Viral Kindness...

I’ve talked about this so many times that you may be tired of hearing it.  You may not even believe it.  I don’t care because I believe it is a Universal Truth.  Good Is The Rule, Not The Exception.

It’s a simple truth, really.  Human beings are born without prejudice.  Babies don’t know about hate.  Those things are taught and passed down from others who have allowed fear, greed, and selfishness to infect their lives. 

In the last several years, we’ve allowed division to come between us – whether it’s political, economic, or cultural - the divide is great.  Add in a terrifying pandemic, the spotlight only seems to shine on the divide and it blinds us to the beautiful humanity that forges on quietly.  Those who continue to do the good and right things do so *because* they are good and right.  They’re not likely to be featured on the nightly news and that’s not important to them.

Good deeds have become trendy.  If people want to pay for the overpriced coffee drink of the person behind them at the drive through, I hope they feel good about themselves and continue to share kindness in other ways.  Let’s make THIS viral!

Over the last year, so many kind deeds have landed at my doorstep.  I’m grateful for every one and try to pay it forward in whatever way I can.  I don’t actually think I’m behaving differently than I have my entire life but maybe I’m a bit more mindful of it in the hopes that small acts of kindness - a nice word to a stranger, holding a door, or letting someone ahead of me in line – will plant a seed that will grow thoughout the world. 

The other day, I was at the dollar store, completing my transaction.  As I was picking up my bag, the man behind me wanted to pay for his 2 items with a hundred dollar bill and was told they couldn’t break it.  I still had my wallet out so I paid the $2.09.  He tried to decline but then gratefully accepted.  We walked out together, he held the door for me, and walked me to my car, while telling me that what he bought was ribbon for his wife’s craft project because he knew she needed more but wouldn’t have asked for it.  He left his jobsite early to get it for her and was just so happy telling me about her.  Those ten minutes I spent talking to him was quite a return on my two dollar investment. 

When I left there, I went to the post office, where there was a line.  There was a woman ahead of me and a woman behind me who clearly knew one another and were trying to talk but didn’t want to disturb the line.  I traded places with the woman behind me so they could chat.  It was a slow line, they included me in the conversation, then the man behind me joined in.  We all got something out of it while we were stuck there.  You know what happened next?  The man held the door for someone on his way out. 

This is my challenge to anyone reading this: open your eyes and look at people around you.  Smile.  Lend a hand if you can.  You don’t need to spend money to make a tiny ripple in another’s day. Just being seen can have a profound effect.  Give it a shot.

Keep your mask on.  Wash your hands.  Then do your part to make tiny steps toward making kindness go viral.

 

Bittersweet Thanksgiving...

I’ve always loved Thanksgiving for all the appropriate reasons – pie and leftover turkey sandwiches and such – but mostly because of the people.  In my life, Thanksgiving has always been a low commitment day of gathering and love.

I know that some people stress and worry over the dinner, the guest list, table decor and things I couldn’t care less about.  My experience has always been one of open doors, open arms, and open hearts.  Of course, there are favorite dishes, family recipes, and timing the turkey, but my focus has always been on ensuring there are enough chairs for everyone who may come.

I love pulling it together. As a young single girl, I’d gather friends who couldn’t travel to be with their family for a “homeless” thanksgiving.  That continued after my husband and I married, and everyone was welcome.  Often, there were paper plates and folding chairs, but there was always love. Bad jokes, old stories, sometimes forgotten cranberries.  Always love.

My husband rolled his eyes nearly every time I said it, but I often raised my glass to give thanks that “my blessings are greater than my stressings”. I stand by that.

There’s no denying that the last two years have been pretty awful. I lost my brother at the same time my husband was in a hospital bed. He was here last Thanksgiving but really too weak to enjoy it or even to join us at the table. Still, I considered myself blessed.

This year, I lost my husband. My children lost their father. My mother and a brother both had serious health scares. Many would say Thanksgiving isn’t important, but it is.  In the midst of the storm, we were held up and supported by people who love us and helped us get through. If that isn’t a reason for gratitude, then I don’t know what is.

