FRAGMENTS
Pressed between the pages
Of the pandemonium
Bits of dried posies
Shattered and scattered
Still retain a sweet
Fragrance.
Clutched by the clutter of
The chaos
Pieces of color
Broken and blended
Still gleam a clear
Clarity.
I am not yet obscured by
The obligations of
My family
Just pared into pilfered pieces
And dispersed among
The tumult.
CHAPTER TEN.
MAY
30, 2000. 3 PM.
Ron’s birthday. Today we gather to
celebrate his 49th year, and all of us present think about how close
he came to not reaching this milestone. Just weeks ago, he hovered closer to
the other side than to us. But, by God’s grace, he is home again and if not yet
completely well, at least on the road back. It will be, we are painfully aware,
a long and difficult road.
His homecoming has made changes both
large and small in our home. We have rearranged to furniture to accommodate his
physical needs and arranged for care while I finish out the school year. I jump
out of bed at all hours of the night if he needs something, if he is in pain or
cannot breathe. My exhaustion continues, but at least I am no longer spending
time in hospital rooms. The kids and I all hover closer to home these days,
reluctant to put distance between ourselves and Ron. Even our grown son Dennis
contrives errands that bring him home.
Our celebration today is simple:
just burgers on the grill and ice cream cake. Ron’s parents and our children
are the only guests, but many cards continue to arrive in the mail and I write
almost daily e-mail updates to an extended list of well-wishers. While Ron
napped one afternoon, I sent out the following:
Dear
Friends,
The lives of our family were forever
altered on March 1, 2000. Even as we gathered in the ICU family room at Crozer
Hospital, praying for Ron and waiting out the long hours while he underwent
emergency surgery on his diaphragm, pancreas, and spleen, we knew God’s arms
were around us and we were at peace, trusting the life of our loved one to our
Heavenly Father. We could not have known then that the long hours of evening
would stretch into months spent pacing the floors and bowing our heads. Nor did
we know that Ron’s accident would come to affect so many outside our family
circle.
God works all things together for
good to them that love the lord. We clung to that promise as complication after
complication arose. Phone call to phone call, heads bowed and knees bent as
God’s people offered their prayers for Ron. Dr. Joan Huffman continually worked
to restore Ron’s body, guided—we believe—by the Great Physician.
The faithful prayers of so many have
uplifted Ron’s family as well. Many, many times I received a phone call or a
simple note reassuring me of prayers and support. Often, it was the
encouragement I needed to keep on going. Every card, every visit, every phone
call, every prayer, every meal given to us demonstrated God’s abiding love through
the obedient hands of His servants.
This has been what has guided us.
The children and I have learned to lean heavily on God. Even when Ron’s fever
climbed and the poison of septic shock coursed through his veins, we knew our
loved one was safe. Some tears flowed as we were, time and again, forced to
acknowledge the possibility that Ron might be called Home.
God has chosen, instead, to being a
new work, in Ron, in me, and in our children. We treasure each moment on earth
as a gift from God and an opportunity to give glory to our Creator. These last
three months we have had the opportunity to share our faith with many who
crossed our path at Crozer Hospital: doctors, nurses, patients, visitors, and
personnel. One dear man said to me one night as I sat praying outside the ICU,
“Your God must be very big.”
Our God IS big, but He is also the
God of details. As Ron’s body continues to heal, the ducts and the tubes and
the organs that make up our earthly beings must begin to work together again.
We trust that in God’s own time Ron’s healing will be complete.
We covet your continued prayers. We
know that we still have many battles ahead. But we also know that God is in
control. To say “thank you” to all of you is not enough. Our hearts are filled
to overflowing with gratitude to all of you. We pray, in turn, for each of you.
Rejoice in the part that you have played in our own miracle. Treasure, as we
do, each moment as a precious gift.
In
His Name,
Ron,
Linda, Dennis, Bonnie, and Allen
Our party is soon ended. Ron’s
stamina fades quickly. He insists that he will go to church with us tomorrow,
so I shoo everyone home at an early hour and settle Ron into bed. Dishes are
piled in the sink, but I stand on the back deck, breathing deeply for the first
time in months. Hours spent in too many waiting rooms have wrought changes in
all of us. We need to focus now on what is really important.
It is not our bank accounts or job
titles or clean kitchen floors. It is each other.
And yet, despite my upbeat attitude,
despite the smile that is continually on my face, despite my belief that God
really is in control, I do not really
feel what I wrote in my cheerful letter. I do not feel elated or grateful or
excited that Ron is home. I do not feel hopeful, although I will continue to
spout the words I believe others want to hear from me. As I turn into the
kitchen to attack the pile of dishes, I acknowledge to myself what I really
feel.
I feel empty.
MAY
31, 2000. 10 AM.
Ron is carefully dressed in gray
sweat pants and a blue Phillies jacket when we herd into the elevator at church
the next morning. We arrived purposely during Sunday School so Ron will not be
jostled in the hallway. His three-footed cane has inadvertently been left at
the hospital. I will retrieve in on Monday. For now, Ron leans on Allen’s
shillelagh. It is ironic that it now lends support to another member of our
family.
Ron’s progression up the aisle is
painfully slow, but we are in no hurry. Bonnie, Allen, and I stand ready to
assist him if needed, but he manages to maneuver himself to a seat without our
help. He is very thin now and his skin has a waxy pallor to it. His hair needs
trimming. He does not look around until he is seated in a pew about halfway up
the aisle.
