Titanium Heart

My heart was broken recently. Actually, my heart has been broken many times over the years.

I don't really consider myself an overly sensitive person. I'm not easily hurt, nor am I easily offended. I tend to think with logic over emotions. I try to give people the benefit of the doubt before I react to them. I'm tough, and I have endured more than my share of heartaches and have come out stronger for each of them. I've grown and matured through the tough times way more than I ever have through the easiest of times. Yet still, I have feelings, and they are deep..I would venture to say, deeper than most people feel. I think because I am relatively resilient, when I do get hurt I get deeply hurt.

I got to thinking this week about my friend Danny. He was in a motorcycle accident a few years ago and was seriously injured. We really weren't sure if he would ever be the same, but by the grace of The Good Lord, he eventually came back home good as new!

One of the injuries Danny suffered was a broken femur. To repair it, the surgeon put in a titanium rod. Titanium is one of the strongest metals there is, and it has many other advantages when used to repair our broken parts. For example, it's not corrosive, and it is lightweight. Can you imagine a rusty peice of tin holding your leg together? Or your leg weighing a couple of pounds more than it did before? I'm pretty sure if you have to have surgery to repair a broken bone, you are going to want titanium before any other material!

It crossed my mind today that life would be much easier if we could have our hearts replaced with a titanium heart. How great it would be to have a heart that is so strong that we don't feel the fiery darts the devil constantly bombards us with! For our hearts to always feel lightweight, and not burdened with the hurts and disappointments of this world. To have a heart that is unbreakable... seems like a wonderful thing!

God's word, however, leads us to avoid having a titanium heart. He wants us to instead have a heart of gold! Gold, in opposition to titanium, is soft. It's also pliable, and can be reshaped fairly easily. Gold can be turned into liquid, but the amazing part of that is that even in it's weakest form, it is still gold! It can't ever be destroyed! Even though titanium, the stronger metal of the two, can be destroyed under the right chemicals and elements, gold is virtually indestructible. It may change into tiny bits under pressure, but it's still gold and will be forever!

So, in contemplating having a titanium heart transplant this morning, I was instead reminded of God's heart of gold for me, and I know He expects me to have a heart of gold for others. It doesn't mean my gold heart won't be tested. It will certainly be refined from time to time. It will be melted here and there, and reshaped as time goes, but it will never be destroyed. As gold lives on forever, I hope my heart will too.

Proverbs 17:3 (NIV)
The crucible for silver and the furnace for gold,  but the Lord tests the heart

Ezekiel 36:26 (NIV)
I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.

The Rest Stop

For as long as I can remember I have been taking care of someone. My older brother still likes to tell how I waited on him when we were kids, and all he had to do was mention he wanted something and I ran and got it for him. I don't remember ever questioning why I should wait on him 'hand and foot', I just did.

I fully believe God hard-wires us for the tasks He has planned for us here on Earth. I think He created me to care for others. That may be why being a mom has been my most valued role to me in my life. There has never been anything that compared to the fulfillment that being a mom has brought to my heart.

Last year, my role as a mom began to change dramatically as two of my three sons got married. I am thrilled for them to be doing what they are supposed to be doing (and what we trained them to do!), becoming leaders of their own households and establishing lives of their own. Dave and I are super proud of all our boys, and there is much satisfaction in seeing the flourishing fruits of all the labor that goes into raising kids. But still, it's hard on moms to give up the role of caregiver to their babies.

About three years before my boys' weddings my parents began needing help. Mom became deathly ill, and one  morning around 3:00 a.m., I got a call from their home security company saying a medical emergency alarm was sounding at their house. We jumped out of bed and flew out the door, flying toward their house as I frantically tried to call. No one answered any of their phones. I was sure I would find one or both of them dead. I played out every scenario possible in my head, and none of them were good. When we got there, I saw fire trucks and ambulances lining their street, and as Dave pulled the car over I got out and ran as fast as I could toward their house, almost collapsing as I reached the front door, dreading to see what I might find inside.

