As I sat on my little make-shift bed between visits to Kurt while in the ICU and PCU, I found myself wondering what on earth I could do to help. I had reached the point to where I just randomly walked up and "welcomed" a new person or group of people who arrived. I always told them it wasn't a club any of us necessarily wanted to be a part of, but welcome to the neighborhood and I would help if I could.
The longer I sat, the more I thought that I could just start pitching in to help--a little dusting here, a little sweeping there. Of course, it doesn't work that way. This isn't a neighborhood; it is a facility where very, very ill people come and go and their families and friends gather for support. People are paid to do the dusting here and the sweeping there.
And then I felt a little more helpless.
I know, from past experience, that some of you feel this way while we're away from home. You're so kind with your calls, your messages, and your cards asking if there's anything that can be done. Frankly, I've been away long enough now, I'm not really sure. But, if I think of something, I'll be sure to let you kind people know. You're a blessing to me every day.
In the meantime, Ann has a good suggestion--if at all possible, donate blood. It seems that the bloodbanks all over the state are in dire need of blood. And that individual need can come suddenly. Kurt needed some transfusions while in ICU; he needed frozen plasma as well as blood before his colonoscopy back in May. I know there will need to be some on stand-by when the liver does arrive and surgery begins.
Even if it never finds Kurt, it is a remarkable gift you're giving--life.
Thanks and blessings for a great day.
The Campsite
The official campsite at ICU/PCU waiting area
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Never Had a Sister
I have two wonderful older brothers--I used to say big, but it's more fun to tease them with being older. They are 11 and 16 years older than me, so it's even more fun now since we've all begun to age gracefully together with the gray hair and all that stuff.
When I was growing up, I was surrounded by sisters--but none were mine. I enjoyed my neighbors' sisters as my dear friends. But, in observing that having a little or big sister was not always just fun and games, I must admit that I did look forward to coming back to my room and knowing I was the only one that would be invading my toys, dolls, etc.
So, for years, I've been a sisterless sister. And it was okay with me.
Since Kurt and I have been living with my sister-in-law for the past couple of weeks, I have changed my perspective on sisters. I like her...she's a good sister.
So, thanks Ann...for being my first opportunity to have an "in-house" sister. I can't imagine a better one.
Love you, sister!
When I was growing up, I was surrounded by sisters--but none were mine. I enjoyed my neighbors' sisters as my dear friends. But, in observing that having a little or big sister was not always just fun and games, I must admit that I did look forward to coming back to my room and knowing I was the only one that would be invading my toys, dolls, etc.
So, for years, I've been a sisterless sister. And it was okay with me.
Since Kurt and I have been living with my sister-in-law for the past couple of weeks, I have changed my perspective on sisters. I like her...she's a good sister.
So, thanks Ann...for being my first opportunity to have an "in-house" sister. I can't imagine a better one.
Love you, sister!
Monday, July 21, 2014
Changing the Pace
(Although our "campsite" for the present time has brought us to exponentially more comfortable arrangements, the everyday feeling of waking up in a new environment still gives me the "campsite" frame of mind. It's a good lesson in life.)
I've mentioned before that sister-in-law Ann brought me a book of devotions entitled Jesus Calling when I first set up the campsite at the ICU. Since then, I've come to read it every morning, and I many times marvel at just how accurate it is for me on its given day.
Today as I was pulling sheets off my bed for laundry day, I started thinking about how much busier I would be at home. It was nearly 10:00--I would have an appointment for reflexology/Reiki coming soon. If Tom were sleeping, I would be preparing his lunches and a meal for his return the following morning. If he were on days, I would be thinking about what to fix for supper. Work clothes would be awaiting my attention in the laundry room. Carving out time to go to the grocery, returning calls, and working in a few salon appointments would have me intently looking at my date book. What about the garden? Weeding, no doubt, at some time, maybe in the evening unless I had evening appointments. And planning, planning, planning for the week ahead.
And it's only Monday.
Here and now it's different.
My focus is on that beloved kid in the next room that is, predictably, glued to his laptop. My job is to make sure meds are given, food is fixed and encouraged all throughout the day to get some meat back on those bones, to do our little bit of laundry, to miss his dad, to check in with the loved ones at home. That, a little bit of housework around here to keep us somewhat structured and giving back a little to all we have been graciously given.
