Operation Do-Gooder

The news of Libby's death two weeks ago left me filled with restless energy. I wasn't needed in Minnesota, I'd checked, and so I found myself with no outlet for my need to DO SOMETHING!

I'd been trying to find some resources for KC, my homeless friend. The same day Libby died, one of the first came in - that he should contact the people at reStart. The next day, I was worse than useless at work, so I took my notepaper and headed on down to the library to see if I could catch him.

He was in his usual spot in the reading room, and so I sat down and gave him the information. He told me he'd follow up, and I started to leave, then stopped. The reStart office was a mile away, uphill, and he had his bags to carry. I asked him if he would like a ride up there, he gratefully accepted.

Into the car we hopped, his bags safely stowed in the trunk. Once we got there, there was a wait to talk to one of the counselors. (Being homeless involves a lot of sign-in-and-please-waits.) I sat down with him, shortly someone came to ask what we needed. He explained his plight; she went away and came back with a list of places to call, a generic list printed off some site on the internet.

I'd been told they had a more in-depth program, some case workers available to help him navigate the system. I asked about it, and she went away again. When she came back, she said, if we could wait longer, someone would work with us to prepare some sort of at-risk form. Of course, we could wait.

As we sat waiting at the table, I took out my phone and started calling the places on the list. Place after place told me, "No, we have nothing available at the price listed on the sheet." I kept doggedly calling. Finally a different answer. "Yes, we might have something, let me transfer you." The call went through to voice mail.

That's when it hit me. How was KC ever going to find a home if he couldn't leave a call-back number? If he couldn't make the calls I was making?

We finished the intake form, and he was given another number to call. He'd be able to get into their program on a space-available basis.

To call.

I dropped him back at the library and went back to work. Not to actually accomplish anything, mind you. I got on the computer and started researching pre-paid cell plans. Much to my surprise, because I never think of them as the low-cost provider, at&t had the best deal going.

I stopped at the phone store on my way home, picked him up their cheapest phone, and added three months of service. The next day, I dropped the phone off with him. I briefly showed him how to use it, and left, feeling like perhaps I made a small difference in his life.

By the middle of the next week, he still hadn't used it to make any calls. Why not??? (I know he hadn't used it because I snooped - I'd kept the billing info so I could add more time to the phone, and I went out checked the link to see how he was doing.)

I tracked him down again, to give him a direct lesson in Modern Phones 101. Unfortunately, the phone was dead - he hadn't plugged it in since I'd given it to him. I took the phone back to my office, charged it up and downloaded all the updates. Since I was going out of town for the funeral, I left it with one of my colleagues, Greg, who managed to track him down on Christmas Eve.

Greg took him for coffee, they swapped stories. Greg showed him again how to make a call - apparently he smiled like a kid when that first call, to Greg's cell, went through. KC was set. Or not.
Back from the funeral last week, I checked; he still wasn't using it to make calls. I tracked him down once again - he was carrying the phone, charged now, but powered down, still in its original box.

**sigh** We're not giving up on him, Greg and I. Being able to use a phone may not be the only thing he needs to get him off the street, but it's a necessary part of the process. We have plans to track him down as many times as needed (he makes that easy by hanging out in the same spot in the library on most days); to spend time with him in small doses until he's comfortable with the technology.

Operation Do-Gooder continues....

Goodbye, Libby (continued)

Libby Lizard Elizabeth Elephant
1967 - 2018

Last Friday night was the longest night of the year. Saturday, the year turned; the days will be no shorter this season.  That same day, we gathered as family and friends to celebrate Libby's life. It seemed a fitting day to bid her adieu.

The service was beautiful. I ended up back a few rows from most of the family, but next to my kids, their presence a solid reminder of all that is good in my life. I sat there and I cried and I cried and I cried. The testimonies were beautiful. The service ended. I wasn't ready to go, so I sat there while the rest of the people left the room.

