God Heals All Things

On our third day home from the hospital it became apparent that my newborn, Justin, was very ill.  A mother knows. When a hungry baby begins to nurse, he is soothed and all is well.  My son jerked away in pain.  He wailed loud with frustration while flailing his arms and legs between the instinct of hunger and the pain of prevention.  Unable to fill his need, my heart quickened at his agony.

With my husband out-of-town, my parents drove me back to the hospital of his birth.   My “big baby” looked like a miniature doll once he was placed in a large hospital crib.  Nurses and aids surrounded him; taking tests, doing measurements, and writing notes on clipboards.  My heart broke whenever a needle was stuck into his unsuspecting heel.  It was like squeezing blood from a turnip. Each time I caught sight of the  white-coated lady from the lab, I rushedto protect my new son.   Even if only to hold his clenched fist or whisper sweet nothings into his ear.  He knew my voice and for a second on the clock, a sense of calmness came over him.

My baby son was born with a tiny tear in his ureter, allowing urine to seep into his stomach whenever he “relieved” himself.  Eventually infection took over his infant body which caused him great pain.  To make him well, I would drop pink medicine into his mouth from a dropper for the first year of his life.  Much like a mother bird feeds her young while in the nest of tall trees whispering in the wind.  Doctors hoped the tear would heal itself as they often do.

With only hours to go before my baby’s discharge, my body was attacked by ravaging pain in the darkness of the night.  Truly, I felt like I might die.  The pediatric wing was hushed quiet with baby’s sleeping breaths.  Somehow, I made it to the nurses station where I asked the little gal in green to please take me down to ER.  Looking at me in disbelief, she wondered briefly if I might have another “baby in my tummy?”

I would think this was an unbelievable story if it hadn’t happened to me.  Only days after giving birth by c-section and tending to my sick infant, I was re-admitted for my second surgery.  My gallbladder needed to be removed as soon as possible!  Two days later, I went home to the open arms of my little Jayson waiting patiently for his mother and new baby brother in the open door jamb.  Never was I so grateful to be home, to have my family “whole” again.   Our ribbon had come loose and quickly needed to be re-tied.  God had blessed me by giving me the strength to get through.  He had answered my prayers in so many ways.

In so many ways…..

Stairway to Heaven

It was a beautiful day.  The sun was bright in the sky of blue and breezes blew softly by the patio.  Whenever I passed the screen door, wind-chimes that dangled from the outside roof twinkled with melodies so dear.  Family gathered by my mother’s side.  Not many.  My father together with my sisters and brothers.  Mother sat upright in her favorite rocking chair, determined not to die in the same bed she had spooned my father in for over 56 years.  It was her last unspoken gift to him.  To this day, I’m not sure he ever got the connection, that final bit of will in her…but, I knew.

Mother’s chair of soft burgundy velvet, a gift from my sister years before was small and shaped to fit her itty-bitty body perfectly.  For as long a I remember, it sat under a rose-colored lamp.  The same one that shined above her petite head of wavy, graying hair where she knitted ruffled christening gowns for grandchildren, read her Bible daily, and hand-stitched needlepoint quilts for all five of her children grown.

The day was long as my mother struggled between this world and the next.  Her breathing became more labored while rays of sun stung the milk-blue of her eyes.  I remember finding dark glasses to fit her tiny face.  Finally, her body seemed to rest in preparation for her journey to Heaven.  Between comforting her and dispensing medication, my sister and I wandered out to the back of the yard where we prayed for God to take her while tears fell to our toes.

That evening, our family sat around the family dining table of walnut colored wood.  My father’s seat was the ladder-back chair directly in front of my mother’s resting spot.  So close, he could feel the warmth of her body while smelling the scent of her breath.  Softly we spoke, reminiscing about the years gone by.  We laughed about little things while listening to Mother’s favorite music from dark speakers connected to an older CD player in the foyer, nearby.

It seemed to be the first time in a week that we had time to sit down together.  Minutes to share love and respite from the emotional toil of a soon-to-be, finality.  Fluted paper plates in a Thanksgiving theme held our dinner of take-out tacos made of  golden corn. Shredded green lettuce, yellow cheddar cheese and red salsa on the side.  Between bites, my father’s hand reached behind his chair to gently touch the nape of my mother’s neck.  A silent gift of love and loyalty from him to her. What message was in that simple touch? Their many years together would be ending soon.  How my heart ached for this humble father of mine who wanted nothing more than to love my mother forever and always!

