Pushing a Rock

Sisyphus, because of his hubris and pliable relationship with the truth was cursed to push a boulder up a hill, for the rest of his life.  He would get to the top and the damn thing would roll back down and there he found himself, perpetually pushing a rock.

Some days, sometimes, a lot of times, care giving feels like Sisyphus pushing the rock up the hill.  Care giving is constant, it is constant in its need for attention, it is constant in the ebbs and flows of life, it can be like pushing a rock…..up a hill….all day, every day, never sure when everything will go down hill.

When we first came home after the second stroke we were at the bottom of the mountain with a big ol’ dirty boulder sitting in front of us.  Marty was weak, sick, confused, afraid and helpless.  I was mostly dumb and afraid but we both stood behind the boulder and shoved, we were going to, together, push the damn rock up the hill, up to the top and stand at the mountain top and crow like a banty roosters.

Marty got better, not a lot and not very fast, but slowly, over time, she became more communicative, she didn’t cry all of the time, she used words instead of signs and we gradually started to learn ways to deal with her illness.  We pushed the rock up the mountain a little further, not fast, but we made steady progress.

Occasionally, in fact, frequently, we would find ourselves sliding backwards, we would push the rock up and instead it would go to the side and slide back down.  I was afraid, in some ways I still am afraid, we are going to slip and lose control and the rock will roll all of the way back down to the bottom, crushing both of us as it bounces and careens down the mountain side.

It’s been close a couple of times, the rock spinning almost out of our control but one of us managing to get behind it, putting our back to the boulder, and by digging our heels into the dirt we managed to slow the momentum until help could arrive to stop it from tumbling out of control.

Along the way, as we pushed, we found help, people to help us push, people to allow me to rest while they pushed.  We found help in our family, in medical providers and home care givers.  We found pushing as a team helps; it just makes sense, the extra muscle, more people controlling the tilts and turns, keeps the momentum up and keeps us moving, inching forward, a little at a time.

Sisyphus could have used a team to spell him and more importantly Sisyphus really needed to develop an understanding and a sense of reality about his life goals.  He needed to accept the fact the rock wasn’t going to stay at the top.  

Marty and her team had to understand that in our journey of recovery we weren’t going to have a mountain top apex kind of experience.  You have to learn, through experience, what is possible and getting the rock to the top ain’t happening for us.

I used to think not reaching for the top was settling; now I understand it is reality, now I see it as acceptance.  It’s like I know I will never be tall, dark and handsome, I’m just not ever going to be taller or darker.  I just have to accept reality and settle for handsome.

So like Sisyphus should have, we have found support and we have pushed the rock as far up the mountain as we can.  Today, we, Marty, me, our team, we are holding the rock in static mode part of the way up the mountain.  

Marty and I have not given up on small improvements.  I know we can still push the rock up the hill a bit further and with our team, by adding new members to our happy little group we sometimes take a deep breath, put our collective shoulders to the boulder, dig our Asics into the scrabble rock and together push as hard as we can making sure we don’t let the rock slip and roll backwards.

We do it together, as a team because it lightens the load on all of us, particularly Marty and me.  We add new people to help us push from time to time and always keep more people holding the rock than needed so someone can occasionally take a pee break.  We do it together because  community makes you stronger.

Poor Sisyphus, he really thought too highly of his own solo capabilities.  He really needed some friends and maybe Medicare.

Touching, Feeling and Pulling My Chain

I am a touchy-feely kind of guy. I like to hug and be hugged, I like to touch and be touched. It’s not necessarily a prurient kind of touching, though I’m not opposed to that at all, I mostly crave human contact, that tactile, warm, gentle touching and hugging that people bring to each other, that gentle grasping and physical recognition that makes us all human.

I think physical contact has always been important to me; after all I did play doctor from a very early age, if you know what I mean.

After Marty’s strokes confined her to the wheelchair helping her stand or move from chair to chair precipitated physical contact. To facilitate upward movement from the wheelchair she would take her right arm and wrap it around my neck and hold me tight as I would grab her under her arms and lift. Sometimes we would stand there for three or four minutes with both of my arms around her, with her holding tight around my shoulders, hugging, holding, warming each other through our tenuous hold on each other.

When she broke her right arm most of that hugging and holding stopped, she simply cannot raise her right arm high enough to hold on to me and my girth doesn’t offer the same purchase for her as my shoulders. We still stand as I hold her, as I grip her tight and hold her close to me, but it’s not the same.

