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Posts Tagged ‘family’

Happiness Taught Ella-Style: With and Without a Fever

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 21, 2015| 5 Comments »

Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you. (Nathaniel Hawthorne)

Ella pulls toys from the shelf. She hands me a soft baby doll and then takes picture flash cards out of the box. She holds up the cards for the doll to learn the words. I provide the voice for the toy.

An hour ago our granddaughter had a fever. She kept my iPad close to her but she didn’t seem to be able to focus. No video or game could take away her discomfort. One dose of children’s acetaminophen brings her back to play, to smiles, to an interest in her favorite foods.

I want my precious girl to be well now. I can’t yank infection from her system with wishes. Antipyretics are temporary. She sees the doctor today. My husband and I wait for those moments of shared happiness, that grin that says: I’m a fighter. Down syndrome hasn’t thrown me. An illness won’t either.

Not that she could say that with grownup words. Ella has her difficult moments, but her version of a crabby day isn’t easily noticed because it doesn’t resemble another child’s I-want-it-my-way tantrum. She doesn’t demand. Her first words when she arrived at the house this morning were, “I’m sick.” Yet, poor-me isn’t in her, and her statement did not appear with a pout or whine. She mentioned it as fact.

Now as her temperature eases down toward normal, her natural happiness reappears and her ability to capture joy alights upon me. It settles into my being, at least for a while.

On most days I have a difficult time sitting still to watch more than one television show, even if the program happens to be riveting. My agenda calls me to write, clean, do laundry—even scrub a toilet. Yet, I can sit next to my granddaughter for hours while my neurotic need for action remains on hold.

Her small frame lies curled in my lap and I massage her back with as light a touch as I can manage. The fever has returned. She turns toward me and smiles. The butterfly has landed, and I don’t want it to fly away. Ever.

***

Ella’s mommy calls after Ella’s appointment. She has a virus and a sinus infection. Nothing dire. I am grateful…I am grateful…I am grateful…

Photo by photographer, Sue Wilke

butterfly on green background, Sue Wilke

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For My Granddaughter, Kate—Happy Birthday

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 11, 2015| 3 Comments »

I knew when I met you an adventure was going to happen. (A.A. Milne)

When my oldest granddaughter was born, eleven years ago today, I was overjoyed. Of course she was the most beautiful baby in the world with big round, observant eyes and her mother’s dark hair. Naturally I was expected to ooh and ah about my grandchild. All babies are wonderful even if they arrive premature, huge, with wild hair or none at all, with or without disabilities. The newborn with more wrinkles than an English bulldog, a perfect clone to a ninety-year-old relative, is a gift.

However, our Kate was incredible from day one. Her bright eyes predicted her future. She would become charismatic and gentle, a natural in social situations, as well as Grandma’s teacher about life and gratitude.

Kate’s parents had child care lined up for when Mommy went back to work. However, I had learned from my mother-in-law how deep a grandparent-grandchild relationship can become. And I wanted that gift. Since I worked part-time Kate and I were together on Fridays.

I was grateful that I did not need to watch my first granddaughter grow from a distance. My computer room became a computer/toy room and it housed balls, cars, and puzzles. Stuffed animals took on human roles. Bears and bunnies ate whatever cook-Kate pretended to prepare for them. We had adventures and read picture books together.

Friday was Toddler Story Time at the library. Kate loved it. In fact, when she refused to leave one day, and then ran away from me and fell, her barrette sliced the back of her head. She recovered from the several-stitches-that-followed long before I did.

Now, Kate sees the places in other people that need stitches—not the kind that can be repaired with a surgical needle and thread. She is the girl who defends the other kids when they are taunted by bullies, the person the child with autism trusts. Kate does not see disability. She sees the person.

And I learn from her beautiful spirit, her enthusiasm, her growth. Actually she is about a hair taller than I am now. She shows me the secrets inside the iPad I don’t understand. She explains the rules of girls’ basketball, but doesn’t give me a hard time when my shots don’t come anywhere close to the basket.