That's my focus. That's it. And I'm learning to slow down into it and, as the devotion I read today, find that it is a form of rest, not idleness. It's an odd feeling, but not an unwelcomed one. It gives me more time to think, to write, to think some more. I've been given a gift of time to focus.
Will it change how I go about life when I return home? Maybe.
I do hope that I will get less "mile wide/inch deep". I do love the business I'm in helping others, and look forward to getting back into it. I do love the garden. I do love to write. Those are more than likely my points of focus when I return. And, of course, I do love taking care of my family and making them a home. At first glance, it sounds like I'm right back to the manic-like pace of before. But I don't think it will be that way.
God has taught me a valuable lesson on slowing down and taking things one day at a time. I've been blessed with having the chance to see just how this works--I had obviously forgotten.
Life is good no matter the circumstance. Not always good at face value, granted--sometimes at face value it can be downright terrifying. But when we truly rest in God's hand, the reality of life changes and we see it from a much different perspective. I have no control over how all this will turn out; I can pray and work and love and do my part. And I can feel blessed each day for the lessons I learn. And, in turn, I can share that blessing with a loving husband at home alone more than not and a beloved glued-to-the-laptop kiddo in the next room.
I've mentioned before that sister-in-law Ann brought me a book of devotions entitled Jesus Calling when I first set up the campsite at the ICU. Since then, I've come to read it every morning, and I many times marvel at just how accurate it is for me on its given day.
Today as I was pulling sheets off my bed for laundry day, I started thinking about how much busier I would be at home. It was nearly 10:00--I would have an appointment for reflexology/Reiki coming soon. If Tom were sleeping, I would be preparing his lunches and a meal for his return the following morning. If he were on days, I would be thinking about what to fix for supper. Work clothes would be awaiting my attention in the laundry room. Carving out time to go to the grocery, returning calls, and working in a few salon appointments would have me intently looking at my date book. What about the garden? Weeding, no doubt, at some time, maybe in the evening unless I had evening appointments. And planning, planning, planning for the week ahead.
And it's only Monday.
Here and now it's different.
My focus is on that beloved kid in the next room that is, predictably, glued to his laptop. My job is to make sure meds are given, food is fixed and encouraged all throughout the day to get some meat back on those bones, to do our little bit of laundry, to miss his dad, to check in with the loved ones at home. That, a little bit of housework around here to keep us somewhat structured and giving back a little to all we have been graciously given.
That's my focus. That's it. And I'm learning to slow down into it and, as the devotion I read today, find that it is a form of rest, not idleness. It's an odd feeling, but not an unwelcomed one. It gives me more time to think, to write, to think some more. I've been given a gift of time to focus.
Will it change how I go about life when I return home? Maybe.
I do hope that I will get less "mile wide/inch deep". I do love the business I'm in helping others, and look forward to getting back into it. I do love the garden. I do love to write. Those are more than likely my points of focus when I return. And, of course, I do love taking care of my family and making them a home. At first glance, it sounds like I'm right back to the manic-like pace of before. But I don't think it will be that way.
God has taught me a valuable lesson on slowing down and taking things one day at a time. I've been blessed with having the chance to see just how this works--I had obviously forgotten.
Life is good no matter the circumstance. Not always good at face value, granted--sometimes at face value it can be downright terrifying. But when we truly rest in God's hand, the reality of life changes and we see it from a much different perspective. I have no control over how all this will turn out; I can pray and work and love and do my part. And I can feel blessed each day for the lessons I learn. And, in turn, I can share that blessing with a loving husband at home alone more than not and a beloved glued-to-the-laptop kiddo in the next room.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Just Wondering...
As Tom, Kurt, and I had a leisurely breakfast this morning, conversation turned to our experiences during Kurt's time in ICU. He, of course, doesn't remember a great deal of it; he has even less recollection of the people in the waiting room that became a large part of our lives.
And, so, while feeling incredibly blessed in sitting with our son and enjoying a meal together, I wonder...
...about the woman and her two children with whom we shared many a day with in the waiting room. When her husband died, she nor the kids were there, so I couldn't properly give my sympathy. I'm guessing they said their good-byes in a way that worked for them. I pray they are at peace.
...about my newly-found cousin. I happened to see her husband's obituary in the newspaper a couple of days after I went looking for her at the hospital's hospice. Thankfully, my aunt has her address. This week I'll find an appropriate card, get the address, and remind her that her family is still here.