Most nights we sit in the living room and watch scintillating television like Survivor, American Idol and The Big Bang Theory (absolutely hilarious). Marty sits in her lift chair, I sit in my own recliner and we trade coughs and pithy remarks about the entertainment fare.

The other night as I got up to turn the night over to the bathing process I stopped in front of Marty in her chair. She was sitting with her feet up, quite comfortable. I stepped over and straddled her legs that were propped up on the bottom of the recliner, no easy feat for a man with short legs. I leaned over pressing up against her and slipped my right arm around her back and kissed her on the neck. With my left arm I took her right arm and put it around me and whispered to her to hold me. She moved her arm around me and said, quietly, in a breathy whisper, “Don’t breathe on me, you stink.”

“Do what?” I said, pulling my head away and looking into her soft blue eyes.

“You stink,” she said. “You smell like egg salad.”

“No I don’t,” I protested. “I haven’t even been around egg salad.”

By now she was laughing so hard she started to choke and cough and my quiet romantic moment was pretty well DOA. Marty has always thought she was the funniest person she knew. Egg salad indeed, Marty’s version was the only egg salad I ever liked so it hasn’t pass my lips in five years.

At night, after Marty’s bath, our caregiver takes her to bed and starts doing all of the things she needs to do to prepare for the night’s rest. I always go in and check on her as part of the nightly ritual. I went in and listened to her chest and checked her vitals, still paying doctor as it were. As always I bent down, kissed her on the forehead and told her I would come back in before I went to bed.

“I love you,” I said as I was kissing her forehead and then her cheek.

“I love you too,” she whispered, “but brush your teeth before you come back in, please.” She giggled a little bit like a young girl and then smiled.

Marty was always at her best when she was in charge, when she was pulling my chain. I like our lives best when she still tugs hard; for me it really is just like a hug from her.

Alone at Night

It doesn’t happen every night, I’m not sure why it does, but sometimes late at night, when its dark, when I first turn off the distractions around me and my mind starts to move to blessed sleep a profound sense of aloneness finds me. It’s when I lay there alone in the pitch black of night, right after I turn on my side and pull the sheet up to my neck and move my legs to find the softest coolest parts of the sheets that I miss her the most.

It’s when the television goes off and the noise of the house is dulled but my brain has yet to make the transition that I miss, no, I crave that beating heart, that deep breathing, that human electrical aura that all bodies exude. It’s when the loneliness slowly creeps through in the darkest parts of the night I miss the presence of her in my bed with me every night.

Before Marty’s strokes, when the kids were still home and they were asleep in their rooms and the house was the quietest I wondered if they ever got lonely in the pitch of the night. I wasn’t; I had this woman who loved me, whom I loved, beside me. I thought then how lucky Marty and I were that we always had that place, that time to be part of each other’s lives

I don’t think Marty and I would have been one of those couples that eventually moved to separate bedrooms for better sleep hygiene. While we had our differences; she didn’t like the fans blowing on her, she just liked the white noise of a machine, I wanted it as cold and windy as it could be without blowing the covers, we both coveted the presence of the other. Even with those differences, I slept with her with comfort, secure with the basic human existence always close enough to touch, to caress, to kiss. We would sleep, I would snore (I have the bruises from her elbows to prove it); she would sleep on her right side and dream, sometimes telling me what those dreams meant.

I love that Marty’s still with me. She’s just down the hall; sound asleep with the gentle hum and hiss of an oxygen concentrator producing just a bit more oxygen for her to sleep comfortably. She sleeps on her back now because of the machines; she sleeps soundly now because of the medicine, she sleeps in another room now so I can rest and she can be cared for throughout the night, she sleeps down the hall now so I can turn my brain off enough to find sleep.

Sometimes in the middle of the night, when it is the quietest, when all are asleep, when it is dark, I quietly walk down the hall and look in on her and her caregiver. Quietly, so as not to disturb, I watch her for just a minute, I watch as her chest rises and falls with each deep breath, I watch knowing her heart continues to beat, I watch wondering if she is dreaming.

In the late part of the night, when fever’s rise and hearts slow, brains still move, minds still calculate causing emotions, feelings, and angst to blossom. The darkness brings rest, it brings peace, it revives. The night reminds me of dreams told, nightmares realized and the softness of her touch. I wonder if she still dreams.

Thirty Five and Five

On a bright, clear, cold day on the high plains of Texas, Marty and I changed our lives forever and got married. We were too young, too naïve, too self-interested to be married and stay married. We did it anyway. That was 35 years ago today.

