Since getting out of the hospital on May 12 - 22 days and four surgeries after the accident - we got our first bit of disturbing news Monday.
We went in for the orthopedic clinic at UAB and MG got a complete X-ray. I stood behind the control panel with the X-ray technician, and watched the images as they came up on the screen. I'd forgotten just how much hardware went into putting MG back together ... the fact that three-quarters of her pelvis seems to be held together by one long plate; the two screws in the back; the one seven-inch long screw; thetwo smaller screws on the left side; the fragments of bone that weren't big enough to be reattached but were determined not likely to be a problem.
They also did an X-ray of MG's left knee, because she hasn't been able to bend it fully. Our wonderful physical therapist said she believed it was a torn meniscus. The orthopedic surgeon said he might concur, but MG was set to go get an MRI today (Tuesday) to be sure. We won't know until we get results back, and if there is a tear then the doctors have to determine how that might affect rehab - whether it means being 'scoped, or treated with more therapy.
That was the first setback. Otherwise, MG is able to start putting a "little" weight on her left leg, which means soon we'll be able to begin out-patient rehab, a truly substantial step toward discovering what our new "normal" will be.
There was more.
First, a few more observations about our medical system.
It's wonderful, for the most part. I do believe my family is fortunate to have a facility like UAB, with many of the best doctors and world-class facilities. I can't help but wonder if MG would have survived if she'd had to be flown to UAB, which is just one of a handful of Level One Trauma units in the South; or if the ambulance ride had taken an hour or more. Now, from two months past the accident, it is easy to forget just how "life and death" MG's short trip to the UAB emergency room really was.
But this experience has highlighted what I believe is a problem in health care, one I'm not sure how to fix.
At the beginning, the doctor in charge of MG's condition was Dr. Melton, the trauma surgeon.
To this day, I've never met or spoken with Dr. Melton, although MG said she remembers Dr. Melton seeing her in the hospital and did see her when MG went back to the trauma clinic a few weeks later. I'm not saying I should have met or spoken with Dr. Melton, because I had access to Dr. Cox, who - as far as I know - performed the actual surgeries on MG (at least the second and third), and was very gracious with his time and knowledge.
Once trauma released MG, she was turned over to the orthopedic doctors, and I've already chronicled my frustration with that group - until I met Dr. Lowe, who as far as I'm concerned remains the Olivier of Orthopedic Surgeons, the Botticelli of Bones, the ... oh well, you get the idea.
Something Dr. Lowe told me immediately after surgery stuck with me, in that he compared what he does to being a mechanic or carpenter. His job is simply to put things back in place and make sure they hold, which from all appearances, in the case of MG, he has done.
I say that only to point out what I know from talking and reading about other medical cases is a problem: there is no one, single doctor who supervises patient care from entry to exit. Every doctor has a speciality, and while they are aware of each other's roles, there doesn't appear to be anyone who is there to make sure everything is coordinated, who can tie up all the various aspects of what - in this instance - MG's care, and be there to answer or find the answer to our concerns and questions.
Recently I read the biography of Steve Jobs, the founder and driving genius of Apple. When Jobs was diagnosed with cancer, he had the money to hire a doctor in Memphis and put this doctor in charge of all aspects of Jobs' care. It made sense.
Unfortunately, very few of us have Jobs' money. Therefore, we go from doctor to doctor and have to try to piece everything together as best we can, while realizing that very few of us have any qualifications or are the slightest bit prepared to do that.
Maybe this goes back to the old days of the "family doctor,'' who would be that point of contact between patient and medical profession.
I say this because the trauma team was quick - and rightfully so- to take credit for saving MG's life. And the orthopedic doctors were quick - and, again, rightfully so - to take credit for putting MG's bones back together.
But as least in the case of a world class teaching facility like UAB, it's also apparent that once one set of doctors feels they have done their job, they are done with you.
And often, that's not the end of what a patient needs.
The biggest setback for us Monday came in our visit with Dr. Lowe. MG came home with a left leg that, as she said, felt like it was an alien being attached to her body. There was very little feeling, very little control.
Slowly, that has changed. She has regained a lot of feeling (too much feeling, at times!), and more control. Every day, more and more of the nerves and muscles start to come back into form.
However, there are still a few areas where MG does not have feeling or muscle control. And Dr. Lowe told us Monday that if she hasn't seen any improvement up to now, the odds were only 30 percent that she ever would.
This was particularly disheartening for MG and I. We had focused all along on near-complete recovery. Everything had gone so well. We knew it would take time, but there was never any doubt that in time, recovery would be complete - or at least more complete than a 70-percent chance of permanent damage to parts of her left leg/foot would indicate.
Now, admittedly, in the bigger scheme of things this is not huge. And one of the first things I told MG was that she had far less than a 30 percent chance of surviving the wreck to begin with, so a 30 percent chance now is huge.
Still, it was a reminder of the reality that, as SB said way back in the early days of this ordeal, "Every step forward is going to be full of hard."
And it has been. But suddenly faced with the chance of hitting a stone wall in the recovery process was harder than we'd anticipated.
Not that we won't accept whatever happens. Not that we don't believe God can't change her circumstances in His good pleasure. We are not people without hope; we are sometimes perplexed, but not in despair.
Apparently, this isn't something the trauma surgeon can help us with. It's not something the orthopedic surgeon can help us understand. I'm not sure who that doctor is, or if that doctor exists.
It's not just this; there are so many examples of a breakdown in communication. The first time the physical therapist came to the house, she hadn't been provided a full extent of MG's injuries and so wasn't aware of the extent. Fortunately, we had my sister-in-law, also a phyiscal therapist, who was there for that first visit and was able to communicate how the injuries were inter-related and help the physical therapist get a better idea of the best way to proceed (which she has, and we'll be eternally grateful).
And someone tell me why you go to the clinic and you fill out a form that asks you to list all your medications. Then you go to the exam room and the nurse asks you to tell her all your medications. Then the student-doctor comes in (I know they are called "residents,'' but they are still student-doctors) and asks you about your injuries and your medications.
I wonder what would happen if we simply gave every one a wildly different list. Would anyone ever notice? If every time we go in we have to do this, what's the point?
Medical care just seems, at times, wildly disconnected. As patients, we need to not be afraid to ask questions and get opinions and take charge; yet as patients we have grown accustomed to accepting whatever the doctors say as the way it's supposed to be, that we're just not smart enough to question doctors.
This won't come out exactly right, so forgive me. But I remember our daughter Catherine, who was born severely handicapped but who blessed our lives for so long.
Catherine had a myriad of health problems that were obvious and significant, but not necessary to go into now. However, both MG and I remember well-meaning people - complete strangers - who would stop us in the mall, or parking lots, or where ever to ask if they could pray for Catherine, or in some cases to deliver us a "message" they believed God had given them to give to us. Always, they'd pray that Catherine was 'healed' and 'made whole.'
While we appreciated the sincerity and always welcomed prayer, it was also sometimes a bit offensive. We believed that Catherine was perfect in God's eyes, and we had seen how God has used her in so many people's lives - including our own.
So I wonder if even as we pray for MG to be made "whole," as she was before the accident, I think about people who deal with this kind of impairment and wonder how they'd feel about my concern that MG wind up spending the rest of her life "like them."
Selfishly, I want - no, I honestly believe - MG will be made whole. I can't imagine that she wouldn't be.
At the same time, like Paul who prayed three times for his affliction to be removed and was denied three times, if God has a greater purpose to be served by her carrying this infirmity with her, we'll learn to not only accept but, hopefully, rejoice in what we face.
(And I know that's really easy for me to say, since I'm not the one personally afflicted).
I did get a call from the Mountain Brook Police, more of my heroes in this whole thing. They continue to work toward resolution of the court case against the man that hit MG.
And I have to admit, for as long as I believed that MG would eventually be completely restored to health, I wasn't mad. But now, knowing there are so many scars and perhaps impairments she will have to learn to live with for the rest of her life, I find myself angry. I want this guy to know what his stupid, dangerous decision did to my family.
But that's selfish of me.
Like I said, we got a set-back this week.
"Teach me to believe that all degrees of mercy arise from several degrees of prayer, that when faith is begun it is imperfect and must grow, as chapped ground opens wider and wider until rain comes. So shall I wait thy will, pray for it to be done, and by thy grace become fully obedient."
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Saturday, June 16, 2012
"... in answer to your prayers"
It's not the first call I've had like this one.
But a guy I know professionally called to tell me he'd been reading my blog about MG's accident, and wanted to share that a number of years ago he and his wife had gone through a similar circumstance - except that he was the one injured. He said if there had been blogs back then, his wife would have written almost exactly what I wrote, and he hoped we could get together and share stories.
It reminded me of another friend who came to see me right after the accident happened. He'd gone through his own bought with cancer, and I remember sitting with him in the hospital and again as he was recovering at home, just talking and killing time. He called me and returned the favor, taking me to lunch and we just sat and told stories and caught up and it was such great comfort to me at that time.
