Blessed Are The Pure Of Heart: January 2016

Sunday, January 31, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 113 - Time To Pray

What do you pray for, as a caregiver, or a terminally ill patient?

There are some "no, duh?" answers...like HEALING, NOW!

Or the boon of an easy death.

But it can be surprisingly hard to be specific...fortunately, we have a context in which we can find the specificity we need.

It's called...wait for it...The Lord's Prayer.

Let's walk through it.

Our Father, which art in Heaven...

This sets the relationship...caregiver and patient, we are God's children, and He cares...very much...what happens to us.

He's all-powerful, yes, but the relationship...and His love...do not preclude bad things happening. An earthly father has to let his children make mistakes, and sometimes, wilfully, damage their lives...and bad things can simply happen, through accident or by evil design. The only way the earthly father can prevent them is to bar the door, and prevent growth...and that's not what being a father is all about.

So too...and more so...with God, because His responsibility is to make us fit to be citizens of Heaven.

...hallowed be Thy name...

God is holy, but this is not a put-down for us, because the seeds of holiness are within us, too. We won't achieve anything like it in this life (contrary to what a certain pastor recently said about living a 'holier life than 95% of the people out there'...he fragged himself with pride, that one did).

Terminal illness can water those seeds, for caregiver and patient...if it's allowed to. Saying 'adversity builds character' is a cliche, and enough adversity can tear it down. It has for me.

But what it can help grow is intentionality...the intentionality of compassion, and endurance, and faith. Those decisions are taken in every moment, and the fires of a situation that really sucks can temper the steel of our hearts.

...Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven...

One day this world's going to pass away, and we'll wonder what all the fuss is about. His kingdom is coming...but in the meantime, His will for what's happening here is a reflection of what's happening in Heaven.

That sounds loony, doesn't it? There's so much that's simply awful in the world...how can it be the will of a merciful God?

How did He let it come to this?

Free will, that's how. We have to choose Him for our growth, as His children to have any meaning...and that means that He can't pull strings, because people don't dance to the strings...puppets do.

His will here is a reflection of Heaven because all that's terrible around us is loudly and decisively put right there...and we will know the contrast.

...give us this day our daily bread...

The Israelites wandering in their Sinai-circles got enough food for each day, and they had to trust that it would be supplied tomorrow.

Facing terminal illness, we've got to do the same thing. The coping today is enough; we can't predict what tomorrow will bring, and sometimes it's better we don't know, because now is what we really have...to care, to enjoy, to love.

...and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us...

When time is short, forgive. Your sin-debt's been paid...and even if you backslide, it's still paid, as long a you recognize it as sins and try to stay out of the cesspool.

Every marriage has areas of resentment and unforgiveness. Try to say goodbye with as many of those dark corners lit up by the lights of forgiveness and love. You'll regret it if you don't, and be very glad if you do.

...and lead us not into temptation...

There are huge temptations when facing death-by-illness. Both caregiver and patient are tempted to bitterness, anger, resentment...often against God.

The emotions are natural, but they're still harmful, and they come from the worst part of our being.

Even when it hurts, we've got to fight them...and we've got to look Up while fighting, to have some sort of idea of what we want to be.

...but deliver us from evil...

Evil can come in some pretty unpleasant forms, for both caregiver and patient.

For the patient, it can mean acting out in anger against the person who's closest...the caregiving spouse, out of a sense of entitlement to 'vent'.

Sure, we can vent...but we're not entitled to hurt.

Temptation may be there.

Evil is acting on it.

...Amen.

And that's how you pray, when your world is slowly falling apart.

If you can.please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

Thursday, January 28, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 112 - The Loud Fight {FMF}

It's that time again...Five Minute Friday, the weekly timed keyword-driven writing challenge hosted by Kate Motaung.

This week's word is QUIET.

So unlike me.

Okay.

From the opening voiceover narration in Lone Survivor -

There's a storm inside of us. I've heard many team guys speak of this. A burning. A river. A drive. An unrelenting desire to push yourself harder and further than anyone could think possible. Pushing ourselves into those cold, dark corners, where the bad things live. Where the bad things fight. We wanted that fight at the highest volume. A loud fight. The loudest, coldest, darkest, most unpleasant of the unpleasant fights.

