Saturday, November 24, 2018

An Inspiration

I woke up sad today. I thoroughly enjoyed having some family in for Thanksgiving, but the two days of fun flew by. This morning, the weight of the concerns I'd ignored while they were here to distract me felt overwhelming. My problems felt heavy, unsolvable; my heart was weary and I wanted nothing more than to stay under the covers and pretend the world didn't exist.

As my thoughts spiraled down their gloomy path, a memory of my daughter surfaced.

She was halfway through chemo at that point. Her body was bloated from the steroids and poisons they were using to give her the best shot they could at keeping her cancer at bay. Her hair was gone. She ached, she was exhausted and jittery. Her mouth tasted of heavy metals.

And she decided her best chance to feel better was to exercise. She hauled her sorry rear out of bed, got dressed in her running clothes, and took off along her favorite route along the Mississippi river in St. Paul.

As she ran, she told herself, 'I am an inspiration.'
Soon, she was passed by a young woman pushing a stroller with two active toddlers in it.

'I am an inspiration.'
She was passed by an old guy jogging slowly along with a hitch in his step.

'I am an inspiration.'
She was passed by a homeless drunk man trying to escape his demons, weaving hither and yon across the trail, bottle in paper bag clutched firmly in one hand.

'I am an inspiration - to myself!'

And she was. She finished her 'run' even though the best pace she could muster was slower than the medium walking rhythm of her good days. The endorphins kicked in to lift her mood a bit, getting her blood circulating helped ease some of the heaviest of the aches. She'd pushed back against the pain and the blech and didn't let it stop her from living the day as best she could anyways.

Her tale has stuck with me, and helped me to reach past my own aches and pains more than once. Today, it got me out of the house and walking around the park - and the movement worked its magic to bring perspective to my problems and some ease to my concerns.

Kate, whether you believe it or not, you were an inspiration to more than just yourself that day.


Saturday, November 17, 2018

Night on the Streets

"Have you ever spent the night outside when it wasn't your choice and you had no place to go?"

My morning walk to work takes me past a group of homeless men. Some, I don't know, so I greet them only with a smile and a nod. Some have troubled eyes and spirits - I don't talk to them; I am afraid of disturbing their demons. But some of the men regularly waiting there are just down on their luck, and to these, I say hello as I pass them in the street.

I first noticed KC earlier this fall. He stood out because he was reading a book as he waited for the library to open; the only one of these men I've ever seen actually reading. I've stopped time and again for a few minutes to talk about the story he is reading that day, to hear a bit of the story of his life.

He's on the street because of a dishonest roommate - the guy took $720, two months rent, and instead of paying the landlord, skipped town.  KC found out about it when they came to post the eviction notice.  He had just a few days grace period, time to move his things to a storage unit; not enough time to find a new place. And, with the rent money gone and no cash reserves, he didn't have the money to buy into another arrangement anyways.

He gets social security; is trying to save enough that he can get a new place, but rent is expensive these days, and he's having trouble finding an apartment he can afford. It's taking him some time to pull the money together - being homeless is expensive. (Food is really pricey when you have to buy all of it already cooked because you have no kitchen and no place to keep what you don't eat.)

This week, with Thanksgiving approaching, I invited him to join me for lunch on Friday. I can't fix his problems, but I hoped a good, hot meal would provide a balm for his cold and discouraged soul.

As we ate our hearty bbq sandwiches, he spoke just a little about some of the challenges he's faced these past few months. Hardest, he said, are the nights when the homeless shelter is full, and there is no room at the inn.

"Have you ever spent the night outside when it wasn't your choice and you had no place to go?", he asked.
"No", I replied, "What do you do when that happens?"

He continued his story:

There is a building near 12th and Oak that has a public outdoor area dug down into the ground about half a story. It has some places to sit; the kind where the tables and stools are bolted to the ground. I can feel almost safe there. When the wind is from the north and northwest, those are the coldest winds, the walls provide some shelter from their chill; I can almost pretend I am warm. 
There is light there, light enough to read. I sit down with my book in this oasis in the dark, and try to lose myself in a story. I watch the courthouse clock across the way.  10:30, 12:30. The first few hours aren't so bad, but I know I won't be able to sleep, so I continue to read.  3:15.  The night is dark and cold and long. The minutes feel like hours and the hours until morning stretch endlessly in front of me. I return to my book anyways.  The story is better than reality. After an eternity, 6:30 finally comes, the light begins to return. 
I give thanks for the ability to read; my books have guarded me from the terrors stalking the night. I gather my bags, and move on, grateful for the return of day.

As I listened, my eyes filled with tears. I don't know the rest of KC's story, why he has no one to turn to who will take him in. He didn't offer that part, so I didn't ask. I don't have the wherewithal to begin to fix his problems; I felt helpless, and a little shallow. And I thought buying him lunch might make a bit of difference?

But then, as we finished our fries, he thanked me profusely. He said the food was the smallest part of what I'd given him. More importantly, for the hour we sat and talked, he was a person again. No longer just another throwaway ragtag bum with his plastic bags, he was again a Someone. I'd listened to his story and found his story worth listening to.  It mattered.

Good Is.


Saturday, November 10, 2018

No One Leaves Life Alive

Life: No one gets out of it alive.

This is one of the thoughts I know brings solace to Libby as she prepares (not plans) to leave this world.

She is largely at peace with the days she knows are coming, but she is not dying yet. She is busy living the days she has.

I had brought my camera to Minnesota; I wanted to take one more picture of her; to try to hold a bit of her here with me. But the camera never came out, because once I was there, I knew the lens wouldn't be able to capture the beauty I saw in her. It would have caught only the pallor of illness, the exhaustion lines around her eyes; it wouldn't have been able to capture the unearthly beauty of the essence I could see overlaying her physical frame. Some things just can't be photographed.

I swear, somehow, as illness thins her skin, her body can no longer contain her. As she lets go of her last illusions of control (we all have them...), her goodness, her peace with the knowledge she now knows how her story ends, and yes, her anger and frustration with the difficulties of these last days of her life glow softly through, her inner light too bright to contain within.

Goodbyes are hard.  This one was especially hard because I knew it just might be the last time I get to say it to her.  It wasn't, "I'll see you next month or next spring or next time we're in the same town," but rather, it was, "I want to say all the words I've ever wanted to say to let you know just how much you mean to me because it's possible the next time I see you it will be on the other side of life, but I just know I'm not going to be able to find them." 

Libby and I had danced around the discussion the last few days I was up there; it was too touchy to approach. The days I was there, I was able to focus on the things I could do to help. To work as part of a cleaning crew, to help her set the house in order. To take the girls shopping for this and that, to fix food she might like to eat, to pick up soft, flannel unicorn and llama sheet sets for the hospital bed which arrived the day before I left. But ready or not, Saturday morning came, and it was time for me to go home.

As I gathered up my things and packed up the car, I was heartened to hear her stirring upstairs - she'd had a full day on Friday, and she quickly runs low on energy these days, so I thought she might not be up. But there she was, and there I was, and neither one of us knew what to say. 

She said 'Goodbye. Now leave before I break down.' I, of course, didn't leave, but went over to sit at her feet, lay my head on her lap, and let the tears freely flow. We both did.

Slowly, haltingly, some words came out. I can't remember the actual words, and they don't matter because they all distilled down to the essence: I love you.  Be well, where ever your path leads. You are in my heart all of the days. I will miss you.

God be with you.  Always.