A Widow Bit
When the care-giving is over:
Reflections on separation
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A Widow Bit When the care-giving is over: Reflections on separation
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This page is dedicated to the memory of John E. Andrist, who died at the age of 75 on Sept. 25, 2007. Nearly 14 years earlier, a brain stem stroke had left him totally paralyzed and unable to speak, a condition called "Locked-In Syndrome." During those years his primary caregiver and wife, Mary Koch, wrote a weekly newspaper column describing their life. Now she is offering a new series of weekly essays, reflecting on separation and loss. If you would like to receive these weekly essays directly by e-mail, or if you would like to respond to Mary, please e-mail: SEND AN
E-MAIL TO MARY RECENT ESSAYS Etiquette tip: Never abuse the family dog. I find a delicious irony in the fact that I, a preacher’s kid, am spending Father’s Day at a workshop on homiletics – the art and craft of preaching. I wondered as I flew home after three weeks in England’s enchanting Cotswold region, where sheep graze amidst a patchwork of rolling green fields and each village is more picturesque and quaint than the last, would coming home be a letdown? Glastonbury, England – A mecca for New Age spiritualism. Kingsland, England – Sixty-six. 66! I celebrated a birthday this week while enjoying England’s idyllic countryside. I was going through customs at London’s Heathrow Airport, following the nine-hour nonstop flight from Seattle. There are times I show up when I really don’t want to be there, attending events like concerts, plays or art exhibits. Maybe I’m not in the mood or I fear disappointment. I go anyway. Easter Sunday afternoon, neighbors Laura and Ted Moomaw, who live about six doors up the hill, stopped by with a gift. A story with no morel. I was invited to play a piano solo at a benefit concert featuring keyboard artists. It was Rip Van Winkle meets “Haunted House,” all because a friend innocently invited me to go snowshoeing on a beautiful, blue-sky, sunny winter day. How far can you go on five hundred dollars? Not a large sum these days, yet I’ve managed to stretch five hundred bucks perhaps to infinity. At what stage of life do symbols of age become dreaded instead of eagerly anticipated? Like many people, I’m too busy. But just try paring down activities and obligations. It’s like extricating yourself from a vat of molasses – slow going, and a lot sticks with you. The publishing company I work for does not deal in shocking stories or astounding revelations. So, I wasn’t prepared for the shock I got when I visited the office last week. The Internet is allegedly endangering long-standing institutions and traditions – newspapers, for example. I’m wondering if the venerable Christmas family newsletter may not be another victim. “I simply have to jump off the cliff,” said my friend. “I know my parachute will be there for me, but I have to make the jump.” I’ve been preparing for Christmas by getting to know Mary a little better. Enduring the boredom of a five-hour flight from Atlanta to Seattle, I read all ten pages of an article on nightmares in New Yorker magazine. I should have known better. Last week I bought tickets to attend plays at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in October 2010, eleven months into the future. Folly or faith, I wondered, as I typed my credit card number into the computer for an Internet order. It was not appropriate to giggle, though I wanted to. I was at the church where my sister is organist, listening to the minister’s lovely chant resonate to the high ceilings. And I couldn’t help but smile. I’m in the process of getting my 65 million mile check-up and tune-up. I was going to call it 65 thousand, but I considered the average automobile at 65,000 miles. It’s hardly begun to mature, can still look like new and has most of its miles yet to go. By the time the human vehicle has reached 65, it has traveled a phenomenal distance – physically, mentally, emotionally and, one hopes, spiritually. Sometimes events in your life come full circle. Not the dizzying, purposeless circles I’ve been spinning since my husband died. No, we’re talking circles as big as the equator, circles that encompass healing and truth. On the road again. I’m in Ashland, Ore., attending plays at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. This is my first time back in 16 years. If you’re looking to set a date for some kind of annual outdoor autumn event, like a picnic or a marathon, I would suggest Sept. 25. Confessions of a former reformer: I recant. I withdraw all I've said and written for the past 25 years about how this nation needs to reform its health care system. Sometimes the world does a 180 on you, tipping you upside down, spinning you around. North becomes south. The sun rises in the west and sets in the east. That’s what happened to me last week ... “You two driving a green Mustang convertible?” It was the start of a trip from the cool Pacific Northwest to the hot and humid Mississippi Gulf Coast. A friend who is active in numerous civic organizations, has abruptly resigned some significant posts. Life has a way of telling you, he explained, when it’s time to adjust priorities. I’ve appreciated the responses I’ve received in recent weeks as I’ve written about our final journey with our mother, Elsie Fagerlin. Elsie died May 25, a blessed release for her, a monumental but inevitable loss for us. MORE TOTAL UP all the millions of dollars spent on Mother’s Day cards, flowers, candy, restaurant dinners and expensive gifts, and it would not equal the wealth of joy I’m experiencing, caring for my mother in her final weeks of life. MORE MY FAMILY is gathered in Tacoma, some traveling from far parts of the country, to observe our final Mother’s Day with our matriarch, my mom. When Mother was given the diagnosis – ovarian cancer – she opted for what is euphemistically called “comfort care” only. No chemo. No radiation. “Ninety-two is a good time to go,” she’s been telling us. MORE AN E-MAIL from Jim, a longtime friend, reminds me that I omitted something important when I wrote last week about hospital experiences. Someone important, I should say. Jim said he planned to forward what I’d written to his wife Linda, a nurse, who might want to pass it on to others at her hospital. More THE HEAVY GLASS doors open automatically with a “whoosh” that sweeps me inside. I’m Alice through the Looking Glass. Or am I Dorothy in Oz? What is it about hospitals that overpowers me, creates a heaviness in my soul, turns me into someone I don’t want to be? I STOOD THERE on the riverbank, staring at the corpse, wondering what I should do next. IT SHOULD BE no surprise that you can log onto the Internet and
find out when you’re going to die. I always thought only God knew that.
