muzungu

when we first went to uganda zoe was 4.  she was a tiny little girl with a mop of blonde hair.
everywhere she went ugandan kids would point and laugh and shout "muzungu- zungu!!"

muzungu means "foreigner" in most bantu languages.  zoe with her extra pale skin and white hair received the name "muzungu-zungu"  - 'extra white'.  she of course hated this and once she found out what it meant she would shout back, "i'm not a muzungu!  i'm an african girl!"  which just made the kids laugh harder.  7 years ago most of the kids didn't speak english- and she didn't understand that they were laughing because they were excited to see her- some one who looked so different- someone so foreign.

but i think zoe was on to something.  i think zoe kind of is an african girl.

this week mike and i are at a conference/ workshop on agriculture and health and culture and communication.  and as we've listened about the similarities and differences between our western american culture and east african culture - i'm thinking zoe might actually feel more at home in uganda.

our teacher shared a story about when he was teaching in congo.  he asked a student what was more: a half or a third.  their answer was "it depends".  this confused him, "it depends on what?"  the congolese student answered, "it depends on what you're comparing- a third of a banana is much bigger than half a coffee bean."  that is true, and brilliant.  it is more literal, more concrete- and that is how zoe thinks- outside of our western box.

her concept of time is more african, she doesn't process time linearly,  and she prioritizes people and relationships over 'getting things done'.

routine and dependability are important in africa and change can be threatening- zoe gets that.

westerners tend to compartmentalize things- to separate and divide life into parts- to order everything- while africans are better at holding onto the wholeness of life.  zoe shares this.

westerners tend to have a diminished perception of feelings and relationships compared to africans- zoe can quickly clue into people in a very perceptive way.

and east africans are way better with retaining the spoken message, with story telling, with not depending on the written word- that too, is zoe.

so i'm thinking that maybe she's right- she's not the muzungu she appears to be.  and perhaps while i'm struggling with framing my new cultural context, while i'm wading deep in the shock of adaptation, she'll be relaxing in a hammock, or chatting with a neighbor or eating a mango or petting a goat and breathing in the warmth of her new african home.  maybe she'll be feeling that she's found a place that 'gets' her.  and that makes me smile.

3.5 weeks

when i was a girl, whenever i went away from home, to camp or with a friend for a weeks vacation, my mom would hide a packet of notes in my suitcase- one for each day i was away.  her way of letting me know that i would be missed, that my family was there, thinking of me, while i was away.  it was a link to home- pieces to hold on too.  sometimes there were funny notes or cards- sometimes a bible verse- sometimes just an 'i love you'. i treasured them.

i was thinking about those cards last week and i was wishing for a moment, that when i'm unpacking, i would open one of those giant suitcases and find a note from my mom.  but then i remembered that i'm not going on a trip- i'm moving.

last week i couldn't sleep. i found myself making lists in my head of what we need to do- i found myself thinking about the fact that the water won't have fluoride- wondering if the salt will be iodized- wondering how many antibiotics i should bring- and whether the ugandan customs office will have a hard time with our tourist visa and our 15 bags containing pots and pans and a years worth of ACT fluoride rinse.:)
 
but i'm realizing that none of that really matters.


i'm in florida at a conference about agriculture and community health.  i'm at my computer, which i've escaped to during our lunch hour, eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and chips, alone.  it's hotter here than it is in uganda- the air-conditioning feels good- shouldn't get used to it.  we are with out the kids which is kind of good- but we're really missing them- they are such a part of this- what we are doing.


this conference is run by a surgeon who lived in the congo for 35 years- who raised his three kids there- who quickly came to realize that the 50 people who's lives he saved in the OR each year couldn't compare with the 5000 people who never made it to the hospital, who died in the community, from diseases that don't need surgery- diseases that don't need to happen- diseases that in our country we don't die of- diseases that are preventable.  malnutrition, malaria, TB, intestinal parasites and worms.  but as he talks for hours about africa, about it's people and it's illness and it's history and it's culture and the web that all these things spin together- it is a bit overwhelming.  it leaves me aware that the preparation i've been doing for the past year is really only the preparation we need to get us there- not to live there- not to work there. 


i'm realizing that packing our lives into 15 suitcases isn't the hard part.  that landing in uganda with three kids and 15 bags after a 20 hour flight late at night in 3 weeks- is not going to be that hard.  that fluoride pills can be purchased and aren't that big a deal.  but that what we are going to do- to TEACH IT, to LIVE IT- that will be the challenge.  that embedding our family into a completely new culture and people- with the goal to help educate and improve health- that is huge.


so i'm feeling my smallness again.  
i'm feeling that ...gulp...OK....deep breath....mantra....'not consumed'....and i'm remembering that verse my dad taught to our kids (an me) on a sunday morning this spring at the mountain house in lieu of everyone going in to church.
"God has not called us to have a spirit of fear, but of love and power and a sound mind".
that is today's mantra. 

i'm seeing that it's about just going now.  it's getting on that plane.  it's showing up- with all the excitement and anticipation and eagerness and nervousness and perhaps most importantly, smallness.  it's going with the awareness that we have a lot to learn before we teach, as we teach, while we live.   that smallness doesn't mean fear.  that we are going with a spirit of love, power and a sound mind.  that might not be in my suitcase, but it will be in my heart.

