We are in the fourth week of classes and have already gotten well acquainted with my students. It has been a good beginning.
Today a student came by to ask about an assignment and I felt impressed to take her to lunch at the hospital cafeteria. She was thrilled. So we wandered off up the hill to the hospital and got our food, returned to my office, and chatted as we ate.
You can learn a lot about people when you eat with them, and when you take the time to talk to them. She laughed, told me about her many tears the first couple weeks of classes, and that she is finally optimistic that she can do the work. This student went to the same college that I attended as a kid, so I have tried to look out for her. When she was ready to leave for her statistics class I asked if I could pray for her. She was very happy that I did.

We had a statewide earthquake disaster drill today. It actually reminded me of the drills we used to have as school aged children during the Cold War: get under the desk--as if that would protect us from a nuclear blast! As I was teaching, an administrator came by and reminded me from the hall that it was time to "Duck, cover and hold." As everyone slid down under the long tables at which they were seated, my Canadian student looked from one person to the next, trying to figure out what was happening. She has never been in an earthquake before, so of course, the students who have experienced earthquakes took great delight in regaling her with the horrible sights and sounds when there is a major earthquake. She later told me that she expected to be on the first plane to Canada if we have a quake any time soon. Knock on wood...

That was in my four-hour morning research class. I have tried to get out of teaching it every year since it was assigned to me, but to no avail. The faculty like how I teach it but they have no idea of the amount of anxiety that it creates for me. I suppose that I need to just relax and settle into the coursework. I know a lot more about research than I think I do, but with the workload that I carry, I feel like I'm winging it most of the time. We'll see how the course evaluations come out at the end of the quarter.
Four hours is a long class period to fill. We usually take two 10-minute breaks so people can revive themselves before the next onslaught of information. Today was the first class that just flowed along by itself: a guest speaker for 30 minutes, question and answer for 20 minutes, group activity with discussion for 40 minutes, videos and discussion for 60 minutes, and lecture for the rest of the time. That anyone learns anything in there is always a surprise to me, even though they seem engaged. I wonder if I will ever feel that I know enough to teach these classes?

One of my students and I met with a neonatologist who wants to collaborate with us to create medical simulations involving "problem families" so her physicians in training can learn how to attune to patients. The patients will be acted out by my doctoral students, who will then evaluate the physicians on how well they attuned, enlisted, and empowered them. I think this should be a wonderful experience. My student and I have created a workshop out of our simulation idea and will be presenting this at a conference in New Orleans in January.

Then I rushed back to the office and picked up my CD with two posters on it that need to be printed off. Fortunately, the printing services office was still open and they got all the particulars for the poster. They will be done by Monday morning. These are posters that are for the purpose of sharing research or conceptual information at the National Council on Family Relations in Minneapolis in two weeks. One is about how medical family therapists work with patients and families who are awaiting organ transplantation. The other is the research findings from a project I did while I lived in Washington, about how family therapists interact with their own families, given their clinical and academic expertise on family life and relationships. It is a beautiful poster, but I am so energized about the content that I have been preoccupied with it for weeks. Hopefully, I can get it ready for publication in a family therapy journal.

Another task was going to another department on campus for the dissertation proposal meeting of a student on whose committee I am serving. It was a most interesting conversation, and an even more formal, stilted setting than I've ever been in before. The student had to introduce each of us and say a few words about us--even though most of us knew each other. But since I was on "foreign" territory, I just played along. There were three of us women on the committee and one man who is the statistical expert. He obviously had more say about what was to happen than any of the rest of us, given that he spelled out how he thought everything should be done. I couldn't have disagreed more and let him know, as diplomatically as possible, that there were more efficient and theoretically sound ways to obtain the findings that the student sought. That energized the other women and threw the conversation into a fury of idea generation. When I left an hour and a half later, the statistician had his shorts in a wad, the student was fearful that I was pulling out of her committee, the third committee member had left the room in a dour mood, and the Chair of the committee was trying to maintain some control of the enthusiastic suggestions that we made, talking over one another.
Well, they asked me for my expertise and I gave it. The research idea was one of the more cockeyed ideas I've heard in awhile. It just wasn't popular to point that out. But if I didn't (and I emphasize here, there were no ill feelings toward me in my words--I just upset their way of doing things), the student would produce a useless study and an awful dissertation.

So here I sit on the couch, having graded this week's batch of research papers. Students were told that they have to "position" themselves in terms of their own biases and life experiences that influence their objectivity in research. Ten out of sixteen students nailed it. Six were absolutely clueless and wrote these rambling stream-of-consciousness reflections that were not even close to what was required. Where were they when I explained and explained and explained this in class? I'm not sure.

