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Even though I haven't been able to return to South Dakota since our parents moved to Houston in 2010, it is comforting to know that our farm is still there. Sometimes I daydream about turning into the long driveway again and taking inventory of what has changed over the years. Today I learned that our barn has been torn down by the current owner. It wasn't a complete shock since I already knew that the roof had fallen into disrepair, but it was still devastating to know that it's gone. This building was the setting for countless memories. I can almost smell the straw that was neatly stacked in the top floor. I spent many hours there, stealthily following our mother cats to find where they'd stashed their kittens. I rescued baby barn swallows that had fallen out of mud nests, ever (wrongly) convinced that I could raise them. This was one of my refuges when chased by evil roosters or maniacal geese. It was here that I had an encounter with an emaciated opossum, which I mistook for a pitiful cat and came within inches of giving it a nice pat on the head. This barn housed a wide variety of animals over the years. We were able to watch piglets being born and bottle-feed calves. There were sweet lambs and soft bunnies. We gathered warm eggs from beneath hens and fed more cats than we could count. We played hide and seek in the dark with our childhood church friends in the fields around the barn. In later years, it became a storage spot for Dad's '61 Ford Galaxie. He'd patiently given me driving lessons in this car that lacked power steering. We set up a volleyball net in front of the barn after church potlucks on our farm. In the bedroom I shared with my sister, we could look out the window that was adjacent to our wall of Shaun Cassidy posters and catch a glimpse of the barn. Dad's bountiful garden was tucked behind the barn. He spent contented hours in the shade of the building, digging up potatoes and weeding green beans. While I'm thankful that photos and memories can stand the test of time, the world feels a little less magical once again. https://youtu.be/qkP6Tf79UrM

Teeter Totter

This month my Facebook memories have been filled with posts from seven years ago. We'd finally gotten the news about a kidney for Jason, but were met with life-threatening complications in the days that followed. My sister was right beside me during each new development. She rushed to KU with us after we got the call, and kept me calm during surgery until we could see him in recovery. She urged me to remain hopeful when the doctor sat us down and shocked us by saying that we might lose him to a rare complication. After I'd gone many hours without sleep at Jason's bedside, she booked me a hotel room and insisted I take a break. This was only one of countless crises she saw me through over the years. A few weeks ago, I began having dreams about Laura. They've been vivid, and stay with me long after I leave my bed for the day. One morning, I woke in such a panic, and started to call Chuck before I was fully awake. In my mind, I was calling to tell him that I was on my way to their house to see my sister. I'd been dreaming that I'd forgotten to check on her in these past months since we lost her. It was difficult to shake the feelings of profound grief when I remembered that she was gone. I've always known the balance was off in the teeter totter of our relationship. She was ever protective and strong while I was usually an absolute mess. I've been wishing that I hadn't depended on her as often or required so much of her time and energy as she tried to keep me up. These past four years, she continued to support and encourage me, all while enduring unimaginable struggles of her own. There would never have been enough years to repay her for the millions of ways she held me up. And, of course, she didn't keep a tally sheet anyway. Still, I find myself wishing I could go back and dig my heels into the ground and take my turn holding her up.

The Grass Is Always Greener

While I knew how much I would enjoy having our own yard, I couldn't have anticipated the solace it would provide during these past several months. At the first hint of spring, I sought out creative ways to safely acquire flowers to plant. I strolled through an outdoor nursery for dahlias and freesia, then ordered potting soil for curbside pickup. Our friend left a box of little pots on our porch so that I might plant basil, lavender and lemon balm. These calming fragrant plants went in the rooftop pots closest to my chair where I sit and watch our backyard bunny play under the evergreens. 

Soon the grass was tall enough for its first trim. Mowing was a frustrating endeavor last summer due to faulty equipment. The bargain mower I bought from an online swap site taunted me each time I pulled the cord to try and start it. The morning I finally got it running after 17 attempts, one of the wheels broke off. Ah, but this year would be different. When my brother came from Chicago for Thanksgiving, he'd brought me his self-propelled mower with a fancy key-start. 

