A Night with Progressive People

My Sunday School class had a progressive dinner last Saturday night that started at my house for appetizers and then progressed to three more houses for salad, main course and dessert. It was great fun to have lots of good friends together eating and laughing. We developed new inside jokes and learned things like who's in love with Google Chrome and who doesn't have a shower in her home. I cleaned the house and bought sodas and Jim did the manly yard things. We found out at 2:35 that the party didn't start at 5:15 as I had thought, but rather at 4 pm. AAAGGGGHH! It was a little rushed there for awhile, but we made it in time. I love having the house full of good friends, and it was a respite from the stressful events in my life.

Not Quite Ready for Comedy Central

My dad is better today than yesterday. He's so fun to be with because he has a great sense of humor. My brother and my sister-in-law visited him last night. My heart goes out to them because he has a serious neck injury that causes him constant, severe pain, and she has lymphatic cancer. When I asked my dad how they were he said "GREAT!" "Really?!" "Yeah. They're vertical. That's better than me!" He wanted me to pay his cell phone bill, so I called, but they needed his verbal OK. So he took the phone, and when the guy asked "How are you, sir?" he said "Well, I just had a heart attack, but other than that I'm fine." All of us in the room burst out laughing. He tries to give people respect by calling them by name. Unfortunately, it's not usually the right name. Yesterday the nurse was in several times and dad would say "Thank you so much, Fred." or "You're a big help, Fred." Finally I asked the nurse "Is your name 'Ray'?", and he said "Yeah, but I love it when your dad calls me Fred." They sense his heart and know he means well. His sister, my dear aunt is here now, too, and it's fun to be all together. They have such a great sibling friendship. We're hanging in there today. 

They Will Know You by your Love

The other day I ordered coffee at the little stand in the hospital to take up to my dad. I got halfway to his room when I remembered it had to be decaf. So I went back to the stand and told the woman I needed to buy another cup. She dumped out the real and gave me the unleaded, and when I tried to pay her, she wouldn't accept it. I was so emotional at that moment that I burst into tears at her kindness. Today, when I returned she said "Oh, I remember you--the DECAF!" "Yes, and you were so kind to me when I really needed it," I said. "How's your dad doing?" "He's better." "Oh, good. What's his name? I want to remember him in my good wishes." "Frank." And I don't know why I asked, because I don't usually, and I don't believe only Christians have the ability to pray (and she didn't use the word "pray"), but I asked "Are you a Christian?" "Well, I believe in Jesus and I follow his teaching, but I don't like all the connotations connected with being called a Christian." Hmmm. Sad that Christians are regarded as close-minded, homophobic, hell-preaching, judgemental, hypocrites. I know we've earned the labels. We mess up IN THE NAME of Christianity (Like in the case of the hellfire preacher or the people who are mean to gays.) We mess up unapologetically, as if Christians have a RIGHT to be judgemental or mean-spirited. I'm frustrated that a label that should have good connotations,  (if we really lived the life he taught), makes people cringe. Christianity is radically different from other religions because instead of saying "Here's how to live a good life and find fulfillment and reach heaven," it says living a good life is impossible. We are self-centered people who are incapable of living in a kind, moral way. We all blow it. We need forgiveness. So, in a way, the kind woman at the coffee kiosk was right-Christians are often unkind. I feel bad about that, and try to follow his teachings, but I also realize it's impossible, and that's why he came. 

Earth's Best Patient is Back in the Game

I wrote yesterday about the pastors praying with me last night. It was so comforting just to be touched, to feel God's amazing presence and peace as each person spoke. They each prayed something different, and yet they prayed things that really spoke to my heart. Obviously that my dad would be healed completely and have many more days with us, but also that I would have wisdom about whether the girls should come home, and that I would have good communication with the doctors, and for my brother and our family relationships at this time, and more. I hadn't shared many of the thoughts on my heart, but somehow God revealed them to  these people as they prayed. It was one of those truly remarkable times. If the only result of these prayers was gaining the comfort I felt from the act of praying, it would have been enough. The really cool part is that the prayers actually worked. My dad, who had five major organ systems not working right and was ready to give up last night, woke up in the night and started eating. His kidneys, digestive tract and liver started functioning, and he started to feel better. By the time I saw him in the hospital he was joking with the doctors again, and was cheerful. Prayer works!