...about the nice lady I met whose husband kidney/liver match didn't work out. He's the one that was Kurt's roommate for an evening and the day of Kurt's discharge from the hospital. I received a message from her that he wasn't doing well and was back on the sixth floor. She still shows up on Facebook, cheering Kurt on. I'll send her another message of support.
I wonder about all the many people who, by now, have moved through those same chairs, benches, and tables where we spent so many hours. I pray for all of them that find themselves in that area each day. It's not an easy place to be; no one is there by choice. I invite you to say a prayer for them as well.
Sunday blessings.
And, so, while feeling incredibly blessed in sitting with our son and enjoying a meal together, I wonder...
...about the woman and her two children with whom we shared many a day with in the waiting room. When her husband died, she nor the kids were there, so I couldn't properly give my sympathy. I'm guessing they said their good-byes in a way that worked for them. I pray they are at peace.
...about my newly-found cousin. I happened to see her husband's obituary in the newspaper a couple of days after I went looking for her at the hospital's hospice. Thankfully, my aunt has her address. This week I'll find an appropriate card, get the address, and remind her that her family is still here.
...about the nice lady I met whose husband kidney/liver match didn't work out. He's the one that was Kurt's roommate for an evening and the day of Kurt's discharge from the hospital. I received a message from her that he wasn't doing well and was back on the sixth floor. She still shows up on Facebook, cheering Kurt on. I'll send her another message of support.
I wonder about all the many people who, by now, have moved through those same chairs, benches, and tables where we spent so many hours. I pray for all of them that find themselves in that area each day. It's not an easy place to be; no one is there by choice. I invite you to say a prayer for them as well.
Sunday blessings.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
The Green Billboard Society
I know of the Red Hat Society and I'm sure there are other such groups.
At the hospital, we have the Green Billboard Society...we kind of stick out like, well, we are wearing green billboards.
Anyone who has been the over-night support person at a hospital knows all about the green billboard. The funny thing is that, even though a big, over-sized sticky green piece of paper is stuck to our clothing, we tend to show up at the cafeteria for our morning coffee after regular hours still bearing it. It becomes a part of the outfit--a part of the uniform of the all-nighter. It's kind of like the extreme of the "hello, I'm ____" tag at conventions.
Ah, that person is (insert name) from ICU; that lady is ______'s support from PCU; and that guy is anonymous from 4th floor. (They all have their own styles.)
This morning I woke up without my green billboard. My shirt wasn't even sticky from the residue. I drank a cup of coffee without anyone giving me a knowing smile.
It was kind of nice being that anonymous, blend-in-the-crowd, blank shirted person...but I'll willingly take that sticky piece of paper back once we hear the call of the transplant.
Some things are just worth green billboards.
At the hospital, we have the Green Billboard Society...we kind of stick out like, well, we are wearing green billboards.
Anyone who has been the over-night support person at a hospital knows all about the green billboard. The funny thing is that, even though a big, over-sized sticky green piece of paper is stuck to our clothing, we tend to show up at the cafeteria for our morning coffee after regular hours still bearing it. It becomes a part of the outfit--a part of the uniform of the all-nighter. It's kind of like the extreme of the "hello, I'm ____" tag at conventions.
Ah, that person is (insert name) from ICU; that lady is ______'s support from PCU; and that guy is anonymous from 4th floor. (They all have their own styles.)
This morning I woke up without my green billboard. My shirt wasn't even sticky from the residue. I drank a cup of coffee without anyone giving me a knowing smile.
It was kind of nice being that anonymous, blend-in-the-crowd, blank shirted person...but I'll willingly take that sticky piece of paper back once we hear the call of the transplant.
Some things are just worth green billboards.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
A New Liver in the Neighborhood
No, not Kurt...but the story is wonderful all the same.
I've made friends with a nice lady named Donni. She's a teaching assistant for a Special Education resource room. The minute she told me this, I could picture her in the classroom and students adoring her calm manner and kind face.
Donni has been keeping faithful vigil with her husband for sometime here. We meet in the hallway or in the campsite area and, if time allows, we stop and chat a bit. Donni is in a motorized wheelchair and uses her crutches sometimes. She fought cancer and won. Now her husband is facing a tough fight as well.
But the odds just got better...we pray.
Donni came zipping to the campsite with her sister-in-law and another dear relative coming close behind. Donni's smile was tremendous; I thought she was going to share with me news I'd overheard earlier that her husband had been moved to a "regular" room. I wondered if I would see her anymore since this had happened--there are a ton of "regular" rooms around here. So, when I did, I was glad to see that smile again.
