My son started to laugh at the gas station. That’s kind of an odd place to get a case of the giggles, but there the 10-year-old was in the backseat of the minivan having a hard time containing himself. It started before I stopped at that pump to fill up the car, it continued when he got out to clean the windshields, and it didn’t stop for another five minutes.
“What are you laughing at?” I asked with a smile.
“Oh, nothing,” he said.
“He’s got a case of the sillies,” said my 85-year-old father.
“Boy, you got that right,” I said.
Robby and I had arrived in Nashville to visit Dad who has been battling aging issues since November. School starts in another week or so, and it was my turn to visit Dad. So Robby and I made the 350-mile trip to see him and Momma.
As usual, one of the first subjects after we greeted one another was “What’s for dinner?” The tradition, if a nine-month habit can be called a tradition, was to take Dad out for lunch and dinner each day. It was great for him to get out of the assisted living facility in Nashville, but it wreaks havoc on our waistlines.
“I got a taste for seafood,” Dad said. So the Red Lobster in suburban Cool Springs was our destination. Dad went for the whole hog, in this case lobster, Robby had one of the combo plates, and I settled for salmon.
It was after dinner that we pulled into the gas station. I stopped the car, looked out the window and realized I had picked the diesel pump. “Whoops. That’s diesel,” I said. “Damn diesel,” Dad said.
When you’re 85 and you have some mild vascular dementia, your leash is pretty long. You can say and do things and get away with them that other people cannot. Such was the case with the “Damn diesel” comment.
But 10-year-old boys senses of humor are tickled by bodily functions and swear words. Robby just lost it when Dad said, “Damn diesel.”
Robby revealed this to me the next day. “Grandpa is just so funny,” Robby said.
That “bond” only strengthened in the coming days. My son is not exactly noted for his work ethic, just like almost every other 10-year-old American boy. But a change came over him when he was around “Grandpa Joe” as he calls Dad.
He didn’t have to be told to get Grandpa Joe’s walker. Robby just got it.
He didn’t have to be asked to help his Grandpa Joe out of the car. Robby was there putting his little hand in the middle of a massive back to get Grandpa Joe going.
He didn’t have to be told to escort Grandad up to his room. Robby just did it.
“I like helping Grandpa,” Robby said.
“I like seeing you help him, son,” I replied.
“He really is a good boy. He is so helpful,” Grandpa Joe said.
A bond between a grandfather and grandchild is one of the most precious things we witness in our lives. I had that a little bit with my maternal grandfather, but these moments I get to cherish between “Grandpa Joe” and Robby remind me of what I missed … and what someday I will witness again, maybe with my own grandson.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Jane Wall's horn
The horn always sounded at the same times every weekday. At 8 a.m. and 3 p.m., the white passenger van would pull up across the street in front of Bill and Jane’s house and the driver would give a long blast on the horn.
After the horn sounded in the morning, the front door to Bill and Jane’s house would open and out would come Jane pushing her adult, wheelchair-bound daughter, Jane Wall, out to the street. The driver would carefully place Jane Wall in her wheelchair onto the motorized lift, and Jane would say goodbye, tenderly caressing Jane Wall’s face or shoulders. When the horn sounded in the afternoon, Jane – eternally smiling – would come out to welcome Jane Wall from a day at a center for physically and mentally disabled people.
Jane and Bill’s daughter contracted Reye’s Syndrome 30 years ago when she was about 3. A smiling, healthy and energetic child, Jane Wall’s condition left her with immense physical and mental disabilities. The easy way out would’ve been to simply institutionalize Jane Wall, and then Bill and Jane could sink their energy into raising their son.
But Jane and Bill are not cut from that cloth; there’s nothing in their makeup that would allow them to “give up” in such a fashion. I talked to Jane about that a number of years ago, and Jane simply replied, “Well, she was our baby. We couldn’t do that to her.”
