A good life.

(Trying for a little "first year birthday shoot with Gabe while good weather held.  He was unimpressed.  Eventually, we got some good ones....I'll post those next time.  

These are just mama and Gabe.)

A little story from life to go along with the photos.  Totally unrelated, except to the concept of a "good life, rather, life well-lived."

One day last year Jeff was re-entering the hospital.  I don't know which time, or which procedure.  They all blur together.  I do remember what we were saying to each other.

I was very fearful.  Afraid that he would go in, and under a knife, and not come back out.

I knew there were no guarantees, that he could promise me nothing.  It was completely out of his hands.  We were people used to shaping our futures, or at least doing the best we could.  This place where illness had brought us - with no control over any area of life (health, finances, time) - was frightening.

I choked back tears, trying to be logical.  I'd done plenty of crying already.  How does that help a guy approaching surgery?

I said, "But what if you don't make it?  What then?"

He was quiet for a moment.

He swallowed, then said, "Well...then,  we've had a good life."

I looked into the most familiar eyes in my world, got quiet too, and nodded my agreement around the lump in my throat.

I saw his peace, and realized the truth in what he said.

(Of course, I still made him promise to fight this illness with everything that was in him.)

I said everything that I felt I needed to say to him at that time, I thanked him for all of the years and all of our children and for loving me and them so well.  

His calm acceptance and summation of our years brought me a measure of peace as well; 

and he lent me his courage.

He was right.

We've had a good life.

The year that was: My father's surgery - part 3

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9 
Part 10 

I have really struggled with writing all of this down.  I know I've communicated that before, but it is still true.  I am not sure why it is so difficult.  It just feels like a burden I'm carrying and trust me, I've thought about forgetting the whole series and deleting it, not putting it here for others to read.  I've had to force myself to continue writing.


This was just such a horribly dark time; physically exhausting and mentally and emotionally solitary.  


I don't like being so honest, really.  Honest feels ugly, revealing.  Honest doesn't mean hopeless, it doesn't mean faithless.  Honest just means you're a real person.  If you are me, honest means that you are afraid that people will think you are just being a big baby.  I don't like to be depressing.


But is there a place for "honest?"  I think so, particularly when we are not trying to harm anyone and when we have waited to be certain that we are accurately representing what happened.

Sometimes grief over hard times just needs to be honestly shared.  We need for others to recognize and acknowledge our sadness, or the difficulties we have faced.


I learned so many new things along last year's journey - more than I could ever hope to find time to write down.  Some things were very good - which I allude to and which I will share more of.   Some things were brutal, though.  (I'm equally stunned by both.)


I've learned even more starkly how sensationalist we humans are.  There was plenty of compassion when my husband was sick.  When my parents were sick, though, and troubles were compounded upon troubles, those trials seemed more easily dismissed.  A sick husband or a sick baby tugs on the heartstrings.  Sick old people?  It usually elicits a yawn.  Most people won't even bother to read about it.    

Old age is lonely; but caring for the elderly is a lonely role too.  I encourage you - if you know someone who is a primary caregiver for an elderly person, speak and do kindness for them.  Pray for them.  Hold their hand and cry with them a little bit, if they seem to need it.  Don't forget them! 

There were little indignities along the way.  The lady and her rude gesture were one, the day of Dad's surgery revealed a few more.

I've been involved in the care of the elderly for many years now.  Let me simply say without over-dramatization or inflation that getting old can be a terribly lonely and isolating process.  It is difficult to get good hospital care for the elderly, particularly if they are unable to speak for themselves.  We have good medical coverage for our elderly in America, that is, the dollars have been allocated.  Dollars don't equal compassion, however. 

My parents have spent their lives in the pastorate.  My mother cared for her own father when he was dying of cancer and cared for her mother as she dwindled away due to Alzheimers.  Both of my parents have made hospital visitation and nursing home visits a priority.  Even now, my father will visit the "old people" at the nursing home.  Never mind that many of them are ten years younger than he is.

But they live in a very small town.  They don't have many young friends.  Many of my father's peers have +
+died.  If they have not passed on, they are not able to get around much.

I was worried that my mother would not have anyone to sit in the waiting room while she had surgery.  To avoid her sadness and disappointment were this to happen, I called her pastor and asked if he would be able to come pray with her before her surgery.  (Small congregation - sixty people or so, total?)  He came, and I was so thankful.  During mom's surgery, I shared the wait with my father, her pastor, and an elderly aunt and uncle.

Prior to Dad's surgery, I called the pastor and left a message with the date and time.  For an elderly person from a small town, their church is their connection.  Their minister, present at a time of trauma or insecurity, brings a sense of comfort.  Without this touch, they feel a sense of loss, of disconnection.

The minister never came, never called.  I was heartbroken for my dad over this.  How many visits had he made to people who were having surgeries over his 86 years?  When his own time came, the only ones sitting vigil for him were a daughter and the same elderly half-brother and his wife.

I have not spent most of my married life around my parents.  We've only lived close for four years.  I'm not accustomed to this vigil sitting.  I did not feel comfortable spending hours sitting with my elderly relatives.  What would we talk about?  They'd had many surgeries themselves, struggled to shuffle around the hospital, became easily lost as they navigated the corridors looking for coffee or the restroom or food.  How would I hostess these old ones in a hospital waiting room?  What if they had an emergency themselves?  None of those things were real issues - I was simply uncomfortable.

I again found myself unready for this role.  Mothering, I knew.  Babies, toddlers, preschoolers, elementary ages, middleschoolers, highschoolers - I had all of these at home.  I know how to care for people, how to "do," - but to sit and visit with them?  To be the primary family member present at a surgery, to hold power of medical decisions - this was heavy and I would have pushed it aside if I could have.

I remembered one recent visit to my fetal/maternal specialist's office.  I was lying on the bed for yet another ultrasound, and the tech and I chatted while she scanned the blood-flow to our baby's brain.  I was telling her about my parent's upcoming surgeries, and how I did not know how I was going to handle everything that was still on the calendar before our baby was due.

She stopped, looked at me, and said.  "You will do it.  You will do it, because you have to.  It will be hard, but you will make it."  She was an only child, who was responsible for her parent's care alone, so she understood what was happening.

Her words lifted me and sustained me.  I was pretty sure they were a direct message of confidence from God.  :)  They were exactly what I had needed to hear.  I could make it through this.

I thought of her words this day, and although I was pushing myself forward every step because of dread and anxiety, I took strength from them.  The Lord God was with me, with my parents, with us all.

My aunt and uncle and I took hands, and in the absence of a minister, we prayed over my dad.  He was so peaceful and accepting as he put himself into the surgeon's hands.

So, then, we waited.  We made small talk.  I refilled coffee cups.  We endured bad cable tv shows.  (I think that's the worst part about waiting room.  No right to change the channel.)  We looked through every magazine available.

And we waited.

I realized something new about the elderly, about my aunt and uncle, in particular.  At their stage of life, waiting vigil was about the last thing they were able to do for their loved ones.  They took this responsibility very seriously.  I could not persuade them to leave to eat, even though I knew they had medications they needed to take.  We who are young are often in too big of a hurry to do the waiting - at least I know this is true for me.  Give me something to fix and I'm fine.  Ask me to wait, and I resist.  I gained so much insight and respect for them and for their "waiting."  If they had not come, I would have sat alone, again.  No one should be alone at times like that.  People going through surgeries or traumas should have plenty of arms to hold them up.  If they are leaving this life, they should be held and lifted up in love - if they remain and return to health, they should know that there are loved ones waiting to welcome them back, praying for them throughout.

