Finding Graceful

Marty and I watched and listened as the trio gently played their strings. The classical music filled the lobby and the three college students, fixated on their instruments, entertained the frail, broken audience in the sub acute care center. The crowd was largely old and mostly very ill or recovering from being very ill. I sat there in the faux living room and thought about how our somewhat inauspicious introduction to sub-acute care had not necessarily belied the physical and spiritual grace we would find there.

Our first day there had come after a tough stay at a very crowded hospital. When they came to move Marty from the hospital to the new facility we were not suspecting or even looking for grace, we were both simply afraid.

Marty and I were in her hospital room when Big John, a huge man with an irrepressible smile, came and quickly and effortlessly scooped Marty out of her bed and into her wheelchair. I had seen how difficult it was to move Marty at this stage and held my breath, trying to help, trying to stay out of Big John’s way. His smoothness and his grace for such a big man were perfect.

As we made the move from the hospital to sub acute care fear, concern, and emotional exhaustion just flooded both of us. I was afraid of what I did not know, I was afraid because Marty was afraid..

As it turns out Marty’s room wasn’t ready so we had to sit out in a small living room area. The television was on, the sun was coming through the windows but all I could focus on was the overriding, oppressive, sweaty fear. Marty was cold, it was January, so I wrapped her in a blanket and sat as close to her as humanly possible.
It was the start of a three month stay there and a six month ordeal to get her home.

Over the next days and week we found a rhythm and got to know the nursing assistants who were the caregivers, the people on the front line caring for Marty. Knowing the people, knowing the routine didn’t completely dispel the fear, but the routine and rhythm began to help. I spent almost all of my time there with Marty; she was so vulnerable, completely unable to advocate for herself, so I stayed with her or one of our children stayed with her. Marty did not spend one night alone there; someone from her family was always with her. It’s good to have remarkable children.

As I watched the caregivers come in and help care for Marty I caught on quickly to the fact that the more you engaged them, the more they began to see Marty as Marty and not just a patient. We developed a rapport as through their actions they started training me in how I would care for Marty.

Back to the music. What struck me that day as I listened to those artists play their instruments is how similar their artistry was to the caregivers who helped care for Marty. As they moved Marty, as they turned her to bathe her or dress her, as they secured her to help her stand and move to the wheelchair, the best among them were doing it with as much grace and artistry as the musicians playing their instruments.

What I saw in the days, weeks and months at the sub acute care wasn’t always perfect, the lack of perfection drives the need to be there to help advocate for the most vulnerable. What I saw were constant little acts of grace and heroism each day.

I saw the old man come each day to be with his wife who clearly had been hit with a devastating stroke. He was there in the morning before I got there and still there on the days I would leave. His stamina, his desire to be there for his wife was simply astounding.

I saw the really large nursing assistant who came each day when we were there to help clean and dress Marty. I watched as this woman who didn’t appear to be particularly tender talk to Marty in quiet tones as she rolled her back and forth to first put on her shirt and then her pants. To see this woman you would never think of the word grace, to watch her care for Marty it’s what I still think today.

Those men and women who come to your room every day, the men and women who see so many Martys in their career are the people you count on to care for you or your loved ones. Those men and women, when they are good, ply their trade like a practiced cellist, moving with grace, passion and tenderness as the music they make with their work stays running through our minds even today. It makes you want to be graceful.

Dear God -- Hello

Marty and I both grew up in church-going, God-believing homes. Neither of us grew in God-fearing ways, but in God-loving, gratitude ways. Growing up we always, always said grace; we always said a short prayer before eating. It was the same for Marty and it’s how we raised our children. Someone at our table said a prayer of thanks for God’s food and God’s grace at each meal.

As the kids grew out of the house the concept of prayer at dinner time flew out with the kids. Certainly after Marty’s strokes grace at meal time just kind of vanished, a casualty of busy minds, busy mouths and the distraction of helping Marty eat.

A big holiday meal, meals with our whole family is still graced with prayer, though. Its part of the ritual, its part of our tradition and a means of bringing our family closer together as someone prays blessings on all and gives thanks. I don’t see it as particularly sacred; I see it as a way of remembering our humanity and our relationship to something greater than ourselves.

This year we had a pretty toned down Thanksgiving as my sister and her family was off giving thanks at her husband’s parents and our kids were doing the same with their respective in-laws. So there we were the grouchy old man and his frail, disabled wife all alone.

No, not really. We recruited my parents and brother and they came down for a Thanksgiving dinner at our house at the lake. Since we were out our house, I’m the prayer boss, I either get to pray or designate someone as the prayer deliverer.

