It was almost midnight. Being newly married and without children, we had stayed late at a friend’s house, chatting long after our home group study had ended. The ride home was short, just a few minutes. We drove it every Friday night and every Friday night Myron would slow down at the stop sign where we had to make a steeply curved left hand turn. We usually had a bit of discussion around that stop sign. I’d nag that he didn’t do a proper stop and he’d defend himself by saying it was close enough. But this night was different.
As we approached, Myron suddenly braked ten feet or so before the turn. Having anticipated his usual “yielding” type of stop, I was surprised and confused as to why he hadn’t driven right up to the corner. I turned and began to ask, “Why are you stopping here?” when we both heard a loud screeching sound to our left. Before he could answer, an out-of-control car came careening around the bend towards us. It was going so fast and had turned so sharply that its two right wheels had lifted off the pavement and sparks were flying up along its side as it half drove/half slid in the dark, diagonally passing between the front of our car and the stop sign that sat just a few feet ahead of us. The vehicle shot over the ditch on my side, went through a fence, bounced through a field and came to a stop as it hit the fencing on the other side.
We sat frozen. It had happened so quickly but it hit us both immediately what we had been spared. Had we not stopped short of the stop sign, the careening car would have slammed straight into Myron’s door. At the speed it was travelling, the result could not have been anything other than fatality. Shaking, we backed up onto the shoulder and ran out to where the car sat partially under the fence, lights on, driver’s door open and no-one inside. Obviously a drunk driver who had had the capacity to think self-preservation. The car was running so I reached in and turned it off, taking the keys with me. The thought of the driver returning to drive again was too much to bear. We drove back to our friends’ house and called the police who met us back on the road, took our statements and address and sent us home.
Of course, I had asked Myron again, “Why DID you stop there? You were so far back from the stop sign!” And Myron had said, “I don’t know. It was like something was pushing down on my foot, some kind of weight. And the car just stopped moving. I was as surprised as you that we had stopped so short. It wasn’t intentional. Something braked the car.”
Both Myron and I remembered that night vividly from that moment on. Every once in a while we would be driving down the same road and come to that same corner and we’d discuss again the miracle of that night, of how close we had come to losing one another. Over the years I have heard him tell others the story of that event, and it was always with the same amount of awe and thankfulness that he felt the night it happened. Something had stepped in and saved our lives. It didn’t take a rocket-scientist to figure it out. God had intervened. Myron and possibly myself would have died that night except for the fact that for the first time ever, we had braked far before the turn.
I have looked back at this miracle many times over the course of our marriage and wondered why? Why did God intervene? Why did he save us? Over the years, in my times of fear and worry where I would think about all the things that could happen, all the ways our family could be torn apart by tragedy, I’d think back to that event and take comfort in the fact that for some reason God had a purpose for us. He had protected us. I thought it a relief to know that God obviously wanted us alive and together.
It is difficult to think of the two events, that night so long ago and our recent accident, and not ask why He couldn’t have intervened again. Why not this time as before? Why save us once only to allow tragedy at a later date? But as usual the questions go unanswered and I am faced again only with the choice to trust or deny.
There was a time when I was going through a very, intense illness while pregnant with Bryn. All my pregnancies sent me to the hospital where I would be kept hydrated as I threw up continuously for months. Bryn’s pregnancy and the one we lost before her, were the two most difficult. I spent almost two months in hospital, throwing up so hard that I tore my trachea. I was losing my hair due to the dehydration, had shrunk to 101 pounds and didn’t have the strength to walk. It was an incredibly difficult thing to endure and when a doctor recommended that we think about aborting her, I felt like I was hanging by a thread.
The days were so bad, I just couldn’t summon up any joy. Lauren was three and I’d save up any gumption to be positive for her short visits. Most days I’d lie retching, asking God for help and fighting despair when nothing changed. But, there was the occasional day where I'd feel a bit stronger, when the pain and nausea eased just enough to feel a difference and I could actually sit up and talk for a while. Those days were amazing. They were few and far between, and yet I would feel such joy and faith on those days, thanking God for His blessing, for being with me, for His love. Then the next day would be horrible again, and I’d sink back into my despair that God had somehow left the room, had forgotten to extend any mercy or love, that I was on my own.
One day, I woke up knowing that it was going to be another horrible day when I was hit with a painful realization. The day before had been more tolerable, the first in a long stretch and I had felt hope. I had felt His love the day before. I had believed He was true to His word that He would never forsake me, and yet here now I lay, feeling abandoned. What had changed? I realized that the only thing that was different was how I was feeling physically. That was when the sad truth made itself known: A great deal of my faith had been based upon how I was feeling, and not on who I was believing in.
God hadn’t changed. He wasn’t any less real, any less loving, any less understanding on the bad days than He had been the better ones. The only thing that had changed was me. God remains God in every circumstance. The question I faced was could I be as thankful on the unbearable days as I could on the bearable? It was a question I have asked myself over and over again. Do I worship the real God? Or do I worship good circumstances?
I face that question again now. Myron and I praised God for His faithfulness and mercy the night he stopped our car. I now have a new circumstance, one in which He chose for whatever reason, a different outcome. Can I believe He is the same God today that He was when the circumstances were good? Can I know that He hasn’t changed, that His love and goodness are just as strong, just as available as I did when Myron lived?