And we waited some more.

It was taking too long.  My aunt and uncle began to get agitated and worried.  They'd sat through many surgeries over the course of their lives, and they knew when something wasn't right.

I tried to allay their fears, to say that I imagined that the surgeon had gotten a late start.  They said, "No, Holly.  Something went wrong."

I tried to get some information, but no one knew why the surgery was taking so long.

Eventually, several hours late, we received word that the surgery was over, and the surgeon would meet with us.  We were taken to the same consultation room that I'd sat in twice for Jeff, once for my my mother.

The surgeon, a man I'd come to greatly respect over the months, entered the room.  His eyes were tired and bloodshot. 

"Your father made it okay through the surgery....but his hip broke when I was completing the replacement."  He gave us the rest of the details about his care.  I thanked him for his labor on behalf of both of my parents.

I helped my aunt and uncle find their way out of the hospital, called my mother to let her know that things did not go quite as expected, called my children to see how they were doing, called my brother and sister who were enroute and would be arriving later that evening.

I collected my things and my dad's bags and took them to the room he would be moved to once he was out of surgery.  By now, I knew the joint replacement floor really well.  I knew the nurses and they knew me.  They were getting a little sick of seeing us, I think.  :)

I waited in the dusk for Dad to arrive.

Once the nurses had wheeled him in and left the room, he slowly opened his eyes and called my name.  I wasn't sure if he was coherent or not.

What he was, was thirsty.  He'd not had anything to drink for almost 24 hours.

I leaned close, waiting for words of love.

Instead, Dad's first words post-surgery were:

"Bubba."

He'd survived surgery, he'd survive this too, somehow.  I dug thru dad's bag and pulled out the precious Bubba.  He fell back to sleep without a sip, and I sat back to wait for my brother and sister's arrival.  I was exhausted, done for.  I held his head and stroked his wrinkled face and smoothed his grisled hair, noting that he needed a haircut.  I mourned his wrapped swollen hip and the awful bruises from the iv and blood draws.
 
This was too much.  I'd like to tell you that I handled all of this with grace.  In fact, that's the way I originally wrote this post.  Yet as I reread it, I thought back to how it really was.  In the spirit of honesty, I have to tell you that I was angry.  I became angry with God - that after all of this, at the end of this horribly long summer, that we suffered this indignity of a broken hip. (I'm not excusing it, I'm just saying that it was there and that I had to deal with it.) How would I be able to take care of two elderly people with joint replacements that had not gone well?  How would we handle this when I had the baby?   I felt offended, as if wounded by an old friend.   I hated old age, trial, disease and infirmity.  It seemed like the series of unfortunate events, where nothing could go well.

The year that was: My father's surgery - part 2

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9

Dad and I pulled up to the surgery entrance.  I helped him get inside and checked in, made sure that he had his book and reading glasses, paperwork, and medications.  I headed back out to park the car.  Walk, walk, walk - or rather, endless waddling, at my stage of pregnancy.

By the time I returned, a nurse was taking a list of his medications.

Dad is mostly deaf and due to neurological damage suffered during his adrenal crisis and resulting coma almost twenty years ago, many people can not understand what he says.

Since I'd been with him for every doctor's visit from endocrinology to nephrology for the last four years, I was fairly used to this.  The nurse or doctor would ask a question.  He would pretend that he heard, and smile happily at them.  I have learned that my parents are "authority pleasers."  They come from a generation that respected authority, and as such, they "over-perform" when they are talking to the doctor.  They may have been writhing in pain and unable to walk at home, but as soon as the doctor hits the door they are right as rain and capable and agreeable.  It's only after the appointment they realize that they never told the doctor how badly they hurt nor what their difficulty might be.  The main thing to them is that he is pleased with them, and that they made a good impression on him.

Well, dad was grinning, and the nurse was writing down his answers.  Only problem was, since he couldn't hear her, and she couldn't understand him, the answers were all wrong.

We started again with his complex list of medications and with directions for surgery as related to his adrenal insufficiency.  We got him gowned up and the proper hip swabbed with betadine solution.  Labs were drawn and an iv started.  Nothin' to do but wait.

I sat and read; Dad got quiet as he contemplated what was going to happen to him.  He likes drama, but this was a little too real.  At his age, many of his friends had not survived surgeries.

I tried to not notice how very, very small this person who fathered me really was.

In real life, in his element, I forget how small he is.  His "in charge" presence has always dominated in our family.  But here, on the flimsy hospital bed, in an even flimsier gown, I noticed that my papa was the size of a boy.  Five foot tall, 124 pounds.

"Daddy."

"It hurts me to see you like this, old, and small.  I could pick you up, if I needed to."

"Why am I the one doing this?  Why me?  I'm the youngest - I'm not really strong enough to handle seeing my Dad like this, to be the one to hold his hand and see his skinny white legs and hold his gown down when he turns over so he's not ashamed."

"This hurts too much.  I can't do this.  This is too intimate.  I've borne enough suffering.  This is the fifth time I've sent a loved one into surgery this summer.  I handled so much:  Nick's mugging, Sammy's accident, Jeff's illness, mom's fear, her recovery.  I can't handle his fear too."

"Why is life like this?  Why does it come down like this, Jesus?  Old, frail, our dignity at the edge....oh, we need YOU, Jesus.  I don't understand this, but I need you today."

I didn't say it, of course.  It was all inside my head.

Outside my head, I snooped around his bag and saw that he has snuck in contraband soda for after the surgery.  Bubba.  Dad loves a generic, awful soda called Bubba.  Just like Dad to make sure he had his Bubba addiction covered.  He also had a flashlight in the bag.  Once a boyscout, always a boyscout, I guess.  Always prepared.  I can't imagine when he thought he might use the flashlight - perhaps if there was an emergency and the hospital generator also failed, he and his new hipjoint might be able to heroically lead the rest of us unprepared people out of the building.  Never mind that if the power failed the elevators would also fail - and we were on the fifth floor - Dad was sure he would still find a way.  It made me grin.

This was my job.  I knew his medical history, his idiosyncrasies.  I was his interpreter.  There was no one else.  He was mine, and no one else could or should be doing this for him.  He gave me life - I was holding his hand when he needed me.  No matter what, I would do what needed to be done.


I kissed Dad goodbye when they said that it was time, and headed for the coffee at the now-familiar waiting room.

The year that was: My father's surgery, part 1

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8

(I know that I am posting quickly now, maybe it is too much for you to read right now.  Maybe you don't want to read it at all.  :)  That's okay.  I never look at my blog stats and I never know who is reading.  I am just compelled to finish telling this story.  I want to write it down and move on.  Most people who read here know me in real life, or else we've been friends online for years.  Don't feel bad if you can't read it all right now, maybe you'll find time later.  It's all okay with me, it's just something I've got to do.  I'll probably post the next part later today, even, while I have time, and then not post for a few days.  Saturday is my father's 87th birthday.)

