Happy Saturday,
I know I shared some hard news about Jim’s diagnosis. One could call it a pot hole. Jim Reid calls it a dick-punch. Both apply. Choose the one that fits your worldview. It’s a free country, right?
I am determined to seek out less chaotic commutes. I think I found a few.
Yesterday was a busy day. Once we got Rachel off to school, thanks to the ever-charming Turnar Kist, Jim and I ran a few errands. Lately, the steroid he’s on to shrink the swelling requires food. Culver’s has become a high-noon stop to keep his stomach stable. When we go places, it is strange for two reasons: I am driving, and it is quiet. We might make small talk, but we are inside our loud feelings, and I myself find it hard to say stuff out loud.
When I steal a quick sideways glance at Jim, his eyes hold a thousand-mile stare. I do my best to let him process his feelings, thoughts, etc. I steer the car, while my love holds his questions and tempers his fears. Mine too.
Early afternoon, we hosted guests for a brief visit and high-octane prayers. Di and Rob Kistler, friends from our former church, Woodland Hills, come with beer and books. Not a bad combo, if you ask me.
They ask questions, and as they speak, they both gesture often with the palms of their hands up, as if to usher our pain to God. They listen to our story, and then they close out the visit with passionate requests from God to heal Jim. Di even steals one of my better lines, “Lord, I’ll say it like Melissa, we ‘pray for a fucking miracle!’”
**NOTE: I doubt God is deducting points from prayers because we drop the F-bomb on the BOH. Nah.
As the Kistlers left, Seth breezed in: he was there to help get Rachel upstairs to the main floor. While that was happening, I entered a Zoom meeting for Rachel’s IEP, hosted by Turnar. I had to numb myself up for this. The only time I really lost it was when I pointed out to her special ed teacher that it was his leadership and loving care for Rachel and her classmates that inspire his students to reach milestones. (Dear reader, please note that he is, indeed, a very special young man with an old soul. Rachel is so happy in his class.) The meeting ran long, but it was highly successful as we set goals for the next year.
About twenty minutes later, we welcomed our first meal train giver, Jen and Mike Salvati. They stood in our kitchen for another brief visit and a particular story of hope. Her mother had a tumor wrapped around her spine decades ago. She beat it, still lives today, and the tumor has disappeared. I am sipping their gift of Moon Haze from the makers of Blue Moon. Mighty, mighty tasty!
Later, as I climbed into bed, I noticed that Jim is not snoring. It is too quiet. Before I pull out my hearing aid, I stop, hold my body tight, and listen for his breathing. Once I hear it, I click off the world and allow sleep to help me restore the will to hope.
In the before-tumor times, Jim would get up with Rachel on a Saturday, and I would sleep in. Good times. I am a little scared that may not happen again. Typically, when Rachel wakes up, we give her the Ipad before doing the hard work of getting her up. When I woke up, (and I did sleep in!) I walked out into the living to find Jim talking with his brother on his cell. Rachel is still snug in her bed, watching Grey’s Anatomy. She let me have a cup of coffee before demanding I get her day going.
Rachel seems to understand the gravity of the situation, and she offers help, love, and patience in her own way. Recently, while getting her dressed, she took her one good arm and gave me a tight hug as I was pulling on a shirt. When we talk about the tumor, she will stick her pinkie finger out to show that she understands that the shape of that pinkie nail represents what’s left of the tumor inside Daddy’s brain.
After I gave Rachel a tubby, we headed into the living room and did the normal things on a Saturday. Over coffee, I grabbed a pencil, paper, and clipboard and created a list of things we hope to finish this weekend. Things like meds, tweet to the family, fold laundry, clean out cat box, change sheets, vacuum, sweep and mop, straighten Mom’s desk, take out garbage, popcorn, and play UNO.
So, we worked. Jim does dishes. I swapped out the litter and mopped around the cat box. Rachel keeps Daddy company as he cleans out the fridge. The talk in loving tones of father/daughter. It’s beautiful. And it’s normal.
All day, Jim is pain-free. No headaches at all. His toes sometimes turn cold, but not always. He still feels woozy. His speech skills are still far superior to the hard-hitting aphasia he experienced. He appears the Jim I’ve always known: smart, funny, hardworking, and doing what he can.
At about midafternoon, I run a few errands before our next contestants on the “Take-them-a-Meal” train come. It’s the fabulous Mike and Emily Colestock, whose son, Andrew, is the same age as Rachel. In fact, we have known this family way back when our kids were in preschool. A long time.
They arrived with a meal along with fresh watermelon, several cases of LaCroix and Diet Coke, and creamer. Unfortunately, Andrew was working, but Mike and Emily brought their A-game of love.
They came to listen. They came to laugh and smile. And they prayed at my request. But one moment that caught my eye was between Rachel and Mike. I got up to grab something from the kitchen, and when I came back, Mike had found the UNO deck of cards. For the next 45 minute to an hour, Rachel and Mike played a 3-game tourney of UNO. Rachel was at full ease under Mike’s charm and kindness with a dash of wicked humor. My heart burst at the magic I saw in this not-so-small miracle.
Now, late at night, my family is sleeping. With luck, I’ll be able to spend another normal Sunday with my tribe, clicking off the list of things to do while enjoying the Mexican meal from the Salvatis.
My second beer soothes me now, as I reflect on the last two days. Over the years, I have witnessed Rachel heal in deep, sweeping ways once home from surgeries and hospital stays. It is my belief that being home allows for that restoration to happen both at the molecular level as well as the spiritual. It is happening now for Jim.
I’ll write again in a day or so. Keep that vision of healing for Jim at front and center. Keep Rachel’s wide, heart-stopping smile during a simple card game in your thoughts. Keep me in the sweeping-upward palm of your hand as you help me ascend a jagged mountain of faith.
Melissa