Today I started reading 2 Corinthians. After nearly two months, I got through Jeremiah, which means back to a New Testament book. I thought I hadn't spent much time in 2 Corinthians, but it turns out I had plenty of notes in the margins and underlines and stars - the ways I indicate when something I read strikes me as significant (although too often when I go back later, I can't remember what it was that made that verse particularly significant at that time).
Verse 4 talks about God "who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we have received ..." Now, normally I'd read this and think, "OK, I've got to take what I've learned from this experience and be ready to comfort the next guy."
But this time, I couldn't help but think of all the people who have reached out to me or been put in my way somehow that have "comforted me with the comfort they have received."
And not just me, but MG and the kids, too.
People I know, people I barely know, people I don't know - I'm amazed at how many people have been there for me, either to share their stories with me, or - as in the case of my friend who is recovering from cancer - just came by to take me to lunch and provide a brief but needed distraction.
I've been flattered that some people have told me the things I've been able to express are exactly what they felt in their similar circumstance. I've had people say things to me that I wish (selfishly) that I'd thought of, because they were so profound and insightful. And I've had people say nothing of consequence, but just by being there brought support and - yes - comfort.
To be honest, it's been very uncomfortable to be the recipient of so much care and concern. We've always been a family that tried to be there for other people, to care for other people when we saw need. To be on the other side has not been easy. It's amazing how hard it is at times to accept favor from people. Yet I'm also aware that if we do not allow people the opportunity to serve, we deny them the blessing of service. That sounds selfish even as I write it - "Sure, I'll graciously allow you to serve me" - but it's true: we deny other people a blessing when we try to handle everything ourselves and exclude others.
Besides, as Paul also wrote in 2 Corinthians, "But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God." I hate that verse, because I want to rely on myself; I also love that verse, because it reminds me that I can't handle everything myself and have to learn to "let go and let God" (cliche!)
And often we're seeing God in action through friends and strangers who feel compelled to comfort us, through the experience of the comfort they've received in the past.
I've lived with this "accident" from the beginning, so I find myself looking forward more than backward. I lived through the scary part, the life-and-death part, the "what if" part.
But every now and then, MG realizes something else that happened to her that she wasn't fully aware of. After all, she didn't experience all the anxiety and worry as it was happening; she had the "luxury," if you will, of being the victim and in a coma. She's still not fully aware of all the "insults" inflicted upon her body, and truthfully while I've tried to let her know gradually, sometimes I forget one or two myself.
For example, the other day she was with the trauma doctor. MG came back and said she was so focused on the orthopedic injuries that she'd never given much credit to the trauma doctors. However, the trauma surgeon told her the orthopedic surgery was only necessary because the trauma doctors had saved her life.
MG continues to get glimpses of just how serious her condition was. Every now and then she realizes the potential severity of some of the individual injuries - what if the fracture of her C-1 vertebra had been a clean break? What if the bruised heart had been worse? What if the liver had not been repairable? What if? It's a game that will likely go on for a long time .... but every time I hear it I can't help but think, "I've already dealt with that,'' and have to realize "this is all still new to MG."
Now that I'm back at work, I'm seeing MG making progress like crazy. SB texted me a picture that I couldn't really see very clearly, but it was of MG standing up with the aid of her walker. What I didn't realize until I got home was that MG was not just standing up; she's standing up to brush her teeth and comb her hair; she's actually able to stand up out of the bed on her own and use the walker to kind of hop and slide around the room.
And that's wonderful - except, as is always the case, there is a down side. The more movement and control she regains, the more pain comes along with that movement. The more her pelvis flexes, the more it screams because it has come to like being in one position. Again, go from the top of her neck and play the "neck bone connected to the collar bone; collar bone connected to the ...." game all the way down to MG's left toe, and you'll find some measure of recovering going on.
Today, however, was major. Christian Service Mission was dedicating one of the 10 houses it is re-building in Pratt City, an area that was devastated by the tornadoes of over a year ago. This house was one MG had worked with from the beginning, and she really wanted to be there when the family moved back in. I remember going with her as we worked with various student groups from local colleges, hauling junk and damaged parts and moldy carpet and wall board out, filling (I think) three dumpsters.
So against my better judgement, I gingerly and carefully and extremely cautiously helped MG get out to the car, loaded her in, drove ever so carefully to Pratt City, participated in the dedication, then came back home.
She was out for over an hour!
When we got back home, it was "nap time." And the muscles spasm and the bones ache and legs swell and there is pain. But it is still a huge step forward. Huge.
MG hasn't lost her sense of humor. It was a very sleepless night. She describes it as the pain just "grabbing" her. It doesn't build, as if the pain medication is wearing off. It just grabs hold unexpectedly and won't let go.
So today, we were sitting on the side of her bed talking about it ... letting her vent ... when she suddenly said, "If Jesus comes back tomorrow this is really going to seem so pointless!"
Later in that same chapter of 2 Corinthians, Paul writes, "... Then many will give thanks on our behalf for the gracious favor granted us in answer to the prayers of many."
I do hope that many of you do indeed give thanks for the way our prayers have been answered. We're not out of it by any means, but MG's progress is - we both believe - due in part to your prayers. We hope that you share in our joy and sense of accomplishment with every step she takes (literally).
And we ask that you do indeed give thanks for the gracious favor granted us - in answer to your prayers.
Please don't forget that.
But a guy I know professionally called to tell me he'd been reading my blog about MG's accident, and wanted to share that a number of years ago he and his wife had gone through a similar circumstance - except that he was the one injured. He said if there had been blogs back then, his wife would have written almost exactly what I wrote, and he hoped we could get together and share stories.
It reminded me of another friend who came to see me right after the accident happened. He'd gone through his own bought with cancer, and I remember sitting with him in the hospital and again as he was recovering at home, just talking and killing time. He called me and returned the favor, taking me to lunch and we just sat and told stories and caught up and it was such great comfort to me at that time.
Today I started reading 2 Corinthians. After nearly two months, I got through Jeremiah, which means back to a New Testament book. I thought I hadn't spent much time in 2 Corinthians, but it turns out I had plenty of notes in the margins and underlines and stars - the ways I indicate when something I read strikes me as significant (although too often when I go back later, I can't remember what it was that made that verse particularly significant at that time).
Verse 4 talks about God "who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we have received ..." Now, normally I'd read this and think, "OK, I've got to take what I've learned from this experience and be ready to comfort the next guy."
But this time, I couldn't help but think of all the people who have reached out to me or been put in my way somehow that have "comforted me with the comfort they have received."
And not just me, but MG and the kids, too.
People I know, people I barely know, people I don't know - I'm amazed at how many people have been there for me, either to share their stories with me, or - as in the case of my friend who is recovering from cancer - just came by to take me to lunch and provide a brief but needed distraction.
I've been flattered that some people have told me the things I've been able to express are exactly what they felt in their similar circumstance. I've had people say things to me that I wish (selfishly) that I'd thought of, because they were so profound and insightful. And I've had people say nothing of consequence, but just by being there brought support and - yes - comfort.
To be honest, it's been very uncomfortable to be the recipient of so much care and concern. We've always been a family that tried to be there for other people, to care for other people when we saw need. To be on the other side has not been easy. It's amazing how hard it is at times to accept favor from people. Yet I'm also aware that if we do not allow people the opportunity to serve, we deny them the blessing of service. That sounds selfish even as I write it - "Sure, I'll graciously allow you to serve me" - but it's true: we deny other people a blessing when we try to handle everything ourselves and exclude others.
Besides, as Paul also wrote in 2 Corinthians, "But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God." I hate that verse, because I want to rely on myself; I also love that verse, because it reminds me that I can't handle everything myself and have to learn to "let go and let God" (cliche!)
And often we're seeing God in action through friends and strangers who feel compelled to comfort us, through the experience of the comfort they've received in the past.
I've lived with this "accident" from the beginning, so I find myself looking forward more than backward. I lived through the scary part, the life-and-death part, the "what if" part.
But every now and then, MG realizes something else that happened to her that she wasn't fully aware of. After all, she didn't experience all the anxiety and worry as it was happening; she had the "luxury," if you will, of being the victim and in a coma. She's still not fully aware of all the "insults" inflicted upon her body, and truthfully while I've tried to let her know gradually, sometimes I forget one or two myself.
For example, the other day she was with the trauma doctor. MG came back and said she was so focused on the orthopedic injuries that she'd never given much credit to the trauma doctors. However, the trauma surgeon told her the orthopedic surgery was only necessary because the trauma doctors had saved her life.
MG continues to get glimpses of just how serious her condition was. Every now and then she realizes the potential severity of some of the individual injuries - what if the fracture of her C-1 vertebra had been a clean break? What if the bruised heart had been worse? What if the liver had not been repairable? What if? It's a game that will likely go on for a long time .... but every time I hear it I can't help but think, "I've already dealt with that,'' and have to realize "this is all still new to MG."
