My story in three acts . . .

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.  So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. 2 Corinthians 4:16-18 (NIV)

After a longer absence than I really planned (due to “light and momentary” issues), here goes for Act 2 of my story:

It seems to me that it corresponds in large part to my life as an advanced practice nurse, which started off rather sadly. My dad passed away in September before I completed my master’s degree in December. The passage above gave me comfort at the time of his death, for he was truly ready to go, tired of constant pain. My mom called about 3 a.m. on the day of his death (just a couple of days after Dad had told Daniel that he’d better “hurry up and get married” if he wanted his Papa to be there). He was coughing up blood. When I got there he told me, “There’s just so much a man can do.” My reply was that whatever he needed to do was fine. Six hours later he left this world to enter that unseen one, eternity with his Lord.

Jobs for nurse practitioners in small town Arkansas were not plentiful in 1997. While I was still working in administration and not yet through with my studies, a local cardiologist had asked what I planned to do with my new licensure. At that time I suggested that working as an extender in a busy medical practice appealed to me. However, after graduation I was actively recruited to work as a primary care provider in a clinic in my hometown. I was also interviewed for a position with an (at that point) unidentified physician in a multi-specialty clinic, who turned out to be the above-mentioned cardiologist. There were elements of the hometown clinic that were very appealing, including the financial aspects. But after a lot of soul searching it became apparent that the cardiology practice was where I needed to be. It was a good decision; the local clinic closed just a couple of years after its implementation. I believe that choice was a turning point in my life.

There have been many benefits to the employment choice I made. After more than 21 years in that collaborative practice, I have no regrets. Not only have I grown professionally, I have grown spiritually. Philosophical and theological discussions are not the routine in most work settings but have served as the stimulus to introspection and solidifying my beliefs. The example of true Christianity that he and his family demonstrate has influenced my walk of faith. And I needed that collegial relationship, because times were coming that seemed more than “light and momentary” troubles.

In 2004 our family was faced with the challenge of my daughter’s mental illness. It was a nightmarish year. A friend was instrumental in saving Cindy’s life, convincing her to seek care with her primary care physician. That encounter started us on the journey of a lifetime. Over the next eight months she was in and out of multiple hospitals after multiple suicide attempts. We faced a fragmented, overworked and expensive mental health system. Navigating the system would have been impossible without the support and prayers of friends and work family. I was juggling my work responsibilities with careing for her three-year-old son. I was back to single parenthood (I had not remarried at that time). A Christian friend recommended a depression workshop.  There I met the physician just finishing her psychiatric residency who would become my daughter’s lifeline and who continues to supervise her care today, fourteen years later. I think that was a “divine appointment.”

We have been blessed through Cindy’s strength and desire to be well. We involved our church family as prayer partners in our journey by openly sharing various elements of her illness and treatment. Cindy continues to demonstrate superb adherence to her medical therapy and physician visits, and she has become one of the rocks I lean on through hard times. Because more trauma would follow.

It’s no secret that August 26, 2015, changed my life as a mother. Our son’s death by suicide at the age of 41 years marked a turning point in all our lives. In my nursing career I had often encountered parents who had lost a child. I found myself frequently trying to express compassion by the comment that “that must be the worst kind of loss.” I can now attest, through my own experience, that it is a terrible grief made more terrible if that death occurs by suicide. That event led to my personal passion for increasing awareness, encouraging open conversation, and preventing suicide.

There were also brighter times. In 2005 I married the wonderful man who loves and supports me every day. And an unexpected benefit of my employment was that my physician/boss/friend,  who is also a licensed preacher, performed the ceremony! Living here on “Persimmon Ridge” (the name’s origin is meat for another story) in the home my husband designed and built for us is a priceless gift. His unremitting support and encouragement has allowed me to publish two inspirational novels, and he continues to be my biggest fan and self-appointed publicity agent as I pursue the dream of being known as an author.

However, through the experiences of Cindy’s illness and ongoing recovery and Daniel’s death one thing has remained steadfast–my faith. I believe in a loving God who is in control, who has the overarching plan for my life, who allows nothing beyond my potential to withstand with God’s help, and who offers an unending supply of hope. He has placed people in my life who have supported, encouraged, and inspired me. The troubles often don’t feel “light and momentary” but, rather, heavy and endless. But hindsight reveals the brighter hilltop experiences, those divine appointments, the heavenly discernment, and the benefits of just persevering in the walk of faith whatever the struggle.

There it is, another brief part of my story. My Act 2 is not yet finished but close enough to the ending for me to reflect on where I’ve been as I try to anticipate the next act. I trust in one truth:

In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps. Proverbs 16:9 NIV

I’ve seen the Lord’s hand in the design of my life. Have you?

Father’s Day…………

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My dad passed away September 19th, 1996. I was doing my clinical year in my Master’s program preparing to be a Family Nurse Practitioner. He had been critically ill  previously that year and was in chronic pain because of long-term steroid use for temporal arteritis. Steroids are used to prevent blindness with this disorder, but steroids are a two-edged sword. His degenerative disc disease caused back pain that had grown harder and harder to control, and he had started taking large of amounts of Tylenol with codeine for relief.