But that smile was bigger than just "regular room" big...
Her wheelchair caught in the blankets on my campsite bed. She was so excited that getting untangled was secondary. "They tell us there's a liver for transplant!"
That is a cold chill, goosebump moment for sure.
I haven't heard if it's a match yet...that can take hours. I tried to do my part by visiting the Chapel an extra time. Every little bit helps, I figure.
It would be great if anyone reading this could send an extra prayer for Donni and her family, too.
It's nice to hear there's a new liver in the neighborhood.
I've made friends with a nice lady named Donni. She's a teaching assistant for a Special Education resource room. The minute she told me this, I could picture her in the classroom and students adoring her calm manner and kind face.
Donni has been keeping faithful vigil with her husband for sometime here. We meet in the hallway or in the campsite area and, if time allows, we stop and chat a bit. Donni is in a motorized wheelchair and uses her crutches sometimes. She fought cancer and won. Now her husband is facing a tough fight as well.
But the odds just got better...we pray.
Donni came zipping to the campsite with her sister-in-law and another dear relative coming close behind. Donni's smile was tremendous; I thought she was going to share with me news I'd overheard earlier that her husband had been moved to a "regular" room. I wondered if I would see her anymore since this had happened--there are a ton of "regular" rooms around here. So, when I did, I was glad to see that smile again.
But that smile was bigger than just "regular room" big...
Her wheelchair caught in the blankets on my campsite bed. She was so excited that getting untangled was secondary. "They tell us there's a liver for transplant!"
That is a cold chill, goosebump moment for sure.
I haven't heard if it's a match yet...that can take hours. I tried to do my part by visiting the Chapel an extra time. Every little bit helps, I figure.
It would be great if anyone reading this could send an extra prayer for Donni and her family, too.
It's nice to hear there's a new liver in the neighborhood.
Ah...Food Done Right
As you many know from reading this, Kurt wasn't able to eat for about 11 or so days; a feeding tube supplied him with enough nourishment to keep him going.
So, on the day he was told he could have ice chips, his little corner of the world got a little brighter. The next day, when he was told he could have clear liquids, that little corner got a LOT brighter. Chicken broth never sounded so good.
And then there was the really neat part...
the gentleman from food service brought him 2 little containers of chicken broth, a Sprite, and some applesauce on a tray. This gentle man presented it to Kurt much as he would have presented the finest of culinary delights--he understood that to a kid that hadn't eaten in 11 or so days, this was quite a milestone. Kurt was beaming regardless of his weakened condition; he beamed even more as the presentations were made.
Chicken broth and applesauce never tasted so good.
This gentle man understood that food done right is food done well.
Bless him for that.
So, on the day he was told he could have ice chips, his little corner of the world got a little brighter. The next day, when he was told he could have clear liquids, that little corner got a LOT brighter. Chicken broth never sounded so good.
And then there was the really neat part...
the gentleman from food service brought him 2 little containers of chicken broth, a Sprite, and some applesauce on a tray. This gentle man presented it to Kurt much as he would have presented the finest of culinary delights--he understood that to a kid that hadn't eaten in 11 or so days, this was quite a milestone. Kurt was beaming regardless of his weakened condition; he beamed even more as the presentations were made.
Chicken broth and applesauce never tasted so good.
This gentle man understood that food done right is food done well.
Bless him for that.
The Value of a Smile
People smile around here. I like that.
I'm a smiler by nature; I notice when others are, too. When I meet someone who isn't smiling, there's something deep within me that makes me determined to "see that frown turn upside down", to borrow an over-used cliche.
I think there are some out there who have yet to discover the absolute value of a smile. It puts people at ease. It makes people feel that someone cares.
It for sure can relax the trip up and down an elevator when people greet one another with a smile.
The nurses, therapists, techs, and housekeepers around here are excellent--they're also natural-born smilers. And trust me, sometimes a reassuring or understanding smile is just what the doctor ordered, to borrow yet another over-used cliche.
Our doctors here are also smilers, albeit to different degrees. We've gone from modest grin to full-out, showing those pearly whites infectious smiles. Once again...when a doc smiles, the reassurance and blessed relief are appreciated beyond belief.
So, next chance you get, smile at someone. Even if it's just a glancing, quick uplifting of the corners of the mouth, it may be just what that other person needs to get through the day a little more smoothly.
