Blessed are the sick.

Today I went to visit Helena, a Christian friend from work. Helena has been off work since mid February because her husband, Phil, is dying of cancer. Today, Helena sent me an e-mail saying that Phil was slipping away fast, that he had two weeks to live at the most, but more likely only hours or days.

I took a long lunch and went to visit. I can't even imagine the isolation she must feel, being at home all day. She doesn't dare leave him alone because he falls a lot. He has brain cancer. It has affected his balance, among other things.

I knocked on the door, and she answered, crying very hard. I felt so sorry for her the instant she opened the door. It was a deep, grieving cry, and I couldn't console her. She was reading a book that the hospice nurse had given her that describes the stages of dying. Phil has entered almost all of them, and was now getting to the final stages. It obviously made her sad to see it all written, in black and white, that he was at the end.

I went in and walked over to Phil. I patted him on the arm and asked how he was doing. He tried to say that he was doing fine, but he is very hard to understand. He has lost part of his jaw to the cancer, and his speech is not very good. I strained to hear him, and I think I understood what he was saying for the most part. Helena hugged me. I told her how sorry I was that she was having to go through this. She invited me to sit down.

I sat down and Helena started telling me how bad Phil was. I vowed before I went in that I would not act as if he were dead. I turned to him and asked him if he was in much pain. He said not that much. Helena said that the doctors were really trying to keep him comfortable. That's all that's left to do. I know he's on massive doses of morphine. I would want to be, too. I asked him if he was able to eat anything and he said that he could eat a little. Helena said he had a piece of toast the other day, and it took him six hours to eat it. He has given up all food. Another stage.

I think the thing that was the hardest for me to watch is Helena's having to grieve someone who is not dead. Phil is alive, sitting on the couch, but her mind has already started to grieve for his loss. What else can she do? She has been his primary care giver for two months solid now, and she told me that she feels really guilty because part of her wishes that he would just die so it would be over with. I told her that I would think something was wrong with her if she DIDN'T think that way. I am pretty sure I would if I were her. I'm not her and I think the same way. Phil just kind of sat there most of the time. Once in a while he would mutter something, but sometimes it didn't make sense. Helena said that the other day, Phil was having a long conversation with his mother, who has been dead for many many years. He also had a conversation with a cousin of his that died two weeks ago. She said it's almost like they're sitting right there on the couch, next to him, and he's talking with them as if they were real. That's another stage. I told her to take comfort in the fact that there are loved ones obviously waiting for him, and ready to reach for him when he starts to go.

She said she is just so worried. Worried about his salvation, and worried about WHEN he will die, and worried if it will be painful, worried if she will be ready. She said, "Angie, I just try to remember that there are people out there who have it a lot worse." I said back, "Helena, that's true, but it's also important for you to be able to tell yourself that this is terrible. This happening to you and Phil is a terrible thing, not to be minimized by what "others" may be going through." She needs to feel like it's okay to be angry, and sad, and mad, and whatever other emotions go along with watching a loved one die. I guess I was lucky. I told her the same thing. I never had to see my dad suffer. He was in the hospital, and the next thing we knew, he was gone. He had been joking with the nurses that morning, then was dead a few hours later. But, he didn't suffer.

I tried to tell Helena that it was okay to feel the things she was feeling. I'm no shrink, but I know enough to know what seems normal. She said that the hospice had told her to call Phil's family to let them know the end was near. He has a son that he's estranged from, and he was able to talk to him for a while. Helena said that they just kept telling each other they loved each other. Amazing what a phone call can erase. Phil had several children from his first marriage, and most of them have been to see him.

See, Phil wasn't always a nice guy. He's an alcoholic who has been very mean to not only Helena, but others around him. I think that forgiveness is a long time coming for some people. But, I see him sitting there, a frail, dying man, and I think of how terrible it would be to have regrets. I'm glad his son was able to forgive, if not just for the phone call.