But it figures; the Internet is the new god for
many
. . . Should Auld Acquaintance'(lyrics) Be Forgot So who wants to fly first-class anyway? And so we learn to accept God's seasons When the smoke of battle clears, it's our decision
Something extraordinary One year along the way, whatever way that is
Let sleeping dogs lie, Tis as blessed to receive as it is to give
The last laugh's on me
The circle's unbroken
Whimsy may be
Some circles that
Words are simple,
A prayer for couples Black Friday is profitable for this consumer, too THE
END PREVIOUS
'JOURNAL OF HEALING' COLUMNS No shortcuts to the right pathway Do
they make funny bone implants? |
Mary's car being loaded on tow truck at Snoqualmie Pass Summit
BREAKING
DOWN If I had more bladder capacity, my car would not have broken down at the summit of Snoqualmie Pass. I might have made it further along the 250-mile journey between my home and Tacoma, Washington. I might have gotten closer to tow trucks and mechanics. But as I ascended the mountain pass, I felt the call of public restrooms at the summit and pulled off the freeway. I slowed and pulled up to the stop sign, which is when my car – which had been running perfectly well at 70 miles per hour – simply quit. It would start again willingly enough, and immediately die. Start. Die. Start. Die. I limped into the only gas station, where of course there was no mechanic. “None in the area,” said the cashier with the air of someone who’s been asked this question many times. There is good cell phone reception at the summit, so I called my friends in Tacoma to explain why I’d be late and seek advice. “Do you have AAA?” asked Phil, who is an auto buff. “Yes,” I said. He advised me to have the car towed to his mechanic in Tacoma. Not only did it take two-and-a-half hours for the tow truck to arrive, but I discovered I had only minimal AAA coverage, not the kind that costs just a wee bit more and covers towing up to a hundred miles. I hadn’t read the small print, or I would have bought the better coverage. Live and learn, I thought, as I bumped along in the cab of the tow truck, my mind clicking like a taxi meter at three-and-a-half bucks per mile. Sixty miles later we reached the shop. The mechanic turned out to be worth the tow charge. A quick diagnosis and repair for a mere hundred bucks. The problem, as Phil explained it, was that my 1994 Chrysler convertible has 160,000 miles on the odometer. The engine was simply gunked up – too clogged to idle. I was staying with my Tacoma friends while attending the Pacific Northwest Writers Association annual conference in SeaTac. I had planned to skip it this year, but when I learned I was a finalist in the literary contest, I decided it would be poor form not to show up. I had entered the contest, not with the view of winning a prize, but to get the two professional critiques that are sent to each contestant. At least that’s what I tell myself. The conference is an intense four days of networking among writers, editors and literary agents. The standard conversation opener among writers is, “What’s your book about?” At first I’d give what is called the “two-minute pitch,” explaining how I’d written a memoir after my husband died, reflecting on my years of caregiving, his extraordinary paralysis, locked-in syndrome, yah-de-da, yah-de-dah. People would look at me with disconcerting solicitude. “But it’s not a SAD book,” I would protest. After a while I shortened my description. “It’s a memoir I wrote after my husband died,” I’d say. I was one of ten finalists in the memoir category and ended up in the money – third place. The first place winner, whose check was four times larger than mine, told me her memoir is about her twenty-seven years as an unmarried wedding photographer. “Ironic,” I said. “Well, I've had plenty of funny experiences,” she said. “What’s yours about?” “Death,” I said. I made a quick tour of the winners’ reception, held in a crammed and noisy hotel suite, then headed for the peace and quiet of the parking garage. There I discovered a AAA service vehicle charging the dead battery of another conference attendee. “I had a similar experience on Snoqualmie summit while driving over here,” I said sympathetically. He eyed the third-place ribbon glued to my nametag and said, “Well, at least it was worth it for you.” “Yeah,” I said, as I patted the envelope that held my check. Almost enough to cover the towing charge.
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