Now that I'm back at work, I'm seeing MG making progress like crazy. SB texted me a picture that I couldn't really see very clearly, but it was of MG standing up with the aid of her walker. What I didn't realize until I got home was that MG was not just standing up; she's standing up to brush her teeth and comb her hair; she's actually able to stand up out of the bed on her own and use the walker to kind of hop and slide around the room.
And that's wonderful - except, as is always the case, there is a down side. The more movement and control she regains, the more pain comes along with that movement. The more her pelvis flexes, the more it screams because it has come to like being in one position. Again, go from the top of her neck and play the "neck bone connected to the collar bone; collar bone connected to the ...." game all the way down to MG's left toe, and you'll find some measure of recovering going on.
Today, however, was major. Christian Service Mission was dedicating one of the 10 houses it is re-building in Pratt City, an area that was devastated by the tornadoes of over a year ago. This house was one MG had worked with from the beginning, and she really wanted to be there when the family moved back in. I remember going with her as we worked with various student groups from local colleges, hauling junk and damaged parts and moldy carpet and wall board out, filling (I think) three dumpsters.
So against my better judgement, I gingerly and carefully and extremely cautiously helped MG get out to the car, loaded her in, drove ever so carefully to Pratt City, participated in the dedication, then came back home.
She was out for over an hour!
When we got back home, it was "nap time." And the muscles spasm and the bones ache and legs swell and there is pain. But it is still a huge step forward. Huge.
MG hasn't lost her sense of humor. It was a very sleepless night. She describes it as the pain just "grabbing" her. It doesn't build, as if the pain medication is wearing off. It just grabs hold unexpectedly and won't let go.
So today, we were sitting on the side of her bed talking about it ... letting her vent ... when she suddenly said, "If Jesus comes back tomorrow this is really going to seem so pointless!"
Later in that same chapter of 2 Corinthians, Paul writes, "... Then many will give thanks on our behalf for the gracious favor granted us in answer to the prayers of many."
I do hope that many of you do indeed give thanks for the way our prayers have been answered. We're not out of it by any means, but MG's progress is - we both believe - due in part to your prayers. We hope that you share in our joy and sense of accomplishment with every step she takes (literally).
And we ask that you do indeed give thanks for the gracious favor granted us - in answer to your prayers.
Please don't forget that.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Thinking about the other guy
For the first time, MG was left at home without a family member - meaning either SB or me - to care for her.
It was scary.
For her, I'm sure. But also for me. As much as I realize so much is out of my control in all of this, I feel like by being there I'm able to control as much as I can.
It's probably more emotional control, to be honest - both for MG and for me. The truth is, for the most part I'm helpless to help her whether I'm beside her or 400 miles away. But I guess I feel better if I'm beside her when somethings is wrong, and I know she feels better if I'm there, too.
At this point, the comfort is emotional more than physical.
We control what we can.
MG is making progress, but the more progress she makes the more she seems aware of how far she has to go. That's natural. But having been cleared to put weight on her right leg, MG can now use the walker to stand up beside the bed and "pivot" to sit on a bed-side chair. That's huge.
At the same time, the more MG does, the more her body reacts to over a month of near inactivity plus the severity of injury and screams at her. Muscles, nerves, bones, wounds - it would be one thing if it was just one thing, but because there are so many things working in combination (and often in conflict) that at times there is no way to get relief.
Feeling comes back in one part, but that only makes her more aware of the lack of feeling in other parts and concern over whether that will come back. She is able to control more of her muscles than ever - she can practically sit up on her own now - but again, that success only the muscles over which she hasn't begun to regain control more obvious.
Add to that the fact that the doctors are trying to slowly cut back on medication, and you can see why I describe the process as two steps forward and one step back. Or maybe it's one step forward and a half slide back. Still, what we try to focus on is that there is progress being made.
The other day, perhaps for the first time in a long time, I really began to wonder about the guy that hit her. I wonder if he realizes the full extent of what his stupid, careless act of driving while incredibly intoxicated has done.
I know his name, his address, where he was employed at the time of the accident, etc - and I'm not angry as much as I'm sad. Yes, I think "sad" is the word - sad that this happened, that he wasn't responsible enough to have insurance, or to not drive after drinking so heavily, sad that his family members (he said he was at his brother's house celebrating his brother's birthday and drinking all night) would let him leave their house in that condition and ... well, just sad at the whole mess.
There is no reason to get angry, because I can't do anything to change what is. But I'm sad that this is where things stand.
I know his life is a mess, too. I know he's apparently looking at serious jail time. And one of my insurance companies could decide to sue him. There are times I have some measure of empathy for him, believing his life has taken a turn he'd never anticipated by one stupid, dangerous decision.
Still, he's not looking at the person he loves lying in bed all day, unable to do some of the most basic things without help, needing constant companionship.
He's not watching his daughter lose so much of her summer vacation because she has to stay at home at night to care for her mother while I am off working in another state.
He doesn't lie in bed next to his wife (or, in my daughter's case, mother), trying to get as much sleep as possible but also trying to be aware of when MG calls out because she's in pain or needs to go to the bathroom or can't get comfortable or just needs to take her medicine.
He doesn't see the way I sometimes lash out at my sons - not because of anything they've done, but because I'm tired and they had the misfortune of asking me something when I was ready to explode.
I look at the paperwork that I have to do around insurance and the concerns I have as to what insurance will cover and what it won't and find myself frustrated because if he had just had insurance like he was legally required to have then the problem would be with his insurance company and not mine.
I never knew that hospitals in the state of Alabama have the legal right to put a lien on your house as soon as you leave the hospital as a guarantee against getting paid. That seems incredibly unfair (although I have to laugh because the lien is for more than my house is worth), but I'm told it's the law.
(The good news is even my insurance company says not to worry, that it's standard practice and will ultimately be taken care of. But still ...)
People ask me if I'm going to sue the other guy. I'm told he has nothing, and that's really going to be up to the insurance company, to try to get back as much of their money as they can.
I was told by one of the insurance people that they've known of instances where an insurance company went after a person and won a judgement of $50 a month for 50 years. The idea was just to keep the guilty party responsible, and I admit that sounds fair to me, given what I'm going through.
I could go on, but I'm just venting. Still, if you read this, maybe it will help you understand how a wrong decision can affect so many other lives.
I will say it has made me very aware of that in my own life. I do realize none of us live in vacuums. Our actions do affect other people, people we may never know in ways we may never imagine. The ripples just go on and on and on ... and it gives an added responsibility to my life, to my decisions, to my actions that I guess I knew I had, but it was so easy not to think of because I am so often "immune" (for lack of a better word) to those ramifications.
If it sounds like sometime I feel sorry for myself and my family, I guess I do.
But at the same time, there have been so many blessings: we have gotten reconnected with a lot of friends and family all over the country. My brother-in-law, his wife and their three daughters spent the last few days with us, and it was so much fun for MG who loves little girls. Even though she didn't get to spend much actual time with them, she loved hearing their laughter and the sound of their running through the house. My sister, one of my brothers, and now four of MG's brothers and three of their wives have been down to see us. My father-in-law came last week and will return this week. The phone calls and emails are constant and comforting.
Tim and Julie worried about bringing their three girls down, afraid it might be too much for MG. But every morning and evening, all three would come in to MG's bedside and give her the sweetest hugs and kisses. And one asked her mother, "Can we stay at Aunt MG's all summer?"
That was as good as any prescription the doctors have given us.
There are so many people to thank for their love and care. We couldn't do this without them - without family, old friends, the body of Christ through the church and Christian Service Mission, the families of Excelsior Co-op, even total strangers who let us know they found out somehow about the accident and are praying.
That, too, sometimes makes me think of the guy who hit MG. I wonder if he is as blessed as I am to have this kind of support.
I pray that he does. And that if he doesn't, that maybe through this - because of this - he will.
It was scary.
For her, I'm sure. But also for me. As much as I realize so much is out of my control in all of this, I feel like by being there I'm able to control as much as I can.
It's probably more emotional control, to be honest - both for MG and for me. The truth is, for the most part I'm helpless to help her whether I'm beside her or 400 miles away. But I guess I feel better if I'm beside her when somethings is wrong, and I know she feels better if I'm there, too.
At this point, the comfort is emotional more than physical.
We control what we can.
MG is making progress, but the more progress she makes the more she seems aware of how far she has to go. That's natural. But having been cleared to put weight on her right leg, MG can now use the walker to stand up beside the bed and "pivot" to sit on a bed-side chair. That's huge.
At the same time, the more MG does, the more her body reacts to over a month of near inactivity plus the severity of injury and screams at her. Muscles, nerves, bones, wounds - it would be one thing if it was just one thing, but because there are so many things working in combination (and often in conflict) that at times there is no way to get relief.
Feeling comes back in one part, but that only makes her more aware of the lack of feeling in other parts and concern over whether that will come back. She is able to control more of her muscles than ever - she can practically sit up on her own now - but again, that success only the muscles over which she hasn't begun to regain control more obvious.