One of my children asked me recently if I was mad at God. I answered honestly that at times yes, I did feel angry. Can you still be a Christian if you are angry at God, they asked? I pondered my response. Maybe, I said, being angry actually shows more faith than we think. Maybe it takes more faith to believe He is real, to believe He is good, faithful and loving even when you are angry and disappointed in Him.
In the end, I do not know many things. I do not know why then and not now. I do not know the future. I do not understand the reason for the present. The only thing I do understand is that God doesn’t change just because my circumstances do. He is God. And as I try to trust him as much today as on any other day, I have to keep reminding myself that He has not forsaken me. He has not abandoned me. My question then becomes, will I abandon Him?
Monday, May 23, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Hope
I am currently reading “Three Cups of Tea”, the true story of a man who while trying to climb K2 got lost and stumbled onto a hidden village in the depths of Pakistan. After being welcomed by the poorest of peoples, he was inspired to find a way to build them a school and has proceeded to raise funds to build many schools for those who have nothing. It is inspiring.
I am only part way through the book. The short section on his being lost deep in the icy depths of the glacial mountains somehow seemed…familiar.
It saddens me that I am about to make this inspiring man‘s story more about me than about him, but the truth is I feel lost. Every morning I wake up on my side of the bed, in my room, to the same children, the same home, town, friends and family as I did before Christmas. I come down to the same kitchen, look out the window at the same yard, eat off the same dishes. Everything is the same and nothing is the same.
I feel like a fraud, as though I’ve tried to step into someone’s life; tried to live as they lived, do what they would do. Except that its not someone else’s life I’m imitating; it’s mine. I feel as though I am imitating my own life. I’m playing the role of me.
And that confuses me. I’ll find myself responding to something by instinct…be it tickling Karson’s belly or talking with a friend when suddenly the overpowering knowledge that something is wrong overtakes me and I have to either sink into it or fight it off. It is exhausting. It is the tug-of-war between pretense and knowledge; emotional honesty and self-control.
But, in the midst of it all are moments where there is no struggle. Some are really bad moments. And some are really, really wonderful.
Bryn walked today. No crutches, no brace. Just seven or eight shuffling, straight-legged limps at the end of her physiotherapy session. Her therapist brought me over because “Bryn wanted to show me something”. I felt like I was watching a miracle, which in many ways, I was.
She was as surprised as I. Bryn didn’t know she would use that leg today. She didn’t know that today she could. She was suddenly inspired to put weight on it and despite the feeling that it was collapsing beneath her, took that first courageous limp. The bone remains incomplete. Her muscles barely perceptible. The knee is shaky and can barely bend. But she did it anyways.
It will take weeks and weeks of therapy to actually walk, but witnessing those first steps today…there was no confusion about who I was or what I was feeling. Pure joy. I was overwhelmed. The only thing I had to hold back was from shouting it out right there at the pool. I stopped five people just walking back to my bag. “Bryn walked,” I said each time. At least that is what my mouth said. What my heart was saying would have taken much longer to get out.
I think I felt hope. I am like that leg. I think the children, though they may not know it, are like that leg. We have holes, great missing gaps within us. My heart is torn, my faith shaky. I am barely holding it together. I would never have thought it possible to function like that. To bear any weight on the shaky legs of my reality. And yet, somehow, we stand. We move. The children are doing well. I am not doing quite as well but I haven’t given up yet. Moments like today’s certainly help.
The pain in my joy is that Myron is not here to see it. He should have been here to watch her. We should have been able to turn to each other, to see the hope and joy in each other’s eyes, to feel as only parents can feel the immense relief at another milestone being achieved. Of moving towards something good. But he wasn’t. It was just me. The hurting me and the rejoicing me. One day they might be the same person.
Bryn is exhausted and sore but I think she feels hopeful. Hopeful that maybe there could be an end to the long process of healing this leg. It is becoming very apparent that the difference in leg length is significantly more than what we had hoped. She will have to have special shoes made for the left leg until December when the surgeons will make the decision as to how to resolve it. It will probably mean more surgery, possibly re-breaking the leg to lengthen it. But that is then. Today we will just look at the fact that we are moving in the right direction.
Hopefully, we are all moving in the right direction.
I am only part way through the book. The short section on his being lost deep in the icy depths of the glacial mountains somehow seemed…familiar.
It saddens me that I am about to make this inspiring man‘s story more about me than about him, but the truth is I feel lost. Every morning I wake up on my side of the bed, in my room, to the same children, the same home, town, friends and family as I did before Christmas. I come down to the same kitchen, look out the window at the same yard, eat off the same dishes. Everything is the same and nothing is the same.
I feel like a fraud, as though I’ve tried to step into someone’s life; tried to live as they lived, do what they would do. Except that its not someone else’s life I’m imitating; it’s mine. I feel as though I am imitating my own life. I’m playing the role of me.
And that confuses me. I’ll find myself responding to something by instinct…be it tickling Karson’s belly or talking with a friend when suddenly the overpowering knowledge that something is wrong overtakes me and I have to either sink into it or fight it off. It is exhausting. It is the tug-of-war between pretense and knowledge; emotional honesty and self-control.
But, in the midst of it all are moments where there is no struggle. Some are really bad moments. And some are really, really wonderful.