I waited for quiet, and I sang my own goodbye song to her (it wasn't part of the program; I was good with that), asking the angels to welcome and guide her along her way. I sat down again, and cried and cried and cried some more. The tears wouldn't stop - too many levels of grief, too hard to say this last farewell. After some time, two of my cousins came and sat with me. I can't remember what they said, but they didn't try to stop the tears, rather just rode with the storm until it stilled.

The rest of the afternoon is a blur of hugs and sad faces and smiles as we shared stories of our lives. So many people who loved her were there, and so many more weren't able to be there, but sent their love and care to send her along her way. We are loved.

Sunday, we'd long ago planned a Christmas gathering at another sister's house. Exhausted from the day before, with sore eyes and hearts, we gathered to celebrate anyways. We traded gifts (Libby loved the dice game we use to share the goodies), we got to watch the baby enjoy the best gift under the tree (the ribbon from one of the packages, naturally). We ate too much good food (of course!), some of us watched the football game (it seemed fitting to have it on in the background), we caught up on the non-Libby parts of each other's lives.

I needed the gathering. Needed the laughter and chaos and joy of Christmas present; needed the reminder that the darkness will not stay. My brain questions it at times, but my heart knows the world and the seasons and life all turn in harmony with the stately movement of the stars.

Love Is.

Merry Christmas, anyways!

Goodbye, Libby

Elizabeth Jean Asher
Feb 3, 1967 - Dec 10, 2018

You’d think, as long as she was sick, I’d have been ready for the news of Libby’s death.  But, the heart has its way, and it always hopes the time is not yet, that there will be just one more day.

Libby ran out of one-more-days last Monday, and I wasn’t prepared.  It’s been a week, and I’m just now starting to accept the reality that I will never talk to her again. She won’t answer those last few texts I sent; there will be no gift exchange this Christmas.

She died peacefully, more-or-less free from pain; the drugs were still working.  **major sigh of relief**  I hear tell she waited for her husband, Scott, to leave the house on to pick up her daughter from school before she left us.  If she had a choice in the matter, I know she did this on purpose. She wanted to be home, but didn’t want her girls there at the moment she died. I like knowing she got her way.

I suppose it’s telling about her place in the family that when I went to find a picture of her, all I had were group shots, and I had to crop the photo to give her center stage. She came along seventh in our line of eight children. She was the youngest of us five girls. Just sixteen months older than Ted, she never knew a world where she was the focus of attention. If that bothered her, I never knew; it certainly may have contributed to her feisty and fierce side. (If she wanted your attention, she was not an easy person to ignore.) In my memories, her aura matched her blonde hair - she was sunny, one of the bright spots in our family.

I left home for college when she was still in middle school. I left town on the heels of my graduation, when she was still in high school. Some years passed, I realized she’d finished growing up. I liked the woman she’d become, and we started to talk more often. Sporadically, she’d take time out of her life to make the trek from Minnesota to Kansas City, to visit one-on-one. I always enjoyed these visits, the only times we had time to have in-depth conversations about life and God and love and children and, and, and… 

And it’s so hard to fathom we will never talk again. I knew when I left for home in November this might come to pass, but I'd held on to the hope I’d be able to get up there to see her one more time.

Goodbye, Libby.

I will miss your smile and your wicked sense of humor. I will miss your introspective emails – thank you for letting us get a sense of what living and dying with cancer look like from the inside out.

Your last mantra was:  Life: No one gets out of it alive. You died having won your battle with the fear and despair that can come along with cancer. You didn't view your death as punishment, for it comes to all. Rather, death is a doorway, and now you know what lies beyond the portal.

We talked before you died - I hope you were right about what lies beyond what we know. I hope you are seeing with new eyes, and have reunited with those you love who have been waiting on the far side of the door. 

You and Maria were once inseparable. I hope the best part of her is there – the part that wasn’t buried under alcohol – and that you have patched up your differences and the two of you once again have each other’s backs. (Don’t get into too much trouble now, you hear???)

I love you.

I will miss you.

