Ecstasy & Agony

When Matt, our oldest, was born, Marty sent out birth announcements with a little sketch of a baby and the words, “Every child comes with the message that God is not yet discourage of man.” A quote from a dude named Rabindranath Tagore, a Bengali artist.

I love this.

Well, it happened again, God gave the world another message, in fact God gave us a couple of messages. Our daughter Erin brought life, to not one, but two new baby girls.  They came roaring into the world January 10 at roughly 6:30p.m. 

It was, is, way cool.

I’m pretty sure Layla Bird is the oldest by about two minutes and then came Liza Lou.  They are healthy, hungry and home and despite the ensuing childhood illnesses befalling all those around them, they are eating, pooping, sleeping and growing, in short being infants.

The names, the middle names, are family names from my mother’s side.  My Mom is a Bettye Lou and her sister was Ebba Bird.  I really like the names, they go well with Lily Jewell and Lucy Jean.  They are Texas through and through and if they hang with me enough, they will talk like they are from west Texas, really, it’s quiet charming.

I was there on their birthday as a matter of serendipity.  We were at the lake and I had just texted Erin to say I was on my way to deliver some baby tools on loan from friends in Houston when she said it was good I was coming because she was on her way to labor and delivery.  Delivery occurred about 6 hours after my arrival.

I took Marty up to meet Layla and Liza the next day and she squirreled up enough courage to hold Liza.  Marty is always afraid she is not safe holding babies.  Not true mon Cheri, you are why these babies will always be safe, you showed us the way.

 

New children, new grandchildren are the perfect Ecstasy.

On Monday following that ecstasy Marty got sick, thus a little bit of agony.  We were at the lake when Marty clearly started spiraling down the “I’m gonna get sick” drain.  When she puked we knew it was time so we loaded ourselves and the dog in our vehicles and hot footed over to Providence in Waco.

This is one of those moments I had dreaded for a long time.  Marty getting sick that far away from our home hospital and having to make the decision to drive the hour and half to Waco or detour to Corsicana or Fairfield, both an hour closer.  I made the decision to get to Waco and so we rode, Marty tucked into the passenger seat of our van with her puke bucket and Nykkie, caregiver extraordinaire and the dog following in the truck.

As an aside and as a public service announcement, if you are planning an illness, wait for a few weeks because the hospitals are just nuts right now with flu and upper respiratory illnesses and there is coughing and hacking all over the waiting room, and that was just me and Marty.

It took about 3 hours for Marty to graduate from the lobby to an ER room.  Providence folks were smart though and had already drawn blood and done a chest x-ray so by the time we got back to the back we, they knew Marty was sick with and elevated white count (infection) and some cloudy areas on her chest x-ray.  We got to her room up stairs about 8 p.m., the first time we have been in the hospital since September of 2017. 

That’s awful for normal people, pretty good for those of us lined up in the health care aberration line.

 

That was a Monday, on Friday we made our way home.  Once home Marty got the obligatory shower and hair wash to rid herself of the hospital funk.  She was still a bit congested but free of any possibility of infection so home felt like, well home.

We spent the weekend doing regular stuff and on Tuesday following I drove to Dallas to see the new additions.  I had to see the two new messages from God, the two wonderful notions that God loves and shows us love and commands love.  I needed to see the antithesis of the week in the hospital, know that in spite of it all, it spite of the agony of brokenness, in spite of the anxiety of illness, in spite of the pain of watching illness, real ecstasy exists, real miracles occur.

PS….We went back to hospital two weeks later.

The Eyes Have It

Her name is Marty Jean, her mother’s name was Ethel Jean, her brand new human granddaughter is Lucy Jean.  

The “L” for Lucy is a part of son-in-law Lyle’s family tradition.  The Jean is for Marty, to honor Marty, to connect Lucy to Marty to Ethel Jean.  The name Lucy Jean sings Texas; the name is daughter Erin’s ode to her mother.

I was there when Lucy Jean was born.  I don’t mean in the room, I’m a cool dude, I’m not that cool of a dude nor was the mom to be, Erin, cool with me being that cool of a dude.  I was in the same town, the same hospital, the same floor as the birth, that’s how cool of a dude I am.  I was being a cool dude with Larry and Eileen the other grands, in the waiting room as the actual birthing took place.

The new human, Lucy Jean, was born around 8 p.m..  I sent pictures to Marty Jean who was at our lake house with Nathalie Nichole, her caregiver.  Not long after Lucy’s introduction to the world, not long after the pictures, not long after Erin and Lyle announced the name I sent another picture to Marty and left for the one hour some minute trip to the lake.  

When I got to the house a little after 11 that night I was tired but still a little juiced up from the day’s events…..you know, a whole new beating heart human being in the world that was a direct descendent of …..Me.  Marty and Nykkie were wrapped in soft sheets and blankets sitting up in her bed watching a little night time trash TV and sipping on drinks….cranberry.