Bryn walked today. No crutches, no brace. Just seven or eight shuffling, straight-legged limps at the end of her physiotherapy session. Her therapist brought me over because “Bryn wanted to show me something”. I felt like I was watching a miracle, which in many ways, I was.
She was as surprised as I. Bryn didn’t know she would use that leg today. She didn’t know that today she could. She was suddenly inspired to put weight on it and despite the feeling that it was collapsing beneath her, took that first courageous limp. The bone remains incomplete. Her muscles barely perceptible. The knee is shaky and can barely bend. But she did it anyways.
It will take weeks and weeks of therapy to actually walk, but witnessing those first steps today…there was no confusion about who I was or what I was feeling. Pure joy. I was overwhelmed. The only thing I had to hold back was from shouting it out right there at the pool. I stopped five people just walking back to my bag. “Bryn walked,” I said each time. At least that is what my mouth said. What my heart was saying would have taken much longer to get out.
I think I felt hope. I am like that leg. I think the children, though they may not know it, are like that leg. We have holes, great missing gaps within us. My heart is torn, my faith shaky. I am barely holding it together. I would never have thought it possible to function like that. To bear any weight on the shaky legs of my reality. And yet, somehow, we stand. We move. The children are doing well. I am not doing quite as well but I haven’t given up yet. Moments like today’s certainly help.
The pain in my joy is that Myron is not here to see it. He should have been here to watch her. We should have been able to turn to each other, to see the hope and joy in each other’s eyes, to feel as only parents can feel the immense relief at another milestone being achieved. Of moving towards something good. But he wasn’t. It was just me. The hurting me and the rejoicing me. One day they might be the same person.
Bryn is exhausted and sore but I think she feels hopeful. Hopeful that maybe there could be an end to the long process of healing this leg. It is becoming very apparent that the difference in leg length is significantly more than what we had hoped. She will have to have special shoes made for the left leg until December when the surgeons will make the decision as to how to resolve it. It will probably mean more surgery, possibly re-breaking the leg to lengthen it. But that is then. Today we will just look at the fact that we are moving in the right direction.
Hopefully, we are all moving in the right direction.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
The Proposal
We were privileged this weekend to attend the wedding of my cousin and his lovely bride. It was beautiful. What an amazing thing, to be at the beginning end of life together. I am happy for them. It is something to be grateful for, the ability to be both sad and happy simultaneously. There are some events where joy is a must, and this was definitely one of them.
To be at a function that did not revolve around us and our sadness was refreshing. Of course our pain came with us, we couldn’t leave it at home, but it was good to taste happiness again, to witness joy, to be a part of a celebration. I cannot say that the weekend was not without pain, but it was also not without rejoicing.
I have to admit, travelling home was difficult. I knew what was waiting there for us. An empty house. A schedule filled with physiotherapy and counselling sessions, doctor’s appointments and business meetings. There was a part of me that wanted to turn the truck around and drive in the opposite direction, to find a new town, a new home where we could make new memories, ones that didn’t hurt so much. But of course, living without our memories would hurt just as badly, maybe worse. So instead I drove back to where we belong, at least for now. As we crossed the bridge over the Fraser River and into Mission, Karson looked out the window and said, “We’re almost home! Yay! We’re almost home!” That helped. It reminded me that the house is empty but that joy can still enter. It can still be a roommate.
Being at the wedding did what weddings do, brought back memories of that day so many years ago when I too walked down the aisle towards the man I believed would stand beside me the rest of my life. Towards Myron who could barely hold back tears, who couldn’t sing during the first song because his emotions were overpowering him, who pledged in his vows to always pay attention to me during Hockey Night in Canada, who when it came time to kiss his bride, snapped his fingers as a secret signal to the ring-bearer to come and hand him a tiny aerosol can of breath spray which he theatrically used before taking me in his arms. To the day when my dad looked at me before we left for the church and asked, “Are you sure?” And when I answered, “Yes, I‘m sure,” I did so knowing without a doubt, within every fibre of my being, that I was marrying exactly who I was supposed to be marrying.
There had been many days over the years where I had banged my head against the wall, probably just below the spot where Myron was banging his as we wondered how we were going to make this work. How would we shape these two stubbourn, imperfect souls into one. And every time I did, I would find myself going back to those days leading up to the wedding, to that moment where my dad asked if I was sure, and remind myself of the perfect peace I had felt. And that if I was sure then, I could be just as sure now.
The day Myron proposed was a complete surprise. Not that I was unaware of his intentions. Just of his timing. And his delivery.
It had been a difficult week at work and Myron had asked me over for dinner at the apartment he shared with his brother. February 10th, a Wednesday. What ever happens on a Wednesday? I don’t remember what he made but it must have been edible and he had ice-cream, my favourite, for dessert and a video he had picked up from the store. Three quarters through the show the television screen went snowy and a voice said, “We now interrupt this show for a very special announcement.” Not clueing in, I said in frustration, “I can’t believe someone did this! Who rents a movie and then purposely wrecks it for everyone else? We need to get our money back!” Just then the screen resolved but instead of the movie, it was Myron standing at the front of our church. He had filmed himself proposing and inserted it into his own copy of the movie. I was absolutely shocked and for a moment couldn’t comprehend how he could be in two places at the same time. On the screen he made his speech, then went down on one knee, opened a ring box and looking into the camera, asked me to marry him.