Joining hands in prayer, we asked God to ease my mother’s suffering.  Peaceful lyrics continued to give us a sense of strength in the background while wind-chimes of brass and glass danced to music a few feet away.  So close were the sounds of our voices together with the melodies, that I wondered if my mother could hear all that was comforting and familiar to her?   If so, perhaps it would help her transition into God’s afterlife?

A few minutes later the phone rang.  Wiping his hands free of taco crumbs, my father answered it.  On the other end was my youngest brother, who lived about an hour away. He was of course, calling to check on Mom.  In that very second we learned that she was gone.  “Oh, my God,” my father said, in anguish.  Through tears, my ‘baby’ brother responded, then. “Dad, I had a feeling.  I just knew…..My other brother, who was with us let out a the most terrible wail.  Deep and guttural like the cry of an animal.  I shall never forget it.  His heart shattered into a million pieces, scattering them to the wooden floor below.

By then, my mother’s soul was surely being carried by Angels to the Stairway of Heaven.  Instinctively and without thinking, I removed the clear, stiff oxygen tube from her soft, delicate nose.  It was no longer needed and she hated it so.   At last, my mother could breathe freely on her own.

She Breathes Freely with God in Heaven Above.  I love you, Mom.

 

The Day Before Her Last

*Originally Posted on 11/19/2013

My mother’s yellow roses are wilted now.  Edges of curled brown buds barely cling to their coffee-colored vines.  They bend ever so slightly to the left or to the right from evening temperatures turning oh-so-cold.  Within a day or two, they’ll have to be cut down in final preparation for next spring.  Yes, gentle spring when life begins anew.

Early this morning, I opened my patio door to breathe in a gust of fresh fall air.  It slammed me hard and quick.  High in the sky was a still bright moon, spectacular in sight. Then, clouds moved in to shadow it with a thin veil of grey, giving it an almost ghostly appearance.

Three years ago today was the day before my mother’s last.  It was the most painful one for her living on this earth.  The worst for her loved ones to bear.  The hospice nurse told me to gather my siblings and so I had.  After they arrived, I anticipated scenes from a movie, I guess.  The ones where sisters and brothers take turns having private time with their dying mother.  It was not to be.  In the same manner that a new parent recognizes the cry of their newborn, caretakers know the difference in their patient’s signals and signs.

It was too difficult for my mother to speak near the end, and so she did not try.  We had our own way of communicating without saying a word.  She lay on her side, trying to lessen the pain, I suspect.  There, her slender hands were open to me.  A slight inward movement meant, “Come closer, I need something.”  Perhaps it was an extra bed sheet or slight sip of water?  An outward turn meant, “No more, I’ve had enough.”  Occasionally, she moved her hands back and forth.  “Please don’t touch me,” they silently said.  “My body hurts me so.”  A hand rising abruptly meant, “NO!  Do not let anyone come near me.”

My mother’s cooling touch guided me towards granting her last wishes.  As arduous as it was for loved ones to understand, she couldn’t bear to be seen in such a deplorable condition.  She wanted peace, to be left alone.  Without time for explanation, I became the designated gate-keeper, of sorts.  It was a role I did not choose.  Rather, it was chosen for me.

I don’t remember how I became my mother’s caretaker.  My father was of course her, “Number One,” leaving my middle sister with other roles to play.  I was simply there to keep charts, dispense medicine and give the proper answers to intuitive questions.  I had done it for many years while raising chronically ill children.  I was good in a crisis and could pocket away emotions if only for a minute…..much like a doctor or a nurse must do.

The time spent with my mother as a caretaker was a privilege I will forever cherish.  Through wordless gestures a lifetime was discovered that I’d never known before.  It was the very last thing I was able to do for her.

The very last thing……

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It is only when a married daughter loses her mother that she truly begins to grow-up.  Over time she understands, allowing life to make perfect sense.”

Kim Gosselin

“Whole Family”

“My baby on ‘Angels Wings’ left room for this baby to take its place, to be born upon this earth. His day had come.”  Kim Gosselin

The sky was awash in all its morning’s glory.  Painted desert colors of turquoise, copper and shades of toast, rose with the  bright golden sun on a Saturday in July.   That day welcomed a new life into the world.  Our first-born son, Jayson, was dropped off at “Mrs. Doubtfire’s” house on our way to the hospital.  She would love him and keep him safe in her velvety English arms until I returned home.

