All in Due Time

I am weak. Ready-to-cry-at-a-minute, afraid-of-the-future, not-able-to-contemplate-scary-outcomes-without-some-worst-case-scenario-planning weak.

At least I was this morning, and I was reminded of the intensity of this condition after visiting my doctor about a persistent yet irregular pain in my left calf. It has bothered me since Monday, the day after our family’s six-hour car ride to the Mississippi River and back. The doctor appointment seemed wise after failed attempts to massage the pain away, stretch the pain away, and deaden the pain away with Aleve. After discovering the left calf and its corresponding ankle measured .5 cm larger than the right one, the doctor employed medical best practices. She sent me immediately to the radiology department in a city 35 miles away for a Dopplar scan to rule out a DVT, deep vein thrombosis.

I was to drive directly there (“but don’t break any speed limits”) and then to wait for confirmation that the radiologist and my doctor had discussed the results. Should I have a blood clot in my leg, I might need to check into the hospital.

My results were negative, yet from 8:45 a.m. to 11:25 a.m. I wasn’t positive they would be, so I began making plans. The worst-case-scenario kind. Not actually the absolute worst, but the kind where someone could pick up Mark (because we only have one operating vehicle and I had it), bring me clothes and toiletries, inform our youngest why we can’t be at his senior year homecoming events, and help figure out how to care for Stross. I didn’t get that last one fleshed out satisfactorily. Too many details – medical supplies, cath schedule, ostomy care, accessible transportation (remember, I had our van), and ways to occupy his time.

I have had to formulate plans on the move in this manner before – many times before – but I have not had to do it when I’ve been the patient.

When I finally reached my sister by phone, I knew that connecting her with Mark – should the need arise – meant they could complete my planning without assistance. Still, my run-thru felt lacking.

Mark and I work best under pressure and when in proximity of one another. We had not been afforded that luxury. Plus, I was operating on less sleep than normal. One more thing: We no longer had adequate respite in place for Stross. Long story. The point of that story is this: Mark and I, once again, are the only living human beings who know “The Care and Feeding of Stross from A to Z.” Relatives are not even up to speed. Mark and I know it is important to not grow tired of this endless need to find and train members for our support team, but we have been doing it for more than two decades. After I-have-lost-count-of-how-many respite workers and caregivers; we have grown tired of it. We just have.

A friend has volunteered to learn – a genuine offer – but we have not made time for her orientation. She has a busy life. A family. A career. We will get to that someday. We promise.

Stross is more independent that he ever has been, even if not fully independent. He will never be fully independent.

Yes, we are still young and need to think of ourselves.

Yes, we know there are many good options.

Yes, we know what those options are.

Yes, we know others can take care of him, and he will be fine – even thrive.

Yes, we even know that one day it will not be us taking care of him at all, but such a time has not arrived.

We won’t wait for a worst-case-scenario, but we won’t needlessly rush when quality of life is at stake, either. Too many factors are in the air. Politicians using waiver programs in political warfare. Fluctuating finances. Uncertainty about plans that our parents, our siblings, and our other son are making about their respective futures.

As with today, negative results can mean a positive outcome.

That’s what happened this time. Thankfully.

At my doctor’s instruction, I am being more intentional tonight about rest-ice-elevation-Aleve, and more aware about a possible relationship to sciatica. The calf pain will resolve. I know my parental pain will resurface and need to be addressed as intentionally as the calf pain; it will likely present as a moment of weakness.

All in due time.

The Independence Paradox

Walking past my neighbor's home today I stopped to say "hi," because I had not done it in a few days. Mrs. F, a new widow, is nearly 90 years of age with eyesight regarded as legally blind. She is still quite able, however, and extremely determined to prove how capable she is.

Mr. F enjoyed most of the spring with her, yet by summer he knew he wasn’t well. He kept his awareness from her as long as possible – until a couple of weeks before his death. He left about a month before summer turned to fall. Now, as days of daylight grow shorter, I wonder how much colder her life will seem when winter arrives.