Many years ago she asked me how long I would live. Obviously I didn’t have an answer, but I told her that I hoped to dance at her wedding. She bought the answer. For now I simply wish her peace, and joy, and a special kind of mirror—the kind that sees inside to all the beauty that lives within her spirit, budding, blossoming, becoming even more wonderful every day.

Happy Birthday, Kate! I love you.

learning from children morning coach

 

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Treading Water While Learning From Sue

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 6, 2015| 1 Comment »

When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive—to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love. (Marcus Aurelius)

I am treading water at the Y on an ordinary Sunday afternoon. I feel amazingly free in the deep end of the pool as I kick and move my arms through the tepid water. There are not many people here today, so I swim back and forth with no direction planned, no agenda, only the idea that this hour or so belongs to me, my husband Jay, and the generosity of the water.

A woman arrives. She leans against the wall. We smile at one another. Within minutes we are talking. She shows me an exercise that is good for back pain. She tucks water weights under her arms and then relaxes, torso straight, legs dangled in the water. She has had serious back surgery—and has been recovering for months.

However, I don’t realize how intense her situation has been until after we have been chatting for a while. She had pain all over her body. The cause had not been easily diagnosed. She had a congenital condition; she was missing a portion of bone, discs, in her back. That section has been rebuilt, a beyond-major task. Yet, pain has not left her life. It remains. She has not succumbed to relying on heavy medications. She keeps going without feeling sorry for herself.

When I think I have been sufficiently impressed she gives me more to absorb. Her grandson, Jonathan, was born with half of a heart. He was not expected to survive. He has had three cardiac surgeries and is now five-years-old. For him to have survived this long has been a miracle. With incredible calm she says that he will eventually need a heart transplant, but that his chances of survival will be greater when he is older.

“If he can make it, so can I,” she says.

I watch and listen so closely I wonder if I have blinked. My youngest granddaughter is scheduled for open heart surgery at the end of April. This woman’s words and attitude travel through the water and give me more than hope. They bring peace. Worry is counterproductive. Gratitude yields more gratitude tinged with joy.

“So, what is your name?” I ask.

“Sue.”

I can remember that one.

She claims to be an ordinary person. In fact, in an e-mail I receive from her later, everyday-woman seems to be her theme. She has three children and five grandchildren. She emphasizes gratitude and offers prayers for folk who suffer greater losses.

We are all both ordinary and unique, flawed, gifted, and human. To think anyone is superior is delusional. I believe that how we approach each day makes the difference. And no one can judge whether an individual is great or not. Even if one moment brings a person success, the next stress offers the chance to grow or to break—as long as the life-game continues.

Night makes day brighter. Winter makes spring sweeter.

Here’s to the privilege of being alive! Cheers. I lift a glass of water, but the beverage isn’t what matters. It’s the attitude of peace that does.

Thanks, Sue! See you at the Y.

not giving up story not over

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Snow, Learning from Others, and a Book Contract

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 2, 2015| 4 Comments »

All I ever really want to know is how other people are making it through life—where do they put their body, hour by hour, and how do they cope inside of it. (Miranda July)

Snow falls and covers bushes, grass, streets, and parked cars. My tiny church community cancels services for the third week in a row. We had decided on a Lenten theme, “Be Still and Know I am God,” based on the psalm. That phrase repeats in a song I wrote for my community. My guitar remains in its gig bag; I imagine the instrument telling me it wants to stay in a thermal-underwear environment. The stillness in the verse feels held under snow, the next moment frozen, hidden without discernible answers about what to do next, or the nature of the whole of life. A plow or shovel touches only the surface of the issue.

I find myself wanting to adjust and re-adjust the day’s plans as if they were mismatched place settings at a large table. Since my mother-in-law’s memorial service was yesterday, out-of-town family is visiting. I have a few promised projects to complete. Moreover, my oldest granddaughter has a basketball tournament this afternoon. My growing frenzy lets me know choosing option-all is not going to work, especially with March bursting in like a frosty albino lion.