I whispered a prayer that God would prepare me before I walked in, and I heard my dad talking as I opened the door. "Thank God!! At least Dad's ok!", I thought, as I entered the bedroom where he was standing. Mom was lying on the floor, completely unaware of who she was or what was going on. It is miracle she lived through all she had going on that night.

We had to sit down with Dad later that day and convince him it was time to make some changes. They lived in a split foyer, and there was no way in or out except by stairs. Many of the possible scenarios I saw in my mind that night involved my crippled Dad falling down the stairs, bleeding to death, and Mom too sick to help him.

I still remember my dad sitting in mom's recliner, tears streaming down his cheeks as he tried to negotiate ways to stay in their home. I saw my dad as helpless for the first time in my life. That day marks the beginning of my caregiver role for Mom and Dad.

From that point, little by little, the need grew even greater, and the caregiver in me became more protective over Mom and Dad. I readily jumped in and took care of things before being asked, attempting to keep them from getting hurt. I had to constantly remind myself to not overstep my dad, who was fiercely independent and hard-working. I had to learn how to balance helping them with also allowing him to still do what he could. Sometimes that was hard to call.

During my three years or so that I took care of my parents, my boys were outgrowing their need for me. I hardly noticed. I was focused on keeping Mom and Dad going. I was on call 24 hours a day, seven days a week. When I did go somewhere for a few days, I worried the whole time and stayed close to my phone, always panicking just a little when I saw I had missed calls from them. I always felt like I was waiting on the other shoe to drop.

Before I realized it, I became immersed in tending to my parents, just as my boys were pulling away into the abyss. It was relatively seamless. I was still shopping for someone, still cooking for someone, still running someone to doctor and dentist appointments, still worrying when they got sick and still trying to keep them from getting sick to start with, reminding them to wash hands after visiting the doctor and still making sure they had a jacket before we went out into the cold. I was still comparing labels on groceries, trying to choose healthier options for them. I was whatever they needed that day: gardener, nurse, secretary, handyman, manicurist, hairstylist, chauffeur, housekeeper, cook, concierge, friend, and caregiver. Basically, a mom.

The difference in letting my parents go, however, is that there is a great reward in letting your kids go. Watching my parents lose their independence was heartbreaking. As time went, they needed more and more from me, and I was happy to help any way I could. But there would be no moment like my kids had- the moment you let go and know you did your best. The moment you swell with pride as you see them succeed.

Last fall, when my brother unexpectedly died, I got the call from Mom as I was pulling into their driveway. She had just gotten the horrible news that her firstborn son had died, and she as was screaming for me to get there as soon as I could. I could hear her cry from the garage as I ran inside. She was slumped over crying in her recliner, and Dad was lying across the bed sobbing.

In just two weeks from that day, Mom would go into ICU herself. She would soon find out that she was dying. I sat by my dad's side as he grieved his heart out. There was nothing I could do, not one thing could I offer that would help fix any of it. I watched Dad's little frail, cancer-ridden body shake as he stood over Mom and cried. I watched him lose his desire to eat. I watched him give up his desire to live himself as she slipped away. I heard him pray out loud each night, struggling to understand his words because the crying overshadowed his ability to speak. I watched him wither down to nothing but skin over bone, literally, as the cancer ate him away. I watched him lose his dignity as others had to take care of his most basic needs. I watched his face as he looked hurt and somewhat surprised when he asked me if he was dying and I gave him an honest answer. I listened as he told me what to do with his belongings when he died. I went alone to plan his funeral a couple of weeks before he passed. I picked out a casket and decided on services. I took him, so sick he had to be helped into a wheelchair, to get all his important papers out of his safe deposit box so I could take care of all his business. I listened as he told told the girls at the bank how much he appreciated them and that he probably wouldn't see them again. I laid down beside him each night and listened as he talked about Heaven and wondered what it would be like. I brought him tissues as he cried about leaving us. I promised him I would be right there until the end, holding his hand when he took his last breath, just like I had done for Mom two months earlier. The Saturday we had Dad's funeral, it rained too hard to have the burial. I watched alone from my car that Monday morning as they lowered him into his final resting place beside Mom.

