Presence

A Fed Ex driver delivered a large brown box to our porch last evening.  “What is it?” my husband asked, carrying it into the kitchen as I washed dinner dishes.

“It’s addressed to you,” I replied, looking over my shoulder at the label.

“To me?”

“It’s probably your heart monitor.”

“Oh yeah.  I forgot.”

We decided not to open it right away.  This wasn’t a particularly exciting package to receive, like a new book from Amazon.com, or a Christmas gift sent from a loved one, would have been.  It was a reminder.  Of a problem.  Of an ongoing medical condition.

This morning we took our time getting to the box.  He fixed himself a big breakfast, and I managed to find a million things to occupy myself.  I wanted to be helpful and supportive, but didn’t know what that might mean when dealing with new technology.  Finally it was time.  We opened Pandora’s box: an official-looking carton within the brown box.

There were many pieces and parts inside, each separated in its own styrofoam cubicle:  small hard square rectangles encased in black plastic, coiled wires, batteries, electrodes.  A second layer underneath held more batteries, more wires, more electrodes. And a big user manual.

The manual clearly instructed us: open this certain door and insert a battery; press this, now that, and finally the start button.  With electrodes attached to his chest and electronic stuff hanging all over him, my always-looking-for-a-laugh husband cocked his arms and head like R2D2: great comic relief.  Were we ready?  Wait – the start-up would take 20 minutes, it said.  We counted minutes…while he played the piano…

Now, finally, press yes.  Okay. We’re ready to go.  All set.

But no!  The instructions neglected to tell us one important step.  The critical step!  We should have charged the monitor first, before doing anything else.

It had taken us nearly an hour to get to this point.  We’d been in it together, although I felt like I’d done nothing tangibly useful. I was just there, offering encouraging words and the most I had to give: my presence.

He stood bare to the waist with electrodes stuck on his newly-shaved chest, and a black box hanging around his neck like some funky piece of retro jewelry.  Nothing was happening.  Nothing could happen. There was no charge to the monitor.  “So what do I do now?” he said with a hint of discouragement.  The electrodes couldn’t come off or they’d be wasted; we only had a certain number. 

I didn’t know.  I suddenly felt defeated, as if I should have had the right answer, or at least some answer.  In the last six months there had been so many unanswerable questions.  Couldn’t I at least find something to say?

He didn’t seem to mind my silence, but rallied and uncoiled a promising-looking wire that plugged the monitor into the phone jack. Then, we waited.  For what seemed a very long time. Sitting on the edge of the bed.  Together.

When the monitor was half-charged, he clipped it on his waist in the appropriate case. “Okay, now I’m ready!  Thanks for your help!”

What had I done?  Very little.  Actually, zilch. I’d been with him, that’s all.

“What’s on your schedule?” I asked with an intentional lilt to my voice.  “Are you going ice fishing?”

He paused, unsure of his response.  “I feel tethered,” he finally confessed while pulling a t-shirt over his head.  It wasn’t a complaint, just a simple statement of fact.  The shirt hung bumpy and distended because of the various wires looped like big snakes all over his chest.  He grinned with a sheepish look as if to say, this really isn’t as fun as I’d like it to be, but it’s okay, I’m doing fine.

“That’s because you are,” I replied, smiling with a knowing look.  “Tethered.” There was nothing else to say.  I felt useless.

I understood his comment, and could imagine how he felt. I couldn’t change anything – couldn’t fix his heart issues, or take away the constant medical intervention that now defined our lifestyle.  But I could do something.  Right now.

And so for a long, extended minute I embraced him. The electronic man held me tight, and I felt his wires press into me.  Deeply.  This was the most we could offer each other.  Presence. It was enough.

Jump-Starter

My husband’s post-retirement job in no way resembles his career as a college professor. Now he’s working toward his own improved health, and our days are filled with goals to that end.  But yesterday we also recognized another ongoing occupation: making things happen.

When we were younger, he was always doing something. We took for granted his pro-active, involved, hot-wired approach to life that meant the whole family was active as well.  He made things happen, and we were automatically included.

Yesterday he invited our son and nine-year-old grandson (who loved watching the winter Olympics) to the local snow ski area for the grandson’s first snowboarding experience.  The day was a huge success!  Although he regretted not being able to participate on the slopes, he watched and cheered for several hours from the sidelines and enjoyed the vicarious high.

“I guess my new role is making things happen,” he said last evening.  “Maybe not fully participating, but getting the ball rolling.”  He explained that our son had thanked him for initiating the experience, which wouldn’t have occurred otherwise.  “So I can be the pioneer, the one to launch activities.”