So Bill and Jane raised Jane Wall with as much love, devotion and care as anyone. It was awe-inspiring when they would bring her to neighborhood parties, and everyone would be making a fuss over the brown-haired woman with the crooked smile. Jane Wall never said a word, simply looking at people and smiling. On occasion, she would laugh or show her displeasure, but she spent every night in her parents’ house, safe and secure from a world that too often seems cold and cruel.
Last week, Jane Wall contracted pneumonia. Delicate as a rare flower, Jane Wall put up a brave struggle for survival, but in the end she was called to a higher purpose. She departed Monday morning, surrounded by the family who loved her so much. What Jane and Bill may not know is how much of an inspiration they are to friends and neighbors; how their simple grace under pressure for three decades inspired generations fortunate enough to know them and love them.
Mornings and afternoons still will come each day in our neighborhood, but the missing sound of a horn from a white passenger van will signal a void in our lives. But if you open your heart and listen closely, you can hear the clarion call of heavenly horns heralding the arrival of Jane Wall.
After the horn sounded in the morning, the front door to Bill and Jane’s house would open and out would come Jane pushing her adult, wheelchair-bound daughter, Jane Wall, out to the street. The driver would carefully place Jane Wall in her wheelchair onto the motorized lift, and Jane would say goodbye, tenderly caressing Jane Wall’s face or shoulders. When the horn sounded in the afternoon, Jane – eternally smiling – would come out to welcome Jane Wall from a day at a center for physically and mentally disabled people.
Jane and Bill’s daughter contracted Reye’s Syndrome 30 years ago when she was about 3. A smiling, healthy and energetic child, Jane Wall’s condition left her with immense physical and mental disabilities. The easy way out would’ve been to simply institutionalize Jane Wall, and then Bill and Jane could sink their energy into raising their son.
But Jane and Bill are not cut from that cloth; there’s nothing in their makeup that would allow them to “give up” in such a fashion. I talked to Jane about that a number of years ago, and Jane simply replied, “Well, she was our baby. We couldn’t do that to her.”
So Bill and Jane raised Jane Wall with as much love, devotion and care as anyone. It was awe-inspiring when they would bring her to neighborhood parties, and everyone would be making a fuss over the brown-haired woman with the crooked smile. Jane Wall never said a word, simply looking at people and smiling. On occasion, she would laugh or show her displeasure, but she spent every night in her parents’ house, safe and secure from a world that too often seems cold and cruel.
Last week, Jane Wall contracted pneumonia. Delicate as a rare flower, Jane Wall put up a brave struggle for survival, but in the end she was called to a higher purpose. She departed Monday morning, surrounded by the family who loved her so much. What Jane and Bill may not know is how much of an inspiration they are to friends and neighbors; how their simple grace under pressure for three decades inspired generations fortunate enough to know them and love them.
Mornings and afternoons still will come each day in our neighborhood, but the missing sound of a horn from a white passenger van will signal a void in our lives. But if you open your heart and listen closely, you can hear the clarion call of heavenly horns heralding the arrival of Jane Wall.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Happy Valentine's Day, Kathy, Part 2
Last time, I wrote about the wonderful qualities of my wife, Kathy. Her joy of life and tenderness of spirit has brightened the lives of innumerable people, most notably myself, our son and our daughter. She often reads with our son, Robby, as part of his daily homework, but she’d want to do it regardless of whether it was an assignment. When she spends time with him, or any of us, her whole world seems brighter.
That innate ability to connect with people has served her so well in her profession: medical oncology. As the picture I have painted shows, Kathy is so much more than just a physician. But the branch of medicine she chose suits her gifts impeccably.
A few weeks after Kathy and I became engaged (after just two months of dating), a lunchtime question from a colleague came out of the blue. The question hung in the air for a moment as I pondered what my colleague asked: “How does Kathy stop from getting close to her patients?”