Add to that the fact that the doctors are trying to slowly cut back on medication, and you can see why I describe the process as two steps forward and one step back. Or maybe it's one step forward and a half slide back. Still, what we try to focus on is that there is progress being made.
The other day, perhaps for the first time in a long time, I really began to wonder about the guy that hit her. I wonder if he realizes the full extent of what his stupid, careless act of driving while incredibly intoxicated has done.
I know his name, his address, where he was employed at the time of the accident, etc - and I'm not angry as much as I'm sad. Yes, I think "sad" is the word - sad that this happened, that he wasn't responsible enough to have insurance, or to not drive after drinking so heavily, sad that his family members (he said he was at his brother's house celebrating his brother's birthday and drinking all night) would let him leave their house in that condition and ... well, just sad at the whole mess.
There is no reason to get angry, because I can't do anything to change what is. But I'm sad that this is where things stand.
I know his life is a mess, too. I know he's apparently looking at serious jail time. And one of my insurance companies could decide to sue him. There are times I have some measure of empathy for him, believing his life has taken a turn he'd never anticipated by one stupid, dangerous decision.
Still, he's not looking at the person he loves lying in bed all day, unable to do some of the most basic things without help, needing constant companionship.
He's not watching his daughter lose so much of her summer vacation because she has to stay at home at night to care for her mother while I am off working in another state.
He doesn't lie in bed next to his wife (or, in my daughter's case, mother), trying to get as much sleep as possible but also trying to be aware of when MG calls out because she's in pain or needs to go to the bathroom or can't get comfortable or just needs to take her medicine.
He doesn't see the way I sometimes lash out at my sons - not because of anything they've done, but because I'm tired and they had the misfortune of asking me something when I was ready to explode.
I look at the paperwork that I have to do around insurance and the concerns I have as to what insurance will cover and what it won't and find myself frustrated because if he had just had insurance like he was legally required to have then the problem would be with his insurance company and not mine.
I never knew that hospitals in the state of Alabama have the legal right to put a lien on your house as soon as you leave the hospital as a guarantee against getting paid. That seems incredibly unfair (although I have to laugh because the lien is for more than my house is worth), but I'm told it's the law.
(The good news is even my insurance company says not to worry, that it's standard practice and will ultimately be taken care of. But still ...)
People ask me if I'm going to sue the other guy. I'm told he has nothing, and that's really going to be up to the insurance company, to try to get back as much of their money as they can.
I was told by one of the insurance people that they've known of instances where an insurance company went after a person and won a judgement of $50 a month for 50 years. The idea was just to keep the guilty party responsible, and I admit that sounds fair to me, given what I'm going through.
I could go on, but I'm just venting. Still, if you read this, maybe it will help you understand how a wrong decision can affect so many other lives.
I will say it has made me very aware of that in my own life. I do realize none of us live in vacuums. Our actions do affect other people, people we may never know in ways we may never imagine. The ripples just go on and on and on ... and it gives an added responsibility to my life, to my decisions, to my actions that I guess I knew I had, but it was so easy not to think of because I am so often "immune" (for lack of a better word) to those ramifications.
If it sounds like sometime I feel sorry for myself and my family, I guess I do.
But at the same time, there have been so many blessings: we have gotten reconnected with a lot of friends and family all over the country. My brother-in-law, his wife and their three daughters spent the last few days with us, and it was so much fun for MG who loves little girls. Even though she didn't get to spend much actual time with them, she loved hearing their laughter and the sound of their running through the house. My sister, one of my brothers, and now four of MG's brothers and three of their wives have been down to see us. My father-in-law came last week and will return this week. The phone calls and emails are constant and comforting.
Tim and Julie worried about bringing their three girls down, afraid it might be too much for MG. But every morning and evening, all three would come in to MG's bedside and give her the sweetest hugs and kisses. And one asked her mother, "Can we stay at Aunt MG's all summer?"
That was as good as any prescription the doctors have given us.
There are so many people to thank for their love and care. We couldn't do this without them - without family, old friends, the body of Christ through the church and Christian Service Mission, the families of Excelsior Co-op, even total strangers who let us know they found out somehow about the accident and are praying.
That, too, sometimes makes me think of the guy who hit MG. I wonder if he is as blessed as I am to have this kind of support.
I pray that he does. And that if he doesn't, that maybe through this - because of this - he will.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Redefining my idea of "meaningful" work
A number of years ago, I joined a church that was very anxious to figure out how to get its members plugged in. One of the first things they did was have new members take a "gifts" survey or test, in an attempt to determine each persons' "spiritual gift'' and then help that person put that gift to use.
It was a noble idea, one that many churches were trying to execute during that particular time period in an effort to help believers find their place doing God's will.
This was a pretty formal program this church had. I took my survey/test and then met with the associate pastor in charge of this area, and was told clearly my gift was teaching.
"Unfortunately,'' the pastor told me, "We don't have any need for any more teachers.We have more than we can put to use as it is."
I never was asked to do any teaching at that church - or anything else, for that matter.
So much for my "spiritual gift."
I was thinking about this the other day as I thought through my evolving idea of work.
I do believe that God created us all with certain gifts, and that if we weren't so concerned about making money, we could find the "work" that God created us to do and we'd generally be much happier people. I know doctors and lawyers, in particular, who have told me they hate being doctors or lawyers but they love the lifestyle those professions afford them to have. And we've all known somebody who does something "simple" but is as happy as a millionaire because they love what they do and have learned to live on what they make.
I have always told my own children: find an occupation you love and you'll never work a day in your life.
I am fortunate in that I've always loved what I've done. Not every minute, and not every boss or every company that I've worked for; but I can say that I've always enjoyed the heart of whatever it is I'm doing, and very rarely have I ever had those days where I dreaded going to work. If anything, I have enjoyed my work so much I find myself on days off looking forward to going back to work. That is a blessing that I do not discount.
However ... I wonder if those messages haven't done our children a disservice. I wonder if we as a culture haven't misled our children into thinking if they don't find "meaning" in what they do, if they don't feel "called" to it, they shouldn't do it.
Like me, you've probably read all the stories from "experts" who say what young people need is to find "meaningful work" - particularly low-income young people. Somehow if we can just plug everyone into the work that brings them a "meaningful experience" then we will be well on our way to ending unemployment and poverty.
It's the same approach we've seen for generations toward education: let's make it "meaningful," which too often when it comes to children we define as "fun" or at least entertaining.
And so the idea of education can mean almost anything - from truly vital, life-saving research to absolutely pointless classes that leave the young people who take them filled with an inflated sense of self-importance or anger over some perceived wrong or a sense of entitlement. What so many of those classes don't do is promote skills to enable young people earn a living or gain any realistic understanding of what is expected of being a citizen in a free and healthy society.
To put it simply, sometimes work is "work." Just as sometimes education requires tedium and boring repetition, sometimes work requires doing things simply because those things need to be done. Sometimes people have to take on jobs they don't particularly enjoy and learn to find meaning and pride in just being able to provide for their family, to feed and clothe and educate their children, whether or not the work they do is, in itself, enjoyable or meaningful or fulfilling.
I mean, really - does anyone find fulfillment in the act of cleaning bed pans or cleaning septic tanks or any number of jobs like that? Not that they might not take pride in doing those jobs well or take pride in the service those jobs perform, but is there real joy in the actual act?
What is "meaningful work"? The Puritan or Protestant work ethic said you worked not for money or for your own prestige but for the glory of God. That meant whatever you did, you did "as unto the Lord,'' meaning as if you were doing it for God Himself.
Therefore, it wasn't about finding the job you were particularly gifted to do or the job that brought you the most personal fulfillment; it was about doing whatever you did to the best of your ability as a way to honor God.
And of course sometimes you found the "gift" to be able to do that job well, or you learned to find meaning in the task.
There are jobs that we'd call "menial'' - low-paying jobs that very few aspire to do for the rest of their lives. But the fact is, those jobs need to be done. Maybe they don't pay anything more than minimum wage (which, in truth, means the only reason your employer is paying that much is because the law won't let him play any less), but in a free market the people paying salaries out of their own money (as opposed to tax payers' money) will only pay what they need to pay to get the job done. As the skill required to do the job well inceases, so does - generally - the pay.
If you don't have the skills to take on something more than a minimum-wage job, you have two choices: don't work and live as parasites off the system, or take the jobs you are qualified for - flipping hamburgers or busing tables or making deliveries - until you gain enough experience or impress someone enough to move up the work-force ladder.
I read an economic study from, I believe, Stanford that over a period of time followed people who started in minimum or low-paying jobs and found most of those people consistently moved from one income bracket to another, usually within a year. In other words, people who started with a minimum-wage job on New Year's Day were seldom still in that same job the following Christmas because they had learned new skills or gained experience necessary to move to a better (higher-paying) job.