Pause, I tell myself. Be mindful of what you are doing. I have been working at the computer for a minute or two, and then stopping to do a household chore, talking on the phone, looking for items I don’t need until next week…trimming a sharp-edged fingernail. I behave like a moth following a flashlight with weak batteries.

I think about my mother-in-law, about the impact she made on everyone she met, how she cared about how other people made it through life, day by day, hour by hour. And I decide that perhaps that is the key. How do other people live? What are their stories? If I am involved in caring about someone else, my concerns find edges that take shape, unlike my shaggy, broken fingernail. And so does my writing. Most of the time I discover that other folk and I share the same core feelings. Everyone doesn’t necessarily express them in the same way. But inside the individual, when the self-protection and personal issues are stripped away, identical needs remain.

The day my mother-in-law died I remember feeling a sudden, inexplicable moment of peace. It was followed by the sense that she had a message for me although it did not come in her voice or have any other-world tones. It did appear to be direct, which was her style: You have never been confident, but you will be now. You have the strength you need to succeed. Something good is about to happen and you will be ready for the challenge.

The next day I was offered a book contract for a fictional work. Since this is a new development I will simply reveal that the tale is fantasy about an eleven-year-old boy. The book was written for kids about that age. The premise, however, is universal enough to engage an adult. (At least I hope it will.) Chase, the main character, thinks he isn’t even good enough to be ordinary. Yet, he has gifts he doesn’t know about that include magic. None of those gifts appear at the touch of a magic wand. First, he needs to break a curse…when he has a broken leg and his best-and-only friend was just killed in an accident.*

I’m not sure anyone is ordinary, or that anything great happens without effort.

*further info about publisher and publication to come

early morning view from our back window, my learning center until the snow stops…

contrast plant with snow

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Goodbye, See You Later

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 18, 2015| 8 Comments »

You’re going to come across people in your life who will say all the right words at all the right times. But in the end, it’s always their actions, not words, that matter. (Nicholas Sparks)

Snow was predicted for today, but I expected a token inch or so. Our street, finally plowed yesterday afternoon, is now hidden. In the semi-darkness of early morning the white bitterness seems to explode its message; winter has won this battle. When the phone rings before eight in the morning I know what I will hear before I answer. The call comes from two states away, where it isn’t seven in the morning yet. My sister-in-law has not called to chat.

My mother-in-law has left her physical body in Midwestern winter and joined a higher, temperature-free dimension. As I look outside again I realize that like the February snow, Mary’s death was inevitable. But, I thought my spirit would be better prepared. Winter will end. This goodbye is final. At least from a limited five-senses point of view.

The first bird I see at the bird feeder is a female cardinal. The cardinal is a symbol of a visitor from the next dimension. Next, two more cardinals arrive. They don’t stay long. They feed and then fly into our blue spruce.

I think about the transience of life’s experience and that thought leads into disconnected memories:

I see my mother-in-law’s move from a more affluent neighborhood to a less wealthy one, not because she needs to do it, but because she sees a mission there, a house closer to her church. My vision follows the many people Mary invites into her home, the folk who stay for a while and then leave, changed somehow because of her welcoming…

Next my memory revisits the day when my younger son has tied a towel around his neck as a cape. He is two days shy of his third birthday and he is playing superman. He tries to fly off a chair, but his fantasy doesn’t transfer into reality. He has sustained a concussion. I don’t have a car. My mother-in-law drops what she is doing and takes me and superman junior to the hospital. Then she waits until after Steve is treated before bringing us home. Mary and Son-number-two are buddies. They have been since he was an infant…

Mary and Son-number-two’s daughter are also buddies. Nana is now declining. Ella pretends to be a bear. Nana pretends to be frightened. The game continues.

And so does today’s snow—along with a deep and penetrating cold. No, I could not ask Mary to stay on this earth with a body that is no longer able to contain her incredible spirit. She needed to leave it. The human Methuselah-model has not yet been designed. I said goodbye to Mary the last time I saw her, and I meant it. However…there is always a however. My generous attitude was aimed toward her, not me.

Another cardinal stops for a bite to eat before taking off.