Today has been dreadful. The main symptom...aside from throwing up and dry heaves, and incessant runs...oh, and those come with blood...is an unremitting pain across the lower margin of the ribcage, going through to the back on the right side. It'll cut you down. Literally.

I've maxed out on morphine for the day. It didn't touch it.

And I love this fight.

Don't get me wrong...I do not love the situation. I'm not crazy (Barbara, this is not the time to contradict...thank you!).

I have no use for martyrdom, or for victimhood. I truly appreciate sympathy...after all, I'm not crazy (Barbara!).

And I appreciate the fact that I'm learning tons about compassion, and about how good life can still be...but there may have been easier schools. (Or maybe this is the one I needed...I don't know.)

But as long as I'm here, I may as well use it as a challenge. See just how much I can take toay, so maybe I can take more tomorrow.

Because I'm going to have to take more tomorrow.

This is not a quiet fight. 'Screaming in pain' is a part of life now.

But so what? I'm still here.

And I will win.

Even in losing, I will win.

When I step onto the Golden Streets, God and His angels will bow their heads and step aside. But they'll be kind of deaf...because I'm going to ride this in, LOUD.

That's it. Not much more needs saying.

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

The Indian - A Story of Viet Nam {#BlogBattle}

It's high time to return to #BlogBattle, the weekly short-fiction writing challenge hosted by Rachael Ritchey.

I've been away too long.

The keyword this week is INDIAN, so on to the imaginatively titled...

The Indian

It was the first day of another stretch of penance at Con Thien, pulling security for the One-Nine with Ship of Fools and the New Guy Tank. The section we'd relieved was happily running back to Oceanview, leaving joyous roostertails of red dirt.

No one wanted to spend time at Con Thien, "The Place Where Angels Dwell", because the chances of actually joining the angels was far too high.

A Marine was walking toward us. In contrast to the ragged and dusty guys of the Dead who were nearing the end of their rotation at Con Thien, this fellow's utilities were clean and vividly green.

"It's a lieutenant," said The Dude, watching the Marine.

"Uh, oh." Biff lowered his eyes. "Does he have a map?"

"Yep."

"We're doomed." He dropped down into the loader's hatch, and then looked at me. "TC, if you need me, I'm writing a letter to my mom to start singing kaddish."

The FNG lieutenant was walking inexorably toward us. He waved, and with a smile, called, "Yoo hoo!"

Sonny asked, "Do y'all thank if ah shoot him he'll go away?"

"Worth a try, but they'll just send another one," replied The Dude. "The Corps has an inexhaustible supply."

Sonny shook his head. "Wahl, ah'm sher exhuastin."

"Yes, we can smell that."

Sonny looked puzzled, and then decided that he was being offered sympathy in his fatigue. "Wahl, Dude, thank y'all"

The Dude said, "You're most welcome, Sonny." Then he called out to the approaching officer, "Hi!", and beamed a bright smile.\

"Hi," said the lieutenant. "Can I, uh, have a minute?" The name "CHEE" was crisp on his blouse. His face was round and smooth, and his dark eyes happy.

The Dude nodded toward me, and I said, "Sure, sir."

He was just a kid, really. Four months ago he was probably wearing a cap and gown, graduating from college, getting Polaroids taken by his parents and his girl. I couldn't me angry with him for being an FNG officer of the most dangerous kind...one with a map.

"We've been fragged to go into the Z tomorrow...I Crops thinks they've been moving tube artillery in...here..." He held up the map, and The Dude took it from him.

"Sounds fun," I said. We hadn't received the frag, so we weren't going.

"Yeah. Well." He took off his helmet, and looked like a high-schooler. "We had our scout go out last night...he saw sign...lots of sign..."

"Um," I said.

"And I was wondering..."

"If we could come along, and be your muscle?"

"Yes." He looked down, and kicked at the dirt. Dear God, if he continued to look younger he'd need diapers.

"We don't have orders," I temporized. "Who's going out?"

"Alpha-One-Nine."