4 weeks

4 weeks from right now we'll be on that plane.
no more packing- and selling things- and buying supplies- no more night-time-wide-awake-list- making nights.  no more talking about what we have to do before we go.  no more 'this is the last time i'll eat this food in this restaurant' or 'this is the last time i'll see this person for a while'. 
we'll just be on that plane- ready to begin again.

today we sent off a check for the car we're buying in uganda.  we got an email back saying 'your kids will love the sunroof, it's great for looking out of to see the animals on safari- you will love it here.'
i got that wiggling feeling in my chest- that antsy excitement.  i began to remember that far off stirring in my heart- the tea fields- the peppery wood smell of carved animal sculptures- the bumpy roads- peoples beautiful smiles, bougainvillea, and the sounds of the birds in the morning.

it will be hard to leave- it will be sad.
but i'm ready- stirred and ready.

bee stings, fish hooks and another goodbye

it was one of those days.

one of those days when i got up after thankfully, a great night sleep, and put on my running clothes only to find that 2 hours later i was still in them but hadn't gone running and wasn't going to get the chance.  it was one of those days when my friend called me to ask if i could take her two youngest because she needed to accompany her dad to chemo and her husband was vomiting.  (which i was happy to do!)   one of those days when the kids (all 5 of them) needed to be ok with just bagels for lunch and no goggles at the pond because i couldn't remember everything.  one of those days when of course one of them got stung by a bee and another one stepped on a fish hook while the baby was heading off in to the water.  one of those days when i managed to get sunblock on everyone - except zoe, when i managed to feed everyone lunch- except me, when i managed to have some child talking to me or hanging on me for the past 15 hours.  yes- even now- bryn just tried to come upstairs and sleep in my bed with me.

but despite all this- it was a good day.  oezay idday eallyray ellway odaytay.  erethay ereway inimalmay ickystay oughtsthay andway eshay asway engagedway. ('zoe did really well today.  there were minimal sticky thoughts and she was engaged.' -  i thought if i said it in pig latin i wouldn't jinks us).  but it is amazing that despite a hot, child-ful day with 5 instead of 3, a bee sting and a fish hook, it was still good because zoe did well. it gives me pause.

but. 

while at the pond, with the kids, feeling like i needed to grow another eyeball, i got a phone message saying that mr. b died today.  and i just wanted to get up, abandon the kids,  find those running shoes i'd had on early in the morning and take off.  i just wanted to be alone- fully alone- because i loved mr. b and i love his wife. because i knew he'd go before i left for africa- i just knew it- but wasn't ready.  because even though i feel so far way from work- i don't feel far away from them- because i remember the last time i saw him while he was hospitalized, and i said 'good bye' and i wondered..... is this the last.... but i knew he had an appointment in a few weeks...so i told myself no....but in my heart i think i knew. 

i've spoken with his wife every week since- every week except the last two- because i'm here and i lose track of the days and have children hanging off me like vines and now i feel terrible.  for my 2 week absence and my 6 week silence.  i kept meaning to speak to him- directly- to ask his wife to pass him the phone- to hear his voice and to let him know how much he's meant to me, the example that he's been- what he's taught me- that i miss him- and to muster up my courage to say 'goodbye'.  but i didn't.  instead i said things like 'tell him i miss him' or 'give him a hug for me'.  so i'm left with this.  sitting in my room with the fan blowing and finally a moment of pure quiet, crying- because he's gone and i'm bad at goodbye. crying because i'm tired of goodbye's and there are lots of them coming.  because i knew he was dying 6 weeks ago and i didn't call and say it- i didn't speak it- those words that people need to hear directly- 'i care for you'- 'i'm here for you'- because i was scared of having to say that word that might not even matter that much.

goodbye.  

tomorrow i'll call her, again.  i'll step out of my life here for a minute, untangle the vines and tell her i'm sorry for the loss of her husband and her best friend.  i'll thank her for being his advocate, his champion, his dedicated driver and cook and pill dispenser and comedian and hand holder and so often, his voice.  i'll tell her how much i value them, that i'm thankful for my years knowing them, that i'm sorry i wasn't there the past two weeks- that i wish i could have said a real 'goodbye'. 

i know he knew that i cared- that they were special.  i know she knew it too. i don't have any doubt.  and while i'm sitting here questioning why i didn't respond to the nudgings to speak directly to him,  questioning what was holding me back and what i was so afraid of.  he's probably smiling and shaking his head. 


mr. b was a man of few, but wise words.  i know he'd say, ' dr. reid, you know what's goin' on. thank you for letting my wife continue her role- to be my filter and to be my voice.'

that is what she was.  that is what he wanted her to be.  those were their roles.  who am i to change that so i can feel good about my 'goodbye'?

thank you mr. b for continuing to teach me even in your passing.  you will be so dearly missed but not forgotten.
ever.

the guts and the glory

i'm missing my porch- and my space- and my routine.  those little pieces that keep my days together in the midst of change.

it's hard having a kid who's wired differently.  but it's really hard to have a kid who's wired differently when you're living with other people.  because- like it or not- of no fault of anyone- you and your child are on display- with all the guts and the glory.   i have a kid who doesn't 'do' what the other kids do, when the other kids do it.  a kid who can't eat what they eat- drink what they drink- who has to take pills in the morning- who (whether she likes it or not) needs to be reminded over and over again to complete her activities of daily living and who often (whether she likes it or not) needs help with them.  and when you're around other people who aren't usually watching, you feel the differences much more- (emphasis on feel).  there is a combination of feeling both embarrassed for your life, and defensive of it.  a combination of feeling overly annoyed at my child and also proud of her for handling being in a new place with out being consumed. 