The three weeks after my mother's surgery passed all too quickly.  We were balancing my frequent ultrasounds with mom's therapies, care, and doctor's visits with preparation for my father's surgery.

On the morning of the surgery, it was just me and Pop.  My mother should not have been left alone, as she was still in much pain and was having trouble keeping her medications straight.  My oldest son was working, and I needed the second two eldest to watch our little ones for me.  I would be away from dawn to close to midnight.  There was no one to stay with her, so we made sure she had the phone at her side.  She was able to get up and get herself around, minimally.  I was so worried about her, worried about the kids, just plain overwhelmed and worried, really.  I'd worked hard to have things ready at the house for the kids, too:  food, laundry, things to do.

It was the perfect storm of a youngest child caring for parents who were already older when they had her.  I know that my situation really isn't all that unique.  So many people care for their elderly parents and try to juggle work, life, children, and maybe medical situations of their own.  I've been extremely humbled by the incredible love and care I've seen many people take of their elderly.  My situation is perhaps unique in that God has led my husband and I to have a large family, and that I was already worn down by Jeff's illness, and by the fact that I had a baby due in less than a month.  But still, as we analyzed all things, we did not see any other way.  Our family errs a little too much on the side of thinking we are invincible, that we can handle anything.  (If you know us in real life, you are likely laughing at this point.  We have a "sure, I can handle that" mentality.)

Dad drove the 45 minutes to my house.  He can still handle the drive, as he knows the road well and there are only small towns to pass through.  (Truth be told, he still drives really well.  He has great reflexes and has a good intellect which serves him well in crisis situations.)  He's just not too comfortable with city traffic, particularly if he hits construction or detours.  He'd rather meet me at my house and let me drive in the city.

It was a horribly hot and sweaty morning, even though he arrived shortly after 6 a.m.  My Dad is short, only 5 foot tall.  When I hop in his car to drive I have to readjust everything.  I toss his cushion that he uses to lift himself up so that he can see over the dashboard into the backseat.  I push the seat backward, tilt the rearview mirror, strap my very pregnant self in, sweating all the while. 

He struggles with his seatbelt buckle on the passenger side, bursitis makes the necessary movements difficult.  I always reach over without a word an latch the buckle.  He chuckles, embarrassed, but he's really okay with it.  He turns the air on, barely, out of deference for me.  He does not like the air, but knows that I do.  He couldn't possibly crank it high enough for me on this day.

We set out, make it into the heart of downtown traffic.  A woman, perfectly coiffed, races past me.  Angrily, she yells silent words at me and raises her finger in an obscene gesture.

I have no idea what I have done to offend her, but she has no idea of how much her rudeness hurts me on this day.  She has no idea that my heart is already about to explode and I am about to crumble. 

It took awhile, but I have chosen to forgive her for this.  She had no idea.  It is a great lesson that I return to again and again when I am tempted to be angry with some nameless person over a minor grievance.  I have no idea what they are carrying.

The year that was (third hospitalization)

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6

And so we continue...

A new doctor took Jeff's case.  We were not confident that he was aware of the previous infection/situation, he was not a joint surgeon, so we requested that Jeff's first surgeon (Dr. B.) come back on the case.

Jeff suffered through the weekend, we worried about a repeat infection in his hip joint.  If re-infection had occurred, he would lose the hip joint for sure, and a new one would have to be installed.  It was frustrating to wait through the weekend, difficult to consider yet another possible surgery, and besides, this mean that Jeff would be out of work for...how long?  Who knew?

Good news came on Monday morning.  Our brilliant surgeon, Dr. B., stopped by Jeff's room.  The antibiotic beads that had been inserted into Jeff's hip were designed and infused with full-spectrum antibiotics.  They were meant to fight against almost any known type of bacteria.  (We later learned from Dr. B's assistant that together they made the cement beads themselves, grinding and lacing, infusing them with antibiotics.  We blessed their brilliance, acknowledging it as a true gift from God.)  What a thrill to hear this news.  We could breathe again.

Where was the infection coming from, then, if not from the hip joint?  The hospital had repeatedly assured us that it could not be coming from the PICC line, as they had never had a PICC line infection.

For my part, I was a little freaked out.  One staph infection with no known origin is bad enough.  But two?  I started becoming a serious germaphobe (bacteriophobe?)

Finally, one doctor ordered the PICC line pulled.  The tip was tested, and sure enough, the line was the culprit. Once it was removed, and a new one reinserted, Jeff began to improve.

It was June.  The office for my fetal/maternal specialist was located at the same hospital.  It simplified things, in a way.  I could walk over a few buildings and talk with the office instead of dealing with phone calls.  I tried to talk them down from such frequent ultrasounds and blood draws (every two weeks for both) but to no avail.  The baby was continuing to grow well and the titers for the isoimmunization never raised, not even a blip, and they never did.

The big kids were still running things the best that they could at home.  We were still caring for my parents, keeping up their properties as well.  Both of my parents were beginning the preparations for joint replacement surgeries.  Mom's surgery would be in August, Dad's would be three weeks later in September.  And the baby was due three weeks after that - or so.

I'd come home at night, cook supper, do laundry, spend as much time as possible with the little ones, handle finances, send out updates, etc., then head back to the hospital to be with Jeff as much as possible.  The big kids did well, considering, but they suffered.  They had their own heartaches going on at this time; struggles to fit in to their worlds, friendship issues, etc.  We sorta, rather...fell apart during these days, quite honestly.  I know that everyone wants to hear how a good family "overcame," and that part comes eventually, but for a time we were just in a world of hurt.  Sometimes, even though you love the Lord and even though you "trust," you just struggle and the path is terribly long, dry, dusty and painful.  I looked ahead and saw two more surgeries, still, on top of everything.  I saw two elderly people who desperately needed me, and I really was the only one around to help them at that time.  There were no guarantees that the surgeries would help my parents, even.  How much would they directly need me in days to come?    I saw many children who needed their mommy, teens who needed mom to not be so distracted, and a husband who needed to be nursed back to good health.  I looked down the road, and saw no end in sight.  Why did we ever think we could do this, handle this much?  Well...we were still following what we were sure we were supposed to do...care for our children, care for our elderly, care for each other. 

We were overwhelmed, but we did what we had to do.  We kept getting up and doing what had to be done, day after day.  God kept carrying us.  There is no other way to explain it.

Jeff got well enough to come home from the hospital.  He improved little by little.  In mid-July, he re-entered the hospital for another surgery, this one to remove the antibiotic beads from the hip site.  Dr. B. took his joint completely apart, cleaned it out again, and put him back together.  Jeff didn't stay very long this time, just a few days, and when he came home he was soon walking without the walker.  He brought me coffee in bed the first morning he was home.  What a sweet memory that is.

Jeff was cleared to return to work the second week in August.  His workplace had retained his job for him, that was a real blessing too.  He had been out of work, without a paycheck, without work paying for his insurance, for three months.

God taught us so much through these trials.  We were humbled, but in a deeply good way.  We gained compassion for the "down and out."  We were blessed by the love and remembrance and strength of friends.  God is so good.  Blessed be His name - through easy times and hard. He is worthy of our trust, not because things turned out, but because He is God and He loves us.