“The spark,” I added.  I could see him kicking off activities like a trigger at the starting gate of a race, a key in the ignition, a switch on the lamp.  A spark plug.

One of his ongoing gifts to the family over the years has been an encouraging presence.  Whenever an interest surfaced in any of us, he believed in giving it a try, “Or else you will always wonder.” 

He still can do that.  Be the wind in the sail.

Life Song

Our piano tuner makes music with his very presence.  I’m not sure how he does this, but an inaudible melody accompanies him whenever he enters our house.

We’ve known him for over a decade.  He visited again today to re-harmonize ivories with subtle incongruities that would lead to discord if not corrected.  We chatted as usual, and I caught the swell of his optimism as usual.  Even as we spoke I wondered about his everyday lifestyle - if he constantly tunes his own thoughts as a matter of course, correcting sour ones that threaten to sabotage his standard, hopeful song,

“No what-ifs, no if-onlys, no regrets,” he said today in regard to his father’s passing.  His relationship with his dad had been fraught with limitations, but he’d accepted them and worked within existing parameters. He spoke tenderly and respectfully of a hardened man who’d divorced three wives and driven himself to his own death with alcohol.  This was not a song of sorrow, but rather a compassionate score - an inspiring love song of forgiveness and mercy that refused to be tainted by disappointment.

Metaphorically, this man reminds me of an inspiring musical sonata with many interpretative movements.  But in another sense entirely, he resembles an unassuming oyster.  When sharp grains of sand invade, he waits for pearls instead of despairing over the grit. 

Exploring Inner Space

Today we visited an optometrist who ran all the standard tests and ordered new lenses for our glasses.  She also photographed the interiors of our eyes, something we’d never had done before.

The inner space glowed, our fiery optic nerves burning like tiny suns. Spidery blood vessels ran wild: blood-red lightning with millions of branches.  It was magnificent to view these spectacular images, knowing they were the source of our vision.

Upstream

My husband’s various doctor offices have become our homes-away-from-home these days.  But today is my day to see a doctor.  Oh boy.

I’ve had “white coat syndrome” since I was little, when the husky-looking pediatrician on Superior Street made house calls and always brought super-sharp, long needles.  You could count on those needles, every time.  After my child body had been stuck clear through, he tried to make it okay with a floppy candy sucker – one of those with the paper loop handle – which I thought a poor attempt at reconciliation.

Anyway, over the years I’ve had many experiences that have taught me to respect medical professionals, but also question what they do and why.  In it all, I’ve learned to maintain ultimate responsibility for my health. 

In some respects, I still have “white coat syndrome.” Today my heart will sprint a little faster when they listen, and my blood pressure will elevate.  It’s part of being adrenalized, ready to participate in the games.

I’ll drive an hour-and-a-half for the privilege of sound medical advice that isn’t necessarily conventional, some potentially dicey decision-making, and a bill not covered by insurance.  This is the way it is when you swim upstream to a medical tributary offering options not typical to the mainstream.  Is it worth it?  YES.

Freedom: Mulling it Over

Snowflakes have the ability to fall freely through the air without the need to know where or when they’ll land.  Birds have the ability to fly wherever their God-given instincts dictate.  They’re free.

Children have the ability work at play, and play at work, without confusion over which is which.  Adults have the ability to discover their truest selves in relationship with the Almighty.  They’re free.

Being “unfree” means bondage or exile: snow held captive in a cloud, or driven by wind; birds imprisoned in a cage, or blown off-course in a storm; children crippled by unrealistic expectation or limitation, or ignored or abandoned; adults fettered by self-preservation, or fallen from intuitive wonder and awe into stale existence.

Fish

If you read yesterday’s blog about ice fishing by lantern-light in the dead of night, you might have wondered about The Manly Wigwam On Ice.  So I wandered out today with the camera.  Here it is in broad daylight.  Inviting, isn’t it?

Temperatures inside typically soar to about ten degrees warmer than whatever they are on the outside.  Here’s a picture of the interior. Note multiple holes in the ice (I think there were four total), just in case the fish down below are too lazy to swim ten inches to the next closest wormy thing.  If there are any.  Fish.  Down.  Below.

In the later afternoon hours today, the thwarted Fish Slayers decided to change locations.  Good-bye Wigwam!

 At new open-to-the-elements holes some distance from The Wigwam, they set up the electronic fish finder and….there they were!  FISH!  And they were hungry! Which just goes to show, you can’t judge a fishing hole by its tent.