:)
I'm a smiler by nature; I notice when others are, too. When I meet someone who isn't smiling, there's something deep within me that makes me determined to "see that frown turn upside down", to borrow an over-used cliche.
I think there are some out there who have yet to discover the absolute value of a smile. It puts people at ease. It makes people feel that someone cares.
It for sure can relax the trip up and down an elevator when people greet one another with a smile.
The nurses, therapists, techs, and housekeepers around here are excellent--they're also natural-born smilers. And trust me, sometimes a reassuring or understanding smile is just what the doctor ordered, to borrow yet another over-used cliche.
Our doctors here are also smilers, albeit to different degrees. We've gone from modest grin to full-out, showing those pearly whites infectious smiles. Once again...when a doc smiles, the reassurance and blessed relief are appreciated beyond belief.
So, next chance you get, smile at someone. Even if it's just a glancing, quick uplifting of the corners of the mouth, it may be just what that other person needs to get through the day a little more smoothly.
:)
Saturday, July 12, 2014
A Rough Night at the Campsite
Tonight is a rough night at the campsite. The family to my left that has been here about the same amount of time that I have is gathering for their good-byes tonight--it's just a matter of time now.
Another family has assembled and are saying their tearful good-byes just down the way.
We all avert our eyes as they pass, not out of disinterest, but out of a sense of respect. I guess it's our way of pulling over as the procession passes.
It's an experience that I've never had before, living in and amongst so much loss. My newly discovered cousin's husband was moved to the hospice floor yesterday; I went down to check on her this morning and there was no one on the computer than matched her husband's name and age today--I said a little prayer for her before I left the floor.
Witnessing this overwhelming loss time after time since I've been here--I think there have been five--makes me all the more determined that once Tom, Kurt, and I return to the mundane, our daily outlook will be more vivid, more loving and accepting, more open to the possibilities that we are indeed all one big family of God. We hug one another, we share stories, we respectfully lower our glances.
My heart aches for all these good people; my heart, at the same time, soars with infinite joy that on the other side of the door to my right there's a kid who I love with all my being that is, day after day, the exception to this environment. I shield him from all this--he doesn't know it exists. He doesn't need to. He has a job to do to get well and to continue to live his life beautifully. He's the one bright spot in this campsite...and we all here pray that bright spot just keeps on getting brighter.
Another family has assembled and are saying their tearful good-byes just down the way.
We all avert our eyes as they pass, not out of disinterest, but out of a sense of respect. I guess it's our way of pulling over as the procession passes.
It's an experience that I've never had before, living in and amongst so much loss. My newly discovered cousin's husband was moved to the hospice floor yesterday; I went down to check on her this morning and there was no one on the computer than matched her husband's name and age today--I said a little prayer for her before I left the floor.
Witnessing this overwhelming loss time after time since I've been here--I think there have been five--makes me all the more determined that once Tom, Kurt, and I return to the mundane, our daily outlook will be more vivid, more loving and accepting, more open to the possibilities that we are indeed all one big family of God. We hug one another, we share stories, we respectfully lower our glances.
My heart aches for all these good people; my heart, at the same time, soars with infinite joy that on the other side of the door to my right there's a kid who I love with all my being that is, day after day, the exception to this environment. I shield him from all this--he doesn't know it exists. He doesn't need to. He has a job to do to get well and to continue to live his life beautifully. He's the one bright spot in this campsite...and we all here pray that bright spot just keeps on getting brighter.
Friday, July 11, 2014
How Do They Hide Their Wings?
I've always been a believer in angels. I know for a fact they exist and lead very busy lives helping out us mortals. These past several days I have met angel after angel in the ICU and PCU. There's one question I have asked them on several occasions.
How do you hide your wings while at work?
This question is usually met with a giggle; they don't realize what a serious question it is.
These young ladies and gentlemen have to be angels--they fit the profile.
As Kurt's condition was deteriorating, there was an angel with him reading his clipboard notes that worsened as his vision grew cloudy from the heavy sedation he was being given while he was on the ventilator. They "talked" and laughed, while, at the same time, she ministered great care to him. She anticipated his every need to make him comfortable and looked out for any signs that needed attention. She was by his side until he was given the paralytic.
Then came along another angel.