That was good news. The Walking Dead's first herd simply refused to allow themselves to be killed, and their CO, Captain Goldman, was one of the best (and one of the very few Jewish Marine officers). "Well, you'll be in with some good guys. " I wanted this fellow to be at ease. We really couldn't go.

"Yes, they are," Lieutenant Chee kicked the dirt again. "I'm honoured to be leading them."

His formal tone threw me at first. The Dude found his voice first.

"Wait one, ell-tee...you're..."

Chee looked up, and suddenly looked older than the dirt around us. "I guess you didn't hear. We got hit...I'm the only officer left."

"Dear God," said Sonnt, without the slightest accent.

"They can't send you out like that...son," I said. "They just can't."

Lt. Chee overlooked the familiarity. He may have welcomed it. "Well, they did. I've got good NCOs, the best...but I was just hoping..."

The Dude decided for me. "When?"

""Zero-six-hundred...we've got a med track and an engineer track...but could you organize the line of march?"

"Sure. Two platoons up, engineer track, med track, us, two platoons trail." We'd leave the New Guy Tank inside the wire, since we couldn't completely strip Con Thien.

Chee sighed. "Thank you," he said simply. He turned to go.

The Dude called after him, "What clans?"

The lieutenant turned, smiling. "Born to Red House, born for Smooth Water."

***

And so the next morning we moved off into the Z, a sparse snaking column of men bookending two APCs and a tank. The Z was more like Northern California than the tropics, and we passed through grassy hills under the mottled sun of the coming monsoon.

And it was terrifying, because there was sign everywhere. This was not Charlie; this was Sir Charles, the NVA.

The point platoon, moved with exaggerated caution. They were the hollow-cheeked veterans of what no young men should have to endure, but they took step after step into a next minute that could be their last.

The young lieutenant was facing a steep learning curve, but when I could see him, he was scaling it quickly. He had exchanged his stateside-new uniform for someone's castoffs, and he wore no badge of rank. He mimicked the walk of his experienced me, and I felt a warm glow of affection, seeing a Marine officer growing up before my eyes.

And then the sniper got him.

The one thing Lt. Chee couldn't control was having his RTO nearby, and the aerial drew the round. Chee was hit in the shoulder, and his guys helped him to the med track.

When he was bandaged, he insisted on standing in the commander's hatch, dressing a flag of defiance. The kid had guts.

We trailed along, slowly, slowly, at a walking pace, The Dude's foot gentle on the throttle, through a landscape that for all its California charm radiated menace.

They were out there.

Biff swung the turret from side to side, covering both flanks the best he could, and Sonny stood in the loader's hatch, next to me, with an M-16 pulled into his shoulder. "TC?" he said.

"Sonny?"

"Is we thar yit?"

"Ah...I wish."

The Dude broke in, "Eyes up left, TC, ten o'clock. Something's wrong. One-fifty meters out."

Sonny swung his rifle, and I put my binos to my eyes. "What did you..."

CRAAACK! The M-16 went off, and Sonny yelled, "Rocket team, ten o'clock, I'm jammed!"

The main gun was pointing to the right of the line of march, and biff started swinging it back.

"Traverse traverse traverse, target rocket team ten, now nine-thirty...!" I yelled. I could see the two-man B-40 team, rising from a spider hole.

"I'll be on 'em in a second, TC," Biff said. "Cannister up."

BOOM! A rocket snaked out and hit the APC in front of us. The med track ground to a halt, transmission moaning.

"Biff, get that gun on him!"

The main gun swung down to engage, and then stopped. "Elevation's jammed, TC, switching to coax."

The thirty started barking as the rocket team reloaded. I could see them reloading, and occasionally they looked at us, even though fire from the point platoons was sweeping over their hole. They seemed fascinated.

And then thirty stopped. "Coax is down," and I could hear the frustration in Biff's voice.

Sonny had drawn his .45, and was popping away. The Dude gunned the engine, looking to squash rocket man and his loader.

We weren't going to make it. The reload was done, and the rocketeer, with one disdainful look toward the oncoming Ship of Fools, took careful aim at the med track. He was going to die, but he'd have a sure kill.

And then a figure with a whitely-bandaged shoulder leapy to the ground, and sprinted at the B-40 team.