School is in session. I love what I do. There is never a dull moment, and I so enjoy all that I get to do here. Never take your job for granted. Some people work very hard at jobs they hate, and they do it for 40 years. I am one of the lucky ones.

Good Night, Jack

Last week my friend, Jack had a stroke. I made him cookies the week before and when I went to see him, he wasn't there. So I took the cookies to work instead and saw that they got eaten. Jack had actually fallen that week and had lain on the floor for over 24 hours. He was paralyzed over half of his body and had some difficulty speaking. I went over to the hospital to see him a couple days after he was admitted, but he was asleep. He was very still and breathing ever so quietly, his chest barely moving. It didn't seem right to awaken him. At 96 years of age he had earned the right to sleep how and when he wanted, especially after having a stroke. So I left him a note to let him know that I was there, and that I'd be looking in on him another time.

Jack was discharged later that day to a nursing home in town. The social worker called to let me know where he was, given that I hold his medical power of attorney. Knowing that Jack was doing well enough to be discharged was encouraging. It was several days before I got to visit him in the nursing home.

When his wife was dying I promised her that I'd take care of Jack, so I wanted to go see him. That called for another batch of goodies. I made him a plate of brownies, picked up a potted miniature pink rose bush, and headed over to the care center. Jack was asleep in the bed. I looked at him for a long time. I don't think I'd ever seen him without his glasses before, and his left arm was all black and blue, sticking out from under the covers. He was sleeping soundly. I left the brownies, roses, and a card for him. "You're in my thoughts and prayers, Jack," the card said. I left without getting to see him.

Jack fell asleep for the last time two days later. I still had not gotten to see him. I can only hope that he realized that I had been there. We burried him today. He had no children, only his sister's niece and two great-nephews. I had met them at Etta's funeral service a year and a half before. They were very gracious today. Apparently, Jack had written his own eulogy, planned his funeral, and requested that I sing the same song that I'd sung at Etta's graveside service: "The Beautiful Hills" from the old Christ in Song hymn book.

I have said before that the closest I feel to God and the most comforted I feel is at an Adventist funeral service. It is always such a powerful reminder that the work of living is done, and these dear old souls await the resurrection. Jack told his pastor the day before he died that he was ready to die and looking forward to seeing the face of Jesus. He had not a shred of hesitation--he was ready and eager to see God and his beloved Etta once again. It is not surprising. He worked for our church for 41 years, going wherever he was asked, moving every few years, taking on responsibilities that required tremendous effort and steadfastness.

He sacrificed a great deal, as did Etta, given the numerous responsibilities he's had for so long. And yet, he was kind and gracious to everyone he met. All the bank tellers knew him as being a sweet, gentle old man. He and Etta very generously gave me a beautiful crystal bowl, a Cuisinart hand mixer, and a Cuisinart food processor one year. I was shocked! All I'd done for them was stop by and visit them or take them soup, bread, or cookies from time to time. It must have meant a lot to them, but those gifts were totally unexpected and certainly not deserved.

Jack was one of those saintly men from a generation where people believed in steadfastness, sacrifice, and integrity. He sacrificed more than I, in my generation, have ever been called upon to give. Our generation is all about getting beautiful houses, having the most fulfilling jobs, and taking vacations. His generation was about work, perserverence, and contributing to something larger--the church and the good of society. Jack and Etta contributed huge amounts of money to the church, our university, and hospital, among other entities. He didn't think twice about it. All he had belonged to God and Jack merely returned it as needed.

So now the tired old saint sleeps and waits the trumpets of the resurrection morning. Good night, Jack. You will be dearly missed.

Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints.

