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
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
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'JOURNAL OF HEALING' COLUMNS No shortcuts to the right pathway Do
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TIS AS
BLESSED TO RECEIVE A Widow Bit – July 20, 2008 By Mary Koch It’s a gas guzzler.
Fifteen years old with 114-some-thousand miles on the odometer, it’s got
rust spots outside and frayed upholstery inside. But the engine never
hesitates and, most important, the hydraulic wheelchair lift on John’s
old van still works – with occasional tweaking. No, I haven’t sold the van. I can’t. It was a stunning gift all those years ago from John’s many friends in the newspaper industry. In terms of mobility and freedom, he cherished it second only to the battery-powered wheelchair that he could, within limits, drive himself. When the shiny new van arrived in our driveway in June of 1994, my instant reaction was love-hate. I was overwhelmed, even a little embarrassed, by the generosity of the gift, which was so big, with gaudy pin stripes and, most of all, shouted “DISABLED!” I suspect that’s the way people new to a disability, whether their own or a loved one’s, react to the strange equipment that suddenly crowds their home. Wheelchairs, hospital beds, commodes, Hoyer lifts . . . you resent them because of what they symbolize. Over time, resentment fades and gratitude grows for the way this stuff makes everyday life possible, even enjoyable. Ever since John died, I’ve been parceling out equipment to those who can use it, and I still have some to go. I tried to give the van away, but it came back home like a wayward family pet. I thought about selling it and donating the money, but then one thing happened after another. For winter, it was the only vehicle I owned with studded tires; when my mother fell and broke her neck, it was the simplest way to transport her to medical appointments; I wanted to drive to South Dakota, and the van would allow me to camp along the way. I’m so emotionally attached to that rolling heap of metal by now, I can’t imagine letting go of it. Except on occasion. A few weeks ago, a friend who is temporarily in a wheelchair called when transfers in and out of her passenger car weren’t going well. “You can have the van as long as you need it,” I assured her. Then another family called. It seems their wheelchair van is more disabled than their wheelchair user, and repairs are going to take a while. So John’s van will go back and forth between these two families until things settle down for them. It’s fun for me to be the back-up, the Plan B, for friends in wheelchairs. Fun because it was difficult, all those years ago, to accept the generosity of others. No one wants to be a “charity case.” But I learned the true meaning of charity; that it is simply divine love. Sometimes it is better to receive than to give. My reward for receiving and accepting is that now, I’m privileged to give.
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