The NVA loader stood up, and emptied a magazine at Lt. Chee. I saw the bullets pass through this fine young man, kicking dust from the exit wounds in his back.

But he kept on, stumbling now, and in one hand I could see a grenade. It was smoking, the fuse lit.

"Throw it, man!" yelled Sonny.

He didn't Lt. Chee, born to Red House, born for Smooth water, took a last despairing leap, arm holding the grenade outstretched, just as the rocketeer triggered the B-40, and landed between the two NVA.

It looked like the most profane of touchdowns, and the grenade exploded, and the projectile sailed harmlessly over the crippled med track.

The Dude braked out tank to a halt, and we could see the bodies.

Lt. Chee was lying on his side, and he had turned his face away at the last moment. It was unscarred, and he looked very young again.

A child, asleep.

"Good night, akis," said The Dude over the IC, softly. "Good night, friend."

Your Dying Spouse 111 - Counting Blessings

We're linked with Messy Marriage's Wedded Wednesday; please visit them for some really great marriage resources!

Terminal illness is a pretty awful road, for both the caregiver and the patient...but there are good things, true blessings to be found along the way.

We just have to look for them.

First and foremost, the inessentials of life are quickly burned away. When there's no energy to spend time doing things we think we should do...spending time with people we don't like, for instance, or attending social functions and entertainments that really bore us to tears...they're a lot easier to let drop.

Sure, there's an excuse..."Sorry, he just isn't up to it"...but the sense of relief can be palpable.

And that frees up what can become quality time. When there isn't all that much time left, minutes and hours matter, and while pain and fatigue can engender pettiness, they can also give a sense of generosity and perspective.

Why get upset about a dropped dish, even if it was Grandma's favourite?

It's just a dish...and one of this couple, living now, is going to be dead soon.

Do you think Grandma would be thrashing in her grave, spitting fire, under the circumstances? (OK, some Grandmas might...but not most.)

Another blessing is the possibility of finding new kinds of togetherness. Maybe you can't go ski-ing together any more...but there's the possibility that both of you might find that you actually enjoy chess.

Who would have known?

What all of this takes is a certain spirit...a spirit of intentionality, and the willingness to face reality.

You can't turn back the clock to a time of health, so why not embrace that which you can embrace, in the here and now?

And don't forget the most important embrace of all

Hug one another. A lot, and passionately.

Please.

Sunday, January 24, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 110 - The Lonely Walk

What does terminal illness have to do with an EOD tech taking the long walk to deal with a vehicle-borne IED?

Quite a bit.

It's the walk you take alone.

I am learning that as debility and fatigue increase...you get left behind.

It's nothing bad, really, but the friends and family around you have their own lives, and theirown priorities.

I have a friend who is dying of a particularly nasty cancer, and recently his wife complained to him about a stain on her dress...and how irritating it was, that someone had been so careless as to spill food on her in the lunchroom.

His first thought was, "Do you have any idea who you're talking to?"

But he bit his tongue, and in consideration realized that...she was right.

She's diverging, and she can't take the long walk with him. All she can do is live her own life as best as she can...and sometimes that means venting about a ruined dress.

It may seem unfair, but it's not. We all have to live our own lives, and regardless of Bill Clinton's professed ability to "feel your pain", we really can't feel another's pain.

And those of us experiencing the worst sort of physical and associated psychological pain should not expect it.

Friends and family will veer away, not in malice, but because they still have lives to live in which what seems minor does loom large.

If you're not staring into eternity, you shouldn't be expected to try. Life is to be lived as it is.

And for the terminally ill, as it is means that the last walk will be taken in a profound loneliness.

And that to "prepare to meet thy God" is an individual thing.

Please pardon the brevity of this post...as I write this, things are awful, and pain is not controlled.

Thursday, January 21, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 109 - Faith Is Now {FMF}

Time for Five Minute Friday, hosted by the gracious and inspiring Kate Motaung. It's a weekly timed keyword-driven writing challenge.

The word this week is...PRESENT.

Okay.

First, I have to apologise in advance if I am awkward in the writing...I was badly concussed yesterday by a wind-borne piece of timber, and am not at my best...but I am...well, present.