Helena said she's already made most of the arrangements. She just sat in her chair and cried, and I let her. I wasn't going to pooh-pooh it away or say something stupid like, "When the time comes, it'll be for the best." I wasn't going to tell her that time would heal all wounds and that she'll probably be relieved when it's all over. I am not going to tell her those things. Instead, I told her that I have asked my dad to greet Phil in Heaven when the time comes. I reminded her that he will be restored to his vibrant self, and his suffering will be over. I reminded her that she has been doing a wonderful job of taking care of him. Mostly I reminded her that it was okay to cry.

Phil's ankles and feet are very swollen. His body is shutting down. She said he only goes to the bathroom about every three days. He isn't taking anything in, so nothing comes out. Another stage. She told him he should lie down for awhile, or put his feet up, but he kept telling her "later". I think he wanted to maintain some dignity while he had company. I put my hand on his arm and said, "Phil, I'M about ready to lie down for a nap! Go ahead and put your feet up!" But, he wanted to wait. Being polite for the company, I"m sure. He told Helena he had to use the restroom, she she basically carried him to the bathroom. She came back out and said that she was going to leave him there for a few minutes, because sometimes it takes his body a while to decide what it wants to do. I asked her if he seemed to comprehend what was happening, and she said that some days he does, but most days he doesn't seem to understand or know that he's dying. I told her that was probably God's way of saving him from worrying in the last hours of his life. I told her we could all be so lucky, to not sit around and worry if the breath we're taking is going to be our last. I mean, nobody knows for sure the exact minute they're going to die, but I would think that it would be best to not even realize the gravity of it. At least that's the way I feel.

Phil decided to come back to the couch by himself, and Helena jumped up and ran to him. Not only has he been falling, but when he falls, he's been hitting his head and the last time he did that, he bled so much Helena thought she was going to have to call 911. I wish I could avoid saying it, but he is in bad shape. He did remember me, though. He remembered that he has seen Ron and me in the store, and he remembered Ron was a cop. He said he has a nephew that wanted to be a police officer, but has too bad of an "attitude", as he put it. Helena said she couldn't believe that he remembered so much about me. Two days ago, he forgot who SHE was. It must have been a good day for him, in that respect.

I am probably going to go over there this weekend. Helena said she has 14 loads of laundry, and there is so much that she is putting off because she doesn't dare leave him for a moment. Not only is she worried about his falling, but she is worried that the second she goes downstairs to do laundry, he is going to die in that very moment. I know she feels this intense need to stare at him until the moment he dies. She really wants to be there for him when that happens, but he might have other ideas. Perhaps I can help with the housework she wants to do, or maybe I could just sit with Phil while she does some things. She said she has fallen so behind on everything because she can't have him out of her sight. He kept saying, "I'll be okay." I think he hates relying on her so much, when his mind actually lets him know how it is.

So, that is the story of my lunch hour. I felt so helpless, and all day long, I thought about that visit. It wasn't easy for me. I put my personal fears aside and went anyway, and I'm glad I did. Helena needed me. Needed the release of a friend to talk to. As I was leaving, Phil said, "It's terrible to be sick." I told him that I knew that it was. He said, "I'm not very good company." I told him I didn't come over to have him entertain me, I just wanted to visit with my friends. He smiled.

Helena walked me out and hugged me goodbye. She told me I "uplifted" her. I felt glad for that.

As I pulled out of the driveway, I prayed. I prayed that they both find peace here towards the end. I prayed that God didn't make Phil walk too far when the time came for him to go Home. I prayed that Helena can keep up her strength and that God take some of the burden from her. She is a good, Christian woman, and her prayers have gotten her though this. I gave thanks to God for letting me put my fears aside and having me visit them. I asked Him to introduce Phil to my dad when the time came for Phil to die. Mostly I told God thanks. Thanks for letting me be their friend. Thanks for having me visit. And if I made a difference, even for 45 minutes, then I have done my job. Blessed are the sick, and blessed are those who care for them.

Don't worry...I'm an idiot, too.

