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.

Crooked Pots...

“Even the crookedest pots always have a lid.” That's something my mom always told me and I'm fairly certain she heard that from her own mother. I find that to be true in life but I'm never really sure if I'm the crooked pot or the fitting lid.

When I was young, my family moved around a bit. We left the St. Louis area and landed in Baltimore which shaped my identity as a happy city girl. When the 70s race riots moved into the school hallways, we packed up the tribe and moved up to the Pennsylvania/Maryland state line. We long-haired hippie Alberts stood out like sore thumbs in our new world.

The landscape of our new world was beautiful, of course. We were surrounded by nature trails, horse farms, creeks and rivers and that was great. We were also in the midst of a backwards and old-fashioned community and there was no neighborhood to roam to make new friends.

When we tromped through the woods, across the big field, and down the dirt road to wait for the school bus, we didn't really know what to expect. My older siblings probably were less happy about our situation than I was, but I still knew enough to be a little worried. After riding through the hills, across the vast acres – often slowed by an Amish buggy - I was pleasantly surprised to see that these new schools were quite modern and the teachers were forward thinking and friendly. That was a plus for me.

Of course, the other students had lived in this area their whole lives. If they didn't already know each other, their parents probably did. Kids were nice enough to me but as we settled in, my older siblings colored outside the lines enough to make teachers and administrators see me as Another Albert Kid. Fine by me. I think it's great to march to the beat of one's own drum. I dove in and joined the band (flute), joined clubs, etc. I mostly hung with the dudes. They appreciated my dude sense of humor and were more fun to be with.

Then came fifth grade science. Students were seated alphabetically, so as an Albert, I was seated next to an Arthur. Amy was a good girl. Quiet, smart, followed the rules. I talked to her. She talked back. We giggled. We got yelled at. As it turned out, she was in a lot of my classes. Not always in the next seat, but close enough that we could pass notes and share jokes. I joined girl scouts and we were in the same troop! She introduced me to other girls who were also slightly left of center and my posse grew.

Amy became my anchor. She was my cheerleader when I was weird, she was my voice of reason when I needed that. We got through puberty together and figured out who we were and what mattered. We had sleepovers, loved the same books (The Borrowers!), had inside jokes that no one else understood. She truly was my best friend. Then, just as we were about to go into high school, I moved to Florida.

I was, of course, excited to move to the beach but wondered how I would be able to start high school without my best friend, but we promised to keep in touch. So we did. We wrote letters and drew cartoons. We talked on the phone sometimes. Life went on with new friends and different experiences but we never forgot.

Over the years, we rarely communicate, but we're there when it matters. I attended her wedding and she came to mine. When travel brings us close, we try to see one another. Most importantly, she resides in a cozy nook in my memories and my heart and resurfaces when I most need the boost.

About a week ago, I was talking with my Josie about her very best friend. They met in 5^th grade and have gone through all the rough middle school years together and now, in high school, have very different lives. They live 2 blocks apart and rarely see each other but are as close as they've ever been. When they reconnect, they pick right up as though not a second has passed. I told my daughter again about Amy. She is the lid to my crooked pot.

Right after having that conversation with my daughter, I got a text message from my old friend wanting to know if I'd be home today. This evening, there was a knock on the door, and there was a smiling delivery person holding a giant bag of steaming hot food. A gift from my far away longest friend. Because I live loudly, spilling my tales of woe and display my crooked pot to everyone and she sits quietly, waiting for the right time to come in and put a lid on it before it boils over.

Thank you, my friend. You've done it again and I'm grateful for the York County Public School System's wisdom in bringing us together.  Thank you for being my lid.

 

There is no question that the year 2020 has been the Weirdest Year Ever. Never, in the history of Ever, have quite so many “interesting” things happened to so many people in the span on one year. Quite frankly, I would like a return to boring.

However, there's one thing that this year has brought us that I'm happy to have experienced: The Great Unveiling. In this year's many dark times, a bright light was cast across the world that revealed true colors and exposed unpleasant creatures living among us. It's shocking to realize that the monster under the bed is closer than you think.

When news of the pandemic came early in the year, plenty of people – myself included – brushed it off, thinking it surely couldn't be as bad as the media was saying. As time went on, as scientists and doctors knew more, I took it seriously and followed the advised precautions. That wasn't just for me, that was for all of my fellow humans. Truly, if doing such small things – wearing a mask, avoiding crowds, following simple advice – could help the world get past this thing, isn't that my responsibility as a citizen of this world?

Not everyone agrees. There are many who believe that asking your fellow humans to help another is a violation of their rights. When these people are asked to take very simple steps, what I hear them saying is “I don't care about your mother or my uncle or anyone else's well-being. I don't care about anyone but myself and I want what I want and I want it now.” People are dying at astounding rates because some very selfish people don't like to be told what to do.

I get that people aren't trusting of the talking heads on TV, but when they refuse to hear experienced scientists, concerned doctors, and exhausted nurses, that's all I need to know to see that you don't care about other people. You don't care about children in schools, you don't care about the guy who cuts your hair, you don't care about anyone but yourself. I can't change that but I thank you for showing me who you are so I can move away from you.

My husband has been in hospitals and care facilities more often this year than he's been home. This has given me a clear picture of the havoc this virus has wreaked on everyone. Patients are alone. The elderly are alone, often scared, confused, and vulnerable. Their caretakers are also vulnerable. This is real. People are dying.

I've heard the argument from the folks who don't want to be bothered with precautions that “People die from all sorts of things, why should I change the way I live?” Yes. People die. They're not all dying of Covid. But they are all dying alone. My brother went to the hospital alone. He was there ALONE for days before he died. Alone. No goodbyes, no hands to hold, no last words. Just gone. Alone. He didn't die from Covid, but Covid is why he was alone.

Doctors and scientists have been telling us for months that if we just make small mindful sacrifices – wear masks, wash hands, avoid gathering – just for a little while, we can get ahead of this thing and get back to normal. Or a new normal. But our communities are filled with selfish and single-minded people who refuse to do the smallest things to help their fellow humans. As a result, more people are infected, more people are suffering, and more people are dying. Alone.

I have a friend who lives far away from her children. Her husband has had a lifetime of chronic illness. She herself had a heart attack a couple of years ago. This couple has been basically quarantined since the beginning of the year. They only go out to take walks, to do minor grocery shopping in the early hours of the day, and to see their doctors. They've been extremely careful. Then, a couple of weeks ago, her husband had an issue and had to go to the hospital. Because the hospital was already overwhelmed with Covid patients, he became infected. Which meant that when he returned home, my friend became infected. So they are home, alone, struggling to breathe, struggling to get through each day, because people in their area refused to stop going to parties, refused to follow simple protocols to keep one another safe.

So I'm a little pissed off. I'm angry that stubborn, entitled fools feel that their wants should be greater than society's needs. My children want to go to school. They're pissed off, too. Hospital staff are exhausted and probably pissed off. I no longer hold my tongue when I go to the grocery store and see people without masks. I may or may not have yelled at people I see gathered closely in crowds. It doesn't have to be this way.

I'm happy that scientists from all over the world have joined together to develop vaccines that can hopefully help us all find a new normal. That's what human beings are meant to do – work together for the greater good. I don't believe that things will return to what they were but we can find a new way. I don't know what that will be.

I know one thing for sure. One's actions in difficult times tell more about who they are than what they do when times are good. I know who I will welcome back with hugs. I know who can just keep on walking by. 2020's Great Unveiling has made that an easy choice.