The Memory Journal

When I close my eyes, her smile is tilted slightly towards the sky, as if receiving a silent message meant for her soul alone.  She had an outward beauty of course, but her inward beauty was unsurpassed.  Calm in times of insurmountable struggles, tremendous trials and personal loss, she had an inner peace that gave her strength.  She was one of my father’s sisters who was diagnosed with a rare chronic illness named, Friedreich’s Ataxia.  She was my special Aunt Joan.

Aunt Joan was a nurse by trade.  As a young woman, she took care of the sick and needy in a Michigan hospital.  She married a strict Lutheran Preacher with a dry sense of humor.  In turn, she became a minister’s wife who eventually bore and raised four children.  I often thought my mother was in a ‘race’ of sorts with her.  Together with my father’s other five sisters, they were forever having babies.  During family gatherings, some of my cousins and I peered under soft yellow blankets to catch the wrinkles of newborns cradled in their laps.  I was part of the older group.  It was our job to barricade running toddlers before they trashed our grandmother’s goods.  We were a lot like the “Kennedy’s” in that way, except our family was never rich or famous.

I don’t remember the order of such, whether Aunt Joan’s diagnosis came before or after her older sister, Helen.  They were fairly close in time, as I recall.  Either way, Aunt Joan was quite young.  I believe she learned of it soon after she bore her fourth and last child, a son.  She named her baby, Paul after my father who became his Godfather.   How difficult her life must have been, tending to four young children in addition to being the picture-perfect Pastor’s wife?  All this while living with such a devastating chronic condition?   If she ever questioned God, no one knew.  Instead, Aunt Joan was full of gentle smiles, taking her condition in stride while raising her brood of children proudly. Even after her body did not respond to her brain’s unmistakable commands, she persevered.  My aunt never complained.  Not ever.  Not after forty years or more.  Not even later in life when she lost her youngest son to a another chronic condition.  Life was not fair.

All of my aunts have given me exceptional gifts.  Life Lessons that can’t be learned by reading books or researching on a computer.  Growing up, I must have taken subliminal notes scribbled in invisible ink.  Lucky for me to have filed them away in a memory journal to be discovered during my own times of adversity.  Thank you, Aunt Joan.  For your life and the wisdom your shared with me.

Bless you together with your loved ones in heaven above.

Edited from one of my earliest posts 11/16/13 in dedication to my Aunt Joan

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For all those who must overcome obstacles in life put one foot in front of the other to take petite steps along your weary path.  Throughout your journey, sunlight shall guide you with golden rays while giving you peace.”    Kim Gosselin

Hiking on the banks of Maui. One step at a time…..

The Innocents

I never know what I’m going to write about on any given day.  The tips of my fingers slightly touch the keys of my keyboard, ultimately printing words that appear on the screen. 

Invariably my post portrays portraits from the past, Lessons Learned from living with Chronic Conditions.  Not today.  When I shivered under bedclothes last evening, it wasn’t the drop in temperatures that kept me from falling asleep.  Images from CNN flashed through my head as I rested upon my pillow.  Entering my dream state, miniature golden keys unlocked sealed hidden doors to render unimaginable images from the Philippines.  Massive destruction, miles of devastation, and bloated images of lifeless bodies were everywhere the cameramen could shoot.

Husbands lost wives, wives lost husbands and children had become orphans.  Anderson Cooper profiled a woman whose family had sought shelter from the storm in a bus, now violently flipped over, lying on its side.  When the surge washed over her family’s ‘safety net,’ she lost her husband together with six children.

Watching Mr. Cooper’s report, my eyes welled with tears.  If it had been me, I’m not sure how I would have gone on with life?  Yet there she was, walking through piles of rubble in bare feet, carefully covering her dead loved ones with the finest plastic garbage bags she could gather.  To her they were gifts of dignity.  Treasures others did not have.   All the while she searched for three dead children, not yet found. 

Entire families had been swept away with blackened sea mud and painted wooden sticks of what thousands used to call “home.”  Before the typhoon struck, people of the Philippines were happy and surviving.  They made a life and living in a land they loved.  For many, the ground beneath their feet was the only soil they had ever run their fingers through.  

As of yesterday, people who have survived don’t know where to go or what to do.  If they want to leave, how do they get out?  There is no working airport.  