(Next time, I'll write about my parent's surgeries, and then finish by telling about the day that Gabriel was born.)

The Year That Was: A second staph infection

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5

(I'm going to try and finish this "remembrance" by the time Gabe turns one.  That gives me three weeks.  This is such a long story - so much happened last year, but I think I can do it.  I realize that the average blog post is supposed to be 600-700 words, but since I'm writing this all down for our family to remember, I don't want to leave out the important parts just for the sake of the average attention span.  Jeff and I were *just* talking thru the events of this post a few moments ago, and were pretty surprised at how much we've forgotten about the sequence of events.  There are some feelings, though, that I will never forget.  This was a hard one.) 

We were one week out from having Jeff's PICC line removed.  He'd been on iv antibiotics for five weeks.  Anyone who has dealt with that knows how frustrating it is.  We'd wrap his arm in plastic, cover it in more plastic, tape it shut, and still water would soak the line dressing.

At first Jeff was very weak, we were unsure of how to get him in the shower since he was still healing from the hip surgery.  I was always nervous - what if he fell?  We got into a good pattern, however, and he was slowly regaining strength and color.  He was able to walk outside occasionally as the weeks progressed, he was returning to decent health although he was still weak.

One night, I noticed that he felt hot.  Shortly after, he started uncontrollably shaking again.  Of course we were concerned.  How could he be getting another infection, considering all of the daily antibiotics he was taking?

We called his case nurse.  She assured me that it was nothing, that sometimes the body simply "got a little temperature in the evening."  As it was getting quite late, I wanted to be sure for the night, and so I asked for clarification.

"What you are telling me is that there is really NO way he can get a second infection?"

"That's right,"  she replied.

"And so I really shouldn't worry."

"That's right.  I've been a nurse working with PICC lines for over 20 years.  Trust me.  Your husband is NOT getting an infection."

"Okay.  When SHOULD I worry?  How high of a fever is too high?"

"He'll be okay as long as the fever stays below 104 degrees.  If it gets into the 104, 105 range, you'll want to go in and have it checked out."

Well......we didn't really believe that, and Jeff's symptoms continued to increase.  I was still scared stiff from the first staph infection, so I wasn't willing to wait around for his fever to climb.

We went to the Emergency room, told them what was going on.  Jeff looked pretty good, walking with no cane, etc.  He's a strong man in his early forties, joking around with the staff, etc., at least while ibuprofin kept his fever down.

A doctor came in to examine him and to ask him some questions.  (We were at the same hospital he had been in a month prior.)  The doctor was very confident - overly confident, I'd have to say.

"You don't have an infection of any kind."

"Really?"

"No.  You CAN'T have.  You have way too many antibiotics in your body."

"So an infection is IMPOSSIBLE?"

(We were really double checking here - Jeff's recent brush with death was still too fresh in our minds.)

"Trust me on this.  Another infection is IMPOSSIBLE.  You're fine.  Just have a little fever.  Nothing to worry about.  And it can't be a PICC line infection, because we have NEVER had a PICC line infection here in our hospital."

But they took blood samples, anyway, "just to be sure and put your minds to rest...."

And we went home.

You know where this went, right?

Right.

The lab called within a few hours and told us to come right back to the hospital, because Jeff indeed had another staph infection and it was growing.  They did not wait for the entire, normally required period to see what was growing - they could see that something was and that he needed to be readmitted.

So we packed up our bags and left the big kids in charge and went back to the ER.  We ran into the doctor from the previous night who had assured us there could not possibly be an infection.  He did some serious back-peddling.  "Boy!  When I saw you last night I knew there just wasn't something right.  I went with my gut and ordered bloodwork done, and I'm sure glad I did that!"

We smiled wanly, remembering very clearly what we had been told.  We waited several more hours, during which time Jeff continued to get more and more sick and I grew more and more panicked.  Everything seemed to drag and just took so long.  An hour to get a gown, an hour to get labs drawn, an hour to get labelled, tagged, etc., and during this time no evaluation and no meds were given.

Jeff started shaking uncontrollably.  I began going out to the linen cart to get blankets for him.  He'd cycle through sweating and shaking.

I stood in the doorway of our little room, hoping that my presence would make someone remember that we were here and that my husband needed to get to a room.  He needed some attention.

The charge nurse, a tough looking guy, saw me in the doorway and sent a nurse my way.  "Tell her to get back into her room.  We can't have people out here gawking."

Honestly.  I wasn't gawking.  I was so exhausted at 3 a.m after the past month and with handling so much of everything at home and with the extra care, plus the stress of what was happening to my husband a second time.  I wasn't "gawking," I was staring into space, vacantly.  But I obediently took my offended little self back into our cubicle and wiped Jeff's sweat-drenched face and changed his soaked gown.

Still no doctor, still no medications, still no room.  And now, he was missing even his PICC line meds.

Finally, around four-thirty a.m., Jeff was taken to a room.  By this point, he was shaking so hard and breathing so rapidly that I thought his heart would explode.  His fever was high and he began to vomit.  At one point, he began to throw up and the charge nurse and his regular nurse were in the room.  They did nothing.  I leaped to the adjoining bathroom and grabbed the pink bucket where they stow a patient's toiletries.  (Bear in mind that when I say "leaped" that I was six months expectant.)  I threw the contents of the bucket into the sink, ran back to my husband, and held the bowl for him.

The nurses just stared at me.

This cycle continued for the rest of the night/early morning.   I did not mind caring for my beloved - in a way, I wanted that to be my job.  But I felt so alone! I wanted help, but did not receive any.  Neither was there any communication given from the nursing staff to me.   I ran between his bed and the bathroom, almost overcome with panic.  Eight kids at home.  In a hospital, but receiving no real care.  I kept a cool cloth on his head, kept changing his gown as he soaked it, kept replacing his blankets as he soaked them.  I hunted down his nurse and asked for a warm blanket to help with his extreme shaking.  I was told that they did not have a blanket warmer on that floor, and that it was against policy to use the microwave to warm a blanket for him.

I watched his chest rise and fall and waited for him to have a heart attack.

Would they come and help then?

It was so awful.

I finally left the room and went to the main desk on the floor and asked for the head nurse.  I asked her for at least a warm blanket.

She replied that "she would see what she could do, but they were running low on blankets."  And the implication was that I had been using too many blankets.

I could not believe my ears.  A man came near death, has his second staph infection in a month's time, you've given him no care, and you're going to fuss at the wife because she has used too many blankets?

A limit was reached in that moment.

I knew we were not being treated right, and something rose up within me.  Perhaps it was justice, I still haven't put my finger on it.

I said, "Then you will need to go to another floor and get some more blankets.  I do not care if it is against hospital policy.  Go to the laundry and get more blankets.  And while you are at it, please let the doctor know that we are here and that my husband has not received any medication."

Within a short while the doctor arrived and examined Jeff and read his charts and ordered a new kind of medication.  The head nurse hovered near, filling the doctor in on all of the care she had been giving Jeff.  It was dawn, it had been such a long night.  I was ill myself with worry and the trauma of seeing him so ill, again.  Once the doctor left the nurse spoke with me, never apologizing but saying that she understood why I was so upset, seeing that I was pregnant and over-emotional and all.