Of course by this time I was in tears. Myron was sitting beside me, completely enjoying my shock and emotion. As the t.v. froze, the question hanging in the air, I turned to him and said, “Show me the ring!” I wanted to know that this wasn’t some elaborate joke (seriously, I really thought it might have been). He pulled out the ring, it was real, and of course the rest speaks for itself.
I still have the tape somewhere. How many people have their proposals recorded?
We decided we wanted to keep it a secret until Sunday when we could announce it at church but called our families (Dad already knew as Myron had called earlier. Apparently when Myron asked for my hand, Dad had replied, “Well, its about time!”). We talked about the wedding, where we would live, basked in the moment for hours…and then watched the end of the movie which he had thoughtfully recorded after the proposal, a good thing as we were both kind of wondering how it was going to turn out.
Unique. But then, Myron was unique. He always had to put his own spin on things, make whatever he was doing memorable. I am glad for that.
I am so glad we went this weekend. Paul and Stacy, may your life together be rich in memories, in trust and in beauty as you walk out what comes easily and what does not. I love you both.
Gillian
To be at a function that did not revolve around us and our sadness was refreshing. Of course our pain came with us, we couldn’t leave it at home, but it was good to taste happiness again, to witness joy, to be a part of a celebration. I cannot say that the weekend was not without pain, but it was also not without rejoicing.
I have to admit, travelling home was difficult. I knew what was waiting there for us. An empty house. A schedule filled with physiotherapy and counselling sessions, doctor’s appointments and business meetings. There was a part of me that wanted to turn the truck around and drive in the opposite direction, to find a new town, a new home where we could make new memories, ones that didn’t hurt so much. But of course, living without our memories would hurt just as badly, maybe worse. So instead I drove back to where we belong, at least for now. As we crossed the bridge over the Fraser River and into Mission, Karson looked out the window and said, “We’re almost home! Yay! We’re almost home!” That helped. It reminded me that the house is empty but that joy can still enter. It can still be a roommate.
Being at the wedding did what weddings do, brought back memories of that day so many years ago when I too walked down the aisle towards the man I believed would stand beside me the rest of my life. Towards Myron who could barely hold back tears, who couldn’t sing during the first song because his emotions were overpowering him, who pledged in his vows to always pay attention to me during Hockey Night in Canada, who when it came time to kiss his bride, snapped his fingers as a secret signal to the ring-bearer to come and hand him a tiny aerosol can of breath spray which he theatrically used before taking me in his arms. To the day when my dad looked at me before we left for the church and asked, “Are you sure?” And when I answered, “Yes, I‘m sure,” I did so knowing without a doubt, within every fibre of my being, that I was marrying exactly who I was supposed to be marrying.
There had been many days over the years where I had banged my head against the wall, probably just below the spot where Myron was banging his as we wondered how we were going to make this work. How would we shape these two stubbourn, imperfect souls into one. And every time I did, I would find myself going back to those days leading up to the wedding, to that moment where my dad asked if I was sure, and remind myself of the perfect peace I had felt. And that if I was sure then, I could be just as sure now.
The day Myron proposed was a complete surprise. Not that I was unaware of his intentions. Just of his timing. And his delivery.
It had been a difficult week at work and Myron had asked me over for dinner at the apartment he shared with his brother. February 10th, a Wednesday. What ever happens on a Wednesday? I don’t remember what he made but it must have been edible and he had ice-cream, my favourite, for dessert and a video he had picked up from the store. Three quarters through the show the television screen went snowy and a voice said, “We now interrupt this show for a very special announcement.” Not clueing in, I said in frustration, “I can’t believe someone did this! Who rents a movie and then purposely wrecks it for everyone else? We need to get our money back!” Just then the screen resolved but instead of the movie, it was Myron standing at the front of our church. He had filmed himself proposing and inserted it into his own copy of the movie. I was absolutely shocked and for a moment couldn’t comprehend how he could be in two places at the same time. On the screen he made his speech, then went down on one knee, opened a ring box and looking into the camera, asked me to marry him.
Of course by this time I was in tears. Myron was sitting beside me, completely enjoying my shock and emotion. As the t.v. froze, the question hanging in the air, I turned to him and said, “Show me the ring!” I wanted to know that this wasn’t some elaborate joke (seriously, I really thought it might have been). He pulled out the ring, it was real, and of course the rest speaks for itself.
I still have the tape somewhere. How many people have their proposals recorded?
We decided we wanted to keep it a secret until Sunday when we could announce it at church but called our families (Dad already knew as Myron had called earlier. Apparently when Myron asked for my hand, Dad had replied, “Well, its about time!”). We talked about the wedding, where we would live, basked in the moment for hours…and then watched the end of the movie which he had thoughtfully recorded after the proposal, a good thing as we were both kind of wondering how it was going to turn out.
Unique. But then, Myron was unique. He always had to put his own spin on things, make whatever he was doing memorable. I am glad for that.
I am so glad we went this weekend. Paul and Stacy, may your life together be rich in memories, in trust and in beauty as you walk out what comes easily and what does not. I love you both.