A few minutes ago, I got thinking about the many stupid things I have done in my life. Lucky for me, it was hard to pinpoint just a few of them, so I sat down and really thought about it. Do you ever sit and wonder if you have done the stupidest thing in all of mankind? Don't worry. I have done that. Not sat and wondered, but actually DONE the stupidest thing in all mankind.

My 20s were interesting. And, hell, why lie? They were fun. I subsided on too many cigarettes, too many beers, and too many boys. It was my time to discover me. And what I discovered was I was an alcoholic, nicotine addicted, slightly promiscuous, independent woman. The funny thing is, that didn't bother me at the time. I knew it and didn't care. I paid my taxes, held my job, put gas in my car and food on my table (not to mention beer in my fridge), and even visited my grandparents, so who cared if on the evenings and weekends, I lived it up? I must have had some sort of wiles, because I dated the best of the best. (enter dream sequence)...Man....let me tell you. In another blog, at another time. (Sometimes I feel like reminiscing about that part of my life that is so long gone and so never to be seen again. ) One time I left my younger sister open-mouthed in surprise when I let it slip that I had had eight dates with eight different men in seven days. Now, before you get all sanctimonious on me, let me just state for the record that I didn't sleep with ANY of them. I said slightly promiscuous, not Jerry Springer.

That's another story, though. I didn't sleep with everyone. I just liked to meet different people, and get an idea of who I wanted to be with for the rest of my life. So I dated a broad gamut of guys, from a fireman 12 years my senior, to a kid fresh out of high school who was two years younger than me, and at 17, probably illegal or something. I was hard to get enough to garner flower deliveries to work and home, yet accessible enough to garner the invitations to the street dance, the movies, dinner, the races, prom (yes, Prom), and to meet the parents. Some guys were braver than others. It took one guy four years to ask me out, another to say, after hanging out with him for one night, "So, I'm spending the night at your house, right?" (Shout out to you, Dan. You had balls. I just never let you show them to me.) I turned heads and didn't mean to. I was one of the guys until life went beyond Tabor Hall and drinking games. Sometimes when my guy friends realized I was a girl, they quit me. That hurt sometimes. It hurt a lot of times.

But I was careful. Pregnancy was my biggest fear at the time. I couldn't imagine having a baby at that time in my life, so I was very careful that it didn't happen. One time we were discussing birth control at work and I said that I used everything. Gels, creams, condoms, the Pill, everything. My friend said that she thought all women did that until they found one method they liked better. I said, no, I tried them ALL AT ONCE. I couldn't run the risk of getting pregnant! Yikes! At least I had the brains to know I was no where close to ready. Some don't have that luxury, or an accident happens. I was making damn sure those swimmers went nowhere!

But, thank God for me, that portion of my life ended. I met someone, married, gave up smoking, had a daughter, and quit drinking. Now, I'll have a beer once in awhile, but I went five years without so much as a drop of liquor, except for the occasional cold medicine. Yay me. Big freakin' deal. Truly, I don't think I could have survived a lifetime living like I did from the ages of 18 to 24. If I would have survived, I would have been an old, used-up barfly who spends her off time face down on the bar, drowning her sorrows in the pitcher of cheap beer the guy with the extreme pit stains just bought her in hopes she'll go home with him. Not a pretty sight, huh? Wiles right out the window. Knowing I'll never belong to either that life or the one I actually had those many years ago allows me the license to reminisce without fear or embarrassment. As the old S.E. Hinton book's title says, "That was Then, This is Now." I love now. But, I also had a lot of fun then. That makes it all okay.

Goodbye, Pope John Paul II, may you return to your rubust-ity

Although I don't recall when Pope John Paul II was elected, I do remember the beginning, when his predecessor died. I was a good girl of 7 years old, born a Catholic, raised a Catholic, and in Catholic school. I remember hearing that Pope John Paul I had died and I ran outside by the rose bush, threw myself down on my knees, raised my face to heaven and ferverently prayed for his soul to shoot upwards. To my family, it was almost as if Jesus Christ himself had died. I learned later about the strangeness of the whole situation and how the conspiracy theories were already abounding about an assassination. That didn't matter to me. What mattered is that I prayed for his soul to zoom up to Heaven.