I took it.  I didn't really know how to respond.  I was beyond spent, and I was just glad that Jeff was finally getting help.  As soon as I could, I would request that Jeff be seen by our regular family doctor and his surgeon.  They had handled his original illness very, very well, and they would interpret the lab results for us.  Our concern was that the staph illness had settled in his hip joint again, and that he would maybe lose the hip or worse.  And if the staph infection was the same kind, and had overcome the antibiotic beads placed in his hip joint and in his PICC line - what would we do?  What could be done?  Were we facing death again?

The year that was: Provision

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4


Jeff came home.  We settled him into a recliner in the living room.  It was more comfortable for his hip joint than a bed.   He was incredibly weak at first, walking with a walker, tiring easily.  Over time, he gained appetite and strength again, and with a regular regimen of antibiotics through his PICC line, he began to improve.

We began to get cards in the mail.  One of the very first letters we received was from a dear friend of ours who had been widowed.  She wrote words that we needed to hear, words that we would cling to in days to come:  Jesus told me to tell you this:  He loves you.  He cares for you."  That card was the first, but the message was repeated many times over.

"God loves you.  God told us to send this to you.  God cares for you."  What amazing and beautiful words to us through difficult times.  We read the cards to the children.  We let them look through them, let them see how God was taking care of them - in spite of their parents' fears and skepticism.  At times we truly stood and in the midst of pain and fevers and doctors' visits - beheld the goodness of the Lord.  He did not remove the pain nor the tough times - but He let us know that He was with us.  That was the most important thing.

We had been worried about finances.  God began to provide for those, too.  He must have been nudging some hearts, because people that we didn't even know began to show up, sending gifts in cards, helping us through a horrible time.  God's people came through, and it was just enough.  There was not excess, we did not head to Disneyworld, we did not waste it, we still had huge medical bills, we still lived simply and carefully - but there was enough to get by day to day.

Our larger city homeschooling groups brought food:  Canned goods, noodles, paper towels, shampoo.  Our small, local community of homeschooling friends gave so generously to us.  They brought us meals for a month, I think.  Online friends - some of you (!) gave to help us through. My brother's church in Georgia undertook to pay a large portion of the surgeon's bill.

Our home was paid for.  (Remember?  We bought this place for $16,000?  I was so discouraged at the time at this old house - yet another old home that needed remodeling - but can you imagine how thankful we were that we owned our home free and clear and would not lose it through illness and inability to work?)  Our vehicles were paid for.   Jeff did not receive a paycheck for three months, and there was no short term disability available. The Lord provided enough to cover our insurance payments, which Jeff's workplace did not cover while he was unemployed.

I get soggy-eyed as I stroll back through time, remembering.

God carried us.  He carried us through his people.  It is so easy to get discouraged about the state of the church, but we have experienced the very best of God's network of believers.  There was such love, and unity, and coordination - without any human coordinator.  It was God at work.

Our mission commitments were paid by a friend.  That meant that the missionaries who rely on us for support did not have to do without while we were down and out.  Anonymous donors paid for our children to go on stateside mission trips.

We were never left alone - not even for one minute.  That does not mean it was not hard.  That does not mean that we did not stare at death and disease, nor that I did not worry myself silly-sick, because I did.  There was still a very long road ahead.

But our God?

He delivered us.  He walked with us, and carried us.  Sometimes we get to really see that, to feel it.  Other times, He carries us, and we don't realize it until much, much later, when we can breathe again.

This is just part of our story, of course.  Many Believers have different stories, with different endings.  Not everything turns out well in this life.  Everyone of us will eventually face difficult times, times which will either strengthen us or threaten to destroy us.   For a time, I was not certain of what our outcome would be - strength, or destruction.  Every story, though, has the same theme woven throughout - as Christians we can find hope again in the God who carries us, in the God who turns what was meant for evil to good, and in the only God who longs to bring  healing and restoration to our human situations.

Coming up:  a second infection and hospitalization

Looking back - the year that was: Staph infection/sepsis/hospitalizations (Part 4)

(Part 1 is here, part 2 , part 3.)

The surgery was several hours long.  I don't even remember how long, really.  I know that I struggled to hold myself together.  I felt sick to my stomach but also knew that if I didn't eat something I'd collapse.  It was such a difficult place to be in - not caring the least about what happened to myself but knowing that I had to preserve my health for both the baby and the children who were at home.  I couldn't afford to become weakened - I had no idea what was in store or how long this might last.

My brother-in-law, Gene, called.  I had walked outside to a garden area to get some fresh air; saw the helicopter pad where Sammy had been flown in 5 months earlier.  It was the first time I let myself fall apart.  The memories were so horrible - holding my bloody 5 year old with things oozing from his head, sending him off alone for the LifeFlight, racing to the hospital and thinking of him strapped so small on the body board without his mama....and now, Jeff.   I stood beside the helipad, looking at it, and I broke down when Gene asked how Jeff was doing.  I had to tell him that I did not know, but that what he had was bad, bad, bad.  That people died from this.  I felt horrible for being so hopeless - I was supposed to be hopeful and hold everything together for everyone.  I felt so much responsibility - for the kids, for the baby, for my parents (who would take care of them?), for our families, for our friends.  We, Jeff and I, we were supposed to be strong for everyone else.  And without Jeff to be strong with me - I felt so empty and so alone.  It was so good to talk with Gene, though.  He and Jeff sound so much alike on the phone.  He was a comfort to me.

After several hours the surgeon came out and we met in a small conference room.  A doo-rag held the sweat back from his eyes,  there was blood smeared across his scrubs.  My husband's, I presumed.

"I did my best," he said.  "He was septic.  That means the infection was not only in his hip bone, but is also in his blood stream.  I took his hip joint completely apart, cleaned it out really well.  The infection had eaten into the bone.  Any longer, and it would have totally destroyed the joint.  I scraped that off, rinsed it so clean you could eat off of it," and here he chuckled and said, "but I don't advise it..." adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and continued, "he is a very very sick boy."  "I don't know what will happen.  I hope that I saved his hip.  I "think" he will be okay.  Once I was done, I put everything back together again and inserted a strand of 17 antibiotic-emitting cement beads.  They'll sit right under his hip bone, and they'll need to stay in for two months.  Then we'll have to take them out.  I don't know if we got all of the infection, but we sure tried.  Your husband has so much antibiotic directly applied inside his body, that if he were to ingest it, it would kill him.  He is on the strongest medicine we have.  Since I don't know what this infection is, I had to hit it with a wide range from our arsenal.  Your husband is very strong, though, and young.  Those two things are in his favor."

"Doctor," I ventured, wanting to ask, knowing reality and wanting his sincere assessment.  Most people had been dancing around the seriousness of what was going on, trying to spare me.  Up until now, medical personnel had walked around with grim faces but no one would talk straight with me.   "I know that this can kill people.  I've got a friend who was widowed by this very type of thing...."

I didn't even get to finish my sentence, because he was nodding.  "Yes.  It does.  I HATE this.  This is the ONE THING I have nightmares about.  I hate this stinking bacteria.  It's my passion to clean it out, to wipe it out."  He shook his head some more sweat dropped to the floor.

I took his hand and put all of the sincerity I could find into my "thank you."  "I appreciate your wisdom and skill and that you did your best for us."