When I first began mowing this season, it helped me feel productive and provided a reason to get out of the house. But it has gradually grown to become something akin to therapy for me. As soon as I open the garage door and seek out my grass-stained tennis shoes, a calm washes over me. I put my favorite Spotify playlist on shuffle before pulling out the mower that starts every single time. As I cut each swath in the yard, the breeze sends my worries far away. Our grass has been the shortest on the block this summer as I've worked my way through anxious thoughts and misgivings. 

The irony of my newfound delight with mowing is not lost on me. When I was in junior high, our dad was unexpectedly laid off from his job at Gurney's Seed and Nursery. I can't imagine the stress he must have felt as he scrambled to figure out how to provide for his wife and four children. He decided to put his knowledge and skills to use and start a lawn service. My siblings and I along with Mom rounded out the rest of his crew. I quickly surmised that I fairly loathed my new occupation. I was certain this was not how a teenage girl should have to spend her time. Surely I wasn't meant to be covered from head to toe in dirt and grass, or empty a trailer of clippings that developed a distinct aroma if left too long to bake in the sun. And, oh, the spectacular embarrassment to be picked up after school by a truck pulling the same trailer filled with lawn equipment instead of climbing into cars with friends like my peers were surely doing. The days when our list of yards was especially long, I silently prayed for rain. No, this was not the job for me.

Looking back now, I regret that I didn't fully appreciate this experience. I rarely marveled at the beauty of nature that I encountered on those summer days. I didn't take time to admire the relationships that Dad cultivated while taking care of those of his clients who were elderly or widowed. I wasn't thankful that I had a job to earn money for college. I didn't feel grateful enough for the hours spent on a pickup seat with my siblings, sharing inside jokes and jugs of water. I couldn't understand that our parents were teaching us so much more than simply how to cut in a straight line. This morning as I made the first diagonal path across our back yard, my only wish was that Dad could sit in the shade and watch me go.

Solace

On Sunday morning, I gave a man who lives in a group home close to our apartment a ride home from church. During the short drive, he inevitably turned the conversation to the subject of my sister, since he's quite the fan. He said, "Your sister has an angel's heart. You are lucky to have her for a sister." I assured him that I wholeheartedly agreed.
My sister has ever been my protector and strength. She is the very definition of unconditional love. When we were young, I continually tucked her hidden trove of wild cherry Lifesavers in my cheeks or gave her Holly Hobbie doll stylish hair makeovers. She loved me still. I went through a rather moody and sullen phase during my early teenage years when I wasn't exactly a joyful companion. She showed me kindness anyway. She was always finding new ways to encourage and uplift me. While she was away at college, she routinely entreated her male friends to write me letters. It's hard to describe the impact this had on an awkward overweight high school girl.
My sister and I lived together in a duplex during my last two years of college since she was teaching there at the time. I didn't prove to be an exemplary roommate. When it was my turn to wash the dishes, they tended to pile up and up. This occasionally resulted in a mad scramble to stash them away in my closet whenever we learned our grandmother was en route for a visit. Even so, my sister remained my steadfast confidant.
It would seem that becoming an adult didn't magically render me entirely self-reliant. If I were to sit here and type all night, I would still be unable to relay how my sister has supported me at every turn. She is the one who rocked little Eli to sleep the nights I needed to stay beside Jason's hospital bed. She offered wise counsel during our times of financial hardship. She is the one who rushed to my side in the ICU at 3am when the chaplain called her after Jason coded. She regularly insisted that I take respite trips whenever my caregiving tasks became overwhelming. So, while I was in Chicago eating Lou Malnati's pizza or clapping at a Counting Crows concert, she was giving Jason insulin shots and shampooing my carpets. She went through the training for home dialysis so she could help be my back-up when I traveled to spend time with Dad during his cancer fight. She is the one who came to my door to tell me that his fight was over. She drove Eli to chess tournaments and youth rallies, and included him on family trips. She sat with me in a hospital waiting room well past bedtime while Jason received a new kidney. Even now, in the midst of her oncology appointments and an already heaping plate of responsibilities, she has been exploring solutions for our housing situation and walking me through homeschooling and the college application process. She is my staunch cheerleader, my sage sounding board, my abiding support.
It has taken me some time to find my words and get my bearings since learning of her cancer diagnosis. How to convey the absolute unfairness and utter helplessness I feel? My singular goal is to add my strength to hers as she battles this.