I’m not cooking a turkey or setting a table this year.  Instead, I’m taking my girls on a road trip. We’ll spend a few days at the beach.  We’ll meet up with my husband’s brother, and we’ll share Thanksgiving with their 90+ grandmother (my girls’ great grandmother), their uncle, and cousins.  The South FL Cuban family that couldn’t be here for the funeral.  I expect some tears, but what I really expect is hugs, stories, laughter, and more hugs. Thanks Giving.

Certainly, it will be bittersweet but I believe it will be what we most need. I fully expect my husband to roll his eyes at me from the other side when I talk about my Attitude of Gratitude and say that my Blessing Are Greater Than My Stressings.  That’s OK.  I stand by it.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.  May your gravy overflow and your pie supply be abundant.

 

Patience Is A Virtue?...

Tom Petty told us that The Waiting was the hardest part but he sure couldn’t have seen the twenties coming our way.  I think I’ve always been a fairly patient person but 2020 and 2021 have tested – or strengthened – that in ways I never could have predicted.

Like most parents, I had to learn to navigate the pandemic with online schooling, with entertaining kids who could no longer hang with their friends and had to figure out the general protocols for the new world.  When my husband was hospitalized, I had to learn how to communicate with doctors and nurses in new ways.  I’m not sure I ever mastered any of those things, but I persisted.

I grew up knowing that I couldn’t control everything and that with time and patience, things tend to fall into place.  I also knew that while waiting, I could do something productive to pass the time.  I tried.  Man, did I try.  If I can’t do that, I can certainly do this. I was thwarted almost every step of the way.

I couldn’t heal my husband but thought I could get his car repaired.  Multiple trips to multiple mechanics left me thinking it couldn’t happen but the tenacity inside paid off when I found someone willing to take on the project.  That’s how I’ve gotten through.  Patience may be a virtue, but stubborn tenacity gets things done.  So I kept pushing.

And waiting.

The siding on our house was in terrible condition.  So I researched.  I made calls.  I hired a guy to do the job. Five months ago.  The contractor is still waiting for the supplies so he can do the work.  When you do siding, you usually have to do gutters, too.  So the gutter guy is also waiting for the siding to arrive.

Since I had to wait on siding, I thought I’d tackle the swimming pool.  I hired the guy to replace the liner in May.  We had to wait, once again, for the supplies to come in, so the liner wasn’t replaced until late July.  Once the pool was full of water, I realized the pump was no longer working.  So I hired a repair company in early August.  It’s mid October and the parts still haven’t arrived.

And so it goes.  I do what I can each day to get through each day. When I accomplish something, I allow myself a victory lap. As Guy Kawasaki once said, “Patience is the art of concealing your impatience”. There are a lot of encouraging quotes that intend to nudge one towards patience.  Some favorites include “A man who is a master of patience is master of everything else.” -  George Savile and “With love and patience, nothing is impossible.” – Daisuku Ikeda but I really think Mr. Kawasaki hit the nail on the head.

Patience may be a virtue, but the art of it is making it look like it’s not a struggle at all.  How am I doing?

 

Covid Took My Husband...

I’ve said it before (and was probably met with eye rolls) but it bears repeating.  Covid stole my husband.  My heart is broken. My family has been shattered by this and my glue supply is running short.

My patience with those who refuse to acknowledge the reality of this pandemic ran short a long time ago.  I’m angry but I do appreciate those of you who are “just exercising your rights as an American” to be so blatantly uncaring and closed-minded because I can more easily identify and avoid you now.

Let me be clear about this:  my husband’s death certificate does not mention Covid-19.  During his nearly year-long hospitalization journey, he had dozens of negative Covid tests.  Never once, during any of that testing, was he ever given the antibody test that I asked for repeatedly.  You see, I am certain that my entire household had Covid in December of 2019.  Of course, at this time, no one had ever heard of Covid and we thought we must have had the flu. 