He looked into my eyes and nodded and said again, "I'm a perfectionist.  I did my very best.  Take care of yourself and that baby."  Every time we met after that, he always asked about the baby - how long til it was born, how I was doing.  I was touched by that.  I hope that we touched his life, too, and those of other people we came into contact with.  God doesn't waste anything, you know?

I did not see Jeff for several more hours.  He never comes out of surgery well.  They have to use so much medication to get his muscles to relax enough "take him apart," that it takes him a long time to wake up and he can't keep anything down for several days.

But finally, he was settled in a room.  I was so happy to see him, thrilled to be able to do small things for him:  change his pillowcase, get another blanket.  He was alive!  I called the kids and since it was late, they told me to just go ahead and spend the night, that it would be okay, so I did.

I'm never any good when Jeff is down.  I can't read, can't stand to watch television, can't even pick up anything to knit or sew.  It all seems pointless when he's not "there."

Jeff had a few tough days as the antibiotics began to do their work.  He was quarantined - gloves, gowns and masks were required to enter his room.  (Which made me wonder...since we didn't know where this came from, was this same bacteria lurking in our home?  A panicked mother's mind can go in any direction.  What about on his razor?  In the shower?  All of my children were at home.  What if one of the boys grabbed his razor in a hurry and used it?  Could that spread it?  No one had any answers for me, either.  They deal in the "here and now," not in the theoretical.  I cleaned  everything when I was home, but goodness, the questions scared me while I sat at the hospital.)

Jeff followed an ebb and flow of high fevers and chills, high blood pressure readings and nausea for several days.  I raced home when I felt I could leave him and made meals for the kids, coordinated their schedules, did laundry (the 2 year old was potty training herself....) wrote notes, made phone calls, etc.  So many people were waiting for updates, but every free minute I was home I needed to be giving attention to my children.  So many of them were still little - they needed mama too.  They weren't used to me being gone so much.  I felt like I was trying to be so many things to so many people and failing in just about every way possible.  I just did the best I could and hoped that people would understand!

The third day following surgery Jeff began to improve.  Although he still had fever, his vital signs began to stabalize.  He was able to walk (!) and sit up in bed.  He was very weak, and we didn't know if the infection was eradicated from his hip joint, but progress was being made on the bacteria in his bloodstream.

We announced our pregnancy to the world on facebook.  I was a bit fearful of what people would say, of the reactions we would receive.  Would they say, "How irresponsible."  "Here you are, in a crisis, and you are having yet another child?"  "Boy, you guys don't know how to PLAN, do you?"  "Shouldn't you have stopped a few kids ago?"

But on the other hand, I knew that this little person was wanted desperately by us, loved already by his family, and that although our journey was different from many of our friends, we had listened and had followed God's plan for US - it was tough to explain, really, but we have listened to our Lord for each child - and He has confirmed that each child was meant to be and in His plan for us.  We don't try to tell other people what God's plan is for their lives - but we knew this was His for ours, no matter how it looked from the outside looking in.

Mostly, our baby news was well-received.  People rejoiced with us, even as they shook their heads in wonder (some at our faith, some at what they perceived to be our stupidity.)  We heard a bit of incredulity, but mostly, the noise was just glad.

To add to the craziness of that time, I learned that I had not one, but two(!) rh problems with my pregnancy:  I was iso-immunized at some point in a previous pregnancy with the antigens anti-E and anti-C.  This, too, was difficult news to bear.  It almost seemed unreal, crazy even.  It was like we just took the news and threw it on the heap of our troubles, Beverly Hillbilly jalopy style.  It was all too big to really deal with.  It meant that I would need to see a Fetal/Maternal specialist every two weeks, have an ultrasound every two weeks, and have my blood drawn every alternating week.  (Because, apparently, I did not have enough going on.)  The risk was that my white blood cells might begin seeing the baby as an "invader" and begin attacking the baby's red blood cells, which in turn would make the baby anemic.  As long as the condition is monitored, there is a good opportunity for a good outcome.  Worst case scenario could have been death for the baby.  Mid-case scenario meant a blood transfusion in utero, and best case scenario meant that nothing would happen and the baby would be fine.  (In the long run, you all know that the baby was absolutely fine.  Not a single bit of trouble...just a whole lot of doctor's visits and blood draws, and me needing to be gone from home more.  Our big kids were so fabulous.  They paid a price and we have spent the last year re-building so many things - BUT - they were incredible.)

Jeff continued to improve.  We were so, so grateful.  A central line was inserted in his arm and threaded to rest right in front of his heart, where it could emit antibiotics on a steady basis.  A nurse trained us how to administer the medication on our own.  We were so happy when we were ready to leave the hospital.  I wasn't sure that I could get him home all by myself in our little car, but I did and we made it.

Being home, all of us together, was so sweet.  I still felt numb, still did not know what we were going to do to manage for the three months Jeff would be out of work, still did not know if the infection was gone from his hip joint - but he was alive (!) and we were home! 

And that was Round One.  Next time, I'll tell you about Round Two and how God began to provide for us.  Although the difficulties did not go away - our friends and family began to show up, and God began to shower His love on us in some very tangible ways.  Oh my, how He DID provide and the lessons we have learned.  Stay tuned...

*one final thought that I want to communicate although this really is already too long....


I feel that we who are Christians need to be sure that we give credit where credit is due.  Yes, our God heals - but he uses the skilled hands of people who have dedicated decades of their lives to study, practice and application.  I have wondered how it makes the doctor/specialist/surgeon feel when they put themselves through medical school, residency, and the hard slog of all that entails, to pour themselves out over their patient, to give of their best to save a life, only to hear the family exclaim, "God healed our loved one!"  Does that make the unbelieving surgeon more inclined to believe, or does that make him, perhaps, resentful?  I've wondered, too, at those who believe that God sends horrible diseases or viruses.  What does that say to the physician who has devoted his or her life to the eradication or treatment of these illnesses, who has seen the ravages of disease on the human body?  Does that make God seem terrible to them?  I think it could...

I believe that God does, indeed, heal.  And I believe that sometimes He does that spontaneously, because He certainly CAN DO THAT!  But I also believe that He wants PEOPLE to interact with PEOPLE, and that so very often He uses the skills and talents, intellect and dedication of doctors and other devoted medical care workers to save and/or improve our lives.  After this last year, I've come to the place where I'm very sure to thank the doctor, the nurse, the lab worker for their care of me and my family, for their involvement in our lives.  I pray that we live the Gospel in front of them, that they are blessed for the work they do, that they are blessed because of us.

Looking back - the year that was: Staph infection/sepsis/hospitalizations (Part 3

(There's a little part of me that cringes a little at writing all of this down.  I fear that people will think I'm complaining, or being ungrateful, or "not letting go," or trying to get too much attention out of something that is long finished or even that I will bore those who already know what happened.  Well, I continue writing in spite of those worries, because those aren't the reasons for writing it all down.  Mostly, this is for the kids. 


There's no doubt that many individuals and families have suffered and endured and held it together through much tougher times than we did.  Our situation wasn't special, although it was tough.  If you have read here for any length of time you know that things turned out okay for us - you know the end result.  The process and the day-to-day was important, though,  and we are still thinking it through and realizing powerful lessons from the year that was.  As you read, remember that it gets worse before it gets better.  Sometimes we don't grasp what is happening until it is over.  So much good and so much growth came out of some really hard times and some very bad days.)

