A Dichotomy (It's a Great Word)

A couple of Sundays ago Marty and I went to Preston Hollow Presbyterian Church in Dallas to watch as our youngest grandchild, Lucy Jean, was baptized.  For me, for us, it is a spiritual thing.  For me, for us, infant baptism represents the best of who we are as human beings.

In our church baptism is a sacrament, a sign of God’s continuing love for God’s people.  Marty often referenced a statement from someone more eloquent than I (I can’t remember the name) that birth is a sign that God has not yet given up on humanity.  I feel that way about baptism.  I can’t think of a better way of showing love than for parents, a family, a church to promise God’s love to a child.

The baptisms of our grand children or any child touch Marty in a way she can’t express.  She doesn’t say much about it, the strokes took outward expressions from her, but I know from years of sitting beside her when other children have been baptized she feels the meaning of the sacrament.  She feels the warmth and love of the community, she always, always, as difficult as it is to make the journey, as self conscious as she feels in large gatherings, she always wants to be there and connect with that part of our life.  

I want that for her.

The following Sunday my family gathered in Fort Worth to belatedly fete my parents for their 65 year anniversary.  65 years is a long, long time to do anything, 65 years of marriage is nothing short of a miracle.  My brother John, in his toast, said that only 1% of married couples make the 65 year mark.   Personally I’ve never known anyone married for 65 years, you have to not only live a long time you have to stay in like and love with someone else for a very long time.  

It was a great celebration where Marty tried to order a beer instead of wine or the more appropriate Diet Coke (she really can’t drink either, she’s loopy enough and has to help me drive), we all paid homage to the miracle of Bettye and Larry Sr., and our entire immediate family was there.  We even got to hear a letter of congratulations to my parents written by our esteemed Senator Ted Cruz from Texas (no, not all of us in Texas like extremism).

More importantly we talked of the miracle of love, the necessity of partnership, the luck of finding your soul mate and what an amazing thing it is to still love your mate through all of the trial, tribulations and victories of 65 years.

In the span of those two weeks, with my bride, my bride of 40 years, my bride in the wheelchair, we made the treks to the Metro mess to see a beginning and a solemn promise, the next week we had the privilege to honor a solemn promise fulfilled for more than six decades.

Getting to Dallas once every now and then pulls hard at Marty’s energy reserves so I always give her a choice, “Do you want to go?”  Of course she says, “Damn straight I want to go.”  In her mind she has to be there for the baptism and my own Mother, who always loved me the most, told me not to come to their shindig without Marty.  

The dichotomy of these two events is really hard to miss.  Think of it as a contrast between a new beginning for little Lucy and a celebration of an old union that began literally decades ago in another century, a union that is ultimately responsible for giving life to little Lucy.

 Lucy was baptized into a faith community in 2016, in a completely different millennia and culture than when my parents were married, yet they are tied together, they are tied together by the miracle of genetics and more importantly they are forever connected by the very same faith and family community.

I love the connection, I love knowing that, my grandparents, my parents, Marty and I, our children and their children are part of a strong community connected through the years to each other and to a common history. 

I love knowing, as different as these celebrations were, as special and emotional as they both were, they ultimately show who we really are.  

I really love knowing Marty is still here to be a part of these acts of love and with Marty; you can’t take that presence for granted.

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.

Thanks for the Hook-Up

My head has not been there in a while.  The past months, really the past couple of years have been too good to dwell on what was, what happened and what might have happened.  Encounters make me think back.

I went to a wedding and saw the minister that sat with us the morning April 4, 2005.  That was the morning of Marty’s surgery to stop the bleeding from her ruptured cerebral aneurysm.  That was the morning I began to understand mortality.

That Sunday the minister in question sat with us, first in a small room, then a larger room.  She sat with me, with Erin, with Matt, with Sarah, with Wesley as we paced, as we waited anxiously and hopeful for word on Marty after her hours’ long surgery.  It was a long, painful, exceedingly frightening wait.  It was one of those did she live kind of waits.

At the wedding I talked briefly to the right reverend Fran and thanked her for being with us that day.  I didn’t do a very good job of saying thank you and telling her how much her presence meant to me and to my family.  I don’t think I explained how much comfort it brought to be connected with our faith at a time when every part of my life, every fiber of my being was shaken and my faith was being pulled from me little by little with every tick of the clock.  

It’s taken me years to understand that Fran’s loving and calm presence that day did more than just offer spiritual solace.  Her presence that morning connected me to my church and to our larger church. Actually, it was more than that, the connection Fran brought helped me tap into a faith that all too often wavers and all too often is led by my doubts.  

Sitting in those rooms, waiting for news, good or bad, I needed something big to hold, Fran brought that.  That connection to the church universal has kept me coming back to my faith in spite of my doubts and fears and anger.  It is a connection to something larger and more important than me or a single congregation.