I walked in and asked if they had received the pictures of Lucy I had e-mailed, with my smart phone skills you never know.  They did.  

I asked, “Well Marty, what do you think?”  

She didn’t hesitate, “She’s beautiful.”

“Damn straight, she’s your brand new grandbaby.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, looked at Marty and said, “What do you think of her name, Lucy Jean?  You know she is named after you don’t you?”

Marty smiled and her eyes opened wide.  I could see glimpses of pride and gratitude creep onto her face and come out through her pale blue eyes.  

I have to say for a 20^th century guy I am pretty intuitive.  I am lousy at poker because I can’t read strangers well enough to discern dishonesty, but I am good at seeing emotions played out in body language, facial cues, and the eyes of people I know really well.  I know Marty really well…..I have a doctorate of Marty after all.  

The eyes almost always do it for Marty, they widen, they brighten, they become clear and focused when she is happy.  

She said in response to my question of the name, “Oh, that’s kind of dumb.”

The words were the polar opposite of her face.  The words, “that’s kind of dumb,” came out of her mouth, “it is amazing, it makes me feel wonderful, I am so proud,” came from the face of the woman I know better than I know myself.   

The part of Marty’s brain that allowed for, that fed unmitigated physical displays of joy went away with the first stroke.  She doesn’t seem to get outrageously happy anymore and she certainly doesn’t show extreme happy these days.  There’s no raising of the hands in sheer joy, no verbal or non-verbal yippees, no happy dancing anymore.  Unrestrained is not what Marty does post stroke.  

Apparently she has adopted some false modesty in place of the yippee. I know she was thrilled because she can’t close down her eyes or her face or her smile.   When she said, very simply, “Beautiful,” in response my question of “what do you think?”,  when Marty’s eyes opened wide and flashed blue when I asked about the name, when she let go with her broad smile all I could see was Marty doing a wild gyrating happy dance.  

Lucy JEAN thrilled Marty for a lot of reasons.

I don’t remember if it was a song lyric or just a colloquialism but the words go something like this, “Are you going to believe what a say or believe my lying eyes.”  The eyes have it.

Making Memories

I remember coming back to our rental home in the Texas Tech ghetto in the summer of 1974 after a weekend of water skiing and drinking.  Marty was sitting on the front porch of the house I rented with three other guys, waiting, for me.

I remember sitting in the garage of that same house, Marty and I were sitting on the floor, legs touching, talking quietly as we watched, listened and smelled the summer rain.  I remember being aware of growing close.

I remember the very early summer morning, in Paris (Texas), watching as they wheeled Marty away to the delivery room to give birth to our first child, a son.  I remember how long the wait seemed and how intolerably dumb it was that I had to sit in the waiting room.

I remember watching as my daughter was born in Muenster (again, Texas) and seeing this perfectly round head with dark hair capture my heart as she took her first breath.  This time I was there to see Marty perform a miracle.

I remember sitting in our church, standing to sing a hymn and putting my hand over Marty’s as we both rested our hands on the pew in front of us.

I remember singing along with Pluto and Goofy and the gang as we made one more road trip to west Texas.  

I remember standing at the top of the ski slope with Marty; she was dressed in the bright red ski suit that Erin would wear when she became an adult.  I remember looking at the sky, the snow, our children and being very simply, happy.

I have often worried if our time of making good memories was over.  I have worried that the strokes, which have permeated every facet of our lives, would simply take over and color any and all memories I might have after the strokes.  I have worried that the only memories we were making were the memories of illness and fighting for survival.

Then, I close my eyes, I think, I remember.

Then I remember seeing Marty standing and dancing on a set of steps they used at rehab after her first stroke.  I was amazed because I wasn’t sure Marty would ever be what she was before.  She smiled as she stood there, supported by her therapist and I, once again, I was captured by this woman.

Then I remember sitting with this woman on our boat dock, looking out over the water, no wind to ruffle the lake, the water still, flat, shimmering, the setting sun casting orange and red shades through the fragments of clouds.

Then I remember seeing her clutching and nuzzling our first grandchild after his baptism, I remember her kissing his head.   I remember her holding her second grandchild and smiling and then taking the third in her arm for the first time.

Then I remember gliding along a small dance floor.  Marty sat straight in her wheelchair and said she wanted to dance, so we danced, in a fashion, we danced at our daughter’s wedding.

Then I remember her sitting at the front of our church with Jimmie’s face next to her reciting the charge at the Christmas service.  Jimmie would speak, Marty would speak, and I remember, every word, every phrase.

Then I remember her broken smile, her stubborn laugh at our stupid behavior, her questions, her statements, her requests, her courage, her determination, her patience, her love for her children and her love for me.  

Then I remember her saying, “I love you”.

Then I know our good memories are still being built.