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**

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.

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.

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.

Comfort Kittens

I came on up to Minnesota last weekend to spend some time with Libby.

When I got here, Sunday, she was in considerable pain. She was doing her best to manage it with Tylenol and Advil since the stronger painkillers were coming right back up, but she was losing the battle.

She'd invited a hospice team to come in and talk with her about the services they offer, they came in on Monday. After some discussion, she and Scott decided to sign up.

These people don't fool around. By the time they'd left, they had a list of medications, and had given advice on which ones she should and shouldn't be taking in which combinations. A courier arrived with a pack of new ones to try before bedtime. By Tuesday, she was much improved. A few days later, her pain levels are down considerably; her nausea is under control. Her color is better, she's getting some restful sleep.

I'm singing the praises of her hospice team. They listen, they care, they are treating the whole person, not just the symptoms of her disease. Just what she needs right now.

One of the things the hospice people talked about in the initial discussion was that their goal was to help her prepare for what was coming, not plan for it. I appreciate the linguistic distinction, and it's stuck with me all week. She's not dying yet, but any plans she makes are on shaky ground. However, she can work to prepare for the days ahead; to lay the groundwork for how she wants to spend the days she has.

One of her daughters is still in high school, and struggling to cope with the changes rocking her world. A few months ago, they went out and picked up two kittens. The little gals are destined to be outdoor cats. They have a warm house, and many mice to learn to catch. As I watch them outside the window, they are practicing their pouncing skills on the leaves blowing about the yard.

Because they are so small, they are still spending nights inside, closed up in the bathroom. Turns out they are the perfect therapy animals. When her life gets overwhelming, Onnika goes into the bathroom, and the kittens provide some much-needed therapy. They climb on her, they purr. They chase the toys scattered about the room. She relaxes, she smiles. Her troubles fade to the background just a bit, life is better.

Goodness Is.

Done

Her email subject was simple:  Done.

The words in the body of the message were clear, inarguable, heartbreaking:

I had scans on Monday.  The cancer has spread to my lungs, liver and bones.  Other than the possibility of getting me into a trial, there won't be any further treatments.
Thank you for your love and support.  I could not have done this without you.
Libby

No arguments from me this time. Only tears, the day the message came in, and again every time I see them again in my mind's eye, which is often.

October has come in this year with a cold blast of rainy weather. In the last two weeks, we've gotten enough rainfall to make up for the rains we didn't get all summer. 

A huge climate report came out last week. If we don't take our heads out of the sand, and do it yesterday, the balance will tip, and coastal areas around the world will disappear. A hurricane blew out of nowhere last week, wreaking havoc on the Florida panhandle, and dumping a torrent of rain on the Carolinas, already ravaged by last month's hurricane.

Where is Good in all this? As I rail against God and the fates in my anger and grief at the finality of Libby's words, at the dark days ahead for the people of our planet, I keep hearing a small voice.  

Tomorrow is guaranteed to no one. All things living - ants and stars, people, planets and flowers - all things living will one day die. Today. Today is the only day each of us has.When you remember to look for Good in her hours, you will find it there.

I tried to heed the voice. I can't find Good anywhere in the force of the hurricanes, they're too vast, too far beyond what I can affect today, but if I look closer to home, to the places I can touch and the people I love, I can find it.

Instead of lamenting the tomorrows which may or may not come, I decided to enjoy the today I have.

I went outside this afternoon. The air was cool, the sun peeping out now and again. The rain has revived the plants in my yard. The grass is a healthy green, the flowers are blooming, quick counterpoints of color against the cloud cover. I pulled up the tomato plants, thanking them for their bounty of this past month. I mowed the grass. I stopped to admire a monarch butterfly, eagerly drinking from the garden's flowers.

Libby's decision to continue chemo last year bought her a year and more of mostly good days. Not enough days, but good days. (Are there ever enough days when facing death before one's children are grown?  I think not.)  I know she's lived those days looking for Good and Beauty - and finding them when she looked.

So many questions, so few answers. But one deep and abiding conviction:  When I remember to look, I will find Good - even, and especially, on the darkest of days.