because the routines are off, the familiar is absent, there are new things to process and  the typical coping mechanisms aren't around.  the things she relies on to manage life, and the things i rely on to parent my special kid- aren't there when we travel and live with other people.  so the stress levels are higher- and there is the living with the anticipation of possible trouble- always lurking in the background.  and inevitably, the 'ugly' comes out -because when you live with people, they see all those times that people don't see when they come for a visit or meet you for dinner.  they get to see her when she falls to bits and me with my hair standing on end.

and who i might want them to believe that i am- can be quickly stripped away as the reality of who i am screams loudly for all to hear (literally).

so i'm left feeling like my underwear is sticking out- for all to see- all the time.  i'm left feeling vulnerable and it makes me feel raw and tired and short fused and mildly trapped.

it can leave me wanting to shout- ' we have bigger fish to fry!' so it doesn't matter if she leaves the table before everyone is finished or doesn't help set the table, or she brings her toys with her to the event or she watches a movie instead of playing outside- we have bigger fish to fry. 

and no she doesn't eat the hearty wheat version of gluten free bread or peanut butter with chunks or pretty much anything with a sauce- and i'm ok with that because - we have bigger fish to fry!

yes she does eat chocolate almond milk at every meal - even with syrupy pancakes.  yes she does get help washing her hair.  yes she does get to watch another cartoon show on my computer- because we have bigger fish to fry.

and somehow in this process you see your own life from other peoples possible perspective and you are reminded again that you belong to a different club- the not-normal club- the one that you didn't mean to sign up for- the one that means you too are different and so is your life. 

but i knew all this before we decided to come up to new england for july.  i knew this because we live this.  but you make a choice.  you can choose to be with people and try- despite the embarrassment of metaphorical undergarments being seen- or to hibernate and 'protect' yourselves. and this is good for us- it's good to live in a way that is not hiding out because it's easier- it's good for other people who know and love us, to experience our reality-even in our vulnerability- to see our guts and our glory. 

running out my life

that is it-
5 weeks from tonight i'll be on a plane- heading to a new life- a new home- a new place- east africa.

right now the sun is setting over the field beside mikes parents house.  the kids are watching some american ashley tisdale movie- the birds are finishing their day- an ambulance sounds- things here are normal- western- as expected- in sound and sight and plan.

5 weeks from now i'll be on a plane- no turning back- with our 15 bags and our hopes and plans and a whole lot of unknown- a whole lot of adventure and excitement and surprise.  5 weeks from tonight- it's happening.

and i'm ready.

today i went for a run.  i'm not a runner.  not in the way that most people are.  it's not part of my self description- it's not part of my day- i don't have cute running clothes- i don't time myself- i don't run with other people or compete.  but i run because it's good for me- because it helps me regulate- because even when i hate it and i'm huffing and puffing and miserable- it's humbling and it keeps me mindful of others.  today it was a perfect running day.  there are no excuses.  it wasn't too hot- or too humid or anything else.  (i did have a cut on my heel- but that didn't even hurt.)  so there was no reason to complain.  i ran a little more than a mile and got to a hill.  hills are hard for me.  they require more- they push me and tempt me to walk- to slow down - to pause.  but they also ask me to challenge myself.  so as i'm pushing up this hill, i began, as i often do, to push myself to run up this hill for a specific person, a cause, to attribute meaning as a way to get myself to motivate and rise to the occasion.  it never works. in fact, it back fires.  every time i envision myself running up the hill for this patient or friend with cancer- for zoe and her challenges- for those with out  hope in africa- i inevitably-stop and walk up the hill.  so today- after failing, again, that challenge- i did what i usually do when i get to hill, i surrender, i ask for help, i rely on the grace and not my own strength. and, as usual, that is what gets me up the hill.

where is the lesson in this?  perhaps it's obvious. 
i need to acknowledge my own need- my reliance- my inability to power through- my dependence.


today i felt nervous- mildly anxious and uneasy- uncomfortable with the time frame- with 5 weeks- with 35 days- with how quickly it's all happening.  but then- i ran.  and i remembered my need and dependence.  i remembered it's not about me being in control, it's not about me gathering my strength.  i remembered the 'why' and the 'who' and let go of the 'when'.  i felt the lift of 30,000 feet.  i saw the world again from that angle and perspective and i got excited and i got convicted and i was humbled that i need to be still and show up.  i need to let go and just go. 

this crazy thing we do- each day- this life- this air we breath and exhale- it doesn't matter where we do it- but how we do it.

hope and ok with not

i just had a moment.  a moment of despair.  of what the *&^%&#* is going on here?
was it the email i got with the negative feedback on our home for sale by the 20th house viewer?
was it the fact that i was on hold with jetblue because they messed up my flight for my medical missions training course - my online booking somehow booked me for a flight in and out in one day- instead of the week i need to be there.  was it that i know it was a computer glitch and i know i wouldn't have done that- but somehow this internet error will cost us another 200$?  super.
or was it that zoe had a meltdown at the park because she couldn't find her friend when playing hide-and-go seek, and i had to spend 15 minutes helping her regroup in the car in 90 degree weather- explaining again how important flexibility is in playing- how she needs to try to read the confused look on her friends faces- to not get so angry- to not storm off and shake her voice and her body- to try to calm her inner turmoil so she can engage in the world as she seems to want to.