Musings

It seems that my creativity has completely dried up.
The last month has been a nice change from the rushing back and forth from the office, and it put an end to my 16 hour days, at least 12 hours of which I worked. Sam was laid off on the first day of my "vacation" and that made for an unusual time off experience for me.
He has been looking daily at numerous job websites and establishments that post jobs. There is really very little to be had out there, so it means a lot of work for very little response. But I have been happy to have him with me for this last month. I may have gone crazy with these puppies had I been 100% responsible for them, day in and day out.
Because we have young dogs who can't travel yet, we couldn't go away this last month. Therefore it really hasn't felt likc much of a holiday. We have however, been able to watch them grow, to train them to some degree, and to have the luxury of sitting on the floor and holding them every morning. They have a very strong bond to us, even if they are naughty sometimes (like the other night when they started chewing on the couch. Sam was apoplectic!)
We've been getting up in the night with them at least once, usually twice, so they can relieve themselves outside. They are getting better as they get older and more continent, for which I'm thankful. But I am extremely tired due to sleeping lightly at night so I'll hear them, or that they usually wake up in the morning around 5:30.
Meanwhile, Otis has lost weight and become a bit more to himself. I suppose he has had to withdraw some, just for his own sanity. He does sleep with us at night though--the one time he has us all to himself. We're keeping an eye on him to be sure he's okay. He's eating well now, but after we got the puppies, he didn't want to eat much of anything. He doesn't own the whole house any more. Just everything but the den and kitchen. Baxter and Charlie have a sense of ownership for that space and go nose to nose with him if he drinks from their water dish or sniffs their food. Even a pass through the room by Otis causes great excitement, barking, and hurling themselves at him. Of course, that goes over like a rubber crutch.
But now I'm back at work and supposed to be productive, cranking out the work. I just want to go up to a mountain cabin, curl in a ball under a down comforter, and sleep for several days.

It has been nice to see a few of the students and some of my colleagues again--that's all that are on campus just now since school doesn't start until September 27th. I've been holed up in my office, trying to get an application for a post-master's certificate written. It has to go through the administrative committee hoops on the 22nd, so this document needs to be comprehensive and thorough. It is like writing a dissertation, I'm finding. I'm already up to about 60 pages. I never knew I could say so much about the topic, or about accreditation issues, etc.

There are syllabi to construct and a course to put online. I have to start going back up into the hospital to make rounds with my students; and to the outlying clinics where they work (under my license). So that will be more to do.

When I get home, it is always nice to see what Sam has been doing. Yesterday, he had my car serviced, done some shopping, and got all of our packages and mail sent out. What a relief! We've made a deal that since he doesn't like laying the new flooring, he will carry in the big cartons of wood to the space where I'll be working, tear up the carpet and padding and remove it, and then clean the floors once they are in. That suits me well, since putting in the floor is much like making a quilt: a good activity to do at one's own speed whilst reflecting on life. I now have two rooms done, with the exception of half of one closet. This weekend we will get started on our bedroom upstairs. We are finding that wood floors make everything look much more spacious. Our livingroom and dining area should look enormous. We will hire someone to do the stairs and upstairs hall-landing area. I enjoy saying I can do this myself, but this is not an endurance contest, and that will be a really complicated space to do. I'd rather not, thank you.

So as I ponder my utter lack of creativity right now, it may be obvious to the reader, but only slowing dawning on me, that there are so many things to manage right now that creativity has gone on hiatus for the time being. Everywhere I look there is something that needs to be done. When I was single, I ordered my life and household so that there wouldn't be all of these unfinished tasks plus a list of things to do in the future. But now that I share my life with others and have more responsibilities, it's a hard lesson to learn that being compulsive about everything simply doesn't pay.

I passed up a job offer that pays twice what I am paid now, and that would put me in an esteemed school of medicine as director of a collaborative care training program. I recommended one of my recent graduates whom I have been grooming for this kind of work for three years now. He has had three interviews with them thus far, and will have an on site formal interview next week. He is thrilled and so am I. I really didn't want to leave here, since this is a dream job and I hold strong convictions that I belong here.

Even so, there are some steps that I've taken at work to try to improve my working conditions, since people here get worked to death (just as I heard on the street when I interviewed here!): I've asked for a raise at work. I've asked for an assistant who can supervise my interns out in the field. That right there will save me about 10 hours per week. I've asked for a couple grad assistants who will work with me to get things done for my classes and to keep my office paperwork filed, etc. And I've told my boss that I do love him dearly, but I will never work for him as hard as I did last year. Especially since I don't go home with him at night. He laughed and seemed tickled by that, "Give me that ultimatum, Barbara!" he challenged.
I'm planning to work at home--to have a writing day--once per week. Every Friday I will stay home as often as possible. I will also have one clinical day: Tuesday. The other days will be "Run sheep, run!" kind of days.

So as I sit here on the couch in my PJs, my babies curled around my feet on their blanket, Otis on the back of the couch out of their reach, purring, I am lead to think that perhaps this is as good as it will get for awhile. I am not unhappy particularly, just consumed with everything going on at present. Perhaps at some point I will be struck with something clever and interesting to read. Until then, I will do well to check in here.

Happy Birthday!