Months went by before we learned about this pandemic and the common symptoms.  To a one, our experience matched – loss of taste, extended fevers, extreme exhaustion, etc. My daughters and I were otherwise healthy so we rallied with rest and time.  My husband, a kidney transplant recipient, was already compromised and wasn’t able to fight.  Of course, we didn’t know what we were fighting and there were plenty of things to blame.

You see, as a transplant recipient, he was on a plethora of anti-rejection medications.  Many of these have their own side effects.  He was not diabetic prior to transplant but one of his medications commonly brings about diabetes.  So when his legs were swelling and he was retaining fluid, that’s where the doctors’ attention went.  When his vision was failing, that was also blamed on medications.  When, after the nation was already on pandemic shutdown and he couldn’t go to a doctor’s office, we headed to the hospital.  Thanks to this new medical crisis, he walked in alone to the emergency room and was admitted.

That was the last time he walked without assistance.  Several swabs confirmed that he was not positive for Covid so he was parked in a room and barely touched.  Assumptions were made about his health without communicating with him.  There was no communication with me – his wife – and no questions were asked about what brought him there.  It was decided that this must be kidney failure, so surgery was scheduled to put in a dialysis port.  This surgery was postponed repeatedly because he had a high fever that wouldn’t break.  Test after test finally revealed fungal meningitis on his brain. A series of antibiotics were tried and tested until they found one that seemed to work. They proceeded with surgery and sent him home.

Let me just remind you that he was parked in a hospital room for weeks by himself.  At no point was he ever gotten out of bed and he received no physical therapy.  When he was wheeled from the hospital to the car, he fell.  We got him in the car, drove home, and he fell again.  Strangers in our neighborhood helped us get him into our house.  A home care nurse came and sent him right back to the hospital because he wasn’t safe at home.  Back in the hospital, fever returned and new tests revealed more about the infection he had and new – very expensive – IV medication was tried.  This would need to be administered by an infectious disease doctor and it became clear that he couldn’t safely exit or enter our home.  Another week went by – alone – while a physical therapy center that could accept him and administer the medication was found. 

Transfer to this center is the first time our daughters and I were able to see him in several weeks.  We transferred him to the PT home door.  Because of the pandemic, we couldn’t go inside, he couldn’t have visitors, and he was sent to quarantine with more nasal swabs and more time absolutely alone without physical therapy.  This was his life.  This was our life.  There were small steps forward.  There were occasional lights at the end of the tunnel, and he was finally able to return to his home.  In home physical therapy got him back on his feet with aid of a walker.

That sounds like progress, right?  Not really.  He never truly returned.  He’d lost about 150 lbs of muscle.  He was weak, he was depressed, he was terrified and he made several trips back and forth to different hospitals, for new reasons.  Always with isolation and very little communication.

Over time, more information about Covid was revealed and we were able to connect the dots.  The hard part was getting the doctors to see beyond the chart to actually see the man in the bed in front of them.  During a later hospitalization, visits were actually permitted.  I finally got a doctor to hear me and order tests that had been overlooked.  That’s when it was revealed that the man in the bed – my husband -  had suffered a handful of strokes.  Medication wasn’t being administered as it should be and that is why he was hallucinating and talking to people who weren’t there.

And so it went.  In and out of hospitals with no advocate.  A patient too weak to ask or answer questions.  Nurses too overwhelmed to see the human being in front of them and doctors too busy to care.

I realize how that last bit sounds.  I don’t blame doctors, nurses, or hospitals for the suffering my husband endured.  That blame lies squarely on the shoulders of a microscopic virus that invaded the globe and wreaked havoc on millions of people around the world.  Those millions had families and friends, and even total strangers who cared about them and who are lost without them.  I’m told that it’s OK to be angry at a virus.  But that doesn’t feel right.  My anger Is reserved for the selfish hordes who refuse to recognize that they have a part in this.