During one of his previous illnesses he had become profoundly hypotensive early on morning, with a blood pressure of 60/40. My mom was asleep in the room while I sat with him, wondering if he would die that night. About 3 in the morning he was awake and looking intently up toward the ceiling. He asked what time it was and then muttered, “What are they doing up there?” Call me crazy, but I think he had a glimpse toward the other side.

Prior to that, I had always believed that he had a near death experience with his second open heart surgery. We were told that they “had trouble getting him off the pump”. When we visited in the CVICU the first time, he was still intubated with all the lines and tubes and such. But he was awake. As we spoke to him, his finger moved restlessly over his right abdomen and groin area. My mom thought he was hurting at the site where they had done his heart cath prior to surgery. But, as I watched closely, it became apparent that he was writing, “I love you.” He had not been a demonstrative father. However, after that surgery, he ended every visit with “I love you.”

The week before he died, he was scheduled for an epidural injection to try to relieve his back pain. But when he presented for the procedure, his INR (the measure of Coumadin activity in his blood–he was on the anticoagulant because of chronic atrial fibrillation with its risk for stroke) was too prolonged. Some people would say his blood was “too thin.” We went back home with his pain unrelieved.

The day before his death I took him and Mom to lunch at a little café in Judsonia. Like I said, I was finishing my clinicals that fall, and Wednesday was my day off. We had lunch and, as I was dropping them off at their house, he reached in his pocket and pressed something into my hand. It was a hundred-dollar bill. “Daddy, I’m fine. I don’t need this,” I protested. He firmly insisted that I take it. “I want you to have it.” He was proud of my efforts to complete my education. He didn’t live to see me graduate.

Early Thursday morning my phone rang. It was Mom calling for help. “Your dad’s coughing up bright red blood–a lot of it. I don’t know what to do.” I hurriedly dressed and drove the short distance to their house, the house I’d grown up in. When I walked in the bedroom, he greeted me with a hoarse, “A man can’t live like this.” He was pale and tremulous and actively coughing up blood. It was 3 in the morning.

I told him whatever he needed to do was all right, that we would be with him. An ambulance was called, and he was transported to the hospital with the request not to resuscitate if his heart stopped. At the hospital we found that, although he had not taken any Coumadin in days, his INR had continued to climb. He was bleeding into his lungs. The doctor said we might be able to slow things down if we gave him platelets and blood and such, but I knew he was ready to go. My mom and I elected comfort care. We stood beside him, holding his hand and talking to him as he wanted to talk, as he was given some medication to keep him comfortable. He was moved to the CCU for his last hours.

His last words to me were, “I love you, more than you know……” and those words have become my words to tell my children and grandchildren and great-grandchild how much they are loved. As he died, my dad raised slightly in the bed and gazed toward the ceiling. As the light left his eyes, I knew he was joining those who had come to take him home with them.

He was at peace, and so was I. But I miss him still. Thank you for being my dad. For loving me and supporting me in all I did. I love you, Dad, more than you know……….

Happy Birthday, Dan……

Dan

Dear Daniel,

Today would have been your 42nd birthday if your life had not ended so tragically. We miss you. Last evening we had a sort of pre-birthday party for you. Your wife, parents, siblings, aunt, uncles, nephew, and cousins were here, along with a few special friends–Todd and Benny and Jeff. Kerri sent her good wishes, as did Linda and Laura.

Remember the sky lantern you sent up for Robby after his death? We did the same for you. There were eleven of them, all white. One got stuck in a tree–Steffie thought you would find that funny. It harmlessly burned itself out. There was the slightest north wind, and we watched them as they (finally) went out of sight. Then we gathered in the house to share memories. They were good ones. Continue reading “Happy Birthday, Dan……”

Holiday passages . . . .

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Years ago I read a book by Gail Sheehy titled Passages: Predictable Crises of Adult Life. My recollection of the content is scanty, but I feel myself swept into a current of life events that feel like “passages”. Some are joyful and sweet, like the new ornament on the Christmas tree. Beside her mother’s Baby’s First Christmas ornament dated 1992 is my newborn great-granddaughter’s ornament dated 2014. Friday, December 19, 2014, to be exact. The baby is exceptionally beautiful for a newborn, and, yes, I AM prejudiced, but even acquaintances agree when they see her picture. Her mother is, likewise, a beautiful woman grown from a beautiful child and married to a really fine and remarkable husband. My heart bursts with joy at the expectation of seeing this young family grow.

There is a bittersweet element to my current passage, too. I suppose in many ways I am becoming the matriarch of my family. My age allows it. My status as mother, grandmother, and, now, great-grandmother requires it. Christmases at my mother’s house have been replaced by Christmas Eve at this house. But, am I prepared? Do I have the energy, the focus, the insight to fulfill the role? Do I have the magnetism to bind family ties closer together as my mom and dad did? Can I inspire the devotion to family get-togethers that bonded previous generations? I’m not sure I feel up to the task.

I pray that with God’s help I can fill the shoes of the previous “greatest” generation, knowing that it is only with a healthy dose of devotion to God, family, and seasons that I will succeed. So, let us make new traditions that will be as loving and long-lived as past ones, while treasuring the past in our hearts.

And, with that, I will wish all you readers–

“MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!”