On a similar bright cold day in the heart of Texas Marty and I had our lives changed irrevocably when she had her second stroke. We were both too young, too inexperienced and too naïve to deal with the catastrophe that befell us, but we have done it in spite of our ignorance. The second stroke was five years ago today.

Thirty-five years ago my bride was gorgeous as she walked down the aisle in her wedding gown accompanied by her Father who looked exceedingly uncomfortable in his tuxedo. I was styling in a sort of brown velour tuxedo with a ruffled shirt and a velvet brown bow tie. Hey, it looked good in the 70’s, it’s not polite to laugh. I don’t remember a lot about the ceremony. I would say it was because I was captivated by Marty’s ravishing beauty but I suspect it was because nerves had completely compromised the ability of my brain to function. We got through the ceremony and somehow made it to the reception at the Dalhart Country Club where there were activities.

Five years ago my gorgeous bride was sitting in her recliner in her white and green pajamas. I was filthy, dressed in days old jeans and a lovely sweat shirt, and had been gathering mounds of leaves from our front yard. We were eating in front of the television set, watching “Everybody Loves Raymond’. Not the most romantic way to celebrate 30 years of marriage but we were tired from Christmas and a very difficult Christmas journey to Dalhart.

Thirty five years ago we changed into our “honeymoon clothes”, I had this super cool polyester leisure suit with a paisley qiana shirt. Marty was wearing her own poly blend floral pant suit and we were really too cool for school. Resplendent in our garb we set out on our honeymoon, two fresh faced children, now married. We left Marty’s house for Colorado Springs in the evening. Marty’s Grandmother had packed a picnic basket for us, complete with red checkered cloth to cover the console of our car. As we rode through the night I was a little afraid and amazed at how I had gotten in to this whole marriage deal.

Five years ago, thirty years past the leisure suit, I sat and had the same feelings as they put Marty on a gurney in our living room and took her to the ambulance for the short trip to the hospital. I stood out in the cold right behind the ambulance watching them connecting oxygen and fluids to Marty. Thirty-five years ago I thought I would never be alone, five years ago I had never felt so alone.

Thirty-five years ago tonight Marty and I were in the Hilton’s honeymoon suite reaping the rewards of promising to love, honor till death do us part. We ended up with Marty teaching me how to snow ski and driving back to Dalhart on some back roads of Colorado (not a good idea). We had no idea the beauty and the pain life had in store for us in the coming years, we just knew we were in love and ready to live our life together, forever.

Five years ago tonight I sat in a hospital room with Marty wanting to love and honor a little longer and not wanting to worry about the till death do us part thing. We were less than a year away from her last stroke and all I could think about was in sickness and in health and avoiding the death part of the vows.

It was five years ago, just like 35 years ago, Marty and I had no idea the beauty and the pain life was in store for us, we just knew we were in love and ready to live our life together. We still are.

It's Really Been 39 Years

In about two weeks I am heading to the hinter lands of west Texas for my high school reunion celebrating 39 years since graduation from dear old Colorado City High. I know 39 years has absolutely no symmetry to it; nothing like 25, 30 or 40 years. I think the oddity of it fits my somewhat out of sync graduating class and people of our particular birth year where everything we did and experienced was just a tick off center.


Marty and I were both born in ’54, dead in the middle of the baby boomer generation. We graduated from different Texas high schools in 1972 and we have always believed our classes were a kind of bridge between eras.

We were too young to be a real part of the upheaval of the 60’s, the civil rights demonstrations, the antiwar protests, Chicago, Watts and Woodstock. On the other hand we were much too close to the 60’s and we wanted to be counter culture enough to eschew the yuppie, disco crowd (thank God). It seems we don’t really have an era, unless it would be the era of being on the cusp.

Musically we bridged the psychedelic era, progressive country and bubble gum. The Beatles had broken up, Waylon and Willie were just being found, the Archies were the leaders of bubble gum and the Bee Gees were just way too, well they were just way too. In 1972 we had “American Pie”, “Nights in White Satin”, “Ben” and “Puppy Love”. No wonder we are all a bit schizophrenic.

Politically we were awash in sea of chaos and confusion. Our older brothers and sisters railed against the war and the draft or railed against those railing against it. In 1973, our first year in college, President Richard M Nixon stopped the draft. We lost that particular freak flag before we could really fly it. In that my lottery number was 24 I was thrilled to lose this marching issue. I’m embarrassed to say I cast my first presidential ballot in a very self-serving manner and helped elect a felon.