Fran came to us that day through Matt and Sarah’s church, but it is my church too because as Presbyterians we are connected.  My church is connected to their church which is connected to my parent’s church which is connected to my sister’s church all of which is connected to the faith of the thousands of doubters in the past and the future.  

We are a connectional church and that is what my faith needed that day, I needed to feel joined to my church 100 miles away, I needed the faith of my parents and sister who happened to be in Ireland at the time, I needed the faith of all of those who had gone before Marty and I, and I needed the faith of all of those who would come after us.  

I am sure Fran has sat with countless people, some in better situations, some in worse.  I did not know her, Marty didn’t know her, but she made me comfortable, she gave me comfort.  On that day, at that time Fran was a part of my larger family.  On that day at that time Fran brought a modicum of peace to me and mine.  On that day at that time Fran represented something, for me, that was much larger than her, than me, than Marty, she represented the love and the history our faith.

Our world has changed in the 9 ½ years since that April in 2005.  I have changed, my base of knowledge and understanding about our life has been expanded and I think, I think, I better understand myself and my place in our journey.

I now understand how much I need to feel connected to the greater world.  I understand today how important it was to me then, on that day.  On that day I don’t think I recognized what was going on, that Fran’s presence, for me, brought the power of presence of our faith and congregations.

Thank you Fran, it really meant a lot then, it means even more today.

Sex

I am a fortunate man, I know that.  I still have Marty, I can still reach down, hold her, hug her, feel her breath, listen to her beating heart when I lay my head on her chest.  That she is still with me is a blessing.  I miss intimacy; I miss a passionate kiss, a gentle caress of the cheek, a hand on the middle of the back moving slowly up and down.  Let’s face it, I’ll tell the truth as best I can, I miss sex.

I miss the tactile, sensual, carnal, visual, passionate, instinctive part of having sex (sorry kids you weren’t adopted).  More important I miss that sense of connection, the emotional and physical intimacy you find when making love to and with someone whose heart you hold dear.

I miss the closeness and the touching of the body that only happens when you are sharing that most intimate, that most personal of acts.  There is nothing in the world that connects two people like sex.  Those people in life who say sex is not an important part of their relationship are clearly having sex because when you’re not, you feel the importance of that very simple and complex act of loving.

For me, as I matured, I was able to see sex in a couple of different ways.  As a teenager and a young man the carnal, visceral aspect of the act of sex ruled my understanding of the process.  As I grew up and gained insight I was able to understand that sex was more than the instinctual carnal part of the psyche, it was a way we satisfied another instinctual part of our being, a singular intimate connection to another person.  This is a consequence of the strokes, this is what both Marty and I miss, as connected as we are, as much as we have grown together, we both miss the power of sexual contact.

There is nothing in life that replaces it, that captures the intensity of human connection.  Sex, the physical act of loving, our outward sign of giving and taking love cannot be replaced in a caring, loving relationship.  It’s the ultimate connection, and it is a force of nature, it is beyond the drive to simply procreate.  

Marty and I are able to laugh at ourselves and our forced celibacy but it is a part of our life I really miss, Marty, not so much, it’s not really on her top ten things she misses.  It doesn’t come close to missing walking, thinking, talking, all of that stuff. 

  

Celibacy, at 57, is not something I have chosen, it’s not a part of my life I would want to adopt, but it seems it is a part of my life that is gone for now, I don’t think I want to say gone forever, I can’t deal with forever.

It’s a real conundrum.  I find myself at loggerheads between desire and reality, past and present, new and old normal.  I want something that appears to be in my past, that I am not ready to forget or forgo. 

I do realize I have options.  There’s infidelity, assuming I could find an appropriate and willing infidel, but there are way too many emotional, psychological and moral issues with infidelity.  An affair causes too many people too much pain and the associated guilt would be too much for me to handle. 

 

I thought about a trip to Las Vegas and finding a resident call girl, but that doesn’t really do much for the important part of a sexual relationship, the thing I most miss, intimacy and connection.  Besides, that carries with it a certain ick factor, not that there’s anything wrong with women making money anyway they can.

Neither of these options really addresses the seminal (pun intended) part of sex, the connection, that psychic, emotional raw connection that only real love making provides.  Sex brings a sense of attachment, an intimate knowledge and understanding of a couple’s emotions, passions, feelings and love.  It is the most outstanding outward display of an internal feeling.

All this sex stuff is decidedly uncomfortable for me and it is difficult to confess my angst about the loss of it.  It is one of those issues where real honesty comes hard because sex is such a personal part of our lives.  It’s not something I have ever talked about with friends, though I bet Marty did, I hope her friends think of me fondly.   

All of this is quite simply another part of a difficult journey; it is another aspect of being a caregiver to one you love.  As our journey has gone on it is my truth, my discovery about loss due to Marty’s strokes.   

I am a fortunate man, I know that.  I still have Marty, I can still reach down, hold her, hug her, feel her breath, listen to her beating heart when I lay my head on her chest.  That she is still with me is a blessing.  And that is the most important part of our life.