was it that at the sandwich shop i needed to sit next to her- to remind her to not lick the jam off her gluten free wrap bread- to not use her fingers to lap up the jam on the plate- to just sit and eat her food, while her brothers need no prompting- no reminding.

or was it that after almost two weeks of single parenting, especially her- i'm just running on fumes- and i'm tired of needing to do so much for her- to wash her hair- to put the rubber bands on her braces- to fasten her bathing suit top- to tell her to stop laughing forcefully and flapping her arms during a movie- tired of having to remind her of what to do- the order in which to do it- to keep her on task- to keep her from being distracted- to help her calm down when she gets stuck on a thought.  i'm tired of the unpredictability of each moment- and of the exhaustion that comes from wondering if these moments are for forever- what are we to expect out of her future?  out of our future?

interesting that her name means 'life' - like hello, get used to it, this is your life.  it is what it is.

coming home to old friends and family i'm faced with seeing her differences more glaringly.  everyone else's kids - who are her age or  younger- are growing and maturing normally- becoming themselves- doing things independently- and i feel like we are stuck, straddling the age range from 3-12 in one child.  and it's isolating.  it's depressing.  it's an awakening- or a great big reality check. 

she's different.
she's special.
your life is not normal.
it never will be.

what do you do with that?  how do you live in it?  how do you create expectations or goals or even hopes and dreams for a child like zoe?  what is too much to hope for?  what is too little? and doesn't that devalue her? what kind of a parent hopes too little?

i need to continually find that balance between accepting and hoping-but with out waiting for what i'm hoping for to happen. hoping with out needing to ever get there.  it's the waiting and the needing that mess me up.

last night i was up late with my dear old friend of 15 years who we are staying with this week.  she asked me how i think zoe is doing- what we expect for her- what we think will happen with her.  and after a long day, in a long week,  sitting on her couch- i just let my guard down and said in full disclosure- i just don't know.  i don't know anything.  i don't know how i think she's doing because one minute i think she's 'better' and one minute i can't believe she's done something and the inconsistency makes me crazy.  i said 'i don't know' because it requires a comparison of some sort- 'better' than what?  'worse' than what?  i don't know what my expectations are- i don't know what my hopes are- i don't know what to expect.  i know what i'm afraid of- i know what i want for her.  but do i hope for that? 

and this is where the stillness comes in.

i'm sitting here, on hold with jetblue- hoping not to be one of those crying basket-cases on the phone- but feeling like this might be the moment that i fall to bits.  that this might be the moment that i let down my hair and explain to some random telephone strangers all the woes of my life.
...but i have no money to pay the difference! i'm leaving in a month to be a missionary in africa!
....but i have a child with special needs and my husband's been away and i'm worn down thin!
...but i'm really tired and i don't need this right now!

and a feeling of complete comfort washed over me- a feeling of stillness- that collected all my bits and stuck them tightly back together.  and i realized that 200$ is just not that big of a deal.  that it's ok to be tired.  that i am not consumed.  i am not in bits.  that there is hope- even if i don't know what it looks like or sounds like or how many times i need to wash hair. 

that i just have to live it- each inconsistent moment at a time-even stumbling and tripping and falling.  that there is no 'answer'.  that 'i don't know' is OK. 

stone walls

sometimes you don't appreciate a place until you leave it.  that for me, is new england.  i'm loving being back here- to the warmth and the salt and the granite rocks and the longness of the summer days and the old friends and the crusty sameness.  the family-owned businesses that remain after 30 years- the metal siding houses next to tiny wooden saltbox houses with plaques that say 'circ 1802' and converted barns and two lane highways and the red sox- all of it- i'm loving it.


i love driving around and seeing, just off the road, hidden slightly in the tree overgrowth-the stop and start of stone walls.  markers all over new england of a past- an example of form following function- boundaries of stone- rocks removed for field tilling- for vegetable growth- for sustenance- placed thoughtfully to define an area- an area that might be no longer- but the wall remains- the stones placed like a monument- now part of the landscape, stay.  i didn't notice them when i grew up here.  i walked on them- added to them- rearranged them- hid things in them- but never thought about them.

today i was tired of being a single parent.  i was tired of saying 'sit still and eat', tired of having to remind people to get dressed, tired of not having back up- and i hadn't even woken up zoe yet- zoe my slowest get-readier- zoe who likes to mosey- to take her time- to chitchat often at the most inappropriate and inconvenient times.  so i tried to get ready- to finish the boys and get her breakfast all laid out before waking her.  i tried to be patient when she took forever to finish her medicine- when she explained that she was just grumpy because i'd woken her up- when she asked from more bagel before even eating the one on her plate.  i explained, calmly, that after she finished she needed to go straight upstairs and get dressed- that she couldn't and shouldn't do anything else before being dressed- that i needed to trust her- that we were all trying to get out of the house in 30 minutes for church.
'okay mom!  i know!'  (said as if it's absurd that would need to spell it out- as if she usually has it under control) and i went upstairs to get dressed.

but the margarita glasses on the dining room table were too much to pass by- what if she stacked them?  what if she made a sculpture with them?  how would that look?