This portion of the story is hard to write.  Some of it is not very pretty.  I hope that I do okay.  :)

(Part 1 is here, part 2 is here.  This part of the story picks up while Jeff is in surgery.)

I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down in the waiting room, right below a huge, framed cross-stitched prayer.  A simple note attached to the frame said that the doctors at this hospital met every morning to pray for their patients before surgeries began.  At any other time, my skepticism might have kicked into gear.  I'm sure I would have been doubtful.  Now?  With my beloved being taken apart - sinew separated from muscle and bone - I fervently believed.  I wanted to believe with all of my heart that the surgeon humbled himself before God and while he worked with all of his skill, he asked for guidance for himself and healing for the man he worked on.  I wondered who had taken the time to stitch this canvas.  (I can't stop my mind from wondering strange things.)  I was so grateful to be at a Catholic hospital, a place where the wonders of science and human know-how were humbly balanced with spiritual things.

I moved tables and plugged in my laptop.  I had a decent grip on myself at this point, so communicated with the kids at home to see how things were going.  I decided that I'd better begin to evaluate how we would hold up financially should this be a long term thing.  I assumed that Jeff had some sort of short-term disability/medical coverage through his work.  I didn't really know anything, hadn't considered what I'd do if this situation ever arose.  We had life insurance - Jeff had made sure of that throughout the years.   I didn't want to think about the need for that, of course, but what about interim?  One of the last things Jeff had expressed to me in a moment of clarity was worry over how we would make it if he could not work for a long time.

I sent out a plea on facebook.  "What do I need to be doing, what do I need to be thinking about?  Are there any papers I need to fill out or any offices to contact?"

Some friends replied and told me to check with Jeff's workplace.  (Jeff worked for a private social services agency at the time.  He was a family counselor and mentor.)  Many assured me that there was likely "something" by way of provision through his work.  I knew that Jeff did not think his company even offered short term disability or health insurance.

There were others, though, that chided me for my lack of faith, for my worry.  "You have nothing to worry about," they said.  Others were praising God, putting on a happy face for my sake.  Some sent me notes telling me that everything would be fine.  I know that people were just trying to help, trying to keep me from worrying.  Knowing what I knew, though, it was tough to take.  I have stood beside wives who have buried husbands, mothers who have buried babies.  I forever love and trust our Father God - but I am a realist, too.  Sometimes, life is just plain hard.  Bad things *do* happen.  Daddies do die.  My pretending otherwise and refusing to fill out paperwork wouldn't change that.

If nothing else, through this trial, we examined faith.  In many ways, I would say that my concept of faith was redefined.  I used to think that faith meant that if I believed that all would be well, then God would reward me and it would indeed be so.  I've also been guilty of thinking that faith meant if I believed hard enough that God was bound to do it.  The tearful, sweaty moments of life demand an examination of that belief, though - because what would that make God?  A Master Puppet, for whom we pull the strings and He is bound to act as we declare?   Just this week, I saw a sign which read "Faith means believing that God WILL do it."  Believe enough, pray enough, praise enough....and God will do what we want.

No, when deeply challenged, I found that I don't believe that is what faith is at all.  Not in the slightest.

Faith *is,* I believe,  trusting God when He doesn't come thru like we think he should, when we can't see where He is going with something. It is making the choice to love Him, anyway, when our lives are inexplicably hard, when we go thru tough times, when we can't see the purpose nor the plan.  Faith is believing when God seems distant, not when he feels close.  Faith is not demanding a certain outcome.  Faith is saying, "I will love you and trust you no matter what the outcome."  Faith says, "I will love you and follow you when I don't understand you and just maybe, you don't seem to make sense to me."  Faith is born when there is absolutely nothing underneath, when God is all you have, when you look at life without God and know that it is not a place you want to be.

A short while ago, I gave Jeff my latest definition of faith:  "Faith is like being pinned to a clothesline simply by your goosepimples.  There's nothing below you and the connection doesn't feel all that sturdy.  But still, you believe that you are being held."

Faith  - born of trial - ain't easy.  It's not trivial, it's not trite, it doesn't spout easy answers to difficult situations.  Faith - thru loss and devastation - is hard won; and when it comes it will last and it will mature.  I think God loves that kind of faith and that it honors Him to be trusted against all human reason.  Faith *is* confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.  (Hebrews 11:1)

I learned, once again, in deeper and more personal fashion what *not* to say to a suffering friend and how to encourage an individual who is going through a difficult time.  Trite, easy answers are out.  So is downplaying the situation.  Mostly, it helps to simply let the individual know that you care about them, that you are praying for them, that you are available to help out if so needed.  (And thankfully, there were plenty of people who did just that.  God blessed us with so many friends - new and old - who came out of the woodwork to love on us and care for us.  I'll write more about that later.)  But there are always a few, in every difficult situation, who simply don't know what to say nor how to handle their words.  Never, never, never (please,) chide a friend for seeming to falter in their faith when their husband or child is on the verge of death.  I still have one person who feels I did not handle my faith well while sitting in that waiting room - she felt I should have trusted more and believed more and not considered how to take care of my children without a paycheck.  I grieve that the relationship still has not been restored.  She has not spoken to me about it, even a year from the situation - but I refused to demand a specific outcome from the Lord.  I did not feel that I had the right to demand that God keep Jeff alive.  I asked this of God, to be sure,  but I could not demand and then expect that He would act, then call that "faith."  Faith - in that hard place - came to mean to me that I would accept what God decided.

Acceptance does not mean a lack of emotion.  God can handle our questions.  He can handle our anger.  He can handle our fears and our lack of comprehension thru the tough times - but He does want us to trust that He operates from a core character of love for us and that He can be trusted in the big picture of life.  

 

Looking back - the year that was: Staph infection/sepsis/hospitalizations

This week marks the one year anniversary since my husband, Jeff, fell ill from a staph infection.  At this point a year ago, I could not look ahead and see how things would be - could not feel, could not think, could not even imagine, really.


Some of you are new here, some of you never really knew what happened.  Since I want to write the events of that time down for our children, I hope that you will feel free to read along.  We all need hope, don't we?  The story of his illness/recovery and that of the rest of our summer and the birth of our ninth baby will take some time to tell.  I understand that it is lengthy, and not everyone will want to read it.  That's okay - I just want to be sure that it is written down for our children.  Some of them had no idea how sick their Dad really was.  Since they were mostly home taking care of each other (feeding, bed times, laundry, etc.) they were unaware of a lot of what was going on.  Our big kids really had to step up to the plate last year.  They kept our family going, kept us together.  What would we have done without them?

The staph infection and sepsis which threatened Jeff's life came without warning out of the blue.  It was early May, 2010, and our family was emerging from a horrible flu.  All of us, except for Jeff, had been ill for days.   Although we had not told anyone other than our children and a few other people, I was 16 weeks pregnant with our ninth baby.  The flu brought high fever, vomiting, and achy joints.