I pushed the doorbell three times in rapid succession and rapped on the door in a unique rhythm. Mrs. F smiled broadly, as she usually does upon recognizing my friendly tap and physical form, and she wondered aloud where I had been.

"We have had some busy days," I said and then filled her in on activities Mark and I had enjoyed in support of our children and also events we had attended for work and pleasure.

"I had hoped nothing was wrong," she said.

"No, nothing wrong.” Then, recognizing how she had come to rely on my attentiveness, I offered an apology for not having stopped by sooner. “Is there anything you need from the grocery store? I plan to go later," I asked.

“Yes,” she said. She did need some things, but someone else was going to help with that. “She hasn’t called yet, though, so I don’t know.”

“Well, what if I call to check before I get ready to go to the store? That will give you time to check and even time to get a list ready,” I offered.

“That will be fine. I really only need a few things,” she said. “Thank you.”

I got a call within the hour. She had cancelled her other offer and wanted to know if mine was still open. “Certainly. I’ll pick you up at 4 p.m.”

“Oh, that will work great,” she said.

“I’ll see you then,” I assured.

At 4:02 p.m., her front door opened before my van had come to a stop. I got out to assist, but then waited. If she needed my help – closing the door, locking the door with her key, finding secure footing for each step – I would notice. I finally asked if she would appreciate help just to be certain.

“I’ll be fine,” she reassured. “I have this bar to grab that Mr. F put here for me.”

She grabbed that bar as if holding his hand. He had facilitated her independence then and now – at least for a while more.

The ride to the store was full of small talk about autumn: the leaves in her yard she was proud she had managed to rake earlier in the day, the foliage of trees in colors she can see, the children playing outside the local daycare who were enjoying one of the last warm days of the year.

The aisles of the store were comforting and familiar even if the placement of her desired products had become a mystery. She only needed to locate two items: bread and margarine. “I have become a big fan of toast,” she said. My list was three times as long, allowing for more time to be out, more time to recognize people’s voices, and more time to be seen. More time, also, to feel alive on one of the last warm days of the year.

Well-wishers added to a sense of well being.

“Why, hello.” “I was so sorry to learn about your husband.” “So good to see you out.” “How are you?”

Mrs. F smiled throughout. She kept her tears glistening inside her eyelids. She kept pushing her cart through open spaces, allowing me to take the lead as we moved through the store.

Returning home, she exited the van while I carried her two items to the door. I waited as she felt for the opening in the key lock and then made two unsuccessful attempts to insert her key. “Just a little higher,” I suggested. She opted to keep her left index finger on the opening while sliding her house key under that finger and into the slot with the aid of her right hand. “Success!” I exclaimed on her behalf, and then handed her purchases to her – all $3.19 worth.

After a bit more small talk, I opened the door to leave. She followed in order to lock the door behind me.

“Oh, wait,” she said. “Before you go, can you open this bottle of pills?”

“Certainly.” I obliged and opened.

“How did you do that? Will you show me?” Of course, I would.

“Feel these grips on either side of the cap? Just squeeze those and turn. Wah-la.”

Her face lighted. “My goodness. That was easy.”

“Why don’t you do it before I go just to be sure you don’t have questions.”

She easily opened it herself, and then, embarrassed, apologized for even asking. I reassured her that the demonstration had been my pleasure and she should not hesitate to ask for assistance again should the need arise. Then I left.

Mrs. F is doing well. She misses her husband of more than 60 years dearly, but she is doing well.

Independence. We aspire to it. We work to achieve it. We hang onto it in all ways possible.

I have learned the most valuable lessons about independence from my oldest son.

One tenet in particular: Independence is a paradox. It can only be achieved with the help of others.

Countries achieve independence when patriots fight – together.

Children exercise independence after learning skills from parents, friends and educators who have done their best work – together.

People remain independent through the help of others who support their goals and are willing to provide assistance as needed. The goals are accomplished together.

Independence comes through acceptance of our interdependence. It just does.

...

Puppy Love

I cannot be classified as a pet person. My only reasons to have ever shopped in a pet store were linked to a few goldfish and a series of Beta during my children’s younger years.