Gillian
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Logic
Just as we were making strides forward, we’ve had a step backwards. Bryn had a fall on the stairs Saturday morning. Her crutch wasn’t securely on the step and when she put her weight on it, it slipped off causing her to fall down a step onto her bad leg. The ankle is badly sprained and there is possibly a new hairline fracture in the fragile femur. I am hoping and praying that they won’t have to recast her. There is a possibility the break was an existing one, so we are waiting on the prior x-rays to be sent from Children’s hospital before we know anything definitive.
On a completely unrelated topic, we’ve been experiencing our seasonal spring downpours here in the lower mainland. I was lying in bed last Sunday night listening to it pound on the roof, stood at the window on Monday morning watching as it rained non-stop throughout the day…and felt like a complete idiot Monday afternoon when it was discovered that I had left the truck’s sunroof open throughout the entire storm. (To be fair I should note that I’ve never had a sunroof before, although to be equally fair…specifically to my kindergarten teacher…I am fairly certain I was taught that the opposite of “to open” is “to close”. Fairly certain.)
I do have a bit of a history of faulty thinking. I don’t know how it happens, but at times information enters my brain where it is immediately attacked by the illogical, and it comes out my mouth convoluted. When we were first married, a friend told me about an island in the Maritimes where there are no vehicles. We discussed how interesting that was, how it would feel like Lucy Maud Montgomery's storybook version of Canada's Prince Edward Island in the novel “Anne of Green Gables”. Somehow I got mixed up and later announced (in front of a large portion of my extended family mind you) that to this day P.E.I. has no vehicles. Everybody protested but I stuck to my “fact”. “No,” I insisted, “my friend was just studying about it.” As my parents sat staring at me with their mouths hanging open (undoubtedly wondering what the point of paying my tuition had been) my husband turned to me and said, “So how do they get the potatoes off the island?” The answer stuck in my throat as I realized that it wasn’t P.E.I. but some other obscure island near P.E.I. and later had to admit that the teasing was in fact appropriate. I can’t count the number of times over the years when I would be arguing about something and Myron would turn and say with his grin, “And there are no cars on P.E.I., right hon?”
Myron wasn’t immune to his own sense of the illogical. I remember being hospitalized while pregnant with Lauren. I had sent Myron home with a list of items I desperately needed for my stay. When he returned that night he had only my toothbrush. I was frustrated and shocked when he announced that it wasn’t his fault that he had forgotten the other things.
“HOW is it not your fault?” I demanded.
“You had a lot of things on there,” he countered, “I couldn‘t remember them all.”
“That's why I gave a you list,” was my response.
“I didn’t look at the list,” he explained.
“Why not?”
“Because I forgot I had it. Its not my fault I forgot stuff!”
“But that’s exactly why I made the list,” I said through gritted teeth, “specifically to stop you from forgetting things!”
“And I wouldn’t have forgotten anything if I’d remembered to look at it,” was his argument.
“So then its your fault!” I yelled.
“No, because I didn’t look at the list!” he shot back. We went round and round with this until visiting hours were over. He went home and I lay fuming in my bed, wondering if all men were this illogical or was it just him.
I have to admit, however, that if the tally was known, he outweighed me in the logic department a thousand to one. I had come to depend on that logic. Its amazing how marriage was able to blend our personalities together to make one new one, yet still leave room for us to grow as individuals. Now I walk entirely as an individual, but an individual partially shaped by the personality and character of my husband. I sense this as I deal daily with detail after detail due the fallout of the accident. I can hear Myron's voice, anticipate many of his responses, and often find myself stopping to think, what would Myron say? What would we have decided together? My hand still reaches for the phone to call him at work, my head still turns to ask him his thoughts before it hits me all over again that all I now have is what I think he'd say. Life could be a little scary being that I now have to make all the decisions. And if one day you receive a postcard from us letting you know that we have been stranded on P.E.I. because its too far to walk to the ferry, you’ll know why.
On a completely unrelated topic, we’ve been experiencing our seasonal spring downpours here in the lower mainland. I was lying in bed last Sunday night listening to it pound on the roof, stood at the window on Monday morning watching as it rained non-stop throughout the day…and felt like a complete idiot Monday afternoon when it was discovered that I had left the truck’s sunroof open throughout the entire storm. (To be fair I should note that I’ve never had a sunroof before, although to be equally fair…specifically to my kindergarten teacher…I am fairly certain I was taught that the opposite of “to open” is “to close”. Fairly certain.)
I do have a bit of a history of faulty thinking. I don’t know how it happens, but at times information enters my brain where it is immediately attacked by the illogical, and it comes out my mouth convoluted. When we were first married, a friend told me about an island in the Maritimes where there are no vehicles. We discussed how interesting that was, how it would feel like Lucy Maud Montgomery's storybook version of Canada's Prince Edward Island in the novel “Anne of Green Gables”. Somehow I got mixed up and later announced (in front of a large portion of my extended family mind you) that to this day P.E.I. has no vehicles. Everybody protested but I stuck to my “fact”. “No,” I insisted, “my friend was just studying about it.” As my parents sat staring at me with their mouths hanging open (undoubtedly wondering what the point of paying my tuition had been) my husband turned to me and said, “So how do they get the potatoes off the island?” The answer stuck in my throat as I realized that it wasn’t P.E.I. but some other obscure island near P.E.I. and later had to admit that the teasing was in fact appropriate. I can’t count the number of times over the years when I would be arguing about something and Myron would turn and say with his grin, “And there are no cars on P.E.I., right hon?”