In between taking care of the rest of us, Jeff had been working around our home and on another old "fixer-upper" he had gutted.  He had been working on plumbing in a crawl space, and thought that he had wrenched his hip a bit as he stepped down between the floor joists.

Jeff has a Birmingham Hip, which is a type of resurfaced joint.  Because he had limited mobility and pain due to a claw-like bone spur on his hip joint, he had the surgery done in April, 2007.  He healed well from that surgery, but did have to take care to not injure himself again.  His days of bungee-cord jumping were over.

Despite the twinges of pain in his hip joint, he mowed the yard in the evening and seemed to be fine.  Around midnight, he woke up shaking uncontrollably.  He was sweating profusely, with nausea.  He did not have a fever at first, but as the night progressed his fever climbed.  We were sure he had finally succumbed to the flu.  He had the same symptoms as the rest of us, right down to the joint pain.

I wrapped myself around him, trying to calm his shaking, trying to warm him, then trying to cool him - trying to find him some comfort, somehow.

We made it through the night and thru the next day, still thinking he had the flu.  We went ahead and celebrated our son Josiah's 8th birthday on Monday.  We were a few days early, but since it was Jeff's day off from work we took advantage of the day.  Josiah wanted home-made chicken nuggets and home-made macaroni and cheese.  Our biggest sons were away from home for the day.  I remember being really stressed because of having a few less helpers and trying to salvage the day for Josiah.  Jeff was not beginning to feel any better like it seemed he should.   By bedtime the pain in his hip had intensified to the point that he could scarcely walk or bend to sit.  We pulled out a cane I had found at a thrift store and brought home in the event that my parents ever needed it.  Jeff used the cane to support himself as he walked - but we could not even begin to knock the pain with over-the-counter medications.  He continued on with ever-increasing pain and chills and nausea throughout the night.

At some point we both realized that this was not the flu, that he must have something wrong with his hip joint.  But what?  It came on so suddenly.  When the second morning came, we called our family doctor.  She told us to go to the emergency room.

Looking back, I have kicked myself a hundred times for not getting him to the hospital sooner.  Why didn't I realize this wasn't the flu?  Why didn't I suspect something was wrong with his old surgery site?  Our doctor assured me that if we came in sooner they wouldn't have realized the severity of it, either, and would have likely sent us home to wait it out.  I don't know about that, I just know that I suffered severe guilt that I did not realize how bad things were.  As it was - I insisted that when morning came we would be going to the doctor and I would not take "no" for an answer.  Jeff didn't resist much at all.

He slowly got ready - trying to remember everything he needed to do for his family should this be a big deal.  I raced around trying to leave things in order for our children at home alone for who knows how long.  Jake was 17, Nick - 15, Emily - 14, Julia - 11, Josiah - 8, Samuel - 5, Benjamin - 4, Mariam - 2 and in the middle of deciding that she was going to potty train herself.

I'd spent a lot of time in the ER in the past year - first when our son Nick was mugged and beaten up, and next when our son Sammy was life-flighted in when he suffered a head wound.  It's interesting to look back and see how I handled yet another crisis.  My heart was in my throat, feeling the sense that this was serious but not knowing what it was.  I knew where all of the free coffee pots were in the hospital, but made sure to pack quarters for pop and food from the snack machine.  I didn't plan to leave Jeff's side for more than a few minutes, if that even.  Since we hadn't told many people about my pregnancy, I was trying to not wear maternity clothes yet.  I basically had one outfit, and it was dressy.  I wonder if the ER people wondered why I dressed up to bring my husband to the ER?  Along with the limited wardrobe, I had learned that I needed to be a little bit aggressive sometimes to get the right care for the people I love.  I wanted to look professional even at that point in order to get respect.  Over years spent sitting with sick people in hospital settings, I know that often you get the type of care you command.  I'm generally a non-confrontive person - easy to dismiss because I don't look too threatening.  I've learned how to be an advocate for my "patient," however, whoever that might be.  I also know my husband, and often when he is under pain medication he is either totally "out" or he is too sick to speak for himself.  It's a horrible thing that I hate - when due to pain or illness he becomes unavailable to me.  It is the darkest place I know and a place I never want to visit again as long as I live - but I was prepared for it:  Prepared to make decisions for him, prepared to advocate for him, prepared to be nice and gracious but also ready to grab lapels, stethescopes, or whatever it took to get him some pain relief.

The drive to the emergency room was tense.  Jeff winced from the pain at every bump in the road.  I kept up a light chatter, pointing out things along the 30 minute drive to try to take his mind off of the pain.  I failed.  I remember there was a child's shoe lying in the road.  I pointed it out to Jeff.  I was pretty sure by then that he just wanted me to shut up.  I did.

I drove the car up to the door, but I could not help Jeff out.  I was not strong enough.  An orderly came out to meet us and helped extricate him from the front seat.  I parked the car, and by the time I arrived inside another orderly was trying to find a way to get him seated in a wheelchair.  He could not bend to sit - his leg and hip muscles were clenching and painful spasms were constant.  It was devastating to watch my husband in so much pain.

Within twenty minutes he was taken to an exam room, where the entire process was repeated in the attempt to get him onto the bed.  He'd try, and wince, and shake and cry out in pain.  The orderly was a big guy with an amazing amount of compassion.  Somehow, he was finally able to get Jeff upon the bed - which was small and shaky and slippery.  Why aren't ER beds more comfortable?  There was no need for me to "get bossy" in the ER - they knew much better than I that this was something serious.  They started an antibiotic quickly and soon a grizzled doctor wearing a doo-rag and the attitude of a no-nonsense Vietnam War Vet entered the room.  He, too, showed great compassion.  He took one look at Jeff and ordered morphine in measured doses until his muscles relaxed.  Jeff's muscles are the short and tight type - he is a thickly muscled man, built as strong as an ox.  It always takes more than the average dose to get his muscles to unclench, and consequently, he usually responds with nausea and by falling asleep.

Finally, for the first time in days, he was able to have relief from pain and to sleep.  For the first time, now that he was not hurting, I could breathe again.  We stayed in the room the entire day, repeating the pain-relief/sleep cycle over several times.  Labs were drawn, scans were taken, and the antibiotics were pumped into his body, preemptively.  There was a orthopaedic surgeon in the hospital, but we would need to wait until he was finished with his day's work before he could do a needle biopsy of Jeff's hip.

I sat by Jeff's bed, rather numb by it all.  I read too many magazines.  I raised and lowered his head as needed.  Held the barf bowl.  Covered him with blankets as he shook uncontrollably.  Cried a bit in the bathroom, but was mostly too numb to show emotion.   I didn't know what was wrong but I had a feeling of dread.  I thought about how the kids and I would make it if he died.  I have dear, dear friends who have been widowed young and knew that there was no way I was immune, yet knew that I had huge responsibilities and had to hold it together.  I knew, all too clearly, that it was a distinct possibility that he might die.  It had been my greatest fear since becoming a wife at age 20 - knowing that I could lose the one I loved so immensely.  And what about this precious new life?  We didn't even have a name or know if we were having a boy or a girl.  Would Jeff get to know this baby?

Jeff was eventually moved to a room on the floor for the evening.  A needle was stuck into his hip joint and some fluid was aspirated to be tested for infection.  If there was infection, he would have surgery the following day.   (To be continued.)