The question said something about how an outsider looking in sometimes doesn’t understand what good cancer doctors are really all about. They are not simply mechanics who provide necessary medicines then collect a fee. Oncologists also are cheerleaders, pathfinders, advocates, healers, handholders, psychologists and parents all rolled into one. Many is the time I’ve told Kathy, “I have no idea how you do what you do.” Good oncologists are a special breed. They can do their job perfectly – prescribe the right medicine, follow every step, make every diagnosis – and they can still “fail.” How many professions are there like that?
The answer I gave to my colleague’s question – “How does she stop from getting close to her patients?” – cut to the heart of who Kathy is as a person, and it was a simple answer: “She doesn’t,” I said. “She does get close to them. She shares their fears, their hopes, their sorrows, their joys. She has to. They have to know that she’s in the fight to stay.”
That’s why I fell in love with Kathy in the spring of 1998. Her heart radiates faith, love and hope. Her first instinct – to trust and empathize – is a remarkably refreshing approach, be it with family, friends, patients or strangers.
Kathy has asked me before how she has made a difference in my life. I’ve not been able to answer that because the question is so big. But I’d have to say that her faith in God has opened my eyes wider to all the wonders around us; her belief in the goodness of people has opened my heart; and her trust has allowed me to love as fully as I ever have.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Kathy
That innate ability to connect with people has served her so well in her profession: medical oncology. As the picture I have painted shows, Kathy is so much more than just a physician. But the branch of medicine she chose suits her gifts impeccably.
A few weeks after Kathy and I became engaged (after just two months of dating), a lunchtime question from a colleague came out of the blue. The question hung in the air for a moment as I pondered what my colleague asked: “How does Kathy stop from getting close to her patients?”
The question said something about how an outsider looking in sometimes doesn’t understand what good cancer doctors are really all about. They are not simply mechanics who provide necessary medicines then collect a fee. Oncologists also are cheerleaders, pathfinders, advocates, healers, handholders, psychologists and parents all rolled into one. Many is the time I’ve told Kathy, “I have no idea how you do what you do.” Good oncologists are a special breed. They can do their job perfectly – prescribe the right medicine, follow every step, make every diagnosis – and they can still “fail.” How many professions are there like that?
The answer I gave to my colleague’s question – “How does she stop from getting close to her patients?” – cut to the heart of who Kathy is as a person, and it was a simple answer: “She doesn’t,” I said. “She does get close to them. She shares their fears, their hopes, their sorrows, their joys. She has to. They have to know that she’s in the fight to stay.”
That’s why I fell in love with Kathy in the spring of 1998. Her heart radiates faith, love and hope. Her first instinct – to trust and empathize – is a remarkably refreshing approach, be it with family, friends, patients or strangers.
Kathy has asked me before how she has made a difference in my life. I’ve not been able to answer that because the question is so big. But I’d have to say that her faith in God has opened my eyes wider to all the wonders around us; her belief in the goodness of people has opened my heart; and her trust has allowed me to love as fully as I ever have.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Kathy
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Happy Valentine's Day, Kathy, Part 1
We’ve started a new tradition in our house, and it was the brainchild of my wife. The three of us – myself, my wife, Kathy, and our son, Robby – hold hands and say a prayer at the beginning of each workday/school day. We ask God to bless us in our many tasks, asking that we keep in mind His word and His example to us through His son, Jesus.
Now, many Christians talk a good game when it comes to prayer, but in practice, well … let’s just say some are left wanting. I try to pray each night, but admittedly, I sometimes sign in but forget to sign out. We’ve been praying together each morning for a couple of months now and not only is it helpful, it really speaks to who my wife is as a Christian, a person and a woman.
If one’s approach to life is measured either with an arrow pointed up or an arrow pointed down, my wife’s arrow is most assuredly pointed up. Kathy always tries to find the positive in just about any situation, and more importantly, in just about any person. She constantly encourages our son to share his smile with others and find the right way to solve problems. I do not hear her speak ill of anyone; if someone has not treated her well, Kathy will say, “Well, maybe they were having a bad day.” She is quick to forgive.