She worked the weekend shift and he was her patient. And, even though he was in no way responsive to anything going on in our world, she was caring, patient, and continually monitored every nuance that would help keep him alive during this remarkable process. Hers was the first voice he heard when the paralytic was switched off and she said his name. Those baby blues opened and we all, including our angel on duty, exhaled.
There are, of course, many more angels here, too. I could easily write endlessly about their kindness, their compassion, their intelligence, their attention to detail. He has had an array of lovely ladies and gentlemen nurses that have given him great respect in his critical condition. And, at the same time, they have fun--they are, after all, a bunch of kids about the same age as Kurt...in many cases only weeks separate their birthdays.
These angels of mercy do just about anything we ask of them, except for one thing...
I still don't know how they hide their wings.
How do you hide your wings while at work?
This question is usually met with a giggle; they don't realize what a serious question it is.
These young ladies and gentlemen have to be angels--they fit the profile.
As Kurt's condition was deteriorating, there was an angel with him reading his clipboard notes that worsened as his vision grew cloudy from the heavy sedation he was being given while he was on the ventilator. They "talked" and laughed, while, at the same time, she ministered great care to him. She anticipated his every need to make him comfortable and looked out for any signs that needed attention. She was by his side until he was given the paralytic.
Then came along another angel.
She worked the weekend shift and he was her patient. And, even though he was in no way responsive to anything going on in our world, she was caring, patient, and continually monitored every nuance that would help keep him alive during this remarkable process. Hers was the first voice he heard when the paralytic was switched off and she said his name. Those baby blues opened and we all, including our angel on duty, exhaled.
There are, of course, many more angels here, too. I could easily write endlessly about their kindness, their compassion, their intelligence, their attention to detail. He has had an array of lovely ladies and gentlemen nurses that have given him great respect in his critical condition. And, at the same time, they have fun--they are, after all, a bunch of kids about the same age as Kurt...in many cases only weeks separate their birthdays.
These angels of mercy do just about anything we ask of them, except for one thing...
I still don't know how they hide their wings.
I Met a Cousin
Life in the ICU/PCU waiting area is pretty intimate at times. We more or less establish our own little spaces--a nice lady the other day complimented me on my neat little "efficiency apartment"--but, nevertheless, we are, at all times, in one rather large open room. So, after the first day or so, it gets to where we all just kind of do our own thing and, on occasion, our conversations converge.
During several of these days, I noticed a lady walking by at a rather fast clip. I could tell she was very tired from being here days on end, yet she always managed a smile or a wave. When Kurt was in ICU, our assigned locker in which to keep our valuables was in her sleeping area. She was always gracious and told Tom and me no matter what time of the day or night to feel free to attend to the locker.
I liked her and didn't have any idea who she was.
The other evening she and her daughter were sitting near the campsite talking. I was sitting on my bed when Lisa, our coordinator, came by and handed me that beautiful, beautiful folder that told us that Kurt was officially on the transplant list. I was overcome with happiness for him...finally, we were where we needed to be, transplant-wise. And then when she told me that he was number one on the list, my joy became almost surreal. I ran over to the ICU to tell the four wonderful guys that saved Kurt the good news. They shared in the excitement. As I came back through the door, the lady stopped me. She said, "You've obviously got some good news--what is it?" As you can imagine, good news is treasured around here...there's precious little of it on many days. I told her our happy message. She and her daughter lit up with shared joy. She asked me where we lived. When I told her between Jasper and Washington (who on earth has heard of Otwell?), she said her family was from Jasper. My mind immediately figured she was a Weisheit, a Hoffman, a Leinenbach, or one of the many good German names from the area. So I asked her what her maiden name was...
Meadors.
No way...
My mouth dropped. I then told her I was a Meadors as well.
Nobody is a Meadors...there are so few of us!
The investigation grew. I went back to Kurt's room and grabbed my cousin, Lolly to help me quickly piece together the family tree.
Come to find out, her great-grandfather and my grandpa were brothers.
Small world...small, small world.
And here we were together.
She is an only child and her parents were unable to be at the hospital.
Now she has family...isn't just the coolest thing how God arranges things?
The next day my aunt came and brought a picture of her great-grandfather and all his siblings and parents. It was going to be fun for her to see this and piece things together.
That was the same afternoon that she was told the news that there was nothing else that could be done for her husband. We were all devastated. She had been here for 26 days hoping beyond hope that something would turn around.
And now things were coming to an end...
But she has family here. And family is a wonderful thing to have. We've shared a lot of hugs and chats. My aunt is going to make sure she gets a copy of the picture she shared with her that day.
