Without a doubt, our family has changed in this past year since Paul's death. I can think of some specific ways that each of us is different now - some good, some not so good.
I, for one, am more introverted, less optimistic about the future, much more likely to feel sorry for myself, but I also have a clearer perspective of eternity.
I believe that the Lord is always "working" on us - always orchestrating our circumstances in order to grow us into something more, bring us closer to Himself, and prepare us for a greater earthly purpose.
My problem is that growth requires change and change is difficult. It necessitates the humility to admit the need for change and the discipline to make the change happen. It is much easier to settle for the way things are. Or worse, to let the inertia of my circumstances pull me into a bitter, unhappy heap of a person.
To grow, I must fight against the "gravity" of nature - the desire to complain, to feel sorry for myself, to compare my plight to others, and to let anger and disappointment control my life.
And yet, in the last year, I can see that - left to my own way - that is the very direction I would go. In fact, I've gotten down that road on numerous occasions. It's a downhill road, you understand, so you can be well into it before you even realize it. Then, to get off it, you have to backtrack by climbing uphill. It's a lot of work - mentally and emotionally.
Truth is, there's nothing special about the one year mark. I wasn't any more sad about Paul that day than any other day. But it is a good reminder to reflect back over this year - to admit my mistakes and my need for change, to ask the Lord for the wisdom and the discipline to take the road of growth, to remember Paul and all I learned from him, and to commit to not wasting his life or his death.
My soul cleaves to the dust;
Revive me according to Your word.
I have told of my ways, and You have answered me;
Teach me Your statutes.
Make me understand the way of Your precepts,
So I will meditate on Your wonders.
My soul weeps because of grief;
Strengthen me according to Your word.
Remove the false way from me,
And graciously grant me Your law.
I have chosen the faithful way;
I have placed Your ordinances before me.
I cleave to Your testimonies;
O LORD, do not put me to shame!
I shall run the way of Your commandments,
For You will enlarge my heart.
Psalm 119:25-32
July 17, 2008
July 14, 2008
One Year
I always loved being Paul's mom. It was, perhaps, the most significant role I've played in my life thus far.
July 1, 2008
Broken Promises and Long Walks
I am really cherishing these morning walks with Jack and the dog. It's hot and there's poop to pick up, but it's great "talk time" with my eldest son. Tomorrow will be our last such walk as Whit will finish up reading camp and will be joining us on Thursday. Not that I'm not looking forward to adding my youngest son to the routine, it's just that "talk time" will probably turn into "fight time" over the leash, which direction to go, or who gets to kick the empty water bottle laying in the street.
Anyway, during today's walk with Jack the conversation somehow turned to the idea of broken promises... those promises we make with every intention of following through, only to have unforseen and uncontrollable circumstances deem keeping the promise impossible.
It reminded me of this memory of Paul, which I shared with Jack:
I don't remember the date or even the time of year, I just remember it was one of Paul's many in-patient surgeries. I'm pretty sure it was for the purpose of putting in a new port because they were using a peripheral IV (that had already been placed in his arm) to administer the medicine.
Anyway, as we were waiting for our "turn," Paul informed me that he did NOT want me to leave him until he was asleep. I promised him that I would stay with him until he received the "sleepy juice." Now, you must know that it is Cook "policy" to administer a drug called Versed to patients while the parents are with them. This drug is supposed to make them feel "drunk" and not really care that they are being ripped from their mother's arms. (They supposedly don't remember the experience. Let me assure you, however, that the parent remembers every harrowing moment of it)! Once they are in the OR, they get Propaphal, which is what makes them go to sleep. However, Paul had had Versed in the past, and it did absolutely nothing for him... he was still very much aware that he was being taken away, and he still very much cared. So...Terrill and I always insisted that we be with Paul until he received the Propaphal. Depending on who the anaesthesiologist was that day, this task ranged from simple ("Is that the way Paul likes to do things? Well then, no problem!) to extremely difficult ("I'm sorry, ma'am, but administering that drug outside the OR is a very unsafe thing to do. We only have the safety of your child in mind when we say that this is against our policy"). I won't go into how the conversation went whenever the doctor had this attitude.... let's just say that I don't ever recall NOT breaking Cook's "policy."