Myron wasn’t immune to his own sense of the illogical. I remember being hospitalized while pregnant with Lauren. I had sent Myron home with a list of items I desperately needed for my stay. When he returned that night he had only my toothbrush. I was frustrated and shocked when he announced that it wasn’t his fault that he had forgotten the other things.
“HOW is it not your fault?” I demanded.
“You had a lot of things on there,” he countered, “I couldn‘t remember them all.”
“That's why I gave a you list,” was my response.
“I didn’t look at the list,” he explained.
“Why not?”
“Because I forgot I had it. Its not my fault I forgot stuff!”
“But that’s exactly why I made the list,” I said through gritted teeth, “specifically to stop you from forgetting things!”
“And I wouldn’t have forgotten anything if I’d remembered to look at it,” was his argument.
“So then its your fault!” I yelled.
“No, because I didn’t look at the list!” he shot back. We went round and round with this until visiting hours were over. He went home and I lay fuming in my bed, wondering if all men were this illogical or was it just him.
I have to admit, however, that if the tally was known, he outweighed me in the logic department a thousand to one. I had come to depend on that logic. Its amazing how marriage was able to blend our personalities together to make one new one, yet still leave room for us to grow as individuals. Now I walk entirely as an individual, but an individual partially shaped by the personality and character of my husband. I sense this as I deal daily with detail after detail due the fallout of the accident. I can hear Myron's voice, anticipate many of his responses, and often find myself stopping to think, what would Myron say? What would we have decided together? My hand still reaches for the phone to call him at work, my head still turns to ask him his thoughts before it hits me all over again that all I now have is what I think he'd say. Life could be a little scary being that I now have to make all the decisions. And if one day you receive a postcard from us letting you know that we have been stranded on P.E.I. because its too far to walk to the ferry, you’ll know why.
Friday, May 6, 2011
An Update on the Physical Healing
On Tuesday, Bryn finally had the last cast removed from her leg (at least for now). The bone is not healed but is making progress. While the shattered pieces at the top and bottom of the femur have knit themselves back together, there is a large gap running lengthwise between the two longer pieces of bone in the middle. The x-ray showed that a small bridge of bone has made its way at one point from one side to the other, but there is much to fill in. The way to increase the laying down of new bone is to apply weight and pressure to the broken one. (There’s a life lesson right there.) The more she can stand on it, the faster the healing. She has a full length leg brace and after more than four months of being immobilized in plaster she literally has almost no quad muscle left. Thus the knee is unstable and very painful but after just two days, we are already seeing progress in her ability to shift her leg. Ortho lifts have been made for her left shoe to try and make up for the difference in leg length.
Bryn amazes me, as do all my children. Each new step brings uncertainty, and yet within a couple of days of each new challenge, she has mentally taken control of the situation and forges ahead with determination and an incredible attitude. Her courage inspires me.
Taeryn’s legs are healing well. In July she will have surgery to remove all the hardware that has been keeping the broken bones in place. She is walking better every day thanks to the hard work in physiotherapy. The hip flexors had shortened pulling her upper body forward and creating a large sway in her back, but we’ve been working on them and this week see a lot of improvement in her posture. The knees still swell and at times she is forced back into the chair, but most of her day is spent on her feet. I even saw her run today.
Taeryn’s neck is still sore but healing, and her wrist still swells which they expect to last for approximately a year. The scars on her face are starting to lose their deep red colour and due to the massage and creams we administer daily are flattening and looking better all the time. When I think of where she was in December and look at her now, swimming and playing, laughing with Karson…I can’t even describe how thankful I am.
Karson’s pelvis is fully healed and he is back to running, jumping, and anything else a six year old little boy can find to do. The tiny scars on his face do not match the scars in his heart, but there is a bit more happiness in his spirit than when we were having to be in Vancouver. It encourages me.
Lauren is having some difficulties with her elbow and hand, although she has made good progress with the physiotherapy. The elbow is still locked at 10 degrees (significantly better then the 45 degrees we began with) and her hand swells up with use, so they are booking her in with a specialist to investigate any more hidden damage. We are praying it is something that will continue to heal with time and rest.
My injuries revolve a lot around the C2/C3 vertebrae of the spine which is causing difficulties in my left arm, left hand, shoulder and back. I often wake up with pain at the base of my skull and deep into the left side of my neck.
We have been blessed, I believe, with an incredible group of therapists. They are loving, encouraging and talented. I cannot say enough about them and their clinic here in Mission. They too are becoming a part of the massive group of people who are helping us in our stumbling journey of pain and recovery. So many strangers who have now become family. So very, very grateful.
The physical healing is slow. But every so often I catch a glimpse of an improvement, see progress, and it reminds me that we are inching our way towards whatever it is that God has in store for us, even though it often feels as though we are standing still. I think that the important things, the things that bring life, that enable us to breathe life into others, do not often fall upon us suddenly. They are born out of countless hours, days, and years of tiny steps. I cannot see or foresee a single day ahead of me anymore. Life has changed too drastically, is too uncertain, but in some ways that is a good thing. Not an easy thing. But possibly a good thing. I am forced to focus on today.