In spite of our somewhat confused era, or lack thereof, our classes soldiered on through life. We participated in and were the recipients of great change morally and socially. Women gained, freedom of expression expanded, lives became more chaotic, jobs offered less security and nothing was static.

Our era, that thing that defines you as a special generation, is simply the era of change, an era of radical, amazing, frightening change. Maybe that’s why having reunions every so often instead of 10 years suits my class just fine because we have always been a bit off center. I know I look forward to the every so often years to reconnect with those who have this era in common.

For me this reunion will be different because of Marty. She always enjoyed going to my class reunions. Over the years she become acquainted with many parts of my history and really enjoyed these trips treating them as a type of psychological archeology. A lot of my old class mates know Marty and have enjoyed her quick wit, humor and ability to keep me ever so humble.

Alas, I don’t think she will make this reunion. It would be just too hard for her and for me too. It makes me a little sad and a lot nervous to be facing all of those memories alone. When you have been together as long as we have, being alone, going solo, makes you feel like a part of you is missing, like maybe you aren’t completely dressed or your zipper is constantly down, you just feel a little out-of-sync, a tick off center; sounds about right for a 39 year reunion.

Just Trust Her on This

As a father of a daughter, part of my life’s work has always been to frown at the boys Erin drug into our home. I’m not a particularly intimidating fellow but I did my best to really frown and look threatening at all of the guys who wanted to date or in any way get to know my baby girl. They all needed to know I had my girl’s best interests at heart and their interest should never bump into my interests or I would get excessively cranky. Marty, bless her heart, she just laughed at me.

Over the years Erin has drug in several guys, all okay in one way or another, none really acceptable to “the Dad”. None really lived up to the perfect sort of man for Erin, you know, a guy like, well me. Then one day she brought Lyle home. I don’t remember that first introduction, but I do know it didn’t occur to me at the time he was a contender for my daughter’s heart. My first impression was the same as most of the guys I had met, he didn’t really measure up to my standards, perfect, but that was okay, I figured he was just kind of a passing fancy.

It wasn’t long before we began to understand Lyle was not a temporary kind of thing, it appeared he was going to be a somewhat regular fixture with Erin. Frankly, I was a bit perplexed as he didn’t really seem to fit the mold of the previous suitors; he wasn’t necessarily the guy I would have selected but then I wasn’t picking and apparently didn’t get a whole lot of input in the selecting. I pressed Erin a bit on this fact in a lot of subtle and some not so subtle ways like, “what the hell are you thinking anyway”. She came back with, “trust me on this”. My response, “fine, it’s your life.” Sure.

Slowly we began to get to know Lyle and he began to know Erin’s family and our particular situation. I watched Lyle closely, I watched Lyle with Erin, I watched Lyle with Marty. I wanted to gauge his level of comfort with Marty, test his level of comfort with her as a person, and as Erin’s mother. I wanted to see how he handled Marty’s disability.

Lyle had never known Marty before her strokes; he didn’t know exactly how smart, how quick, how funny she was. He didn’t know Marty as the protective, meddling, problem solving consummate Mother she had been. He only saw her as she was today, a person in a wheelchair with significant disabilities. He was not scared, he was not put off, he was not afraid. He touched her, he hugged her, he talked to her as a person, he kissed her and let her kiss him. I was most impressed; he passed the can you handle the broken Mom test.

I got to know Lyle even better on a “bonding” trip from Waco to our lake house, just the two of us. I got to expound and advise ad nauseum; he listened patiently and told me stories about himself, his life and how he grew up. We confessed some of our sins and talked about why we sinned. Our backgrounds were remarkably similar. We talked and listened to the filthy comic stylings of Rodney Carrington, a real experience to have with the father of your girl friend. He was a good guy, I was still a skeptic, this was my baby girl who wanted me to “trust her on this”. Okay.

My big epiphany with Lyle came when he sat with Erin right before and after she had surgery. Lyle was there to hold her hand, Lyle was there to watch her, Lyle was there when I couldn’t be there to make sure Erin was safe. Lyle didn’t run, Lyle didn’t shy away when it got a little hard, Lyle had sand, Lyle had substance.

Given the last five years with Marty I have come to value the importance of substance, the importance of being there beside your partner when it gets bad, when it gets a bit stinky, scary and your heart gets a little tight from anxiety. Finding someone who will sit with you when you are sick, someone who will hold your hand when you are afraid and vulnerable, someone who will hold your hair when you are riding the porcelain bus is really one of the great things in life. I know if I had been the one who had the strokes Marty would have held my hand.

It appears Lyle can do that too. Erin was right all along, I just need to “trust her on this”.