Okay, how do I rephrase goodbye? See you in the next dimension, Mary. I don’t know when. But in the meantime, you have an enormous number of people asking about you. So long. Peace, beautiful lady!

cardinal, symbol of visiting past loved one

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A Road Delay, Gratitude, and a Dr. Seuss Book

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 4, 2015| 2 Comments »

Cultivate the habit of being grateful for every good thing that comes to you, and to give thanks continuously. And because all things have contributed to your advancement, you should include all things in your gratitude. (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

Most of our six-hour drive home has been calm. I imagine being one with a flock of geese traveling in a V-pattern above the flat Midwestern farmland. Some sun, some gray clouds, but little traffic. Even an expected construction delay turns into a minor build-up no worse than what we experience in low-trafficked business districts.

Then we arrive at the bridge that borders our home state from the south. Night is approaching. Brake lights are lined up in a queue long enough to mimic an infinite miniature Milky Way set in rows. Cars move under school-zone-limit speed. Jay seems less irritated than I expect him to be. However, he has spent the last week watching his mother deteriorate, her body and spirit preparing to separate. I place one hand on his knee.

We are so near, and yet so far from home. And then we see a tow truck easing along the side of the road. An accident has caused this backup. We are sure of it. However, we don’t learn the severity of the situation until the morning newspaper arrives.

Hours before we arrived at this part of the Interstate, a multiple-vehicle crash had occurred. At least four people were injured. Even a 2,000-gallon tank truck had been flipped over. The bridge had been closed for two hours.

I had wanted to leave my brother-in-law’s house earlier. But he had been kind enough to fix breakfast for us. The preparation and clean-up had taken longer than expected. Jay had been at the house a week longer than I had. We needed to bring home more stuff—and inventory a fuller car.

Now, as I sort laundry and put our toothbrushes back where they belong I find a small surprise among the packed items: a children’s book, Dr. Seuss’s “Butter Battle Book.” It looks familiar. As I open to the first page I see my younger son Steve’s name illustrated in outlined block letters, definitely his work more than two decades ago. His younger out-of-town cousins, now grown, read the book when they were small. Now Steve’s daughter will enjoy it. Good words passed on.

Good actions can be passed on as well. Not every day will save me from closed passageways. But inside each moment the seed of a possible blessing hides. And waits for the opportunity to be discovered, and sent in unknown directions…

happy thankful Optimism Revolution

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Inside the Wait

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 27, 2015| 5 Comments »

The key to everything is patience. You get the chicken by hatching the egg, not by smashing it. (Arnold Glasow)

My husband and I are sitting in a customer service office in our bank. Jay says that we are trying to get some financial business started early because he will be out of town for a few days. His mother is ill, in hospice. He is going to visit her. The bank’s representative listens and understands what he is trying to do.

Jay adds that our youngest granddaughter was supposed to have open heart surgery at the end of this month. That was postponed. Our little one contracted bronchitis. She will be at too high a risk for complications to proceed with the operation now.

The bank representative pauses and then asks, “Is it okay if I pray for your mother and granddaughter?”

I’m surprised, taken aback in a pleasant way.

“Of course,” I answer, tears in check. “We’ll take all the positive energy we can get.”

Our entire family and Ella’s many friends wait with reluctance for Ella’s surgery because we want the ordeal to be completed. Done. Part of a long-ago past. We want results now. Preferably yesterday. Ella’s power is awesome to watch. At the age of five she has admirers of all ages. Down syndrome may prevent her from developing an over-sized ego. It does not prevent her from spreading joy. She needs a membrane removed that is interfering with the function of her physical heart. Her social heart is intact.

My mother-in-law’s family and friends wait for her passing and hold onto the memories of all she has given as well as celebrate all she is and was: Mary, the strong outspoken woman who was director of social services at a now-closed psychiatric hospital; the social activist; the woman who took people into her home and gave free counseling; the grandmother who bonded with my boys while I worked at a hospital pharmacy.

She will be 95 on February 28 ½ if she rallies. Yes, she was a leap-year baby who learned to turn elongated celebration into an art form.

