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.