I will never forget that day that the anaesthesiologist was a very dear man named Dr. Byrd. He was more than happy to comply with Paul's desire to stay with me until asleep. I placed Paul up on the gurney, Dr. Byrd told the nurse the amount of medicine to administer, and then he left. Now, keep in mind that Paul had done this same drill numerous times. This routine was just as familiar to him as soccer practice is to most kids his age. He watched the white medicine flow through the tubing and into his arms and expected to fall asleep within seconds. Instead, he looked at me and said, "Mom, I'm not sleepy." When Dr. Byrd returned, he was amazed that Paul was not out given the amount of drug the nurse had administered. Then, he examined Paul's IV and found the problem: his vein had blown. He showed me the "puddle" of medicine just pooling in Paul's arm underneath the skin. I don't remember exactly what he said next, but it involved me leaving. I knew I had to go immediately or I wouldn't be able to go at all. I kissed Paul, looked into his eyes, apologized repeatedly and left the room.
While I waited for Paul during the surgery, I held onto the hope that maybe enough of the drug had gotten into his system so that, even though he was awake, perhaps he would not remember the separation. The surgery went fine, Paul's recovery was typical, and we were back in his hospital room by mid-afternoon. Paul never mentioned the botched pre-surgical job, so I broke the ice. Holding on to my "memory loss" hope, I asked, "Paul, do you remember when you left me for surgery?" I will never forget his reply: "You mean, when YOU left ME." I was crushed. I apologized profusely and asked him if he understood. Of course he did. Would he forgive me? Of course he would. And like the sweet child that he was, he never mentioned it again.
I don't know exactly why I'm re-hashing this particular memory. Maybe it's just a chance to talk to Jack about the times when we just can't keep our promises. Perhaps it's to remind myself to be careful about the promises I make to others. Maybe it could be that I need to learn from Paul's example and forgive those who've let me down. Or maybe I just miss my Paulie.
Anyway, during today's walk with Jack the conversation somehow turned to the idea of broken promises... those promises we make with every intention of following through, only to have unforseen and uncontrollable circumstances deem keeping the promise impossible.
It reminded me of this memory of Paul, which I shared with Jack:
I don't remember the date or even the time of year, I just remember it was one of Paul's many in-patient surgeries. I'm pretty sure it was for the purpose of putting in a new port because they were using a peripheral IV (that had already been placed in his arm) to administer the medicine.
Anyway, as we were waiting for our "turn," Paul informed me that he did NOT want me to leave him until he was asleep. I promised him that I would stay with him until he received the "sleepy juice." Now, you must know that it is Cook "policy" to administer a drug called Versed to patients while the parents are with them. This drug is supposed to make them feel "drunk" and not really care that they are being ripped from their mother's arms. (They supposedly don't remember the experience. Let me assure you, however, that the parent remembers every harrowing moment of it)! Once they are in the OR, they get Propaphal, which is what makes them go to sleep. However, Paul had had Versed in the past, and it did absolutely nothing for him... he was still very much aware that he was being taken away, and he still very much cared. So...Terrill and I always insisted that we be with Paul until he received the Propaphal. Depending on who the anaesthesiologist was that day, this task ranged from simple ("Is that the way Paul likes to do things? Well then, no problem!) to extremely difficult ("I'm sorry, ma'am, but administering that drug outside the OR is a very unsafe thing to do. We only have the safety of your child in mind when we say that this is against our policy"). I won't go into how the conversation went whenever the doctor had this attitude.... let's just say that I don't ever recall NOT breaking Cook's "policy."