"Is solace anywhere more comforting than in the arms of a sister?" -Alice Walker

If Only In My Dreams

I remember eagerly awaiting the arrival of Christmas as a young girl. We passed countless hours leafing through the Sears Wish Book, earmarking pages. Nothing seemed outside the realm of possibility.
We had a live Christmas tree every year, adorned with bubble lights and excess tinsel. Dad worked at Gurney's Seed and Nursery for a few years. We all still remember the white flocked tree he once brought home during this time. We felt quite fancy that year.
Mom always made special treats during the holidays. This was the only time of year that she made batches of fudge. We also enjoyed her peanut butter balls and coconut balls. Before our farmhouse was remodeled, we had a large enclosed porch. Round tins filled with these treats were kept here. I was a frequent visitor to the porch this time of year.
Even though money was very tight, Christmas mornings were always magical. I have a vivid memory of the morning we woke to find a new television set. Instead of waiting in a line outside Best Buy at 5am with a credit card, our parents had sold apples to save up to buy this for us. I'm certain it took much creative budgeting to fulfill the wishes of four children, but we were never disappointed. We received joy in abundance. After we set aside the Life Savers storybooks from our stockings, we opened gift after gift. Christmas day was spent moving toy cars up and down an elevator on a Fisher Price parking garage, and making Weebles wobble.
Life's changes and loss have removed a bit of the holiday sparkle for me, but there is still magic to be found. Generosity and thoughtfulness still abound. That childlike hope remains in me yet.

"I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams."

New Every Morning

Jason was pushing the cart yesterday in the grocery store when we paused to grab a bottle of mustard. Another customer stopped to greet Jason, and asked how he'd been doing. Neither of us recognized the woman, but Jason was pleasant as always. Her next question caught me off guard when she asked him, "How is your mom doing?" Jason smiled and replied that she's doing well. 

It has been difficult navigating Jason through the recent loss of his mom. It was the single most heartbreaking experience I've watched him go through. I tried to find the right balance between protecting him and including him in the days that followed. When we woke on the morning of her service, he asked the same question he does each day, "What do we have to do today?" He had already forgotten the grief of the previous night, about the hours spent at the funeral home for visitation. 

Because of his memory loss, each day is new for Jason. I can't bring myself to remind him continually that his mom is gone. In his mind, all is still well in his world. He hasn't tried to call her, or suggested we visit since he doesn't remember how much time has passed since their last contact. 

After Jason's brain injury, it was clear that his earliest memories were mostly intact. He still remembers the boundless love he received from his mom. Jason remembers her telling everyone that he was her baby, even after he was a grown man. These are the memories that stayed.

Of course, there is also a boy living here who does remember this profound loss. This boy remembers everything. He remembers a grandma who covered his entire face with kisses whenever she saw him. He remembers their special New Year's Eve parties together at her house, when they drank sparkling juice from fancy glasses. He knows that her face lit up each and every time she saw him and exclaimed, "Eli!"  I have assured him that he can talk about his grandma any time he wishes, since I am missing her, too.