I did face the language barrier again. The doctor came in and said "Your liver function is high." Dad said "That's great!" "No, that's bad." Well, it sounded great. They also ordered a scan of his gall bladder, and Dad cheerfully said "OK, that's great." But then when the doctor left he said "I don't actually have a gall bladder, so I wonder what they'll scan?" Dad didn't even complain that now that he finally had his appetite back, they wouldn't let him eat because of the scan. I would have been mad or unhappy, but he just said "That's the way it goes!" 

It's been a Difficult Journey

I have entered a new culture with a new language and customs I don't understand. This time, my ability to understand and be understood has life and death consequences. My dad had another heart attack last Saturday. (This follows the one he had three weeks ago). The doctors, nurses and staff at the hospital he's at are kind and caring, but I have a steep learning curve. Last night my dad was throwing up all night, and was very weak in the morning. I was very worried about how terrible he looked, and called Jane, the visiting nurse who took care of him last week. "Don't worry. It could be ileus.  Sometimes when the body has had a trauma, the digestive system shuts down. They'll do an Xray and figure it out."  So, when the doctor came in, he asked a million questions about Dad's nausea, and even though the medicine they were giving him wasn't working, the doctor didn't propose anything new. So I said "Could it be ileus?" (It's always good to try out the few words you know in a new language.) And the doctor said "Maybe. Let's do an abdominal Xray to see." If I hadn't said it, would he of thought of it? I don't have a medical degree, and yet I feel if I don't gain some medical knowledge, my dad won't get the care he needs. I don't know if this is the end, or something that he will recover from. I don't know whether to tell my daughter to come home from Central America. When I asked the cardiologist today "Is it possible to stabilize his heart so that he won't keep having heart attacks?" he said "I have to go look at his chart." We never saw him again. He didn't lay out a plan, but he didn't indicate that my dad's situation was insolvable. Maybe in this culture I'm not supposed to bother the physician with questions. I want answers. They want to ask questions. I love my dad so much. I want to make sure he's getting the best care possible, but I don't know how. I don't know the culture and feel I'm going to unintentionally insult the people of this culture and then they won't ever tell me what I want to know. There's lots to be thankful for in all this. I'm thankful for nurse Jane, who is a good friend and a wealth of information. She visited Dad in her off hours today and brushed his teeth for him. I'm thankful for  Kathy, who is willing to take my students so I can run to the hospital, even though the kids take full advantage of her when I'm gone. I have a handful of treasured friends who have been supportive and faithful. Last night all three pastors at church huddled with me and prayed for Dad and me, and that was a great comfort. I'm thankful for my dear dad who continues to laugh and be kind to others, even through his pain. I'm thankful he knows where he's going next and is looking forward to it. He said "I'd gladly trade places with Mom at this point." I've learned to survive cross-culturally many times before, and while this feels like the most dangerous trip I've taken, I know God's by my side, leading me through it. 

My high school is on a college campus whose mascot is Pirates, so this year, in homage to them, my staff dressed like pirates for Halloween. I have a fun staff. 

A Double Heart Attack

When I think about my most valuable possession, it's probably my wedding ring designed by my father's friend since childhood. Or the ring I wear with it from Ireland that Jim gave me for our 20th wedding anniversary. I hope I never lose these precious items. But I think about my dad, whom I love far more than these, and no matter how much I try to hold onto him, and how much I protect him and care for him, I'm going to lose him. It's a given. When my dad had a heart attack in the wee hours of the morning last Monday, I realized how quickly things can change. One day he's planning his next road trip and practically needing a social secretary to keep up with all the fun things he does, and the next he's in the hospital looking more tired than an old Rambler. The head of cardiology said "I've done a lot of heart surgeries, but I've never met anyone with 16 heart bipasses." (He was one of the first people to have open heart surgery in 1975, and had two more heart surgeries after that.) He's out of the hospital now, and I hope he'll make a full recovery. But I think my heart is a little damged from the ordeal, too.