The weekend after Dad died, we started going through the house to get it ready to sell. I dove into work mode as a means of survival. I was already exhausted, but I knew if I stopped long enough to give into the exhaustion I might not get the energy to do it later. I worked nearly every day for weeks, sorting and readying things for an estate sale. I remember feeling as if my parents' whole lives were sitting in boxes in their garage. The last thing I moved were Dad's shoes. They were still sitting beside where his bed had once been..right where I put them the last night I took them off his feet.

I've spent the months since all that attempting to adjust to my new life. I've retreated. I've avoided doing things. I've kept mostly to myself. I'm sad, but I'm not depressed. For me, being away from society is healing. I'm trying to spend any time I can with my youngest son before he gets his driver's license this December. I'm trying to focus more on Dave and our life together. I've caught up on several things I had started before all that unravelled and halted my progress. I've created. I've written. I've built things and I've torn down things. I've had time to think, and I've had time to pray. I've even spent a few days here and there relaxing by the pool. By the time Dad died I was severely anemic, had developed high blood pressure and had gained 15 pounds. I've gone back to the gym and started trying to take care of myself again. I needed that for both physical and emotional healing. I have served everyone else for most of my life, and I'm trying to find a healthy balance while taking care of me for the first time ever.

Soon, I'll be ready to serve again, but for now, I'm tired. I'm traumatized. I still have little snippets of all those images unexpectedly flash through my mind. I still randomly hear my mom's cries and see my dad's sadness. I know with time those pictures will fade, but for now, they are fresh. PTSD is real.

I am getting control over my life again. I'm finding restoration in my solitude as my mind and body recover from the stress I've endured. It's been hard to overcome suffering so much sadness in such a short time, but God is reminding me every day that He has Mom, Dad, and my brother, and that I will see them again when my time here is over. That is what gets me through each day.

I am still a servant, I'm just tucked away on a shelf for a bit. Soon, I'll be called to task again, and when I am, I'll be just as ready as I've always been to answer the call. But tonight, I am thankful for rest.

Matthew 11:28-30 (NIV)
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

Coming Back to Life: Continuing Dad’s Legacy

I miss my dad. Every day, multiple times per day, I have an overwhelming feeling of loss come over me. For just a minute it takes my breath. I still have visuals of watching how he suffered the last few weeks of his life. I still hear him crying over Mom and my brother Kevin’s deaths. I'm just recently starting to sleep again without listening for him to holler for me from his room. I wouldn’t bring him back to this crazy place in that little tattered body if I could, because I know without a doubt where he is-at the feet of Jesus Himself. Still, there’s a void that’s left in my heart for as long as I'm here.

When Dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in October, 2017, I knew my time left with him was short. I had already spent 10 months taking him to doctor appointments, scans, blood work and tests, all in an attempt to explain his unusual symptoms. During those months, we made it a habit to go to Golden Corral, Cracker Barrel, Shoney’s breakfast bar or IHOP. By the time he was diagnosed, he was hardly eating anything at all. He lost over 70 pounds. Going to these places was about the only time he ate well.

For the most part, I have always been, like my dad, naturally thin. With the exception of having to lose pregnancy weight, I have never had to diet. Fortunately, most of the foods I like to eat are fairly healthy.  I typically eat like I’m dieting anyway! I don’t like dipped, battered, fried things, I don’t eat butter on anything (except homemade bread!). I only eat grilled chicken and turkey, as far as meats go. I love vegetables and salad, and I only like veggies on salad (no croutons or bacon bits for me), and I barely use a drop or two of dressing...the vinegar-based types. I don’t like the thick, creamy kinds. My big vice, however, is that I chase every bite of food with a swig (which sounds a little better than a gulp) of sweet tea. Anyone who knows me well knows I love sweet tea...to the tune of around a gallon every other day! My other big problem is bread and sweets. Cookies, cakes, pastries, donuts..basically anything that starts with sugar and ends with white flour.