“So here we are,” he says and grins.
“I missed this place.” He comments on the flowers on the altar and I go the
vestibule to get a bulletin for him. When I return, several deacons have
spotted him and are busy pumping his hand and patting him—gently—on the back.
“It is a miracle,” they are all
saying. “To see you here, in one piece! God is good!” And I nod my head in
agreement. God is good. My water heater still leaks and I have a final on
Tuesday and I cannot sleep at night because Ron always needs something but God
is good.
Other people are entering the
sanctuary and most want to speak to Ron. But the organist begins and we take up
our hymnals, rising for the first song. Ron sits, too wobbly to risk standing
up.
Pastor Lou has spotted Ron and
smiled in our direction. “Before we begin today,” he says from the pulpit, “I
would like us to give special thanks for God’s graciousness in bringing our
brother Ron home to us.” Lou beams. “When I saw you, Ron, I knew that here was
our own miracle. To see you here, in God’s house, surrounded by your family, is
proof once again of God’s faithfulness.”
I barely hear the rest of the
service. After the final chorus, Ron is once again surrounded by well-wishers.
Two deacons volunteer to see Ron down on the elevator while I pull the car
around to the handicap entrance. I am hurrying down the hallway when a hand
taps me lightly on the arm.
“Linda,” says Pastor Lou, “ as
wonderful as it is that Ron is home, I worry about you. Is this all too much
for you?”
I am frightened for a moment that
Lou has read my thoughts and seen into my soul. Then I realize he has simply
seen the dark circles under my eyes and noticed my fatigue. Nothing more. He
cannot know that I do not really feel thankful right now, that my water heater
still leaks and I have a final on Tuesday and I cannot sleep at night because
Ron always needs something.
“I’m a little tired,” I admit.” But
I’ll be fine. Soon, school will be out and I will have a chance to catch up on
some rest.” I give him a bright smile. “The important thing is that Ron is
home.”
I can do this, I think as I pull the
car up and Ron is helped in. I can keep on saying the words until I can feel
them.
JUNE
7, 2000. 7:15 AM.
I drop Allen off at school at 7:15, but just as I am
pulling out of the parking lot, my engine light glows amber. Generally, I
ignore this sort of thing. I am usually in too big a hurry to stop and check
and this morning is no exception. The last week of school is a hectic run
through the chaotic gauntlet of middle school madness. But I am trying to let
Ron’s accident teach me something about slowing down. I drive a mile out of my
way and pull into a service station There is not attendant there, of course.
Mechanics do not keep teacher hours. But there are a few truck drivers
refueling their rigs. I unlatch the hood of my car and peer into the engine,
trying to look like I know what I am doing. I must be pulling it off, because I
am offered no assistance. Story of my life.
No smoke billows from the engine. I
check my oil. Seems okay. I puzzle for a moment and sit with my engine turned
off. The morning is clear and bright and despite the fumes from the diesel fuel
I breathe deeply. Being late for school on the second to the last day might not
be the worst thing in the world.
Slowly, I turn the key in the ignition
again. The light does not go on. I wait. Still, no warning glow. I pull away
from the service station, marginally less harried than I was when I left the
house and determined to keep an eye glued to the dashboard. I leave the radio
off and turn my thoughts to people I know who are in need of prayer. Kim, dying
of leukemia with two small sons to raise. Angel, about to give birth to her
first child far away from the comfort of her mother. Before I realize it, I am
at school and there are still a few minutes before homeroom begins.
I walk from the parking lot to my
classroom, thinking about engine lights. I have been hurrying these last
months, little realizing how fast I am moving. With teaching, graduate school,
Ron’s hospitalization, and a family to care for there has been little time for
self-reflection. Since Ron’s first bouts with depression, burdens he once
shared are mine alone.
I have been guilty of rushing on, my
own timetable paramount in my mind. Seldom have I taken the time to smell the
proverbial roses. My own body’s engine lights have been flickering for weeks
now and I have been ignoring headaches and dizziness and the syndrome my
grandmother called “bone-tiredness.”
The macadam pathway curves before
me. In just a few more steps I will be at the end of my road. I have canceled
my usual flurry of summer activity this year, determined to spend my time
helping Ron in his recovery. I will not be teaching classes at the Pennsylvania
Writing Project. I will not be going to graduate school, postponing my Master’s
by a semester.
I have not come to this conclusion
easily. I have been the irresistible force, determinedly plowing my way through
all obstacles in quest of my goal. Neither rain, nor snow, nor dark of night…My
purposes have been noble, I remind myself. Trying to provide for the well-being
of my family is not a fault.
I descend the few short steps into
my classroom, unlocking the door and flicking on the lights. I wonder why I
have tried to continue on my impossible path. I love my classroom and my
students. I love teaching. But I need the freedom of summer. I need time for my
body and spirit to recover.
In three minutes my sixth graders
will descend upon me, their high energy propelling me into this day. I will
smile and nod, listening to their bright voices and cheerful summer plans. I
will miss their chatter, but their voices will echo over the summer months.
For the last time this year I lay my
lesson plans on my desk. The next three months are not laid out nearly as
neatly. I have no idea what Ron’s therapy and recovery will be like, nor what
my role will be. The lack of a definitive plan scares me, but life has no
carefully arranged outcome.
I can no longer ignore my own
glowing amber lights, flashing at me incessantly. Somehow, I need to find a
place of rest.
Yet even as the door to my room
slams open and my students fill the void, I wonder. Will my life ever be calm again?
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