I will never forget that day that the anaesthesiologist was a very dear man named Dr. Byrd. He was more than happy to comply with Paul's desire to stay with me until asleep. I placed Paul up on the gurney, Dr. Byrd told the nurse the amount of medicine to administer, and then he left. Now, keep in mind that Paul had done this same drill numerous times. This routine was just as familiar to him as soccer practice is to most kids his age. He watched the white medicine flow through the tubing and into his arms and expected to fall asleep within seconds. Instead, he looked at me and said, "Mom, I'm not sleepy." When Dr. Byrd returned, he was amazed that Paul was not out given the amount of drug the nurse had administered. Then, he examined Paul's IV and found the problem: his vein had blown. He showed me the "puddle" of medicine just pooling in Paul's arm underneath the skin. I don't remember exactly what he said next, but it involved me leaving. I knew I had to go immediately or I wouldn't be able to go at all. I kissed Paul, looked into his eyes, apologized repeatedly and left the room.
While I waited for Paul during the surgery, I held onto the hope that maybe enough of the drug had gotten into his system so that, even though he was awake, perhaps he would not remember the separation. The surgery went fine, Paul's recovery was typical, and we were back in his hospital room by mid-afternoon. Paul never mentioned the botched pre-surgical job, so I broke the ice. Holding on to my "memory loss" hope, I asked, "Paul, do you remember when you left me for surgery?" I will never forget his reply: "You mean, when YOU left ME." I was crushed. I apologized profusely and asked him if he understood. Of course he did. Would he forgive me? Of course he would. And like the sweet child that he was, he never mentioned it again.
I don't know exactly why I'm re-hashing this particular memory. Maybe it's just a chance to talk to Jack about the times when we just can't keep our promises. Perhaps it's to remind myself to be careful about the promises I make to others. Maybe it could be that I need to learn from Paul's example and forgive those who've let me down. Or maybe I just miss my Paulie.
June 25, 2008
How?
How, Lord?
How do I keep from living in the past…
From dreaming of yesterday and longing for days gone by?
How do I hold the memories close enough to enjoy, but not so much that they consume me?
How, Lord?
How do I appreciate today… with all its sorrow, with all its grief, with all it’s missing?
How do I look forward to tomorrow?
How do I look at my boys and see what’s there, without dwelling on what’s not?
How, Lord?
How do I have compassion for others, whose hardships I don’t deem “worthy” of mine?
How do I demonstrate the joy of the Lord, when I feel the hardness and cruelty of this world?
How do I experience grief fully, without wallowing in it?
How, Lord?
How do I keep from marking everything by that one moment in time…either “before” or “after”?
How can I be changed by my loss, but not engulfed by it?
How do I let it sharpen me, without cutting me to pieces?
June 18, 2008
Help find a cure
A friend of mine, Karen Debenport, who lost her precious daughter, Elesha, to Neuroblastoma just a couple of months before Paul died, is continuing the fight against this nasty disease.
As a member of the LOVE club (a non-profit organization organized to help build awareness and fund research for NB), she is working on a fundraiser. If you live in the DFW area, please consider supporting this group. Here are the details from her website:
******************************************************************************
Cooks is hoping to become a big center for Neuroblastoma in the South. I'm hopeful that it will also make more drug trials available for our patients. If you live in the area, please come out and support this event. We will have root beer floats, lemonade, baked goods, face painting, make-and-take bracelets, cotton candy, a cake walk, police ID kids and a firetruck and ambulance for kids to explore.
2nd Annual LOVE Club Event
June 21, 2008
10am – 2pm
at the Home Depot
9509 White Settlement Rd
Fort Worth, TX 76108
Benefitting
Cook Children's hospital
New Neuroblastoma Clinic
**********************************************************************************
Thank you, Karen and the rest of the LOVE Club!!!