I like to say my sugar and carbs addiction is Dad’s fault. He kept us well stocked with desserts when we were growing up. The last thing he cooked for me was one of his famous baked rice puddings just a few months ago. His mother, my Granny, got me hooked on sweet tea when I was too small to lift the huge glass pickle jar she kept it in. She was also a sweet eater. She would always say after dinner she liked a little sweetenin'! I always looked forward to peeking under her aluminum cake box in the kitchen to see what kind of cake she had made, hoping it was strawberry cake with strawberry icing. My sweet tooth is almost as old as I am!

I knew when I was eating gravy and biscuits at Cracker Barrel one morning and the lunch buffet at Golden Corral the next that it probably was going to catch up to me. I could feel that my clothes were getting tighter and I felt yuckier than I ever had felt before. Still, if I hadn’t gone with Dad to eat, he wouldn’t have eaten either, so I went. We went about twice a week, sometimes more. These breakfast and lunch dates took the place of my daily mile and a half walks and trips to the gym. I was acutely aware, though, that it was a trade I would never regret in the long run. We had many precious conversations, lots of funny observations and comments and really a sort of therapy as we talked about years gone by. I would not trade one single second of that time for all the skinniness in the world!

So, now Dad is gone and I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been. I gained about 15 pounds over the last couple of years, and I feel every pound of it! I developed high blood pressure during all the loss of Kevin, Mom and Dad in a 3 month span. I have struggled with my own version of depression: feeling like my best years are over, lacking motivation and energy, wanting to sleep all the time, feeling like I’m old, fearful of cancer, fearful of heart disease and diabetes. I’m not sitting around sad and crying, I just know all those feelings are a direct result of the hurricane I’ve been through in the last few months. I’m fully aware in my head that none of these “lies” are true, and I know without a doubt that God is in control of it all, yet my heart still feels them. There’s no fix for my loss. I have to feel it, no matter how painful it may be, and this is how I’m feeling it, and the extra weight is adding physical stress to my emotional anguish. 

About 2 months before Dad died, he said, 

"Don't give up on me! I'm coming back!" He gave it everything he had. He was so strong, even in such sickness and despair.

So last week I got to thinking about Dad and how terribly sick he became near the end. He was beyond pitiful. Yet still, he wanted so badly to live. He wanted to “come back”, as he put it. He tried so, so hard, too. He never gave up. Just two weeks before his death he said he was going to start walking with me in the springtime. He wanted to go back home to Appalachia again. He wanted to go to Golden Corral again! He just wanted to be able to eat again, and to feel like laughing again. He just wanted so desperately to live.

I kept hearing the echoes of Dad saying, “I can’t quit. I don’t know how to not fight. I have to keep going or I’ll lose my abilities.” I know he was right. I believe he lived longer because of his strong will and desire to overcome. So, my battle (fortunately) isn’t one with cancer, it’s one with pulling it back in the road and taking care of myself again. It’s about changing the monologue in my head. It’s about being productive again and pushing myself to get up and go walk, even if I would rather sleep in. It’s about choosing healthy things to eat instead of what’s convenient or what I like the best, and drinking a sweet tea here and there instead of half a gallon a day. It’s about trusting God to help me when I feel weak. It’s about choices, and making the right ones. It's about honoring God, and caring about how I treat my body and the health He has blessed me with. It’s also about honoring my dad, and living my best life, the one he would be living if he were only my age again and in as good of health as I am fortunate enough to be in. It’s about living while I’m alive.

I’m doing it, Dad. I can’t quit. I have to fight to be healthy and fit. I have to keep going so I don’t lose my ability to live well. I’m your girl, and I will never forget the example you set to keep on keeping on, no matter what life throws at you. I hope my kids will one day look at me and say, “She never, ever gave up.” And I hope one day they’ll want to take me to Golden Corral. 😋

 We built this little box for Dad to fill in an empty space after he fell between his toilet and bathtub several times. I wanted him to see this verse every time he lifted the lid. I hope he remembered it every time he felt discouraged.