and it's times like this when i really wonder what- if anything- goes on in her brain?  is she thinking 'this is probably a bad idea but i want to do it anyway?'  or 'i know i'm supposed to go get dressed- but i'll just do this first'?  or is it just the simple not thinking- just being- there, in the moment- as if i never said anything- as if we're not going anywhere- as if life can just be lived that simply- that obliviously.

i only know this happened because the tower of margarita glasses came crashing down and smashed into smithereens sending glass shards into three rooms- on table, chairs, floors, rugs, everywhere.

and it wasn't that i was mad at the broken glasses, or even at the 15 minutes it took to vacuum it all up when trying to get out the door- it was, it is, the unreliability of my life- of our lives.  it is that i can't depend on her to follow simple directions- i can't depend on her to behave almost 12.  it is that reminder that her brothers at 6 and 4, are more trustworthy than she is.  and that inconsistency creates stress.

i tried to tell her that- but i was mad.  exasperated mad.  and i used too many words- words like 'i can't trust you'  and 'you're more work than your brothers combined'.  words that i hope and pray flitted out of her brain like my instructions had earlier- words that i hope and pray didn't settle in to damage a self image. because it's much easier to clean up broken glass than a broken person.

so after church and after the church picnic, i went for a run and i ran past many stone walls- all different sizes and heights and levels of care and maintenance.  i thought about the fields i ran past- now beautiful and grassy and gardened- now with out those stones.  i thought about how hard it must have been to dig them out- to lug them over to the side of the property- to stack them- to try and place the flat sides on the top.  i thought about the work involved and the time- the slowness of the process and the lack of immediate gratification.

life is full of stones. 
and what do we do? leave them?  move them? stack them?
do i make something beautiful with them?  something functional?  something significant that will stand through time- that will be a reminded of what was- of hard work- of goodness despite? 
or do i just complain?  do i trip over them and wish i had a different piece of land.

i know i do a lot of that- tripping and wishing.  but i want to settle into that place of accepting my land- my life- my girl.  i want to stay in that place of moving the stones gently- of placing them carefully- of preparing the land- of making the garden. and in the process, i want to use those stones to build a wall.

time just gets away from us...

the other night i watched the last few scenes from the coen brothers remake of 'true grit'. it was enough to make me want to watch all of it- and the last line stuck with me.

'time just gets away from us.'

it does, doesn't it?

time- that thing we pay attention to- we gauge our lives by- it gets away from us.  it goes faster the older we get - which makes sense, because as we age- each section of time is proportionally less than the year before- so it seems faster- and it is faster- and it gets away from us.

i'm up here on the north shore of new england.  i'm up here in the land where time froze when i was in my transition from teen to twenty something. when my life was all about me.  when i had time- so, so much time- time i didn't even appreciate.  this was the place where i explored the ocean and read ts eliot and wrote my own bad poetry and listened to enya by candle light and drank wine coolers and smoked camel lights. it's where i spent summers dancing on lawns at 'great woods' to the music of crosby stills and nash and the jerry band, wearing hippy skirts with bells on the drawstring and soleless moccasins.  it's where i made mixed tapes and ate dunkin donuts after hours and had friends in REM cover bands.  this was the land where i fell in love hard.  fell in love even though i was young.  the land where i got married at 22, even though no one else was.  so it's strange to be back at 40- dag that sounds old. and i'm up here now with my three little kids- one who is much closer to my age when my life was here - than i am to that age now- and that is weird.

but it's really good for me to be here.  and to be here, now.

sometimes when your life is spinney and crazy and logistic-y something happens to alter your tracks- to reverse direction- to push the inner work that is needed- to force the stillness.  that is what new england is now.  it's a reminder.  a pause.  a halt and reverse.  a slow down.  it's a move that has forced me to let go of the rigamarole and embrace the now- the focus on others- the kids.  it's a move that is reminding me (in small ways) of how life in uganda will be- communal- shared- relational- slower.  and for this- this preemptive trial- i am so thankful.  it's a move that is reminding me of how things will be different- routines will have to change- things will hold different meaning.

i'm also seeing how adaptable we all are- how even zoe will be ok- besides, what are her options?

what is different is that here- i'm seeing old friends- friends that knew me when i was 18 and 20 and 22- friends that i have histories with- even if i haven't seen them in years- they know me- the time trialed and true me.  in uganda it will be new friends.  it will be people who know me as 40, as a mom, as a doctor, as a wife of 18 years.

but what i am- who i am- has time taken it away?  what has 20 years done?  anything?

tonight the sky is white and completely consistent.  there is no variation- no depth- no pockets.  and the trees i look out on are the same ones i climbed at 19.  there is a steadiness.  we are who we are- always in some ways the same.  time just gets away from us.

goodbye mr. w

it is cool here in the evening and now the sun is setting in bright pink stripes across the sky- over dark trees- over quiet.  my fan blows from the window.  my stomach full from dinner.  my day full of old friends and old places. 

it was my night to make dinner for the three families and as things were wrapping up- the fish done- the cookies ready to go in the oven, my phone rang and it was mr. w.  well, no, it was his son- but they have they same name and they are both in my 'contacts' list on my iphone- so when i got the call- i paused because there was mr. w's name- on my phone. 