Sleep in Peace, my dear sister.

Keeping Vigil

Libby's younger daughter's birthday is coming up next week.  When I was up there in late October, Libby and I made a deal - that she would stick around for Onnika's birthday if at all possible.

Just a little over a month away at the time, it didn't seem like a stretch. But news from Minnesota tells me her cancer is growing quickly; Libby is already well out the door on her way home to see her God face to face.

The good news part is that the drugs are still working; she is in very little pain, even as her food and liquid intake drop to near zero. Pain relievers have come a long way since the days when I had to give Mom shots to try to control her pain; near the end, we had a hard time finding a less-painful spot to inject the drugs. No shots for Libby, thank Goodness. She now has difficulty swallowing pills, but they have been able to switch to a sub-lingual version of her drugs.  The liquids taste nasty, but work quickly and effectively, and don't cause her pain even as they work to ease it.

Here in Missouri, my heart has been keeping vigil. It feels like an overlay scene from the movies. I am here, grounded in the motions of my everyday life - work, exercise, getting ready for the holidays. But when I stop and look with my heart, I see a picture of Libby superimposed on whatever scene is in front of me. She is leaning back in her recliner, her body still. She is barely breathing; she is here, but not here. Her soul is almost done doing some last tidying up in its old home; she is ready to meet her Jesus.

It seems fitting for Advent. In Christian churches this season, songs are sung of waiting and watching for Emmanuel to come. I watch out the window as the days grow short - the day the year will turn is right around the corner.

Darkness has come, but it will not stay. Libby's body will die, but she firmly believes Jesus is waiting for her on the other side, along with Mom, Dad, Maria and all the others she loves who have gone before her to prepare the way.

We talked of this moment-to-come back in October, shortly before I left for home. She is not afraid, her cancer did not win. It will take her body, but it did not win the more important struggle for her soul. She did not give in to Satan's message of fear and despair. She has seen the darkness, and has chosen the light. She has lived all of the days, now all of hours, she has. After all, it's not as if her death is punishment for some real or imaginary misdeed. All of us who are alive will follow her one day.

Come, Lord Jesus, come.
Bring your light which banishes all darkness.
Come, to walk beside her. 
Come, and guide your daughter home.

Wishful Thinking

My brain works in odd ways at times.

This past week, I was trying to convince myself to take advantage of the online sales. I'd get online, I'd browse, but I stopped before I hit the purchase button.

Why? Usually when I stop myself it's because I want to think over an impulse buy, but these were all more-or-less planned purchases; they were Christmas gifts.

As I was dropping off to sleep, pondering the question, I realized the answer - because somehow, my subconscious had decided that if I make commitments, even to UPS and FedEx, Libby will die before Christmas.

See if you can follow me here...

If I order stuff, it'll have to be delivered.
If Libby dies, I won't be here to accept the packages, because I'll be in Minnesota.
If I don't order stuff, I obviously don't have to worry about package delivery.
Which means I won't be in Minnesota when the packages (don't) arrive.

See?  Obviously, not ordering packages is the key to keeping her around.
And I want her to stay around.

It's hard for me, giving up my illusions of control. But if ever there was a situation out of human control, this is it.

Libby still has some good hours in her days. Not as many as she did before, she spends a lot of time floating in the not-quite-here space created by her pain meds. (They are still working effectively, praise all that is Good.) She does pop out of the ether every now and again during the day to check in with terra firma, her mind and sense of humor are intact.

All my wishing, all my wanting, won't change a thing. She will live whatever days she has; we don't know the exact number, but we do know she doesn't have many days left. As aggressively as her cancer spreads, it will hit a vital something soon, and she will leave us to find out what lies around the bend. (She's most curious about it...)

My delusions of control bring no good to the situation - they affect her health not at all. However, if I don't become aware of them and tell them to take a hike, they WILL do an effective job of making sure I am not ready for Christmas when it gets here.

I got online yesterday and ordered the packages.
**sigh**