I talk to her on the phone and she thanks me for the soup I sent.

“You made this?” she asks. “What’s in it?”

“It comes from boiled turkey bones with some extra chicken broth. Plenty of garlic. Rice. Glad you like it.” I don’t go into detail about all of the ingredients. They don’t matter. This isn’t a how-to discussion.

I give soup to heal. In this case it would take more than broth-simmered-all-day to repair a body too worn to journey any longer. I sent the soup for taste and warmth, a hug in a mug. True, chicken soup does provide electrolytes as well as the protein, carnosine. Homemade soup is a potent liquid. But it won’t add a significant number of days to my mother-in-law’s life.

Waiting—for a passing and for a surgery. Very few people win patience awards. And no one can see inside the fertilized egg for tomorrow’s possibilities. Even the chicken doesn’t know what the outside world looks like.

I don’t drink alcohol, so I lift my coffee cup for a toast to today, to whatever blessings it brings. To hope, serendipity, rain, rainbows, and the unseen. Since waiting is inevitable, may it be blessed.

dove and rainbow PIQ

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Havoc and Peace

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 10, 2015| 6 Comments »

A wise man adapts himself to circumstances, as water shapes itself to the vessel that contains it. (Chinese Proverb) 

As I read an e-mail message with bad news that gives me chills, I wish I could be like the broadcaster who tells about a mass shooting and then shifts to a story about an adorable newborn zoo baby without missing a beat. Something incredibly ugly rises from the page as I follow each word; it haunts me.

Later I discover that the story wasn’t true. The truth is even worse because the lie had been designed to hurt and that hurt spread to the friend who sent me the message. However, her e-mail had asked for prayer—and I can’t rescind the positive thought I sent out into the universe. In fact, I wish I could have doubled it.

I don’t have permission to reveal either the lie or the truth, but any horrid example from the universal store of inequities would do. Besides, further reaction exacerbates the problem.

Sometimes when I hear the word outrage used to refer to a situation, personal or political, little warning signals flash inside my being. Anger can lead to action: an increased awareness, energy, gifts of money or time. But outrage triggers war. I’m-right-you-are-wrong yields more I’m-right-you-are-wrong, not a solution.

The multiple awful situations the world offers lose their power as I turn my attention toward the blessed places in my life. My youngest granddaughter’s speech is improving. She lives hope and love—it exudes from her like warmth from a furnace in Midwestern January. She has given her two older cousins sufficient example to affect their lives. They respect everyone. Down syndrome, autism, physical handicaps are superficial in their eyes. Kate and Rebe see deeper, into hearts.

The people who wreak havoc have hearts, too,—somewhere—often so injured even they can’t find them anymore. I wish I had answers for them, and for us who are surrounded by the damage they cause. I don’t know how to soften stone. But I know peace takes time. Peace may flow in my words, but I have to work toward it as hard as everyone else does when injustice affects the people I love.

The next message I read or hear could bring good news. There is always that very real possibility. Yesterday I listened to my two sons laugh and banter, as friends, allies. And I celebrated the moment. Today a little girl giggles as her grandmother leads her through the water at the Y. I feel the goodness of their moment through the waves.

Water, ego-less, shape-free, open to sea, pool, or sewer.

Peace and hope to all, wherever you may be.

hope

 

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Toppled Tree and a Day Back in Time

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 3, 2015| 5 Comments »

Giving opens the way for receiving. (Florence Scovel Shinn)

The cord to the tree lights is a tad out of my reach. Sure, I could ask Jay to help, but he is in the middle of working on our finances. The two older grandchildren will be here any minute. I’d like to greet Kate and Rebe with some sparkle from the tree, up for only a few more days. Str-e-e-tch your short body, Terry, one more inch, one m-o-o-o-o-re…

Maybe not such a good idea. Crash! My son is pulling into the driveway. The girls run to the front door. They are greeted by broken glass and scattered ornaments. Son number one is going to be late for work. And he can blame it on his clumsy mama. Fortunately, he doesn’t waste time with unnecessary words. He sets the tree upright and leaves with a pleasant good-bye, see-you-later as I get the garbage can and Kate cracks the eggs for breakfast.