I have been vaccinated, my children have been vaccinated.  I still wear masks in public because I believe in science.  I believe in personal responsibility.  I believe that I AM my brother’s keeper.  If that small effort of covering my nose and mouth with a thin piece of cloth can protect the health of others, I’m cool with that.  If that small “sacrifice” allows my children to go to school, to see their friends, to have a regular life, count me in.

Know this, though:  If you are one of those folks who are too selfish, too important, too ignorant, too uncaring, etc. to give a damn about your fellow human beings, I see you.  I’ve taken note and will be backing away from you.  It’s really that simple.  It wasn't kidney disease, or meningitis, pancreatitis, or any other "itis" that took him away from us.  It was loneliness, isolation, exhaustion and sundry other things unleashed by Covid-19.  If you need a face to believe this is real, I'll send you a picture of my husband.

I Have A Net...

I know I’ve been slacking in the blog department but, if you know me you know my hands have been pretty full for the last year and a half.  I’d beg forgiveness but I know there’s no need because you’ve been here with me.  Thank you.

2020 was kind of awful for everyone.  If you’re one of the few who slid through it without scars, I hope you realize your good fortune.  I have plenty of scrapes and bruises, no doubt.  Pieces of my heart are missing.  Still, I know just how lucky I am.

I have never fallen.  Certainly, I have slipped.  I have lost my footing.  But I’ve never truly fallen.

 I have a net.

In the early days of Covid (or our awareness of it), my husband wasn’t feeling well.  He walked into the hospital on his own two feet.  Of course, because of Covid, he was alone.  And he was alone for a very long time after.  While he was alone in one hospital, my brother went alone to another hospital and passed away – alone – in that hospital bed.  My husband wasn’t there – couldn’t be there – to help me through that grief.  I was terribly sad but I was not alone.   I never fell.

My friends and family caught me.  The net they’ve woven only becomes tighter and stronger over time.  As the year marched on and things got better and then got worse, and just continued to fluctuate, every time I looked down from my tightrope, I saw my net.  That gave me the strength and confidence to keep my toes on the rope. 

With each step, things came at me so I had to learn to juggle.  So I juggled.  On the tightrope.  There were blades and flaming sticks and unexpected balls thrown into the mix.  When I looked down, I saw that not only was my net closer and tighter, but it was cheering me on.  Knowing that is what strengthened me.

When I got to the other side of the rope, knowing that my partner would not be there, I stepped down and was caught by this amazing net.  Beyond the net, there was a cheering audience, congratulating me for making it across the distance and raving about my strength.  I’m grateful for the accolades, of course, but I know without a doubt that my strength came from the net.

I’m back on the ground now.  I’m finding my footing.  Some days, things feel shaky.  All I have to do is look over my shoulder and see that my net is always there.  I will not fall.  If I stumble, I will be caught and will be put right back on my feet.  I am safe.  I am loved.  I’m going to be okay because I have a net. I know and love ever fiber of it.

 

 

I'll Have The Soup...

I’m kind of a parable nerd.  That shouldn’t surprise anyone who knows me.  I just love a good story to address life’s challenges in a way that’s entertaining enough to make me want to remember it.  One of my favorites has always been Carrot, Egg, or Coffee.

You can read about it here but the gist of it is this:  a young woman is discussing her troubles with her mother.  Her mother takes her to the stove with three pots of water.  In one, she places a carrot, she places an egg in another, and in the third, she places coffee beans and sets them all to boil.  She tells her daughter that each of these items reacts differently when in hot water.  The carrot starts strong but becomes weak and soft.  The egg, once vulnerable and fragile, hardens.  The coffee beans, however, change the environment in which they’ve been placed.  They blend with the hot water and share their essence with it, releasing their flavor and aroma to create something pleasant.

In this scenario, I’ve always considered myself to be one of the coffee beans.  Maybe that’s just because I drink so much of the result of beans in hot water.  It felt comfortable to me.  Lately, I’m not so sure.  In this past year, there’s been plenty of hot water.  There’s been plenty of coffee in my cup and I appreciate that but I realize there’s yet another pot on the stove.