But that is not my thesis.

When you are dying, the present is really all you have.

It's not like a movie, in which, in the last days, everyone gathers 'round for weepy reminisces.

They hurt way too much when you are simply trying to get through the next minute. Looking back on past happiness sucks. It makes now, which still has value, look pale in comparison.

I appreciate the good things in the past, but this is not the time to dwell on them. I need every bit of energy to breathe, to move, to focus. I do not need it leached away by pointless nostalgia.

So, too, the future. While I appreciate that God has a plan for my life, He does not guarantee that His plan isn't gonna hurt...big time.

Someone has to take the hammer. And someone has to try to witness that, well, life is still OK.

So maybe that's His plan.

Is He going to bring me out to restored health, a rebuilt life? Maybe. But thinking about it is really just daydreaming. It's not faith.

FAITH IS IN THE HERE AND NOW, DOING MY LEVEL BEST TO DO HIS WILL.

Faith and hope and love are only truly found in how we meet the present.

Done.

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 108 - Brave New World

We're linked up to Messy Marriage's Wedded Wednesday...please visit Beth to find some great marriage resources.

As I write this...January 18, 2015...I have just learned that one of my favourite singers, Glenn Frey (a co-founder of the Eagles) has died.

He's known for a lot of songs, but I think his best, in terms of vocal and narrative voice, is Brave New World, from the 1991 album Strange Weather.

Brave new World.

That's what the process of dying is all about, really.

All of the old stuff...the framework of the future we all build...it's broken down. Careers evaporate, and a spouse has to re-enter the workplace.

Old friendships die away...it's as if being terminal is contagious...and new ones form.

The old, solid, and more-or-less unthinking faith fails, and has to be replaced by a real reason to believe.

Brave new world, indeed.

I'm well past thinking I'm brave, but a certain amount of courage has to be summoned to meet this, if only the courage to say, I will keep trying for another hour, to make it better...somehow.

It's not all bleakness, unless we choose the iron winter of despair. There are moments of joy, of beauty, of humour.

For the last...like when I reacted to a commercial by saying a product was something "to die for".

Barbara was speechless, and I looked over ather and said, "Well, in a manner of speaking."

This Brave New World is what we make of it.

And dying isn't all that bad.

Some of the experiences are really cool.

To die for.

Out on the blue horizon, the clouds were rollin' in

The ground below was shaking, with the risin' wind

I looked over my shoulder, said goodbye to my home

After today there'd be no turning back, we were on our own

Everyone had taken sides, the battle lines were drawn

We stared into the face of war, and waited for the dawn

Everything that we worked for, they took from our hands

We were left with no choice but to stand up and fight for this land

But don't worry darlin', this will all be over soon

Just remember you will always be my girl,

And somehow you will find the strength

To stand up on your own

And live in this brave new world

How it all came down to this, no one can really say

Every time we cried out for help, they looked the other way

Now there's no turning back, we have got to be strong

We will travel the hard road to freedom, no matter how long

But don't worry darlin', this will all be over soon

Just remember you will always be my girl

These are the times we're born into

This is why we're here

To live in this brave new world

[CHORUS]

Sunday, January 17, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 107 - Don't Give Up On Me!

I'm not dead yet.

Don't give up on me.

Don't tell me, kindly, that the day is coming when I won't be able to shave myself.

Don't tell me that I will have to start giving up the things that give my life meaning.

Don't talk past me. I can't speak well, but I can still think. I'm not senile. I'm hurt, that's all.

It's funny; the greatest support, in many ways, comes from people that have never met me, nor ever will. They don't see the deterioration; they see what I can still write.

The people who see me tend not to read what I write. They judge by whatthey see, and place it into a context of what they've seen in the past.

Don't do that.

Please.

This is my shortest post on record; it's been a hell of a weekend, and I can barely stay upright.

But I am still in this fight.

Please don't give up on me.

Thursday, January 14, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 106 - Time To Worry {FMF}

Back again with Five Minute Friday, the timed keyword-inspired weekly writing challenge hosted by the wonderful Kate Motaung.

The word this week is TIME

Okay.