I fear that telling people they need to find meaningful work that provides self-fulfillment is more likely to create a dissatisfied class of people who remain idle while waiting to find that perfect job that probably doesn't exist.
That brings me back to that church that told me while they had determined I had a certain "spiritual gift,'' they didn't currently have any use for my particular gift.
I think rather than spending so much time trying to find what people are good at, we should encourage people to find something that needs to be done and start doing it, believing that eventually God will either surprise them by equipping them to do that job well (and find meaning in it) or they will find themselves moving toward a position that best utilizes their gifts and abilities.
I think that's true whether its the church or the work force. Everyone knows the old saying about the best way to find a job is to have a job. It's true. It's a lot easier to move up in the work force when you are in the work force; just like it's a lot easier to find what God wants you to do when you're already doing something for God.
In other words, sometimes you just need to get a job.
And do it to the best of your ability.
You might be surprised at just how "meaningful'' that job - over time - becomes.
It was a noble idea, one that many churches were trying to execute during that particular time period in an effort to help believers find their place doing God's will.
This was a pretty formal program this church had. I took my survey/test and then met with the associate pastor in charge of this area, and was told clearly my gift was teaching.
"Unfortunately,'' the pastor told me, "We don't have any need for any more teachers.We have more than we can put to use as it is."
I never was asked to do any teaching at that church - or anything else, for that matter.
So much for my "spiritual gift."
I was thinking about this the other day as I thought through my evolving idea of work.
I do believe that God created us all with certain gifts, and that if we weren't so concerned about making money, we could find the "work" that God created us to do and we'd generally be much happier people. I know doctors and lawyers, in particular, who have told me they hate being doctors or lawyers but they love the lifestyle those professions afford them to have. And we've all known somebody who does something "simple" but is as happy as a millionaire because they love what they do and have learned to live on what they make.
I have always told my own children: find an occupation you love and you'll never work a day in your life.
I am fortunate in that I've always loved what I've done. Not every minute, and not every boss or every company that I've worked for; but I can say that I've always enjoyed the heart of whatever it is I'm doing, and very rarely have I ever had those days where I dreaded going to work. If anything, I have enjoyed my work so much I find myself on days off looking forward to going back to work. That is a blessing that I do not discount.
However ... I wonder if those messages haven't done our children a disservice. I wonder if we as a culture haven't misled our children into thinking if they don't find "meaning" in what they do, if they don't feel "called" to it, they shouldn't do it.
Like me, you've probably read all the stories from "experts" who say what young people need is to find "meaningful work" - particularly low-income young people. Somehow if we can just plug everyone into the work that brings them a "meaningful experience" then we will be well on our way to ending unemployment and poverty.
It's the same approach we've seen for generations toward education: let's make it "meaningful," which too often when it comes to children we define as "fun" or at least entertaining.
And so the idea of education can mean almost anything - from truly vital, life-saving research to absolutely pointless classes that leave the young people who take them filled with an inflated sense of self-importance or anger over some perceived wrong or a sense of entitlement. What so many of those classes don't do is promote skills to enable young people earn a living or gain any realistic understanding of what is expected of being a citizen in a free and healthy society.
To put it simply, sometimes work is "work." Just as sometimes education requires tedium and boring repetition, sometimes work requires doing things simply because those things need to be done. Sometimes people have to take on jobs they don't particularly enjoy and learn to find meaning and pride in just being able to provide for their family, to feed and clothe and educate their children, whether or not the work they do is, in itself, enjoyable or meaningful or fulfilling.
I mean, really - does anyone find fulfillment in the act of cleaning bed pans or cleaning septic tanks or any number of jobs like that? Not that they might not take pride in doing those jobs well or take pride in the service those jobs perform, but is there real joy in the actual act?
What is "meaningful work"? The Puritan or Protestant work ethic said you worked not for money or for your own prestige but for the glory of God. That meant whatever you did, you did "as unto the Lord,'' meaning as if you were doing it for God Himself.
Therefore, it wasn't about finding the job you were particularly gifted to do or the job that brought you the most personal fulfillment; it was about doing whatever you did to the best of your ability as a way to honor God.
And of course sometimes you found the "gift" to be able to do that job well, or you learned to find meaning in the task.
There are jobs that we'd call "menial'' - low-paying jobs that very few aspire to do for the rest of their lives. But the fact is, those jobs need to be done. Maybe they don't pay anything more than minimum wage (which, in truth, means the only reason your employer is paying that much is because the law won't let him play any less), but in a free market the people paying salaries out of their own money (as opposed to tax payers' money) will only pay what they need to pay to get the job done. As the skill required to do the job well inceases, so does - generally - the pay.
If you don't have the skills to take on something more than a minimum-wage job, you have two choices: don't work and live as parasites off the system, or take the jobs you are qualified for - flipping hamburgers or busing tables or making deliveries - until you gain enough experience or impress someone enough to move up the work-force ladder.
I read an economic study from, I believe, Stanford that over a period of time followed people who started in minimum or low-paying jobs and found most of those people consistently moved from one income bracket to another, usually within a year. In other words, people who started with a minimum-wage job on New Year's Day were seldom still in that same job the following Christmas because they had learned new skills or gained experience necessary to move to a better (higher-paying) job.
I fear that telling people they need to find meaningful work that provides self-fulfillment is more likely to create a dissatisfied class of people who remain idle while waiting to find that perfect job that probably doesn't exist.
That brings me back to that church that told me while they had determined I had a certain "spiritual gift,'' they didn't currently have any use for my particular gift.
I think rather than spending so much time trying to find what people are good at, we should encourage people to find something that needs to be done and start doing it, believing that eventually God will either surprise them by equipping them to do that job well (and find meaning in it) or they will find themselves moving toward a position that best utilizes their gifts and abilities.
I think that's true whether its the church or the work force. Everyone knows the old saying about the best way to find a job is to have a job. It's true. It's a lot easier to move up in the work force when you are in the work force; just like it's a lot easier to find what God wants you to do when you're already doing something for God.
In other words, sometimes you just need to get a job.
And do it to the best of your ability.
You might be surprised at just how "meaningful'' that job - over time - becomes.
Friday, June 1, 2012
Remembering the promise of progress
On the wall of the bedroom we put up this poster that the kids from the Excelsior Co-op made. It's a rectangle poster, with dozens of hand-written sticky notes of encouragement framing the words "Jehovah Rapha," which means "The Lord who heals."
That particular name for God is found in Exodus 15, right after the Children of Israel have safely crossed the Red Sea, not long after they've left Egypt on their way to the Promised Land. It's an interesting passage in that the thirsty Israelites come up on a body of water, anxious to drink, only to find the water too bitter to swallow.
The children complain, of course, so Moses - under the direct of God - throws a piece of wood into the water and it becomes drinkable.
It's kind of an odd story, showing up right where it does. It's just one of what will become many times of the appropirately named "Children" of Israel complaining and whining, despite the miracles that they've witnessed God perform on their behalf.
But what makes it even stranger to me is that God doesn't even address their complaint about the water. He goes off on this speech about how "If you'll listen to me and obey me, I won't allow any of the diseases that afflicted the Egyptians to come upon you - 'For I am the Lord who heals you.'"
Of course, there was a lot more complaining to come from the Children of Israel and a lot more of not listening to or obeying God.
Still, God remained "the Lord who heals you."
I'm reminded that God doesn't dispense His love and mercy based on the degree to which I'm able to keep His commands and decrees.
It's a good thing.
MG got a nice surprise visit from her youngest sister Thursday.
Kathleen came into town for one night, and we didn't tell MG her sister was coming. It was a complete surprise. The last time Kathleen had seen MG was while MG was still in the trauma unit, on a ventilator, in a coma, and all swollen from fluids and medicines and trauma. So this was no doubt as good for Kathleen as it was for MG.
It's always good to see family. Having my sister here for a little over a week - even though I was gone for three days and even though when I was here I spent most of my time with MG - was a treat for me. One of my brothers dropped by for a day while I was gone, but I appreciated his visit and I know it was good for he and my sister to get together.
We're expecting MG's dad to come down Monday afternoon, and maybe another of her brothers and his wife and wonderful little girls later in the week.
As long as the expectations of the visitors are tempered, the visits are great. Unfortunately, sometimes MG is just worn out or in too much pain to want to spend much time with even family. The great thing about family in times like this is you can tell them, "Hey, it's time to go,'' and they understand.
I appreciate friends who want to come by, too. I tell them the same thing: I can't guarantee MG will be in much of a mood for a visit, but it's worth a try. So far, everyone has been very understanding, and I've really only had to turn away one or two visitors.
That's not to say we don't appreciate visitors, because we do. It's just to say that we never know how "up" MG will be for a visit until it is time.
I got in an almost full week of work on the Gulf this week, including a day in New Orleans at the office over there. That's been good, because I do enjoy the routine of my life on the Gulf - my small room, two blocks from my office, one block down from a Sonic and McDonald's, across the street from the library, and four blocks from the Small Craft Harbor where I like to take a long walk in the evenings.