Electricity becomes the un-theme of the day after Kate becomes enthralled with a battery-operated candle flame and tiny glass lantern. She decides we will pretend to be a pre-modern-appliance-aged family. We weave our own clothes, plant and grow our own fruits and vegetables, as well as maintain an orchard, an old artificial pine with a few wayward branches in the real world. The television and iPad remain off for most of the day.

Some exquisitely embroidered pillows, a precious and unexpected late Christmas gift to the girls, also become an important part of the game. They provide portable bedding—the pillows travel from one-room cabin to tent to wagon train as the day progresses. The photo below was taken under a sheet tent made with the dining room chairs as posts.

“Don’t you want to go out somewhere today?” I ask the girls.

“No, we want to stay here and play, they both answer.

“Besides,” Kate adds. “Cars haven’t been invented yet.” Okay, so the answer is something of an anachronism, but if our house is a suitable playground, I guess I really can’t complain, even if the day did begin with a broken-glass cleanup. The tree comes down by the feast of the Epiphany anyway. The fun, I’m hoping, lives here.

pillows from Nora

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No Ordinary Ballet Class

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 18, 2014| 4 Comments »

When you are loved, you can do anything in creation. When you are loved, there’s no need at all to understand what’s happening, because everything happens within you. (Paulo Coelho)

Preschool and kindergarten-aged boys and girls in mismatched socks to designate left and right leg movements, sit facing a mirror with their instructors and occupational therapists. The kids’ families watch ballet class begin—this is recital day.

A couple of the class members react to the rhythm of the music. Others move to their own inner melodies. Some seem shy; others outgoing. One little girl runs as if the polished floor were a glossy playground. A man, probably her father, repeatedly brings her back into the group. All of the children have Down syndrome; none of them fit a pre-cut so-called handicapped pattern. They are unique individuals.

I watch and take pictures that are too fuzzy to save. Perhaps for me this moment can’t be held in a square frozen in time anyway. The program continues as Ella takes the hand of the girl who has been running freestyle and they explore movement through large, pastel-colored hoops. I envision the imaginations of these almost-dancers explode.

No, this isn’t ballet in the traditional sense—it doesn’t need to be. Actually, I need to control a perfectionism I see in myself. I begin each day with enthusiasm, carpe diem all the way. Then my eagerness morphs into frenzy. By noon my energy frizzles. I often jump through self-imposed hoops without enjoying the current moment.

Perhaps it is the perfectionism in me that sparks annoyance when someone needs to give every detail about her son or granddaughter’s perfect SAT scores. “That’s nice.” But if that story began with a struggle that has a survivor element in it, my interest rises. I’d rather hear about the child with a disability who made it despite the odds. Or the tale about how a loving home changed the life of a troubled teen. Sure, a natural ability is good, but what is being done with that talent—besides a claim to superiority?

These children in the ballet class and their families don’t make I’m-the-best statements. They don’t apologize either. In a poem I had published in “For a Better World 2012″ edited by Saad Ghosn, one stanza begins with:

My granddaughter has Down syndrome, I say.

I’m sorry, the reply.

I’m not, my answer.

As I read those direct-not-metaphorical lines at the public library in April I saw eyes widen, some with surprise, others with a smile. The folk with a smile either knew my little girl or they knew someone like her. They understood resilience, possibilities, not an extra chromosome.

Love has enormous power. Unfortunately it doesn’t come packaged in a neat Hallmark card. If it did utopia would be as common as MacDonald restaurants and ants at a picnic. Ella knows the word no and says it clearly. She can be as stubborn as any other child. However, she has a lot to offer the world, and so do the other children in this class.

I don’t need to understand what is happening as I relax and enjoy the moment; I only need to know that it is good, and that my first Christmas gift is in the form of a queue of children. They move in an awkward oblong shape while holding streams of white ribbon, grins escaping like sunshine through the inevitable solstice.

how awesome you are

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