Sometimes she takes the bright outlook to an interesting level: anytime we’re watching a football game and some pushing or shoving breaks out, Kathy says, “Guys, guys. Be nice to each other.”
Kathy loves to laugh. Many a time we’ve been in a movie theater, and she bursts out laughing at a particularly funny scene. She surprises herself when she does this, because she’ll cover her mouth thinking it’s too loud. I just smile when she does that.
Kathy also is moved easily to tears. A dear friend of mine once said of herself, “Oh, I cry at supermarket openings.” That’s Kathy, too. If something moves her, she’ll tear up, be it a passage from a book, some personal encounter or a movie. It’s one of her most endearing qualities. “Don’t ever change,” I say to her.
It’s her zest for life that makes her so special and what drew me to her 12 years ago. I was introduced to Kathy as I was rebuilding my life after my first wife passed away. It was a very rough year, trying to balance the needs of – first – my grade-school daughter, then a house, my career and working through the process of mourning and grief. By the time I met Kathy, I had steadied the ship, but its heading was uncertain. Enter a 36-year-old whose energetic way, tender heart and devotion to God got me back on course.
After being introduced, Kathy and I had our first date in February 1998. It was a remarkable evening. Neither of us was nervous because we talked for two hours BEFORE we went to dinner. She made me feel so at ease, so comfortable. It was her giving nature that first drew me to her, that and her dynamite smile, an amazing combination of warmth and enamel!
After dinner, she invited me in for coffee. I immediately accepted, even though I was not a coffee drinker. A chance to spend a few more minutes with her was perfect. We said our good-byes a short time later, and as I walked down the steps, I felt something I hadn’t in such a long time. I looked back at her, went back up the steps and kissed her good night again. I then realized that my heart, closed off for months, was actually beating again.
Up next: Part 2
Now, many Christians talk a good game when it comes to prayer, but in practice, well … let’s just say some are left wanting. I try to pray each night, but admittedly, I sometimes sign in but forget to sign out. We’ve been praying together each morning for a couple of months now and not only is it helpful, it really speaks to who my wife is as a Christian, a person and a woman.
If one’s approach to life is measured either with an arrow pointed up or an arrow pointed down, my wife’s arrow is most assuredly pointed up. Kathy always tries to find the positive in just about any situation, and more importantly, in just about any person. She constantly encourages our son to share his smile with others and find the right way to solve problems. I do not hear her speak ill of anyone; if someone has not treated her well, Kathy will say, “Well, maybe they were having a bad day.” She is quick to forgive.
Sometimes she takes the bright outlook to an interesting level: anytime we’re watching a football game and some pushing or shoving breaks out, Kathy says, “Guys, guys. Be nice to each other.”
Kathy loves to laugh. Many a time we’ve been in a movie theater, and she bursts out laughing at a particularly funny scene. She surprises herself when she does this, because she’ll cover her mouth thinking it’s too loud. I just smile when she does that.
Kathy also is moved easily to tears. A dear friend of mine once said of herself, “Oh, I cry at supermarket openings.” That’s Kathy, too. If something moves her, she’ll tear up, be it a passage from a book, some personal encounter or a movie. It’s one of her most endearing qualities. “Don’t ever change,” I say to her.
It’s her zest for life that makes her so special and what drew me to her 12 years ago. I was introduced to Kathy as I was rebuilding my life after my first wife passed away. It was a very rough year, trying to balance the needs of – first – my grade-school daughter, then a house, my career and working through the process of mourning and grief. By the time I met Kathy, I had steadied the ship, but its heading was uncertain. Enter a 36-year-old whose energetic way, tender heart and devotion to God got me back on course.