The Myron I miss the most is not the Myron I got married to so many years ago. It is the Myron of late, the one who had deepened, who had inched his way over the years to become the man he was. It took time, as it does for each of us, to learn how to give of himself, to breathe life into the people around him. And yet I nor he were able to see it clearly along the way. There were glimpses, but it is only looking back that I see the real changes. Which is good as it reminds me that although it often feels like we are not moving much today, one day we’ll see the journey.
We are not standing still.
Two of our friends ran the Vancouver Marathon in Myron’s honour last week, Frank and Walden. Frank came to our home with the participant’s medal which he presented to Karson. It now hangs from the shelf by Karson’s bed.
Bryn amazes me, as do all my children. Each new step brings uncertainty, and yet within a couple of days of each new challenge, she has mentally taken control of the situation and forges ahead with determination and an incredible attitude. Her courage inspires me.
Taeryn’s legs are healing well. In July she will have surgery to remove all the hardware that has been keeping the broken bones in place. She is walking better every day thanks to the hard work in physiotherapy. The hip flexors had shortened pulling her upper body forward and creating a large sway in her back, but we’ve been working on them and this week see a lot of improvement in her posture. The knees still swell and at times she is forced back into the chair, but most of her day is spent on her feet. I even saw her run today.
Taeryn’s neck is still sore but healing, and her wrist still swells which they expect to last for approximately a year. The scars on her face are starting to lose their deep red colour and due to the massage and creams we administer daily are flattening and looking better all the time. When I think of where she was in December and look at her now, swimming and playing, laughing with Karson…I can’t even describe how thankful I am.
Karson’s pelvis is fully healed and he is back to running, jumping, and anything else a six year old little boy can find to do. The tiny scars on his face do not match the scars in his heart, but there is a bit more happiness in his spirit than when we were having to be in Vancouver. It encourages me.
Lauren is having some difficulties with her elbow and hand, although she has made good progress with the physiotherapy. The elbow is still locked at 10 degrees (significantly better then the 45 degrees we began with) and her hand swells up with use, so they are booking her in with a specialist to investigate any more hidden damage. We are praying it is something that will continue to heal with time and rest.
My injuries revolve a lot around the C2/C3 vertebrae of the spine which is causing difficulties in my left arm, left hand, shoulder and back. I often wake up with pain at the base of my skull and deep into the left side of my neck.
We have been blessed, I believe, with an incredible group of therapists. They are loving, encouraging and talented. I cannot say enough about them and their clinic here in Mission. They too are becoming a part of the massive group of people who are helping us in our stumbling journey of pain and recovery. So many strangers who have now become family. So very, very grateful.
The physical healing is slow. But every so often I catch a glimpse of an improvement, see progress, and it reminds me that we are inching our way towards whatever it is that God has in store for us, even though it often feels as though we are standing still. I think that the important things, the things that bring life, that enable us to breathe life into others, do not often fall upon us suddenly. They are born out of countless hours, days, and years of tiny steps. I cannot see or foresee a single day ahead of me anymore. Life has changed too drastically, is too uncertain, but in some ways that is a good thing. Not an easy thing. But possibly a good thing. I am forced to focus on today.
The Myron I miss the most is not the Myron I got married to so many years ago. It is the Myron of late, the one who had deepened, who had inched his way over the years to become the man he was. It took time, as it does for each of us, to learn how to give of himself, to breathe life into the people around him. And yet I nor he were able to see it clearly along the way. There were glimpses, but it is only looking back that I see the real changes. Which is good as it reminds me that although it often feels like we are not moving much today, one day we’ll see the journey.
We are not standing still.
Two of our friends ran the Vancouver Marathon in Myron’s honour last week, Frank and Walden. Frank came to our home with the participant’s medal which he presented to Karson. It now hangs from the shelf by Karson’s bed.
Monday, May 2, 2011
I Lived
I have just finished saying goodbye to a group of friends who at the invitation of my children, came to sit, eat and not say “happy birthday”. It was difficult to allow this get-together to happen. My children so badly wanted to give me a party. And of course, that makes perfect sense. They wait all year long, salivating at the thought of their own birthdays, the days where we celebrate them, their birth, the joy and life that they bring to this world of ours. After objecting that it was just too painful, I could plainly see that it was important to them, and what is important to them is important to me. So I stood back as they planned and prepared, hating the thought of having to go through with it, hating even more the thought of denying them more joy.
I long for wisdom and patience. I beg for it. Today my children sent me to my room as they prepared for company and it struck me that they were trying to provide something for me. As difficult as it was for me to enter into a celebration without the one who knew me the best, the one who has loved me so deeply, I felt nurtured by my children‘s efforts. And I was thankful that I hadn’t taken that opportunity away from them.
I was also made aware of something that has not occured to me in any significant way. As strange as it may sound, tonight I realize that I lived.
Just writing those words makes me cry. There are so many days where I wonder, often in frustration, why God didn’t just take me too, why he didn’t take all of us. It is a selfish thought. I know that it would have increased the pain of my loved ones, and yet in my weakest moments, in my deepest longings for my husband, it is what I want. To be together again. To not have to suffer this unbearable longing that can never be fulfilled. I will never again have what I desire. It is no longer an option and that is the most painful part. To recognize the fact that I survived is to remind me again that Myron did not. And the reality of that truth continues to devastate me on a daily basis. It has rendered me helpless to see much beyond my gratefulness that I do not have to mourn the loss of my children as well as my husband.