I often question myself about what is best for Jason. I have no way of knowing if he would eventually remember if I were to tell him often. It is difficult feeling as though I'm keeping things from him, no matter the intent.
"Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness." (Lamentations 3:22)

Love Always Hopes

I can still clearly remember falling back against the wall outside the ICU, my knees almost too weak to hold me up. The doctor was blunt and didn't soften his words. My sister stood beside me as we struggled to comprehend what he was saying. He told us there was nothing else they could do for my 33 year old husband, and that he would not survive. Through my haze of confusion and shock, I asked how much time we still had. The doctor coldly told us, "I am not God, and this is not a soap opera...there is no way to answer that." He did indicate that we should summon my husband's family to the hospital so they might say goodbye.
I passed the long hours of that night sitting beside my husband's bed, willing him to stay. Early the next morning, another doctor began her shift. She had been with us during the past several months, trying to determine the cause of my husband's symptoms with tests and biopsies. Her presence immediately brought a sense of calmness to me. I searched her face, and quietly pleaded with her to give me hope. She hesitantly told me that since he had made it through the night, she could offer me a small percent of a chance. A short time later, I witnessed an exchange between her and the doctor from the previous night. He must have questioned her, since I heard her whisper that she'd just wanted to give me some hope.
I fiercely clung to this hope for the next two days. Just as it seemed my husband was on the road to recovery, he experienced a life-altering setback. After going several days without sleep, I'd finally given in to my weariness. My sister had fashioned a little pallet of blankets on the ICU waiting room floor, and insisted that I try to relax and close my eyes. I quickly fell into a deep sleep, so failed to hear the "code blue, ICU" that rang out over the intercom at 3am.  I was gently woken by a nurse and a hospital chaplain, who explained that something had gone wrong with my husband's ventilator tube. The magnitude of the situation hit me when the chaplain asked if she could call anyone to come be with me. I have no memory of that walk to my husband's room, but remember the profound stillness when I entered.
Hope became my loyal companion in the months that followed. Together we faced the words: brain injury, unresponsive, seizures, low brain activity, coma. Hope seemed to waver at times in some of those who were caring for my husband. One day as I sat at his bedside, I heard one nurse ask another, "How long are they going to let him lie there like that?" During the two weeks my husband spent in a coma, it was often difficult to maintain hope. Hope seemed absent in the small room where the doctor took my father and me. With tears on her face, she asked me to sign a DNR (do not resuscitate) form, explaining that she couldn't imagine my husband enduring more trauma if something else occurred. I depended on the hope I received from my faith, as well as the unwavering support of friends and family during those darkest days.
We felt immense relief when my husband showed signs of coming back to us. The doctor had continually assured me, "He's still in there"...but there were times when I was uncertain. My husband responded with recognition upon seeing the faces of his mother and siblings, but his reaction to me was not as strong. Those first days after waking, when he looked at me, it seemed that he didn't remember me. Eventually, when the nurse asked my husband about his wife, his eyes flew to me. When he was finally able to speak, his first word was the name of our son, who was seven years old at the time.
Hope stayed with us during the next four weeks in the ICU, and through each complication that arose. After more than two months at our local hospital, my husband was transferred to a long-term care hospital to begin steps towards rehabilitation. Hope was a bit fleeting during his 6 week stay at this facility. It seemed as though we were unable to make forward progress, and were all beginning to wear around the edges. Hope returned when he was finally transferred to a third hospital for rehabilitation.
After spending five months in hospitals, my husband was able to return home. We slowly adjusted to the changes he'd undergone, both in personality and physically. By the time we became accustomed to his wheelchair, he was ready to transition to a walker. We rejoiced the day we were able to retire the walker to a corner in the garage. During his hospital stay, and in those first months at home, it was often difficult to recognize the familiar traits of the husband I'd known. I'd first fallen in love with his quick wit and joyful spirit. After all he'd endured, I found myself wondering if that man was lost to us. When we learned that his short-term memory loss would likely be permanent, we struggled to adapt.
Thankfully, hope proved to be incredibly resilient. It stayed close by as my husband made tremendous steps in his journey back to us. In time, our home was once again filled with his laughter. He was able to forge a strong relationship with our son again, through shared silly jokes and fierce games of checkers. Hope carried us through from those days full of chaos and despair to this place of calm contentment.

(I wrote this today for submission to a book that publishes short inspirational true stories)