It's time to worry. Not about me - I've lost a lot of ground, things really suck, and well, so what...everyone dies. Looks like sooner than later. Lost 1-1/2 to 2 pints (close to 2 liters) of blood in 48 hours. That is not sustainable.

I'm worried about Barbara, and about all caregivers, especially those who deal with people like me.

A close friend of hers got sick today, and her reaction was more dispassionate than usual...more detached, and it was enough for her to comment on it.

Time to worry. She's turning into me,. and trust me...you don't want to be me.

Fundamentally, I don''t really care about the pain I live with, and find injuries nothing more than an inconvenience. When I could still weld, I got a third-degree burn on my arm...and never mentioned it until Barbara happened to see it.

A hacksaw slipped, sliced my hand, and stuck in the bone. Didn't mention that until she saw the cut.

It didn't seem important. Everyone bleeds, everyone dies. Eyes on the mission.

But that kind of attitude has an effect...if you're caring for someone who really doesn't care about him or herself, that stain of detachment will spread, like ink in a bowl of water.

It's contagious.

This has to be fought, because detachment is the end of compassion.

Being able to handle a hard situation with competence and skill is different. It's an important skill to have, and in no way subverts concern.

I don't know what to do, to help my caregiver. My wife.

Can you help?

Done.

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

Your DYing Spouse 105 - OK With It

We're linked to Messy Marriage's Wedded Wednesday. I encourage you to visit for some great marriage resources!

Well, today I really am too ill to write much of a post. An internal abscess burst, with unpleasant consequences. Still here (no duh!) but in a lot of pain, and very shaky.

I don't resent it, though, and that is what many people - including my wife - find a bit hard to understand.

I figure that in a fallen world, there's going to be bad stuff (you can intensify 'stuff') happening, and I'm glad it's happening to me and not someone else.

There's no nobility or desire for martyrdom (or victimhood) in it. It's just that I can take it.

Well, so far, anyway.

There is a famous old inscriptions that seems to fit -

Go tell the Spartans,
stranger passing by,
that here, obedient to their laws,
we lie.

Also ran across a poem by Andre Zirnheld -

Give me, God, what no one else asks for;
I ask not for wealth, or for success or health;
people ask you so often for all that,
that you cannot have any left.
Give me what people refuse to accept from you.

I want insecurity and disquietude,
I want turmoil and the brawl.
If you should give them to me,
let me be sure to have them always,
for I will not always have the courage to ask for them.

Death comes to all, and we can only escape it for a ew seasons.

Best to play the gentleman, and meet it with equanimity.

Because death is only the beginning of a life that we can't even imagine, a life thatwill never see a sunset. I believe that.

Sunday, January 10, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 104 - Courage is Nothing

Watched Bobby Schuller on Hour of Power on the evening that I am writing this...an evening which is hitting an all-time low for awful. I'm really running out of words for this stuff.

Pastor Bobby was talking about the need to face our fears, to have hearts of courage. That facing the monsters is the only way to make them go away.

Except.

Some monsters aren't going to go away. They will follow you, and they will kill you. Your courage means nothing to them.

Don't get me wrong...I like Pastor Bobby, and watch Hour of Power regularly. But in this case, he's only right up to a point.

Courage fails because it's contained in a human vessel, and faith quails under the fatal storm. You may never reach this point. I hope you don't, because it sucks.

So what's left?

Showing up.

Neither courage nor faith is, at the end of all things, at the darkest of dead-ends, a choice. But you always have a choice to show up.

For the caregiver, it's putting on the smile that you don't feel, stifling the complaints and the tears that are tearing your soul, and sitting on the floor with someone who's vomiting or worse, snappish or bitter or unresponsive. It's extending the hand that you want to clutch to your own throat, and instead of yelling at God, "Why me, damn it?), saying softly, "I'm here".

You want an example, a role model? Look at a dog. The dog's function and honour is to be there.

Not an accident that dog spelled backwards is God.

for the patient...and I use that word now, having misplaced the pride of self-sufficiency...showing up means staying engaged with a future I do not believe that I will see. It means working on the novel I'll never see published, and working to fix a relationship that needs far more time than I have.