MG and I agree I need to get back to work (if for no other reason than we understand the importance of insurance!), and my employer has been exceptional in giving me the leeway to do what I need to do to take care of MG.
Still, it's not easy to be away. But when I'm in Birmingham I'm thinking about work; when I'm on the Coast I'm thinking about home.
Her ribs hurt. Her left foot hurts. Last night, in the middle of the night, MG was really hurting and trying to explain to me how to position her foot to try to get some relief. I didn't understand what she wanted, and MG couldn't figure out how to make me understand. Needless to say, it was frustrating for both of us.
Today I called the doctor's assistant to try to get some relief. We know the worst of the pain is from the nerves in MG's leg and foot waking up. We're on some kind of nerve medicine that is supposed to bring some relief, and it did for the first few days. But as I said, last night and all today it was terrible.
Amy, the doctor's assistant, relented today and told me we could double the dose of the nerve pill at night. She said they really like to wait a week because they want to give the dose they prescribed time to get into the system and work. However, this isn't working.
We also got a prescription for a light sleeping aid. I can't help but think if MG could just get a solid six hours of sleep it would be the best thing for her. It would give her body time to recoup and - more importantly - her mind time to rest. She wouldn't feel so overwhelmed by the pain, and the frustration at not knowing what position to put her leg in to relieve the pain, and the frustration of trying to make me understand what she wants me to do to help with the pain.
That frustration builds, along with the frustration over simply being frustrated. At one point MG was just tearfully apologizing to me. She knows she has nothing to apologize for, but I know how she feels.
Think about it: she's had almost six weeks of lying almost exclusively flat on her back. She can't roll over on her stomach. She can roll up on one side or the other, but not for very long because of the pain in her hips and her knee. We try to keep her moving to prevent bed sores and general stiffness. We put pillows under her knees to give her injured leg a new position to be in. There is a whole series of elaborate aids we've come up with to keep her left foot in the correct position (the muscle/nerve damage is causing that foot to want to point downward, and the doctors want us to work on helping her keep it up at a 90 degree angle). But manipulating that foot is not easy, since the pain of anything touching - in particular - her toes is excruciating.
And it doesn't help that I'm so clumsy. To help her move, we have to take the pillows out from under her left leg and away from her left foot, and then put a pillow between her knees while she pulls herself over to her side. But while she's doing that I'm prone to accidentally kick the leg of the bed or - even more painful - while moving pillows let one drop on her sensitive foot.
And then, of course, there are her ribs. Every breath hurts, and every day as the ribs heal every movement seems to hurt worse.
I took a picture last weekend of MG in the wheelchair sitting outside by the flower garden. Someone suggested such pictures give a false impression of how well she's doing, and people who have been so committed to praying for MG will feel like it's OK to stop.
I don't think so. First of all, I think God has put MG on a lot of hearts, and He will keep those people aware of praying for MG for as long as He desires. Secondly, even if some people do grow tired of praying for her or simply forget or simply have other issues that move to the top of their prayer list (which I completely understand), I don't think it will mean God forgets MG.
Besides, there are plenty of people I know are praying continuously for MG - for her recovery, for control of the pain, for her emotional stability, for those of us who are taking care of her. I ran into a friend at Best Buy today who assured me MG remains on his daily prayer list. We are both grateful and humbled that so many people care.
Tomorrow, MG's walker comes. Monday, she will be cleared to begin to put weight on her right leg, which means she could - in theory - stand on her right leg and even use the walker to get around, as long as he doesn't put any weight on the left leg.
However, I know her right leg won't be strong enough to hold her weight for more than a few seconds at a time, and that her ribs are still so tender than the act of having to support her upper body with her arms will cause more pain.
So like everything else in this journey of recovery, it will be a major step forward, followed by a half step back.
But it's progress.
We can't lose sight of that.
"Jehovah Rapha" - the Lord who heals.
He never said it would comfortable; just that we'd be healed.
That particular name for God is found in Exodus 15, right after the Children of Israel have safely crossed the Red Sea, not long after they've left Egypt on their way to the Promised Land. It's an interesting passage in that the thirsty Israelites come up on a body of water, anxious to drink, only to find the water too bitter to swallow.
The children complain, of course, so Moses - under the direct of God - throws a piece of wood into the water and it becomes drinkable.
It's kind of an odd story, showing up right where it does. It's just one of what will become many times of the appropirately named "Children" of Israel complaining and whining, despite the miracles that they've witnessed God perform on their behalf.
But what makes it even stranger to me is that God doesn't even address their complaint about the water. He goes off on this speech about how "If you'll listen to me and obey me, I won't allow any of the diseases that afflicted the Egyptians to come upon you - 'For I am the Lord who heals you.'"
Of course, there was a lot more complaining to come from the Children of Israel and a lot more of not listening to or obeying God.
Still, God remained "the Lord who heals you."
I'm reminded that God doesn't dispense His love and mercy based on the degree to which I'm able to keep His commands and decrees.
It's a good thing.
MG got a nice surprise visit from her youngest sister Thursday.
Kathleen came into town for one night, and we didn't tell MG her sister was coming. It was a complete surprise. The last time Kathleen had seen MG was while MG was still in the trauma unit, on a ventilator, in a coma, and all swollen from fluids and medicines and trauma. So this was no doubt as good for Kathleen as it was for MG.
It's always good to see family. Having my sister here for a little over a week - even though I was gone for three days and even though when I was here I spent most of my time with MG - was a treat for me. One of my brothers dropped by for a day while I was gone, but I appreciated his visit and I know it was good for he and my sister to get together.
We're expecting MG's dad to come down Monday afternoon, and maybe another of her brothers and his wife and wonderful little girls later in the week.
As long as the expectations of the visitors are tempered, the visits are great. Unfortunately, sometimes MG is just worn out or in too much pain to want to spend much time with even family. The great thing about family in times like this is you can tell them, "Hey, it's time to go,'' and they understand.
I appreciate friends who want to come by, too. I tell them the same thing: I can't guarantee MG will be in much of a mood for a visit, but it's worth a try. So far, everyone has been very understanding, and I've really only had to turn away one or two visitors.
That's not to say we don't appreciate visitors, because we do. It's just to say that we never know how "up" MG will be for a visit until it is time.
I got in an almost full week of work on the Gulf this week, including a day in New Orleans at the office over there. That's been good, because I do enjoy the routine of my life on the Gulf - my small room, two blocks from my office, one block down from a Sonic and McDonald's, across the street from the library, and four blocks from the Small Craft Harbor where I like to take a long walk in the evenings.
MG and I agree I need to get back to work (if for no other reason than we understand the importance of insurance!), and my employer has been exceptional in giving me the leeway to do what I need to do to take care of MG.
Still, it's not easy to be away. But when I'm in Birmingham I'm thinking about work; when I'm on the Coast I'm thinking about home.
Her ribs hurt. Her left foot hurts. Last night, in the middle of the night, MG was really hurting and trying to explain to me how to position her foot to try to get some relief. I didn't understand what she wanted, and MG couldn't figure out how to make me understand. Needless to say, it was frustrating for both of us.
Today I called the doctor's assistant to try to get some relief. We know the worst of the pain is from the nerves in MG's leg and foot waking up. We're on some kind of nerve medicine that is supposed to bring some relief, and it did for the first few days. But as I said, last night and all today it was terrible.
Amy, the doctor's assistant, relented today and told me we could double the dose of the nerve pill at night. She said they really like to wait a week because they want to give the dose they prescribed time to get into the system and work. However, this isn't working.
We also got a prescription for a light sleeping aid. I can't help but think if MG could just get a solid six hours of sleep it would be the best thing for her. It would give her body time to recoup and - more importantly - her mind time to rest. She wouldn't feel so overwhelmed by the pain, and the frustration at not knowing what position to put her leg in to relieve the pain, and the frustration of trying to make me understand what she wants me to do to help with the pain.
That frustration builds, along with the frustration over simply being frustrated. At one point MG was just tearfully apologizing to me. She knows she has nothing to apologize for, but I know how she feels.
Think about it: she's had almost six weeks of lying almost exclusively flat on her back. She can't roll over on her stomach. She can roll up on one side or the other, but not for very long because of the pain in her hips and her knee. We try to keep her moving to prevent bed sores and general stiffness. We put pillows under her knees to give her injured leg a new position to be in. There is a whole series of elaborate aids we've come up with to keep her left foot in the correct position (the muscle/nerve damage is causing that foot to want to point downward, and the doctors want us to work on helping her keep it up at a 90 degree angle). But manipulating that foot is not easy, since the pain of anything touching - in particular - her toes is excruciating.
And it doesn't help that I'm so clumsy. To help her move, we have to take the pillows out from under her left leg and away from her left foot, and then put a pillow between her knees while she pulls herself over to her side. But while she's doing that I'm prone to accidentally kick the leg of the bed or - even more painful - while moving pillows let one drop on her sensitive foot.