he wanted to make sure i knew his dad has passed.  he wanted to make sure i knew that he had been  there- all night with his dad- that he'd said goodbye- that he'd held his hand- that his dad has seen the grandkids- had called his siblings and his mom- that he'd had enough strength to do those things.  he wanted to tell me that he'd heard how much i loved his dad, that he appreciated me- that his dad had too- that i meant something in his life.  and i was able to say 'thank you'- to tell him how much his dad had meant to me- how happy i was for their reunion- how rare it is to see the redemption- to see that bond formed after 25 years of absence- to see the gifts they'd given each other. 

he said he might want to call me later- to check in- to keep up.  he knows i'm moving to uganda next month.  he knows i'll be far.

i got off the phone- to tend to the rice and the cauliflower.  i was so happy to have those moments on the phone with him- that he'd remembered me and called- that he'd thought to share the end of his dads life with me.  and then i realized that i never really said 'goodbye' to mr. w.  i said 'i'll see you'.  i said, 'go on and get to the hospital'.  i said, ' they'll take good care of you.'  i said, 'you 'll get some good food and that fluid off your belly.'  but i never said, ' mr. w- i won't see you again- mr. w 'thank you' - mr. w ' good bye.'

the pink is gone from the sky now.  it's shades of blue- some clouds - some last light at the edges. stillness.  i put zoe to bed and asked her what she wanted to pray for.  she said, "mr. w".  i told her he'd passed today- that he was gone.  she asked me if i'd cried.  i said, 'no'.  she asked me if i was crying in my heart- and i said yes.  then she told me she wanted to pray for his son - that he'd be happy, anyway, despite, that he'd find joy.  so that was her prayer.  and that tonight, was mine. 

goodbye mr. w- and thank you- you were loved- you will be missed- and in my heart- i'm crying for you.

disconnect

i know i'm disconnected- but i'm not sure from what.  i got called this morning that mr. w died.  today, this morning, july 7th. my friend, another doctor who has taken care of him all week, called to tell me. he'd come in over the weekend, got his fluid tapped, but his belly had a lot of tumor, it probably got nicked, he began to bleed, the liver was broken and couldn't make the parts needed to clot things off, he didn't want any surgery, they tried to fly him home to die at home, to die with his people in new orleans, he was too sick to go, last night he 'slipped into a coma', a nurse sat with him all night, she gave comfort, he got pain meds, he was at peace.
my friend was crying as she told me, i was dry as a bone.  that is what happens when i'm disconnected.  or maybe i knew it was coming- maybe that is why i cried last week at work about him.  i kind of knew it was done.  mr. w taught me a lot- about being a patient and about being a doctor.

when i met him last summer, i liked him immediately.  he had a spark in his eye- and a sincerity that he could turn on and off- i could see how smart he was- street smart- people smart.  i met him at a time when he was making some real choices to turn things in his life around.  reaching out to his son who he'd left as a child- reconnecting- reaching out- making things right.  he knew his cancer was bad but he was going to live as long as he could- 'fight it' - not be told by anyone when his time was up.

over the past year he made several trips home- to see his mom- his siblings- his friends.  he wrestled with alcohol and probably other drugs- that love/hate relationship- that overcome/give-in dance people do with the substances that have always been there when people haven't been- that have brought much comfort and much pain.  i didn't care- i didn't mind- it was his process- it was his letting go- it was his dance.  i still gave him pain medicine- which he never abused.  i gave him my cell phone number- which he never abused.

over the year we trusted each other.  there were times when i told him things he didn't want to hear.  there were times when i didn't say anything- or do anything- but sit there when he was so angry that his cancer has spread and there were no more chemo options.  i watched him on the seesaw of acceptance and denial- and i learned it is a wiggling teetering- not a smooth process- this business of the acknowledgment of our dying- our finitude- the terminal condition of being human.

he'd spent much of his life homeless- on the street- disconnected from family and systems- and i wanted to know what that was like and what it was like now to plug back in- what it feels like to need the system again- to have to trust- and to be facing death.  and he allowed my medical student to spend hours with him- to interview him- to hear a different perspective- to hear his wisdom.  he gave of himself generously- shared his story- his life with us.  'if it's gonna help you- i'll do it'.

after thanksgiving he mentioned wanting to go home to louisiana.  i told him he'd better hurry- he'd better do it while he feels well enough.  (i thought he'd be gone by christmas).  and i learned, again, that i can be wrong.

'doc, i don't plan on going anywhere soon- you know what i mean.'

i hoped he was right- and he was.

in the winter and the spring he made several trips home to new orleans- he allowed hospice to begin to help him while he lived with his son.  he almost always came to his clinic appointments- even though he took several buses to get to me- even though it was 90 degrees- even though he'd lost 50 pounds-  always calling me on route to make sure i'd still be able to see him- even though morning clinic was over.
of course.

people need to be met where they are and where they've been.  their story is important to how we care for them now. 

perhaps we connected because his story wasn't pretty- but he tried.  because his life wasn't tied neatly in a bow- but he carried on.  because he lived out the process of redemption.  he teetered between the nature and the grace- and he chose the grace.

i don't know what his years were really like- i don't pretend to understand life as a homeless 60 year old african american male in the south with stage 4 lung cancer.  at.  all.  i don't even really know how much redemption he experienced with his family- with himself- with his God.

but i do know he inspired me.
i do know his is a story of Grace.
as is mine.
as is yours.