Tomorrow is my mother's 81st birthday. She is going strong and looks terrific. One of the ladies at the Villa (retirement center where she lives) had a tea for her. Mother said she has never had a birthday party, never had a tea in her honor, so she was excited. Her hair had been set and styled and she was wearing a lovely turquoise dress when I got there to help her get spiffed up. She looked lovely and her face glowed with excitement at the tea.


Heady, a wonderfully warm woman of Hungarian background, hosted the tea. It was a great group of ladies: Kathleen, the activities coordinator was there; Evelyn (93), Mother's best friend was there; Hepsi, a new resident from India, came; Salma, who is the self-proclaimed matriarch of the Villa (she has lived there 18 years); and Joyce, who is from New England and is struggling with a new cochlear implant. The six residents who attended were all over 80 years of age, and so very sweet.

Heady had baked little shortbread cookies with apricot and raspberry fillings, lemon curd tarts with raspberries on top, cucumber-cream cheese-mint appetizers, home grown cherry tomatoes, cream scones with raspberry cream, and wonderful tea. All of the tea cups were different and quite elegant. There were antique clear dishes that we ate from, and on each of the tea saucers was a teaspoon with different flower on the tip of it. Heady brought out all of her beautiful cut linens for the table: beautiful white cut linen placemats, a pale green tablecloth, and a runner with various teacups cross stitched on it. Two burning candles topped it off. We were all in awe.

We chatted, laughed, and talked. Interesting, the topics that they wanted to share. One of them was how they want to die. I suppose that at their ages, this is something that is a matter of course. Heady said that she wants to die doing something that she enjoys, and then told us how her mother died while scrubbing the floor on hands and knees in her sister's house. Someone else wants to die in her sleep, and another said that she hopes to die from a massive heart attack--quickly and suddenly. I looked over at Kathleen, who is my age. The horror on her face was probably a reflection of my own. I was appalled to be talking about this over my mother's birthday tea. But she didn't seem to mind and added her two cents about her wishes.

Kathleen asked, "Barbara, do you want to live to be a hundred?"

Mother piped up, "It's great if your marbles all roll in the same direction!" Everyone howled with laughter.

Then the conversation moved to upper arm strength. Salma told us that she had arm wrestled her sons, grandsons, and now her great-grandsons. "When they can pin me, then that's the last time." She giggled and looked around the table. "I'm a tough one!" and everyone laughed. A couple of women flexed their biceps and explained how they grew so large: making bread, doing housework, farm work, etc. It struck me that English women would be absolutely scandalized with these antics, were this a British tea. But this was a friendly, happy, warm event that was to honor my mother. And she loved it.

The next topic was middle age memory loss. Heady had recently read research that low dose Ritalin helps with memory loss in elderly. Although this is correct, and a blessing to many, for a moment I envisioned all these women on Ritalin, bounding through the halls with their walkers. I could hardly contain myself.

Joyce taught us how to say (in sign language) that we will meet our friends in heaven. Everyone tried to get the hand gestures just right. To see all those dear arthritic hands moving in unison, fingers and wrists all askew, was very moving to me. Particularly, given the message that they were conveying to one another.

I asked Heady how she started giving teas. It was something that she dreamed up after she retired and moved to a Southeast mountain town. "If those people there didn't know your grandparents, they thought of you as an outsider," she said. So as a way to extend friendship to her neighbors she invited them to tea. They loved it, and after today's fare, I can see why. She really wanted to start a Bible study, but they had no interest in that. So she kept up having teas and they always came and really enjoyed themselves. "That is my missionary work," she mused aloud. "Who would have thought?"

Indeed. But what a lovely tradition.

Looking around the table, I knew that all of the ladies have emotional battle scars. One of them can't hear. Another can barely walk. One has congestive heart failure so bad that her ankles are the size of her calves. And several have gnarled fingers from arthritis. At one point, Evelyn leaned over to me and put her hand on mine.

"You have such beautiful hands!" she exclaimed.

I was shocked, seeing that I have wrecked any vestige of refinement on my hands this week putting in the floor.

"Really?"

"Oh yes," she said. And she gently stroked my arm and hand. Evelyn ran her hand longlingly at my arm. "You have lovely skin." Her wrinkled, cool, somewhat translucent hand on my wrist felt warmly comforting and I wish she would have kept her hand on mine longer.

There were cards and a gift for Mother. The women shared with her how much they love her and how her cheeriness has ministered to them. One lady drew a picture of herself making the hand gestures ("I love you!") that she makes to Mother every morning at breakfast from across the dining room. Mother was pleasantly surprised at how eager all the ladies were to make the birthday tea a nice experience for her. I was so very happy to see her glowing face, laughing at their jokes, and participating without hesitation. Gathering up the table centerpiece (two dozen yellow roses) that Heady insisted she take, she fairly floated out of the room and down the hall to her apartment.