After being introduced, Kathy and I had our first date in February 1998. It was a remarkable evening. Neither of us was nervous because we talked for two hours BEFORE we went to dinner. She made me feel so at ease, so comfortable. It was her giving nature that first drew me to her, that and her dynamite smile, an amazing combination of warmth and enamel!
After dinner, she invited me in for coffee. I immediately accepted, even though I was not a coffee drinker. A chance to spend a few more minutes with her was perfect. We said our good-byes a short time later, and as I walked down the steps, I felt something I hadn’t in such a long time. I looked back at her, went back up the steps and kissed her good night again. I then realized that my heart, closed off for months, was actually beating again.
Up next: Part 2
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Happy birthday, Elaine
February 1, 1958 does not occupy a particularly significant spot in history. On that date Egypt and Syria merged into the United Arab Republic (it lasted only three years), and the U.S. satellite Explorer 1 was launched.
But it was on that date at a hospital in Greenwood, S.C., that a 37-year-old mother of two gave birth to her first daughter. For the next 14,143 days, this infant/toddler/girl/woman brought light to all the lives she touched. Her name was Elaine Russell.
She grew up in the little mill village of Ware Shoals, S.C., lovingly attended to by her mother, Rachel, and her father, William Delbert Russell. She was also loved – as much as siblings can love – by her two older brothers and, later, a kid sister.
What she brought to this world was a mix of compassion, tolerance, faith in God, intelligence, humor and love that drew you to her. People congregated toward Elaine because once she was your friend, that was it: you were her friend for life. She didn’t pit people against each other; rather, she brought people together, making them feel welcome no matter the circumstance. Many a time people would be visiting and announce that they’d have to leave, only to have Elaine say, “Oh, stay on a while.” Those invitations were sincere.
Elaine fell in love when she was 27, and married a fellow newspaper person when she was 28. If there is such a thing as “marrying up” in life, then her husband surely did that. It was she who brought joy and richness to their union, lifting a man who had been lonely and searching for that one, special someone for a long time. They were in love and devoted to each other, a true doubleheader of life.
Life continued to bless them with their daughter, Rachel, less than three years after they married. Elaine’s daughter was the light of her life, and Elaine was the center of Rachel’s existence. They loved reading together, playing games, entertaining friends and simply being with each other.
Elaine found time to become a free-lance writer, get involved with their church and become a Brownie troop leader.
But this is no fairy tale; it’s a study in the human condition. Humans are, in the final analysis, frail creatures, subject to the randomness and vagaries of life. A pulmonary disease descended with terrible swiftness and claimed this woman on Oct. 30, 1996.
But even as her body betrayed her, Elaine’s mind and spirit wouldn’t succumb to self pity. Her husband found this short essay about a month after she died, written in one of the notebooks she kept.
"Why me?
Why can't I breathe well? Why I am virtually housebound hooked to an oxygen machine? Why have I had three major illnesses in my lifetime when some people breeze through the years without setting foot in a hospital?
Believe it or not, these are questions I have NOT asked myself as I've struggled with my most recent bout with sickness.
A more appropriate question might be 'Why not me?'
In times of frustration, despair or indecision, it's easy to look to the heavens and ask God 'Why me?'
But if I ask that question in troubled times, shouldn't I ask it when things are their sunniest, when life is easy, when everything is going my way?
Why was I born into a wonderful, caring family when so many children are unwanted and unloved?
Why have I been blessed with many friends in many places over the years?
Why did a find a wonderful man to marry and, with him, have a beautiful daughter?
Why do I live in a comfortable home and have plenty to eat while the world is filled with homeless and hungry people?
Why me? What have I ever done to deserve even one of the blessings I've known?"
That last question is one asked by all who knew Elaine Russell in the 38 years, 8 months and 29 days she was with us. None of us deserve the blessings we receive, but maybe we can ask for the wisdom to acknowledge them.
So today, 52 years after she was born, we acknowledge the blessing that was Elaine Russell. Happy birthday, Elaine.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)