As I am bringing Marty from her bedroom to the dinner table I asked her if she felt like offering the prayer. This is not without precedent, she has done this before and she likes being intimately involved in the whole process and I think it makes her feel in touch with the family and our families traditions. She has been pretty talkative of late and I thought she might enjoy this rather low pressure way of standing out in our happy little group. She was just fine with having a chat with God.

I pushed Marty’s wheelchair to the table and we all gathered round, reached out and grabbed hands. Since I was on Marty’s left side and she can’t move her left arm at all I very simply rested my hand on her shoulder, looked at her, gave her a gentle shoulder squeeze for assurance and told our small gathering Marty would offer grace.

I squeezed Marty’s shoulder again and said, “Go ahead Marty, you can start now.”

Marty takes a breath and starts to pray, “Dear God,” she pauses then loudly says, “Hello.”

Never one to close my eyes during prayer in case some fun might break out, I peaked at Marty and she was looking straight ahead and smiling ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. It was clear the “hello” was not inadvertent, it was my Marty, the Marty I married saying to God in her casual unpretentious way saying, “Hello, we’re here and we’re ready for a chat with you.”

I waited, we all waited for seconds with Marty snickering and me smiling and stifling a laugh when she continues, “hello God, it’s been a while, it’s been a long time between meal prayers.”

I mumble to myself, “Thank you Marty for pointing out my spiritual failings and lack of religious discipline at our table, I’m sure God appreciates the recognition.”

At this point she could no longer contain herself and she started chuckling, then laughing at her prayer. I couldn’t really help but laugh too as everyone else around the circle kept their heads bound and laughed to themselves.

I prodded Marty just a bit and kind of gently hissed, “Finish it.”

“Thank you God for these people and this food, in Jesus name we pray, Amen,” came out of Marty’s mouth as she continued laughing and smiling. Through her laughter she says, “Goofy prayer.”

I said, “No, it’s perfect, I will always remember, Dear God, Hello.” And we all laughed some more.

It was a small, somewhat non-descript Thanksgiving meal. It had all of the requisite food items, turkey, dressing, potatoes, gravy, peas and some killer chocolate brownies. We shared the meal with people we love and the best part is we said hello to God in a way that exemplified nothing but comfort and realized gratitude. I think God answered with a smile and a laugh.

Healing by Chocolate

I've never seen a grade A Bennie Hinn type miracle healing. Count me a skeptic and as one who thinks Pastor Hinn is a fake and a charlatan who preys on people in their most vulnerable state. I'm not saying miracles don't happen, I'm just saying I haven't seen one, felt one, or touched one; at least until last Saturday when one came really kind of close.

Marty broke her right arm about a month ago when she had an infection induced seizure. It was the first seizure she experienced in about three years but it was bad. Because of inactivity due to her strokes and long term steroid use Marty's bones are much more brittle than normal. When she had the seizure she was in bed at the hospital and the sheer force of the muscles in her arm contracting and releasing caused the compound fracture of the upper part of her right humerus. It was a horrible fracture of her good right arm, the left arm being paralyzed by stroke number two.

Saying the arm hurt then and still hurts is stating the obvious. We are letting the arm heal, but even now, a month later, it is still very painful. Marty never complains about pain, she never complains about anything, but if you move her arm you get, "oh, oh, oh." This means it really hurts. Pain meds help but they dull everything else so much she often chooses to not take the heavier pain medication. She is a better person than I Gunga Din.

Over the last month she has started to try and use the arm a little bit at a time, and I mean a real little bit. It hurts to move it at all and it appears to be pretty weak. She played the piano for about five minutes the other day, she is starting to hold on to the support rail for her bath chair and has started holding a drink with a straw; all awesome and incredibly helpful improvements. She still requires someone to feed her which she doesn’t much like but tolerates as long as you do it the way she wants.

The other night as we were sitting watching TV, one of our caregivers, Erica came in with a Heath chocolate bar, one of Marty's favorites. Marty has a bit of a chocolate problem, she has a sweets issue, and she likes candy. I can identify, even bad chocolate can be a spiritual experience.

Erica broke the bar into three small pieces and gave Marty a small piece in her right hand. Marty's hand was lying on her stomach as she sat in her chair. Marty took the piece looked at it, looked at Erica and then moving her broken right arm up she put the piece to her mouth. Erica and I both sat a bit stunned; we laughed and clapped celebrating one of life's little victories.

The next day Marty and I were sitting outside enjoying the spring with another of our caregivers, Nikkie, and I told her the story of the Heath bar. She laughed and said Marty had been "touched" and I said "Amen it was a miracle; Marty had been touched by the power of chocolate." We all laughed, it's always, always good to laugh.

I'm not saying what happened was a huge big-ass deal miracle. It wasn't. I didn't see Bennie Hinn in his Nehru jacket popping people in the forehead anywhere. Really we didn’t need Bennie, we had Heath and frankly Heath is a lot more credible in my faith journey.