On television I heard deep gutteral wails as young and old cried tears of unknown grief.  Far too many have nothing left, nowhere to rest their weary bodies or weakened minds.  

These people, no different from you or I,  have not been given the most simple of commodities in order to live.  Food, water, shelter, or medical care.  Some of it has arrived, but there is no way for it to reach those who so desperately need it.  The survivors of the typhoon are miracles.  They know this to be true.   Yet, they ask themselves, “How will I survive the aftermath?” 

 In the end, what hurts my heart the most are portraits of the Innocents.  Children’s faces, their dark eyes blank and wide in shock, hang tightly to any parent left.  They are too afraid to let go.  Tiny toddlers clutch their mother’s weeping bosom for comfort.  Newborn infants suckle their emaciated mother’s breast for life to sustain them.  Sadly, milk may not produce another day.  I fear for these children, the lambs of God.  What will happen to them tomorrow or the next day, or the day after that?  

The situation in the Philippines will not render itself better anytime soon.  It’s going to take a lot of  time, work and effort from all around the world.  In the interim, people are dying every single day.  People like you and me.  Your children and mine. 

 When I woke this morning, my husband tuned the television to CNN.  The news I watched the night before was not a dream.  I knew it before I fell asleep…I know it now.  I grieve for the people of the Philippines.

I ask you to think of them.  To light a candle, say a prayer and help in any way you can.

The Circle of Life

It was news no one wanted or expected to hear.  “Your grandmother has cancer.”  Not long after I discovered a new life within me, my mother discovered  she was losing her own.

My mother has  since passed away from cancer.   I now understand the emotional pain she must have endured when her mother was diagnosed with the disease.  Today, many cancers are often treated as “chronic conditions” to be lived with for a lengthy period of time.  No one but God knows how long the time stamp will be.

My maternal grandmother was diagnosed with late stage, ovarian cancer.  It was a particularly aggressive form of the disease and difficult for doctors to treat.  Month after month my mother, together with her two remaining sisters watched my grandmother slowing slip away from them.  She lived for nearly two years after her diagnosis.  It’s never long enough…………

My grandmother was a remarkably strong and defiant woman.  She fought the war of cancer with courage as any soldier would.  I remember going to the Elks Club for Mother’s Day Brunch in May of 1988.  Our hope was that she would enjoy the aroma of the party-pink carnation pinned to her breast, feel the warmth of the Arizona sun shining upon her face, and be without pain for one entire day.  Just “one.”  Instead, she tightened her thin arms around her mid-section, a sign and signal that all was not well.  She tried her best for our sake, to take a bite or two.   Then the pain of cancer came, not allowing many a morsel to melt upon her tongue.  As triumphant as she fought, her calculated opponent was winning the battle.  My grandmother raised her white flag, saying she wanted to, “rest.”

Two months later I gave birth to my second son, the last child I would ever carry.  He was a big boy, weighing in at 9lbs, 4oz.  I was blessed that my grandmother was well enough to see the two us.  My mother brought her to the hospital shortly after my son was born.  Sweeping him up from his bassinet, she gently lifted a limb to exclaim, “Oh, look how long his legs are. He’s a beautiful boy, a linebacker for sure!”

15 months later my mother lost the woman who birthed her, warmed her by the stove, and worked two jobs when the “ways of the world” warned her to stay home.  What did I lose?  A lady who hid a parcel of strength in my pocket for the future.  A woman who taught me to shuck peanuts at Tiger stadium while she drank a beer.  A feisty gal who boxed ‘bigger’ boys when she was young, yet wore high heels to work at the discount store.  Sadly, my baby sons lost their great-grandmother, a lover of “little lambs” who they later knew only through scrapbooks pasted together by generations who came after her.

The Circle of Life.

My maternal grandmother holding her newborn great-grandson in 1988. Presenting him with his first birthday cake on July 16, 1989.

My Own “Mrs. Doubtfire”

She was an English war bride.  As a young woman, she left her homeland and all she knew to live in America with her second husband.  Before coming here, she had already lost her first husband to the same war after merely months of marriage. Her name was Joan. She had a kind and gentle soul with a soft lilting voice, tones of which reminded me of a string of tinkling brass bells moved by mellow winds.  A true lover of children, she was the mother of only one daughter who lived too far away in California.  Joan’s husband was cared for in a near-by nursing home where he lived with Alzheimer’s disease.  It was there that she spent several nights a week feeding him dinner.