However, in the past two days I have been written some beautiful things by some very beautiful people. And as I read these words of love, I was suddenly able to briefly glance at our situation through the eyes of those who love me, who care for me, who would miss me and hurt if I was gone. I think that for the first time I realized that I, not just my children, not just my husband, was in a horrible, traumatic car accident…and I lived. I am alive. And though that does not feel like a gift, I realize that somehow it has to be. For others are rejoicing that I am still here. Others are grateful at the reality that they can still walk life with me, spend time with me, continue our relationship. They are thankful. And in their thanks, I see more purpose to my continuing on.
There are different ways of seeing things. Sometimes it is through the eyes of our intellect. And sometimes it is through the eyes of our heart. It is a strange thing to suddenly see how things might have been. For a brief moment I saw that I too would have left a gaping hole just as Myron has. I saw that my loved ones would have had to bear the burden of losing not just one, but two people in their lives. I see that this situation is not just about me and my grief, or our pain and healing. There is so much more to it than that. My life is interconnected with everyone around me. As soon as I interact with others, as soon as I allow myself to be known by someone else and vice versa, I either add to their lives or take away. I have been grieving the loss and giving thanks for the survival of each of my children, but I have not rejoiced in the sparing of my own life (other than for the benefit of my children). I have not rejoiced that my parents, my in-laws, my sister and friends have been spared more pain. I have not found a way to rejoice that I am alive.
I think that this will take time. But to hear that my loved ones are so grateful to have me alive has touched something within me; for how grateful would I be if Myron had lived? It has shifted my focus ever so slightly. It has again taught me that I need to look beyond myself. How difficult it is to do that, especially when I am in such agony, and yet it is life-giving. It sounds self-absorbed to say that I need to realize that I am important to the lives of others, but by doing so my attention actually moves towards them and in turn releases some of the torment of my own burden.
Tomorrow I may read this entry and wonder what on earth I was talking about. I may sink back down into the depths of my pain where none of this makes any sense. But tonight, at this moment, I am reminded that I lived. And maybe I have more to learn about the importance of that than I have realized.
I long for wisdom and patience. I beg for it. Today my children sent me to my room as they prepared for company and it struck me that they were trying to provide something for me. As difficult as it was for me to enter into a celebration without the one who knew me the best, the one who has loved me so deeply, I felt nurtured by my children‘s efforts. And I was thankful that I hadn’t taken that opportunity away from them.
I was also made aware of something that has not occured to me in any significant way. As strange as it may sound, tonight I realize that I lived.
Just writing those words makes me cry. There are so many days where I wonder, often in frustration, why God didn’t just take me too, why he didn’t take all of us. It is a selfish thought. I know that it would have increased the pain of my loved ones, and yet in my weakest moments, in my deepest longings for my husband, it is what I want. To be together again. To not have to suffer this unbearable longing that can never be fulfilled. I will never again have what I desire. It is no longer an option and that is the most painful part. To recognize the fact that I survived is to remind me again that Myron did not. And the reality of that truth continues to devastate me on a daily basis. It has rendered me helpless to see much beyond my gratefulness that I do not have to mourn the loss of my children as well as my husband.
However, in the past two days I have been written some beautiful things by some very beautiful people. And as I read these words of love, I was suddenly able to briefly glance at our situation through the eyes of those who love me, who care for me, who would miss me and hurt if I was gone. I think that for the first time I realized that I, not just my children, not just my husband, was in a horrible, traumatic car accident…and I lived. I am alive. And though that does not feel like a gift, I realize that somehow it has to be. For others are rejoicing that I am still here. Others are grateful at the reality that they can still walk life with me, spend time with me, continue our relationship. They are thankful. And in their thanks, I see more purpose to my continuing on.
There are different ways of seeing things. Sometimes it is through the eyes of our intellect. And sometimes it is through the eyes of our heart. It is a strange thing to suddenly see how things might have been. For a brief moment I saw that I too would have left a gaping hole just as Myron has. I saw that my loved ones would have had to bear the burden of losing not just one, but two people in their lives. I see that this situation is not just about me and my grief, or our pain and healing. There is so much more to it than that. My life is interconnected with everyone around me. As soon as I interact with others, as soon as I allow myself to be known by someone else and vice versa, I either add to their lives or take away. I have been grieving the loss and giving thanks for the survival of each of my children, but I have not rejoiced in the sparing of my own life (other than for the benefit of my children). I have not rejoiced that my parents, my in-laws, my sister and friends have been spared more pain. I have not found a way to rejoice that I am alive.
I think that this will take time. But to hear that my loved ones are so grateful to have me alive has touched something within me; for how grateful would I be if Myron had lived? It has shifted my focus ever so slightly. It has again taught me that I need to look beyond myself. How difficult it is to do that, especially when I am in such agony, and yet it is life-giving. It sounds self-absorbed to say that I need to realize that I am important to the lives of others, but by doing so my attention actually moves towards them and in turn releases some of the torment of my own burden.
Tomorrow I may read this entry and wonder what on earth I was talking about. I may sink back down into the depths of my pain where none of this makes any sense. But tonight, at this moment, I am reminded that I lived. And maybe I have more to learn about the importance of that than I have realized.
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