One of my other favorite parables is Stone Soup.  I’m sure you’ve heard many different versions of it but it’s a tale as old as time.  During a period of hardship – poverty and famine – when people were concerned about how they would sustain themselves and their loved ones.  Suddenly, a mysterious stranger arrives with a large pot of water.  The pot is put on the flame, and the stranger adds a stone and begins stirring the soup.

People gathered around to watch.  One by one, the townspeople came forward to add something to the pot.  One person had some cabbage to offer, another, a potato, some beef, perhaps some spices.   In the end, there was a wonderful soup.  Nourishing, full of flavor, and just what the community needed.

This has been a hard time.  For my family, for myself, for many people I love.  I just realized that while I’ve been pondering coffee beans, eggs, and carrots, I’ve also been standing over and stirring a full delicious pot of Stone Soup.

My townspeople continue to add to it.  Each ingredient brings its own unique flavor – some a bit salty, some very sweet, some healthy, some indulgent – but all provide nourishment and comfort.  What’s most amazing about this magic pot is that it never seems to empty.

I love that coffee, for sure.  I will continue to appreciate it.  When my townspeople gather to share their ingredients with me, I’ll offer them a cup.  When it comes time to feed my soul, I’ll have  a big bowl of Stone Soup, please.

 

Where There Is Light...

It’s winter.  It’s cold and dreary and my instinct is to hide under covers and wait for it to pass.  But when I do wander outside – to check the mail, to pick up groceries, whatever - I’m always surprised when I see weeds sprouting in the yard or dandelions displaying their vibrant color from between the cracks of the sidewalk.

I don’t know why this always surprises me.  That’s nature’s way, isn’t it?  Where there is Light, there is Life.

This has been a hard year for most people I know.  We’ve all been firmly planted in place by a global pandemic, just waiting for the sun to shine.  Waiting for change.  It can feel really dark and impossible and I want to return to my blanket fort to hide.  But then the light shines for a moment.

This summer, I saw the sun shine on kids – those planted seeds – as they sprouted into social warriors.  They saw injustice, they made signs, they took to the streets and marched and shouted against it (while responsibly masked and social distanced).  They taught this grown up a thing or two about growth. 

More recently, these kids had to make very mature decisions about their own education.  When adults were unwilling to control their behavior enough to protect them, they chose the safety of learning from home.  It’s tedious, it’s frustrating, but they trust that it’s right.  Since I get daily emails from their schools announcing yet another positive Covid case, I have to believe that it’s right, too.

A couple of weeks ago, a beloved middle school counselor – one who meant a lot to each of my kids and to their friends – passed away.  All these kids who knew him and respected him took it upon themselves to gather – with masks and distance – in a parking lot to pay their respects to this man and to send him off with love.  It was beautiful in that cold parking lot to see the lives that were touched by his shining light.

Walking back to the car, I can’t say I was surprised to see that dandelion standing proud and tall from a crack in the asphalt.

Here at home, things have been difficult.  My husband’s year-long struggle with his health, his mobility, and his somewhat broken spirit has weighed heavy on us all.  It’s hard to see that spring will come and the sun will shine once again.  My instinct continues to drive me back under the blankets.

You know what happens when I try to do that?  When I try to hide away in the dark?  The light keeps forcing its way through.  Sometimes, it’s when the sun hits the peephole on the front door and a tiny rainbow appears on the wall. Sometimes, it’s when a friend calls just to ask if we need anything.  Offers of kindness and generosity just keep shining.

I’ve always been kind of reserved in sharing of woe.  I am learning, however, that it’s necessary to open the curtains and let in the light.  Growth happens when the sun shines.  Where there is Light, there is Life.  To all the tenacious light bearers, I give my heartfelt thanks.  I’m learning.  We’re growing.

I'm letting the light shine.