And then, of course, there are her ribs. Every breath hurts, and every day as the ribs heal every movement seems to hurt worse.
I took a picture last weekend of MG in the wheelchair sitting outside by the flower garden. Someone suggested such pictures give a false impression of how well she's doing, and people who have been so committed to praying for MG will feel like it's OK to stop.
I don't think so. First of all, I think God has put MG on a lot of hearts, and He will keep those people aware of praying for MG for as long as He desires. Secondly, even if some people do grow tired of praying for her or simply forget or simply have other issues that move to the top of their prayer list (which I completely understand), I don't think it will mean God forgets MG.
Besides, there are plenty of people I know are praying continuously for MG - for her recovery, for control of the pain, for her emotional stability, for those of us who are taking care of her. I ran into a friend at Best Buy today who assured me MG remains on his daily prayer list. We are both grateful and humbled that so many people care.
Tomorrow, MG's walker comes. Monday, she will be cleared to begin to put weight on her right leg, which means she could - in theory - stand on her right leg and even use the walker to get around, as long as he doesn't put any weight on the left leg.
However, I know her right leg won't be strong enough to hold her weight for more than a few seconds at a time, and that her ribs are still so tender than the act of having to support her upper body with her arms will cause more pain.
So like everything else in this journey of recovery, it will be a major step forward, followed by a half step back.
But it's progress.
We can't lose sight of that.
"Jehovah Rapha" - the Lord who heals.
He never said it would comfortable; just that we'd be healed.
What does it mean to be a "man of faith?"
For years, it was not unusual for my family's dinner table conversation to end up discussing some point of Scripture. Maybe that is to be expected when my mother spent much of her adult life studying and teaching the Bible, and three of her children went to conservative Bible colleges - one becoming a college professor and, for awhile, a college president; one a missionary; and one a school teacher married to a pastor who eventually became a hospital and then a hospice chaplain.
By the way, I was not one of those. I was the fourth child.
One such discussion sticks with me. My mother, who I'm not sure even graduated college and didn't become a Christian until she was married and had three of her four children, and my oldest brother, who earned a Ph.D, a Th.D, and is a New Testament scholar of note, were disagreeing over the interpretation of some scripture.
My sister-in-law, fully supporting her husband, finally said in exasperation, "But Mom, Rick has his doctorate!"
To which my mom - in one of those moments of pure inspiration that I'll never forget - calmly looked at her and said, "And I have the Holy Spirit."
I don't want to sound self-serving here. But I have been commended by many people for being so honest about my faith as my family has gone through this "situation." Quite frankly, I don't see anything to be commended for; I don't know how anyone can get through living day-to-day - much less something nearly as catastrophic as this - without hope, without faith.
Recently I read the biography of Steve Jobs, the genius behind Apple. His belief ran toward Eastern mysticism, and for most of his life he didn't believe in God. However, in the last year of his life, knowing he was dying, he told a friend that he was "fifty-fifty" on there being a God, because he was having a hard time believing this life is all there is, and that there wasn't something more out there waiting for us.
If I didn't believe ... well, I'm very aware of my own humanity; enough to know that if I really believed this life was all there is, my life would be much different. I'd be much more selfish, much more out for personal gain and constantly seeking my own satisfaction because, well, why not? What could possibly be the use of me suffering or sacrificing for the good of others when, in the end, I'm just stone cold dead? Why should I care about creating a better life for other people or even leaving a legacy if I'm just going to wind up being dust (in the wind)?
Sorry, but I see no point in being altruistic for the sake of altruism.
But if indeed there is Truth (which I believe there to be) and a God who created me for His purpose (as I believe there is) and this life is really about not just getting us to the next one when we'll stand before Him, but all the cosmic implications that the Bible says the way we live our lives here on earth have -then I realize there is more to this life than living and dying, more than just trying my best to not worry and be happy. There is more to this life than, well, "me."
And C.S. Lewis (among others) would argue that the simple fact that so many humans seem to be instinctively aware that there must be something more out there, some kind of afterlife, something like God, is proof enough that such a thing exists; otherwise, how would we even be able to conceive of such a thing?
I don't want to drag too many innocent people into this blog, but one of the hazards of being part of my life is that you never know when something you do or say will creep into my writing.
My sister was telling me about a friend of hers who was reading my blog and said something like, "When did your brother become such a man of faith?"
Now, admittedly, even in my own family we tend to think of my oldest brother as the "man of faith,'' because he's made his living teaching and preaching and writing about "the faith."
And I've had the "secular" job - working and living in what was laughingly referred to as the toy department of daily newspapers, the sports section. I had a wonderful life getting paid to go to ball games and then telling about my experience in some form or fashion. It was fun, and I was apparently pretty good.
But I guess being a sportswriter does kind of brand you. When I sometimes share my political ideas in my blogs, people who disagree will often come back with, "well, you are just a sportswriter."
Once, when I was serving as a Deacon at a Baptist Church in East Lake at a church the legendary football coach Bobby Bowden grew up in and kept his membership in for as long as that church remained open, Coach Bowden and his son Tommy came by the church. I happened to be there.
Now, Tommy and I had known each other for years. He was the receivers coach at Alabama and I was the beat writer, and I had found Tommy to be a great teacher of football. In fact, much of the reputation I earned for being able to explain the intricacies of what happened in a football game were due to Tommy. In those days, no other reporters went to assistant coaches very often, but I made a point of spending more time with assistants than I did the head coach because the assistants usually knew more about what was really going on. Tommy - and later my good friend Woody McCorvey who became receivers coach after Tommy - would take the time on Saturdays after games and often again on Sunday afternoon to break down Saturday's game with me and allow me to share insight into the chess match that occurs between opposing offensive and defensive coordinators during a game.
Anyway, I ran into Tommy in the parking lot of the church, and he says, "What are you doing here?"
"I go to church here," I said. "In fact, I'm a deacon here."
"Well," Tommy said, laughing. "I guess anybody can be a deacon."
To which I said, "What have I ever done to make you think I shouldn't be a deacon in a Baptist church?'
Tommy, by the way, is a strong believer, as is his father. Tommy's brother Terry, who I also became good friends with, used to tell me that he didn't think Tommy would stay coaching football forever and thought Tommy would eventually become an evangelist. I think that's why it wasn't difficult for Tommy to walk away from Clemson when the time came.
Terry would even say, "You know, Ray, Tommy is like you are. You probably understand that part of him better than I do."
I've always been a fan of the Bowdens.
I'm getting way off track here.
The point is that no, I'm not a theologian. I certainly don't consider myself to be an example of any thing other than a man very aware of his "fallen-ness" who is also aware that he's become a child of the resurrection, which entitles me to take part in that future resurrection.
I do read the Bible, and ponder it, and wonder about it. My brother ("the man of faith") Rick once told me that he thinks I do have an unusual perspective on interpreting Bible stories, and I took that as a compliment (which I think is how he meant it).
I will also say, the older I get the more I realize how important it is to understand context when reading the Bible - understanding the verses that lead to a particular passage and those that come after it, or the audience that the passage was directed at - and to always remember the people in the Bible were human beings - try to read about their lives not as "heroes of the Faith" but as ordinary people who find themselves in situations where they wind up doing extraordinary things, but with the same fears and worries and concerns that most of us have.
I was baptised when I was still in grade school, and I remember thinking, "When I go to school tomorrow, will they be able to tell there is something different about me? Will I look different? Will I talk different? Should I dress differently? When I'm at football practice, should I not hit the other guys quite so hard? Should I throw a Bible verse into my ordinary conversation? Will people see me and say, 'He looks like he's been raised from the dead!'? "
When you are a "man of faith,'' how does it show?
The truth is, it doesn't - at least not immediately, not for most of us; particularly those of us raised in essentially Christan-influenced culture. Paul was writing to the people at the church in Colossians who were really caught up in trying to demonstrate that they were changed, that they were different, that they were "religious," and Paul said, basically, "all that stuff you're doing is really cool, but it doesn't really have anything to do with Jesus. It's just being religious."
Paul (in Colossians 3) talks a lot about Baptism, about throwing off the symbolic old clothes they wore before Baptism and put on symbolic new clothes compassion and being kind to people and humility and gentleness and patience. Support other people and forgive and, above all, love.
Those are not the kind of clothes you just put on and wear comfortably and naturally right from the get-go. It takes time to get comfortable in the new get-up.
For some of us, it takes longer than others.
The story about my brother and my mom is not to suggest a disregard for education. I absolutely am in awe of people like my oldest brother who have studied Scripture in more detail than I ever will, who can read original manuscripts in Greek and Hebrew and have spent their lives truly studying as well as trying to live out what they learn.