shine on girl

last night we had more fireworks- on a perfect new england evening.  it was beautiful.
and it came after a beautiful day. 

yesterday we went to my friends house- my friend who has 9 children- 8 of them still living at home.  she also has chickens and a great yard with two tree houses and a trampoline, an rv parked in the driveway (like a third playhouse) and a lake - so it's basically like a kids paradise.  my boys loved it.  zoe loved it.  she could engage and retreat- be in the water- be with the animals- be with the kids- be alone.  it was a day of natural play- and it made me so happy.  i was happy for my boys to feel free and i was happy for zoe to feel normal- to be able to relax- after several days of upheaval and being 'off'.  it was good.

after a delicious birthday dinner for my mom-in-law and my sister-in-law, we headed out to a fireworks party at 'poppi's' (my father-in-laws) church. and zoe had one of her zoe shine moments- the kind when i feel warm inside like things will be OK (eventually) like she has what she needs to get where she needs to go in life.

there was an older guy sitting with his crutches alone by where they were handing out ice cream for the kids.  he's a retired teacher- a parishioner at the church- with bad arthritis.  zoe was introduced to him by her 'popi' who is the minister at the church and they became fast friends.  they talked the entire hour we were there- she helped him move his chair to be closer to the fireworks- she shared about moving to uganda- he explained why light travels faster than sound- at least those were the bits i overheard.  they were so engaged in their discussion that they were missing the fireworks.  i tried to go get zoe - so she could see them and be with us- but it was like she knew something- she knew something was more important.   when it was over and i was gathering the kids in the car,  he said "that is one special girl you have!"
"yes, she is" i said.  she shook his hand and thanked him for talking.
i loaded the boys in their seats and turned around to grab zoe. she was giving him a hug.
she ran back to the car and turned and shouted "mr. jd you're wonderful!"

when we got home- i told her i was sorry she'd missed the fireworks but that she'd done a great job of talking with jd- that i was proud of her.
"it's OK mom, i could tell he needed a friend- i just had a sense. i'm good like that."

yes zoe- you are.  if only i could remember your heart.  if only i could remember you do have a sense- you do have the ability to reach those that most people walk right by- your kindness reaches out - you are real- you are pure- you have much to teach me.

independence day

i love fireworks- sparkly things lighting up the night.
last night i watched them from the roof of my car looking out over the manchester harbor with the sliver of a moon reflecting on the water- along with all those dazzling lights.
but i was a hard day too.

hot and humid and in the new england world of no air conditioning - you can't get away.  sticky outside and inside.  and so was zoe.  stickier-out of sorts as i knew she would be- new environment- different people- different things to do and eat and sense.  i hate being right about these sorts of things.  i'd so much rather be wrong.
but this is my life- it's often not pretty.  it's weird and different and doesn't make sense to other people. but this is what it is.  and so you go with it. live it best you can but it's still hard.

a few summers ago when things were really rough for zoe and for me we were in the car going to the pool, listening to switchfoot.  this song came on whose beginning doesn't sound great to me- so i was about to change it when zoe said- "no mom, this is a great song!"  so i stopped and listened- and she was right. 

'Yesterday is a wrinkle on your forehead
Yesterday is a promise that you've broken
Don't close your eyes, don't close your eyes
This is your life and today is all you've got now
Yeah, and today is all you'll ever have
Don't close your eyes

This is your life, are you who you want to be?
This is your life, is it everything you dreamed that it would be?
When the world was younger and you had everything to lose

Yesterday is a kid in the corner
Yesterday is dead and over

This is your life, are you who you want to be?
This is your life, is it everything you dreamed that it would be?
When the world was younger and you had everything to lose

Don't close your eyes

This is your life are you who you want to be?'

it made me cry and smile.  because there was my girl - belting it out in the way, way back of our car.  and there was i, feeling like my life was full of broken promises- that it was not all that i had dreamed it would be, that i often do close my eyes, and i was left asking the question- am i who i want to be?  and i was left with the reminder- the plain old truth of it- This IS my life.

so in this disrupted time now- in these disrupted days- with my disrupted daughter and my disrupted self-i'm again asking the question: am i who i want to be?

it's finding that balance- it's acknowledging where we are- what our life is not- how it's different from what we dreamed it would be- and accepting- but always asking- am i who i want to be in this?  am i who i want to be when it's not what i would have signed up for?  when it's been a really sticky day for zoe?  when my kids feel displaced and out of sorts? when the second buyer for the house pulls out and we go back on the market?  when mike is gone for two weeks?

it makes me think back to that movie 'the tree of life'- the question posed at the beginning of the movie- are you going to choose to live by human nature- or grace?

it's just easier to fall into frustration and anger at life when things are hard- when we feel like we're suffering.  it's harder to find the grace- to live in it- to grow in it.

last night, before the fireworks, mike and i went to singing beach in manchester.  it had just rained stormily and the sky was intense. we walked up this short boardwalk over the sand- that dull, splintery hollow-sounding path- and looked out over the ocean and back at the sun setting over the land.  it was beautiful.  mike wanted to go put his feet in the water- which meant being far from our illegally parked car- but we took the risk, left our shoes and walked in the rain wet sand down to the ocean. and that is when i remembered how going a little further- how taking a little risk- can dramatically change your perspective- how much more beautiful life can be. 