I never had a cat or a dog. I didn’t even have a hamster or gerbil. But I didn’t care, for I never really wanted a pet anyway.

Still I did spent time wondering about a pet’s capacity to feel emotion. Could Man’s Best Friend really be a man’s best friend? And could animals share feelings or merely act on instinct?

A few years ago, I saw something that led me to believe that animals could express feelings. When driving down our street toward home, I came upon two rabbits in the center of the road – one lying dead, the other using his nose to nudge the lifeless body of the other. I stopped my car, waiting for the live rabbit to hop to safety. Instead it turned its head to look my direction, and then looked back to begin nudging his furry counterpart some more. Finally the live rabbit hopped a few feet away before stopping to look back at the fallen rabbit as if to say, “Come on. Let’s go.” Then the rabbit again approached his immobile counterpart, making another attempt to rouse him.

This living being seemed to have little regard for my presence, yet I regarded him with awe. He knew I was there. He also knew his friend could no longer follow. However, he wouldn’t leave. So I began inching my car forward, hoping my advancement would hasten the live rabbit’s departure. Rolling slowly, I kept my eyes on the scene as it played out like a battlefield scene from a war movie.

The imagery pulled at my heart. I decided that animals must know when something is wrong. They may even be able to comprehend that death is final. Therefore, I reasoned, animals might even know when something is wrong with their offspring. Could it be?

I didn’t have to wait long to witness another scene that I believed provided an answer.

A few months after the rabbit incident, I looked out my living room window to watch a young couple leaving my next-door neighbor’s home with a newly weaned Golden Lab puppy on a leash. Mother Lab was standing in my neighbor’s doorway next to her owner who was holding her back by her collar. Mother Lab’s eyes were fixed on the puppy as it pulled back on its leash. The pup attempted to walk toward the house, but the woman held the leash fast. Frustrated, the puppy looked at the couple, then the mother dog, then the couple, then back to the mother dog. Finally the puppy sat on the sidewalk and seemed to whimper. In response, Mother Lab tried to move forward. This caused the woman to tug on the pup’s leash, while my neighbor pulled back on Mother Lab’s collar, using her legs to keep the agitated grown dog inside the house.

Meanwhile, the young woman walked to where the pup was sitting and picked her up. As she headed to her car, the pup crawled up the woman’s body to perch on her shoulder, trying to look back at Mother Lab. The pup was clearly whimpering now, loud enough to be heard through my double-pane windows.

I couldn’t watch anymore. Tears had splashed onto my eyeglasses, fogging any view of Mother Lab or her pup. Yet what I had seen was clear: The puppy didn’t want to leave the only home it had ever known, and the pup’s mother did not want her to go.

Perhaps it is good I have not become a pet person. The emotional demands would drain me. I have a difficult enough time with the emotional demands of human relationships.

Some believe we can learn a great deal from our animal counterparts. But I wonder how practical many of those lessons would be? For instance, what do animals do when their offspring are born malformed? Or how do they care for young that aren’t able to keep up with the rest of the litter or clutch?

I can imagine what they do, but I don’t really know. I don’t think I want to know.

I don’t even know what other human mothers do when those things happen with human babies. I only know what I have been inclined to do for nearly 20 years now. I protect when I need to, advocate when I need to, cajole when I need to, nurture even when I don’t need to, and love always.

Always, always love.

Unlike a family of eagles living atop a tree, Mark’s and my oldest offspring won’t be spreading his wings to take flight anytime soon. It just doesn’t work that way in our human world. In fact, our youngest offspring will likely leave our nest first.

And all that angst I believe I observed from Mother Lab as her pup left home – I worry that I may experience that one hundred fold when my oldest pup ultimately does leave home to live some version of supported independence. There might even be another person pulling him toward a new life while someone else is trying to keep me in place. I sure hope not. I sure hope we navigate that transition more humanely. For now, I can only envision angst and fear of the unknown even though I believe it doesn’t have to be that way.

Call it instinct. Call it emotion. Call it whatever you want. I don’t care.

I call it love. Always have. Always will.

Love.

Love always.
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