As a member of the LOVE club (a non-profit organization organized to help build awareness and fund research for NB), she is working on a fundraiser. If you live in the DFW area, please consider supporting this group. Here are the details from her website:
******************************************************************************
Cooks is hoping to become a big center for Neuroblastoma in the South. I'm hopeful that it will also make more drug trials available for our patients. If you live in the area, please come out and support this event. We will have root beer floats, lemonade, baked goods, face painting, make-and-take bracelets, cotton candy, a cake walk, police ID kids and a firetruck and ambulance for kids to explore.
2nd Annual LOVE Club Event
June 21, 2008
10am – 2pm
at the Home Depot
9509 White Settlement Rd
Fort Worth, TX 76108
Benefitting
Cook Children's hospital
New Neuroblastoma Clinic
**********************************************************************************
Thank you, Karen and the rest of the LOVE Club!!!
June 16, 2008
Happy Anniversary!
Today I have been married to my wonderful husband for 18 years!!
Happy Anniversary, honey. I love you...
Happy Anniversary, honey. I love you...
June 7, 2008
God in a box and pets in Heaven
I used to think that animals didn't go to heaven.
I mean, I knew there were animals IN heaven - the Bible is definitely clear about that. I just didn't believe that animals WENT to heaven.
I've had this conversation many times with Jack, and I've been very clear with him: I'm definitely not sure about this, and I could be wrong - there are certainly many people who disagree with me - but since animals don't have a soul, I just didn't believe that they went to heaven.
Believing that our pets go to heaven, I thought, was just a nice thing to say to kids, and it made people feel better when they had to flush their pet goldfish down the toilet. I always reasoned that believing that animals went to heaven when they died was just a way to keep God inside the parameters of our human minds... inside the box we've created for Him because of the limits of our understanding.
Then we got a dog.
We've only had Pepper for about three months, but when his time comes, I know I'm going to want to imagine him in heaven. Now, before you start to worry about the fact that I'm so dark and pessimistic that I'm already planning the funeral of our brand new dog, let me pass the buck on to Jack.
We were walking Pepper a couple of days ago, and Jack said, "Do you think that when Pepper dies, he'll go to heaven and be Paul's dog? Paul always wanted a dog." I was instantly converted to a believer in pet-heaven.
Jack and I talked about how God certainly could do something like that, and I assured him that if Pepper did go to heaven, the Lord would make sure that Paul knew he was our dog in his previous life.
I admit: I really don't know the truth on this topic. But I DO know that our God is a generous and loving Father who lavishes us with blessings beyond what we deserve or can even imagine. Pepper in heaven fits perfectly of what I know about God... in or out of the box.
I mean, I knew there were animals IN heaven - the Bible is definitely clear about that. I just didn't believe that animals WENT to heaven.
I've had this conversation many times with Jack, and I've been very clear with him: I'm definitely not sure about this, and I could be wrong - there are certainly many people who disagree with me - but since animals don't have a soul, I just didn't believe that they went to heaven.
Believing that our pets go to heaven, I thought, was just a nice thing to say to kids, and it made people feel better when they had to flush their pet goldfish down the toilet. I always reasoned that believing that animals went to heaven when they died was just a way to keep God inside the parameters of our human minds... inside the box we've created for Him because of the limits of our understanding.
Then we got a dog.
We've only had Pepper for about three months, but when his time comes, I know I'm going to want to imagine him in heaven. Now, before you start to worry about the fact that I'm so dark and pessimistic that I'm already planning the funeral of our brand new dog, let me pass the buck on to Jack.
We were walking Pepper a couple of days ago, and Jack said, "Do you think that when Pepper dies, he'll go to heaven and be Paul's dog? Paul always wanted a dog." I was instantly converted to a believer in pet-heaven.
Jack and I talked about how God certainly could do something like that, and I assured him that if Pepper did go to heaven, the Lord would make sure that Paul knew he was our dog in his previous life.
I admit: I really don't know the truth on this topic. But I DO know that our God is a generous and loving Father who lavishes us with blessings beyond what we deserve or can even imagine. Pepper in heaven fits perfectly of what I know about God... in or out of the box.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)