She told me earlier today that her husband has been moved to hospice on the second floor. I'll be sure to go visit her very soon...
that's what family is for.
During several of these days, I noticed a lady walking by at a rather fast clip. I could tell she was very tired from being here days on end, yet she always managed a smile or a wave. When Kurt was in ICU, our assigned locker in which to keep our valuables was in her sleeping area. She was always gracious and told Tom and me no matter what time of the day or night to feel free to attend to the locker.
I liked her and didn't have any idea who she was.
The other evening she and her daughter were sitting near the campsite talking. I was sitting on my bed when Lisa, our coordinator, came by and handed me that beautiful, beautiful folder that told us that Kurt was officially on the transplant list. I was overcome with happiness for him...finally, we were where we needed to be, transplant-wise. And then when she told me that he was number one on the list, my joy became almost surreal. I ran over to the ICU to tell the four wonderful guys that saved Kurt the good news. They shared in the excitement. As I came back through the door, the lady stopped me. She said, "You've obviously got some good news--what is it?" As you can imagine, good news is treasured around here...there's precious little of it on many days. I told her our happy message. She and her daughter lit up with shared joy. She asked me where we lived. When I told her between Jasper and Washington (who on earth has heard of Otwell?), she said her family was from Jasper. My mind immediately figured she was a Weisheit, a Hoffman, a Leinenbach, or one of the many good German names from the area. So I asked her what her maiden name was...
Meadors.
No way...
My mouth dropped. I then told her I was a Meadors as well.
Nobody is a Meadors...there are so few of us!
The investigation grew. I went back to Kurt's room and grabbed my cousin, Lolly to help me quickly piece together the family tree.
Come to find out, her great-grandfather and my grandpa were brothers.
Small world...small, small world.
And here we were together.
She is an only child and her parents were unable to be at the hospital.
Now she has family...isn't just the coolest thing how God arranges things?
The next day my aunt came and brought a picture of her great-grandfather and all his siblings and parents. It was going to be fun for her to see this and piece things together.
That was the same afternoon that she was told the news that there was nothing else that could be done for her husband. We were all devastated. She had been here for 26 days hoping beyond hope that something would turn around.
And now things were coming to an end...
But she has family here. And family is a wonderful thing to have. We've shared a lot of hugs and chats. My aunt is going to make sure she gets a copy of the picture she shared with her that day.
She told me earlier today that her husband has been moved to hospice on the second floor. I'll be sure to go visit her very soon...
that's what family is for.
Campsite Freshness
Life in the ICU
waiting room grew interesting during the night. I was snugged in on my little
cobbled together bed when I started hearing a mechanical noise of some sort
with a follow-up of a clicking sound. I dozed and kept hearing the sound.
As the night
continued, the clicking and whirling sound went on. Finally, I saw a gentleman
across the way with a machine and realized that he was shampooing the carpets in the area. In the middle of the
night--which makes perfect sense. It should be done in the middle of the night
when no one is here.
Except we are
here...in bed sleeping...awkwardness all around.
At first I thought I
might offer to get up and move all my things from the "campsite". I
soon thought better of it, knowing that he would feel uncomfortable with moving
a guest in the middle of the night, and I would feel regretful with a bunch of
saggy, water-saturated grocery bags full of clothes and my earthly belongings
hanging out under my make-shift bed.
So I pretended to
sleep and he continued to clean the floor and move furniture.
At least my campsite had that lovely fresh smell...thanks, carpet cleaning guy!
Campsite Meanderings
Since Kurt was admitted to University Hospital on June 30, I have set up a "campsite" in the ICU/PCU waiting area. The staff here have been tremendously helpful and caring, primarily to Kurt, but in equal measure to Tom and me in their support of us and their support, skill, and compassion toward Kurt.
Welcome to "Campsite Meanderings"...a compilation of thoughts, ponderances, and observations of this experience.
I'm writing this in blue since it is Kurt's favorite color. It's my little way of connecting to him even when I'm out at the campsite and he's in his room busy getting better in anticipation of that shiny new liver.
Welcome to "Campsite Meanderings"...a compilation of thoughts, ponderances, and observations of this experience.
I'm writing this in blue since it is Kurt's favorite color. It's my little way of connecting to him even when I'm out at the campsite and he's in his room busy getting better in anticipation of that shiny new liver.
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