Simply "having the Holy Spirit" is not - generally speaking - enough to complete understanding of Scripture. In fact, that's where so much error tends to come through. I heard a very popular preacher once say, "Now, you're going to have to bypass your intellect on this one and trust your emotion." I couldn't disagree more. I don't think the Bible ever asks us to put aside our brain. In fact, the New Testament says to study to show ourselves approved, to be able to give a reason for what we believe. Yes, we're warned about trusting in our own understanding, but to go into something "bypassing your intellect?" Then why did God gives us brains?
Realistically, the majority of us remain framed more by what we don't know than what we do, which means we still have so much to learn. Many of you who read this do know much more, have a much deeper understanding of Scripture, and have or hopefully will help me learn to wear my symbolic "new clothes" that Paul talks about as comfortably and naturally as you have learned to wear yours.
But I will say this: I have the Holy Spirit.
Not that it makes me the smartest man in the world. But if I listen to that Spirit, I've got a much better chance than by leaning on my own understanding.
That was the core of the Protestant Reformation: read the Bible for yourself, diligently seek to understand it, and God will reveal himself to you.
Of course, it helps to have a theologian in the family for the more difficult parts.
By the way, I was not one of those. I was the fourth child.
One such discussion sticks with me. My mother, who I'm not sure even graduated college and didn't become a Christian until she was married and had three of her four children, and my oldest brother, who earned a Ph.D, a Th.D, and is a New Testament scholar of note, were disagreeing over the interpretation of some scripture.
My sister-in-law, fully supporting her husband, finally said in exasperation, "But Mom, Rick has his doctorate!"
To which my mom - in one of those moments of pure inspiration that I'll never forget - calmly looked at her and said, "And I have the Holy Spirit."
I don't want to sound self-serving here. But I have been commended by many people for being so honest about my faith as my family has gone through this "situation." Quite frankly, I don't see anything to be commended for; I don't know how anyone can get through living day-to-day - much less something nearly as catastrophic as this - without hope, without faith.
Recently I read the biography of Steve Jobs, the genius behind Apple. His belief ran toward Eastern mysticism, and for most of his life he didn't believe in God. However, in the last year of his life, knowing he was dying, he told a friend that he was "fifty-fifty" on there being a God, because he was having a hard time believing this life is all there is, and that there wasn't something more out there waiting for us.
If I didn't believe ... well, I'm very aware of my own humanity; enough to know that if I really believed this life was all there is, my life would be much different. I'd be much more selfish, much more out for personal gain and constantly seeking my own satisfaction because, well, why not? What could possibly be the use of me suffering or sacrificing for the good of others when, in the end, I'm just stone cold dead? Why should I care about creating a better life for other people or even leaving a legacy if I'm just going to wind up being dust (in the wind)?
Sorry, but I see no point in being altruistic for the sake of altruism.
But if indeed there is Truth (which I believe there to be) and a God who created me for His purpose (as I believe there is) and this life is really about not just getting us to the next one when we'll stand before Him, but all the cosmic implications that the Bible says the way we live our lives here on earth have -then I realize there is more to this life than living and dying, more than just trying my best to not worry and be happy. There is more to this life than, well, "me."
And C.S. Lewis (among others) would argue that the simple fact that so many humans seem to be instinctively aware that there must be something more out there, some kind of afterlife, something like God, is proof enough that such a thing exists; otherwise, how would we even be able to conceive of such a thing?
I don't want to drag too many innocent people into this blog, but one of the hazards of being part of my life is that you never know when something you do or say will creep into my writing.
My sister was telling me about a friend of hers who was reading my blog and said something like, "When did your brother become such a man of faith?"
Now, admittedly, even in my own family we tend to think of my oldest brother as the "man of faith,'' because he's made his living teaching and preaching and writing about "the faith."
And I've had the "secular" job - working and living in what was laughingly referred to as the toy department of daily newspapers, the sports section. I had a wonderful life getting paid to go to ball games and then telling about my experience in some form or fashion. It was fun, and I was apparently pretty good.
But I guess being a sportswriter does kind of brand you. When I sometimes share my political ideas in my blogs, people who disagree will often come back with, "well, you are just a sportswriter."
Once, when I was serving as a Deacon at a Baptist Church in East Lake at a church the legendary football coach Bobby Bowden grew up in and kept his membership in for as long as that church remained open, Coach Bowden and his son Tommy came by the church. I happened to be there.
Now, Tommy and I had known each other for years. He was the receivers coach at Alabama and I was the beat writer, and I had found Tommy to be a great teacher of football. In fact, much of the reputation I earned for being able to explain the intricacies of what happened in a football game were due to Tommy. In those days, no other reporters went to assistant coaches very often, but I made a point of spending more time with assistants than I did the head coach because the assistants usually knew more about what was really going on. Tommy - and later my good friend Woody McCorvey who became receivers coach after Tommy - would take the time on Saturdays after games and often again on Sunday afternoon to break down Saturday's game with me and allow me to share insight into the chess match that occurs between opposing offensive and defensive coordinators during a game.
Anyway, I ran into Tommy in the parking lot of the church, and he says, "What are you doing here?"
"I go to church here," I said. "In fact, I'm a deacon here."
"Well," Tommy said, laughing. "I guess anybody can be a deacon."
To which I said, "What have I ever done to make you think I shouldn't be a deacon in a Baptist church?'
Tommy, by the way, is a strong believer, as is his father. Tommy's brother Terry, who I also became good friends with, used to tell me that he didn't think Tommy would stay coaching football forever and thought Tommy would eventually become an evangelist. I think that's why it wasn't difficult for Tommy to walk away from Clemson when the time came.
Terry would even say, "You know, Ray, Tommy is like you are. You probably understand that part of him better than I do."
I've always been a fan of the Bowdens.
I'm getting way off track here.
The point is that no, I'm not a theologian. I certainly don't consider myself to be an example of any thing other than a man very aware of his "fallen-ness" who is also aware that he's become a child of the resurrection, which entitles me to take part in that future resurrection.
I do read the Bible, and ponder it, and wonder about it. My brother ("the man of faith") Rick once told me that he thinks I do have an unusual perspective on interpreting Bible stories, and I took that as a compliment (which I think is how he meant it).
I will also say, the older I get the more I realize how important it is to understand context when reading the Bible - understanding the verses that lead to a particular passage and those that come after it, or the audience that the passage was directed at - and to always remember the people in the Bible were human beings - try to read about their lives not as "heroes of the Faith" but as ordinary people who find themselves in situations where they wind up doing extraordinary things, but with the same fears and worries and concerns that most of us have.
I was baptised when I was still in grade school, and I remember thinking, "When I go to school tomorrow, will they be able to tell there is something different about me? Will I look different? Will I talk different? Should I dress differently? When I'm at football practice, should I not hit the other guys quite so hard? Should I throw a Bible verse into my ordinary conversation? Will people see me and say, 'He looks like he's been raised from the dead!'? "
When you are a "man of faith,'' how does it show?
The truth is, it doesn't - at least not immediately, not for most of us; particularly those of us raised in essentially Christan-influenced culture. Paul was writing to the people at the church in Colossians who were really caught up in trying to demonstrate that they were changed, that they were different, that they were "religious," and Paul said, basically, "all that stuff you're doing is really cool, but it doesn't really have anything to do with Jesus. It's just being religious."
Paul (in Colossians 3) talks a lot about Baptism, about throwing off the symbolic old clothes they wore before Baptism and put on symbolic new clothes compassion and being kind to people and humility and gentleness and patience. Support other people and forgive and, above all, love.
Those are not the kind of clothes you just put on and wear comfortably and naturally right from the get-go. It takes time to get comfortable in the new get-up.
For some of us, it takes longer than others.
The story about my brother and my mom is not to suggest a disregard for education. I absolutely am in awe of people like my oldest brother who have studied Scripture in more detail than I ever will, who can read original manuscripts in Greek and Hebrew and have spent their lives truly studying as well as trying to live out what they learn.
Simply "having the Holy Spirit" is not - generally speaking - enough to complete understanding of Scripture. In fact, that's where so much error tends to come through. I heard a very popular preacher once say, "Now, you're going to have to bypass your intellect on this one and trust your emotion." I couldn't disagree more. I don't think the Bible ever asks us to put aside our brain. In fact, the New Testament says to study to show ourselves approved, to be able to give a reason for what we believe. Yes, we're warned about trusting in our own understanding, but to go into something "bypassing your intellect?" Then why did God gives us brains?
Realistically, the majority of us remain framed more by what we don't know than what we do, which means we still have so much to learn. Many of you who read this do know much more, have a much deeper understanding of Scripture, and have or hopefully will help me learn to wear my symbolic "new clothes" that Paul talks about as comfortably and naturally as you have learned to wear yours.
But I will say this: I have the Holy Spirit.
Not that it makes me the smartest man in the world. But if I listen to that Spirit, I've got a much better chance than by leaning on my own understanding.
That was the core of the Protestant Reformation: read the Bible for yourself, diligently seek to understand it, and God will reveal himself to you.
Of course, it helps to have a theologian in the family for the more difficult parts.
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