from the ocean we had a full view.  from the ocean we could see the entire sunset back over the land- those crazy, intense clouds, the pockets of darkness, the crescent moon, the pink, the lavender and the calm of the lapping water- the scattered rock poking through- the light on the harbor masters boat- the transition from day to night. 

up on the boardwalk- i had thought it couldn't get any better- i didn't want to leave it because i was savoring the beauty.  but that sandy walk to the sea opened it all up.  from that new place i saw so much more.  the view was bigger, deeper, encompassing, passionate and full. wet sandy feet and the smell of low tide in the last of the light of the day.

there was my moment of grace.
 

no good at goodbye

it was the first of july- and my last day of work.  i'm not good at last.  i'm not good at goodbye.  i'm good at first- i'm better at hello.  lately my life feels like a lot of lasts- and lately,  it's been creeping up on me.

friday, i had clinic, my last clinic. and friday, mr r. was waiting for me when i got up to clinic.  he is also a writer.  he had written two poems and that was pretty much why he was there- to share them.
so i'll share one too.

'the world changes every day
this i know is true.
it doesn't matter what you may say,
it's all about what you do.

if you only go around to criticize
the things others try to do-
your life will be built of only lies
because you have to contribute too,

it's not what this person or that has done,
when everything's finished and through
if you can't greet the morning sun
having done all that you can do'

love it.

the next guy was someone i hadn't seen in 18 months- one of my first patients at the VA.  a relatively young guy with parkinsons disease- who comes to clinic with his ex-wife. another one of those women who give and give and care- and take care- of these guys- just because it's the right thing to do- just because no one else will.  i love this- it teaches me.  it reminds. it is right.

then i got a message from my next patient apologizing for missing his appointment- because he is in the hospital- because he's in the icu with an arterial clot.  badness.  but he thought to call, and cancel, and to say goodbye.

then a new patient with pancreatic cancer.  a vietnam combat vet who grew up with 10 brothers and sisters barefoot in the countryside of the deep south.  a man who'd made wise choices to overcome things.  a man who knew his character and chose to be true to himself even when that was the harder thing to do.  a guy who chooses peace- a guy who lets go.  i had to say both hello and goodbye, and thank you- because he reminded me of things that needed reminding.

then mr. w.  my dear old mr. w.  mr. w who i wanted to say goodbye to.  mr. w who i'd been looking forward to seeing all week.
he didn't show up for his appointment.  so i called him.  he is not getting out of bed.  he is full of fluid. he'd missed his appointment 3 days ago to get the fluid tapped- there were transportation issues- even though he lives with someone- even though he is on hospice.  and it just made me so sad.  it just pushed my buttons.  for some reason- all the sad of my leaving and all the sad of letting go- of this job, with these vets, in this place, and all the sad of everything became all wrapped up in mr. w.  and while talking about his case with a colleague- i began to cry- just a little- just teary-not the ugly cry.

and then she said that thing that you never want to hear when you're teary and hoping not to really loose it- she said "i know you have so much on your plate right now- and that you're so tired..."
no! don't do it!! don't acknowledge my overwhelm! don't call out all the junk i'm bringing to the table!
doh.
so i got a little more teary- but then i pulled it together and set up an ambulance to go get mr. w and bring him in so we could tap the fluid and get him home to louisiana.  i had to call his son and tell him the plan- and that i was leaving- and that i wouldn't be around for the family meeting that needed to happen- because i'm moving to africa and this was my last day.  and it just sounded absurd coming out of my mouth.  he thanked me for all i'd done- 'i 'preciate you- we all do'. 

i got called from oncology to go see the patient who has eyes like my dad- he wanted to say goodbye- but i didn't.

and then to torture myself even more- i called mrs. b- to check on her and her husband.  but i couldn't do it- i couldn't say good bye.  i will call again next week- from boston- maybe from africa- i just can't say goodbye.

friday afternoon i got a card from my 'fellow'.  a woman i've trained for the year- a woman that i've coached in how to talk to people that are really sick, people that are dying.  she has watched me talk to patients- prescribe medications- and has run her plan by me for each of her patients all year.  it was a beautiful card.  a keeper.  it was thankful and praising- and it made me feel worthwhile. she is good at goodbye.

saturday morning we got up early and cleaned and packed and left.
we drove 18 hours to boston- the five of us.  18 hours away from what was 'home'.

and while driving somewhere in pennsylvania, i found out that mr. w never made it to the hospital that night.  he called to tell me the ambulance didn't come, and that he was hungry- and could i get him something to eat that wasn't too spicy.  and i was so mad.  at the system.  at the negligence.  that after a lifetime of neglect as a homeless veteran, he wasn't now treated with ultimate respect. that what i'd set up for him, hadn't happened.  i made calls, i made it happen again, i told him to go to the hospital- his son would bring him, the team would be waiting. 

i still didn't say goodbye.

today we arrived. new england.  mikes parents home.  the house i've come to for the past 22 years- my closest home.  sitting outside, not on a porch, but a patio.  the night is growing around me and the neighbors are playing basketball- otherwise it's quiet- no tree frogs.

it smells different than georgia- more earthy and less sweet.  my kids are watching a movie with their cousins. we've drunk some wine and had lasagna.  it is good.

but i'm here in new england to say more good byes.  and i'm no good at good bye.

i'm just not good at goodbyes.