This is the House

I haven't been able to write for a while,  partly just due to not having the time, and partly due to not being able to find the words to describe what we have been through in just 3 months and 12 days.

I knew in my heart when I fell and broke my wrist on October 21 that something big was around the corner. As I sat on the ground surveying my newly accordion-shaped wrist, I had a flash image of Dad taking a dramatic turn for the worse cross my mind. I just knew I needed to be off work for a reason, and I feared because of Dad's pancreatic cancer that it was him who would need me.

Just 18 days later, my big brother, Kevin, suffered a fatal massive heart attack. Two weeks to the day after that, Mom went into the hospital. Five days after Mom was admitted, Dad went in too. Mom died less than 3 weeks later, and Dad died 2 months and 2 days after her. As I type these words, we are in the process of dismantling their household. 

Today I stood in the sunroom of Mom and Dad's home and took in the echoing silence. This is the house that Kevin and I found together. The house that we had no choice but to search for when my mom became unable to climb the steps of their former home. The house my dad cried over having to move into because it wasn't something he chose, it was something that had to be for their safety.

This is the house that brought our family together. The house we all spent days cleaning, working on and moving Mom and Dad into. The house we were so excited about them seeing the first time! The house where we had Christmases, anniversaries, birthdays and Easters. The house that we all felt at home in. 

This is the house where Dad caught the cornbread pan on fire. The house that always had Top Gun radio blasting from Mom's Bose Acoustic Wave in her bedroom. The house that always had Fox News blaring in the sunroom as Dad sat on his side of the red love seat. This is the house that smelled like freshly washed towels tumbling in the dryer.

This is the house where Mom sat in her bedroom in her recliner watching The Price is Right, dreaming of how she would bid if she could only go be a contestant. This is the house where she discovered the Crumb Buster, her little mini-vac that she used on the kitchen table.

This is the house that was always set at 78°, year around. This is the house that I brought groceries into each week as my dad looked up from his chair and waved at me as I walked in. This is the house that I got poison ivy at every single year as I pulled up weeds. This is the house that was covered in Star Shower lights each Christmas.

This is the house that Dad strutted around in his crazy poker card shirt one Christmas Eve. The house that Mom last played the piano in. The house where Kevin made macaroni and cheese pans that were the size of the stove top! This is the house where Kevin stopped me in my tracks one day to tell me he loved me.

This is the house we got called to too many times to count because Mom or Dad fell and needed help getting up. The house where Dad lost his ability to be independent and to take care of Mom. The house they both last drove from. This is the house where Dad last watched the Braves play.

This is the house where I had to come do an emergency cleaning on all the windows after Kevin used his "miracle cleaner" that didn't have to be rinsed! This is the house where I planted Dad his own tomato plants and Kevin thought they were weeds and dug them up. This is the house where I watched in horror as Kevin was falling backwards off a 20 foot ladder while hanging their big clock underneath the vaulted ceiling, his eyes locked on mine all the way down.

This is the house where everyone would sneak candy from the candy bowl. This is the house where Dad brought me an ice cream sandwich as I painted the garage one summer. This is the house where we planted rose bushes for Mom to see from the sunroom. 

This is the house where we held Mom and Dad together when Kevin died. This is the house Dad begged to come home to. This is the house where we brought Mom and Dad both home on the same day with hospice care. The house where we had our last Christmas gathering early for them as we knew Mom wouldn't make it until the 25th.

This is the house where my dad sat sobbing from the pits of his soul as my mom slipped away. This is the house that we all came together in to care for Dad as the cancer took him over. The house we spent every day and night for the last 2 months. The house my dad last walked in. The house where we hung up his coat for the very last time.

This is the house where we last said I love you and where we heard it said back. This is the house where they took their last breaths on Earth. The house they left to journey to their eternal home in Heaven. This is the house that stands quiet now, no lively voices filling the air.

This is the house that is waiting on the soul whose life will fill it again with laughter and love. The house we will always hold close to our hearts. The house that will bring both a tear and a smile each time we drive by. The house that will always be part of our family history. Not just a house, but a home it was.

This is the house. This is the house.