Not in hopelessness, a kind of self-pitying martyrdom ("Well, I'm trying to the end, poor me!") or in hope, but because the positive outlook that I can still contribute is a community thing...that I'm not stopping, that I'm still here...maybe it will help someone else to hang around as well.

You don't show up for yourself, or for even God. You show up for the people around you.

Thursday, January 7, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 103 - At First {FMF}

Time for Five Minute Friday, the timed and keyword-driven writing challenge hosted by our dear Kate Motaung.

The first word for 2016 is...FIRST

OK.

When all of this began, I was a different person. Stronger, certainly, and more optimistic, even though there was scant cause for optimism. Physiology breeds hope, and I felt better.

I surrounded myself with moto songs and slogans, and kept up an attitude that was defiant in the extreme.

And boy, is all that embarrassing now.

I've been bludgeoned into something I no longer recognize, a shadow that moves carefully, and speaks softly...if at all.

The sense of identity I had, as many things, has leached away, and I find, to my interest, that I no longer use much jargon or slang. It seems wrong, somehow, a pretension that has no place in this situation.

There, see? I was about to say something charged, like 'battle', or 'fight'...but all I could come up with was the banal 'situation'.

And my caregiver, my wife, is perplexed, because the person she married has been replaced by this grey man, without opinion or comment. She's still in the World of Light, where ego (the good kind) and attitude are helpful accoutrements to a life well-lived.

Not so in the Shadow World. Facing the Ultimate Authenticity, one can't hide between words, phrases, or poses.

On can only look Death in its baleful eye.

And SPIT IN IT.

That's it.

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 102 - Helping Hands

We're linked to Messy Marriage's Wedded Wednesday. Please check out Beth's site for a tremendous amount of marriage wisdom!

This is going to be a tough post to write. Not because it's bad or depressing, but because it's intensely personal.

It is also explicit, so please be warned. This is about marriage.

Severe and terminal illness does a lot of things that are unpleasant. Pain, nausea, incontinence, restricted mobility, fatigue...you can make a long list.

It also does some things that are really weird...and that can open doors to healing.

The other night, I was not doing well, to put it mildly. And one of the manifestations of that was an erection that would not go away.

There are no winks and nudges here. It was uncomfortable, and was beginning to border on painful.

Barbara had already gone to bed, the next day being a work-day, and I thought about dealing with the situation myself, but I didn't have the energy.

So I went to her, and asked for help, which she willingly gave.

It cost her some sleep, and it frankly cost me a bit of pride to have to interrupt her preparation for bed, but the point is that she put aside her own needs and gave me...yes, a hand..well, two...because I was too weak to do it myself, and strong enough to ask.

Our sexual relationship had been pretty much nonexistent for quite awhile, partially because of illness, and partially because I had been a fool. I had allowed myself to fall into a pattern of feeling rejected and victimized because I was not willing to reach the level of emotionally vulnerability that was all she really wanted.

I was not willing to ask. I had bought into a culture of youth and strength and harshness that precluded the tenderness of martial intimacy, and it took a bludgeoning of pain and other things to drive me to my knees.

And to say to my wife the words she needed to hear.

I need this from you. I need this kind of closeness, and I am so sorry that I was never able to say this before.

Please forgive me, and please help me.

It shouldn't take dying to know how to live. It shouldn't take dying to learn how to love.

But for me, it has. I'm justglad I learned.

And yes, this is the beginning of an opening door back into a fully-alive marriage. Granted, I can't do much.

But I can make Barbara happy by letting her know, and demonstrating, that I need her and want her not only for her mind and labor and faith, but for her whole person.

What do you think? Too much information? Or will this help someone...and maybe not only the dying...to see that life is really too short to live in the Land of Pride?

Monday, January 4, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 101 - Faces of God

I almost quit writing over the past few days, for two reasons -

I was becoming increasingly concerned that the 'face' of God I was describing did not fit in with the personal experience of the Almighty that I presume many readers have, and that I might be undermining faith rather than strengthening it.
I almost died a couple of time, and as I write this - it will be short - I doing beaucoup crappy. There's the return of a tropical illness along with all else, characterized by very high fever, a badly swollen tongue (and drooling that would put a bloodhound to shame)and my old, dear friend...incontinence. Is it Miller Time yet?