I do remember some confusion about the smoke. White smoke meaning there is a new pope, black meaning they're fighting in the jury room. I remember being absolutely fascinated by the supposed bonking on the head by the silver hammer, just to be sure the pope was dead. What, you can't shake the guy? Put a mirror under his nose? You have to bonk him on the head??

Anyway, suddenly we had this new pope. A younger man, full of vigor and wisdom and a little mischief thrown in. I clearly remember his first blessing on the crowd at the Vatican. How young he looked. And, a non-Italian? Way to buck the system, Cardinals!!

The last decade took it's toll on Pope John Paul II. Every press conference, every special occasion. Every important news story showed him in decreasing health. The Vatican refused to acknowledge that he had Parkinson's. I think it was painfully obvious to everyone that something afflicted him. Then came the hip and knee problems. The breathing problems. The tracheotomy. I remember commenting one time "I think the Pope is going to die in 2005." My husband laughed at me because the Pope had just been taken to the hospital that day, although I hadn't even heard that yet. For some reason, I knew he probably wouldn't snap back after this last incident.

I got the FoxNews breaking news update saying that he was gravely ill and I remember my heart sinking. It was so hard for me to watch his health failing, first subtly, then drastically, to where he couldn't walk or speak. I thought about how terrible it must be to HIM, to be the picture of health and robust-ity (Nice word) and then all of a sudden, have this body be chained to his still sharp mind! That was the part I felt sorriest for. His mind was still sharp as a tack after all those years. I can't even imagine the personal struggle that went on inside his head every time he tried to speak and couldn't. The words he so eloquently spoke for so many years were stuck in his voice box, unable to come out. If it had been me, I would have rasped every single bad word I had ever learned, just out of frustration. Let them translate THAT into seven languages!!

I kept an on-line vigil all Friday, hoping the news would get better. It never did, the Vatican mum as normal. Saturday, I was flipping through channels, always coming back to CNN, when I saw Pope John Paul II, 19XX-2005. Crap. Yet, I smiled widely. Wow. To be unchained from that decrepit body! To be reunited with those he loved and went before him! To see the face of the God he had served for so many years! I understand how easy it is to be selfish when someone dies (see my earlier posts dealing with my dad. My Dad.) but I really could not cry. I was so happy that the Pope was free from his suffering, that I just smiled and thought of him dying with so much dignity and grace. Exactly how he ran the papacy. He knew what was ahead of him. So did I.

We love a common God, the Pope and I. Although I'm not Catholic anymore, I certainly loved the Pope for who we was. A world leader. A man with strong convictions that I didn't necessarily agree with, but who made me respect them in the way he carried himself. A peace keeper. A forgiver. A lover of Christ. I have many disagreements with the Catholic church these days, and I'm not going to go into them here. Suffice it to say that being ran by humans the last 2000 years has its disadvantages. Enuff said. But, whether a person is a Catholic or not, having such dignity and grace from the moment he stepped out in front of the crowd for the first time, until the last moment when he reportedly looked out the window and, with his dying breath, said, "Amen.", I hold that person in high esteem.

I prayed that night. I prayed for a quick journey for the Pope. I prayed that after he met God, he would walk over to my dad and say, "Your daughter's prayers followed me here." I hoped they would talk about heaven and how wonderful it is. They would talk about how good it was to be restored to their best form. I smiled, thinking of both of them, in heaven, walking along a stream, both restored to their original robust-ity.

Godspeed, Pope John Paul II. I didn't throw myself on the ground when you died, but after being in heaven, you'll know what my smile was about. I'll see you both someday, Pope and Dad. I can only hope it's with the same fortitude you both had at the end. And let those left behind not mourn, but smile, knowing that I will be walking along the stream with both of you, restored to my Robust-ity. Godspeed.