Mother is 81 years old tomorrow. I hope I am as fortunate as she is to be surrounded by people who love me when I am her age.
Happy Birthday, Mommy.

Lovely Furballs

We are falling into a daily routine with our puppies these days. They have been very full days, what with the flooring going in, Sam's job search, and my general time-off lazing about on the couch. Here's what our days are like:
5:30 One of the boys barks to go outside to do their business. One of us bolts down the stairs to put them out. While they are outside, we wash and refill their half-gallon water dish and shake out their blanket. A good sniff around the den next, to be sure there are no nasty little surprises left anywhere, that the couch isn't bitten into, and their toys are out from under the couch.
5:45 After chasing each other around the yard, doing their business, tearing a few more iris fronds out of the ground, they come careening into the house when I whistle for them. They are usually chewing landscaping bark that we remove by taking their jaw in hand and saying, "Ah!" They open their mouths and we remove whatever half-chewed foreign object is there.
6:00 Breakfast for the boys that triggers wild jumping, crying, and wriggling about, licking my legs and pulling on my nightgown whilst I fill their food bowls.
6:10 I sit on the floor and the boys climb onto my lap to chew their toys for awhile. They really seem to enjoy snuggling into my lap. This always dissolves into one puppy on either side of my legs, digging for all they are worth to reach each other under my knees. Once contact is made by my lifting of the knees, they reach for each other's mouths, biting, showing teeth, and whining, nipping, and growling at each other. This goes on until the growling and barking grows annoying.
As a way to prevent the escalation, we have a training session.
The puppies can now sit, shake hands, and lie down. Getting down and staying down until they are released is what we're working on right now. When I tell them, "Down!" and point to the floor right in front of them, they both whine and cry as if they don't want to do it. But eventually they do lie down, for a few moments. And that is enough, for the time being. They are only three months, so while Charlie could continue on with training, Baxter isn't nearly as mature. He just wants to have a good time and be a baby.
7:00 We have to do the face and ear washing ritual. I get one of them on my lap and with a cotton ball, gently clean around their eyes and then inside their ears. They are usually very happy to sit still while their eyes are cleaned, but the ear cleaning doesn't usually occur without a whine or struggle. But after the cleaning, we snuggle for awhile. Their little bodies go limp and they lean into me, sleepy and content.
Mornings are their sleepy times. They generally sleep from about 8:30 - noon, waking up for a potty trip outside, before going back to sleep for another hour or two. This is when I can get things done around here.
In the afternoon they really come alive after their lunch. We try to put them outside for about 30 minutes at a time so they can play, run around, and get out from under our feet. They yip and fight under the bushes until they drop and chew on things they shouldn't be eating: lily fronds, bark, sprinkler heads, etc. Because it's been over 100 degrees outside this week, we bring them in pretty quickly.
In the evening when it gets cooler, they roil about yipping and chasing each other through the yard or the den. When I say to them, "Wanna go for a walk?" Charlie goes ballistic, jumping up and down, whining, and chasing his tail. Baxter slinks off under the bench and lies down, looking sadly up at me through his eyebrows. He is frightened of cars, of the leash, of birds, and of himself, most likely. It is only in the last two days that he's been able to walk any distance on the leash without throwing himself on the grass and screaming. (Not howling, screaming, as though I were skinning him alive). Charlie on the other hand, rushes to the front door and holds his head high while he trots down the sidewalk next to me.
When they get back from the walk, we go through their tricks again and get treats. That keeps them satisfied for about 20 minutes, and then they get wild again, racing through the house. That is the signal that it's time to give them their evening ice cubes out on the back patio. They chew them and throw them in the air before having fights over the select cubes.
At some point they mercifully fall into a deep sleep on the floor, their fat little legs sticking straight out behind them as they sleep on their stomachs. At 10:00, we go out for a last potty stop, and then put them in their little puppy playpen for the evening. "Nite-nite!" we tell them as we turn off the lights. They are three sheets to the wind by the time we are to the stairs.

I suppose this is how new parents of human babies count their days, too. Sam has been through all of this before, but I haven't. These little guys are my kids. I'm delighted but tired. Their sleepy heads dozing against my neck, the wet nose on the back of my ankle when I'm cooking, the fat furry feet placed in my hand when I tell them to "shake," and the big black eyes gazing into mine, make it all worthwhile.