The second thing doesn't need much more description, but the first kind of does.

I am a Christian. I believe in God, and that Jesus His only begotten (NOT 'made') Son was both to Earth, killed as a sacrifice for our sins, and rose from the dead.

I believe it because it rings true, and according to Occam's Razor is the simplest solution that covers the entire situation.

The Apostles would have been madmen to follow a faith that they knew was false to death. There's no indication that they were.

Same for Paul; there's nothing in his writings to indicate lunacy (as opposed to, say, Sylvia Plath, whose mind was clearly an out-of-balance hamster wheel). And yet he deliberately took actions which he knew would lead to his execution.

You don't that for, say, a hash-pipe vision.

I believe, strongly, and my faith does not waver. But I don't have the kind of personal relationship with Jesus that I believe is necessary.

I would love to be able to talk with Him as a friend, honour Him as a King, and to take joy in falling on my face to worship His as God. I would love to have morning conversations with the Holy Ghost and I have tried. But that relationship's a will 'o the wisp, remaining just out of reach.

So I am OK where I am, but there are other things...when asked to see God as 'awesome', I don't. From where I stand, it hurts too much, each individual moment is just too hard. I believe in His presence, and sometimes feel it...as I did this morning, as I am writing this. There was a clear directive..."get off your ass and write the thing...you owe it to them, you owe it to Me, and you owe it to yourself".

But right now the shining glory, and gleaming towers of the New Jerusalem...there's too much blood here. (Barbara's comment..."You puked that much blood and weren't going to mention it?")

The Hand that God extends to me is slippery with my blood, and His Face is begrimed with the powder residue of the rifle He's been firing to cover me while I'm down. He's sweaty, and his blouse is torn. He's wearing a boonie hat, not a halo.

He is, to me, the Glorious Ordinary.

But this is what I see, and the thought that someone else may lose their picture clear of a more glorious (and, admittedly, more Scriptural) God is haunting, and has troubled me for several weeks.

There, I said it. I was trying to skirt that issue, but oops...there it goes. Part of my perception and experience seems to be at odds with at least a literal reading of Scripture; I don't think it's contrary to a more abstract interpretation, but I am no theologian.

And again, the last thing I want to do is say I'm an authority. This place is supposed to be first, something to help caregivers for a dying husband or wife understand some of the problems unique to that situation in that relationship, and second, something a personal journal of this ultimate in Bad Trips.

Did I just date myself? Mentioning hash pipes and bad trips in one post? Ow, wow, man, can you dig it?

Sorry. Just had to.

So, I have a request...if I have crossed a line, and said something you feel could be damaging to another's faith, would you please let me know? You can do this through a comment - and I would prefer that, since if you have a concern, others should be helped to feel free to air theirs - or you can email me. (<tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com>)

Friday, January 1, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 100 - Real Fear

Interesting that the 100th post in this series falls on New Years' Day. Does any significance attach to that? I wonder.

As I write this, in the evening of my birthday, I'm hurting.

It's been a good day, but the pain has been nothing less than ferocious. Pain meds have not done the job, and my legs are shaking. I can hardly stand.

And I am afraid. There is a dread that I have not felt before.

I don't know what it means, except that I wish this were not happening.

I wish God would send His angels, now, to gather 'round me.

But the only thing I hear from His Throne is, "Keep going."

I am so tired of being brave. The process of building up morale every morning, every noon, every night...it's taking me down to the bone.

And yet, it's necessary.

Because life is still good.

God is still good.

And that is the proof, if I ever needed it, that He is there.

Illness is not good. Death is the last enemy...and dying is, no mistake, an enemy, and a desperately horrible process.

But this witness, that the good in life can be wrung from the nightmare...that is what matters.

This blog is not ''powered by Blogger'. It's powered by love.

Love for you who are reading it,love for my human and canine family, and love for the God Who drives me to keep faith, and Who tells me to keep my dreams alive.

The only answer to real fear is real love.

Because of faith hope, and love, as Paul said, love is the greatest of these.

And with love comes courage.