Sunday, May 29, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 161 - Readings

Last week, the Books and Such Literary Agency ran a blog post about what reading can do for an individual, in terms of stepping back from stress and, more generally, finding something of a paradigm for living.

I was well enough to leave a comment (that doesn't always happen, now). Briefly, I said that I read mainly nonfiction to keep myself going, because fictional stories generally have an arc and a resolution...and my life's become something of a disaster, with a lot of things going to be left undone.

The moderator suggested that I an finding bases for comparison in reading about people who handle adversity. It's a valid point, but in thinking about it I realized that I'm somewhere past that.

And this is what a caregiver needs to know. There is a point at which inspiration doesn't work.

In facing terminality, you do come to a place in which stories about overcoming adversity are nice, but they're kind of like hearing testimonies of healing miracles on Trinity Broadcasting...I'm glad for the folks, but it isn't me.

There are no happy endings here. I wish there were. I sometimes talk a brave game, but the fact is that this is really discouraging, and really scary.

So I read for atmosphere, for milieu, for a paradigm against which my life can make some sort of sense. Light romantic comedies (in print and on film) that I used to love grate on me now.

There's no identification with 'heroes'; I'm not one of those. There is little nobility in dealing with a situation you can't change. We're expected to make the best of it.

I read to find a place in my soul in which life makes sense.

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.

Thursday, May 26, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 160 - Voices {FMF}

Time for Five Minute Friday, hosted by Kate Motaung. It's a weekly timed, key-word-inspired writing challenge, and there are some great writers of faith there. Please visit...and if you're not participating, join in!

It's getting down to time to embrace the suck.

And that is not entirely a bad thing. Having a life in which every day has become a survival situation - as in, how on Earth am I going to get through this particular 'episode' - it does lend a certain perspective that is probably hard to obtain anywhere else.

But it can't be shared, except through these words, and they are only marginally effective.

The people around me have their own lives and concerns, and things that bug them kind of roll off my back. An unmown lawn, for instance...that's pretty far down the list of annoyances for me. (OK, I'm on a mesa in New Mexico, and there is no lawn, but you get my drift.)

It's my own private Alamo.

But there are voices...

"I prayed to God to heal you, and got an answer...He said No." (Gee, did you really have to tell me?)

"We've been expecting this rapid deterioration for a long time." (Well, gosh, at least you don't have to live it, eh?)

And there are plans made, of which I can never be a part.

It can be pretty discouraging. This can be a pretty lonely path (especially when you're lying o the kitchen floor, too hurt and tired to move), and those voices make it lonelier still.

The word this week is cheer, and I guess I can work it in here.

These voices bring to mind - unfairly - a verse from Siegfried Sassoon's poem 'Suicide In The Trenches" -

"You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
who cheer when soldier lads march by,
creep home and hope you'll never know
the hell where you and laughter go."

Yes, it's unfair of me to think this when others are just living their lives, and responding as best they think they can to mine. It's harsh, and cruel of me to even think this...but life has become harsh and cruel, and the only way I can survive each day is to be harder than death itself.

But there is also the good cheer of a soul reduced to the honed edge of killing steel...

There are other voices...

"You are never out of the fight." - from Lone Survivor.

"The only easy day was yesterday." - the SEAL motto

"I ain't got time to bleed." - from Predator.

"Come on, Lakotas, it's a good day to die!" - Sitting Bull

"On the third day I will rise again." - my boss, the Jewish carpenter.

Voices. All depends on who you listen to, I guess.

The musical inspiration for today's post is Russ Ballard's 'Voices' (remember the 80s?)

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 159 - Keeping Promises

We're linked with Messy Marriage's Wedded Wednesday. Please visit Beth for some great marriage resources!

As a caregiver, one of the most important things you can do is...keep the promises you make.

It doesn't matter if it's something small, like agreeing to prepare a special meal that your husband or wife might still be able to enjoy, or something big, like working to fulfill a last 'bucket list' milestone.

When the person you love is on a mortal timeline, a promise kept is a validation.

It says to the recipient, you're still important...what I can do to make your life easier, I will. No excuses, and no unnecessary delays.

Until you feel your days dwindling, you don't know how that feels.

We're used to promises deferred. I mean, life happens, and in the normal course of events, we understand that.

Sorry...stuff got in the way...how about next week?

I just can't swing it now...but wait 'till next year, and we'll take that trip.

That's part of marrie life, bit the situation and the expectation that it will be accepted.

But when next week may bring a further decline that makes the homemade pizza impossible to eat...or that there is likely not going to be a next year...that puts a different complexion on things.

This is not to say it'll be held against you. I think that most people, when faced with death, become pretty philosophical about disappointment. After all, the process of seeing one's body fail is a seemingly unending string of disappointment.

But why add to it?

This situation seems to call for invoking a What Would Jesus Do paradigm -

Only say yes when you mean yes.

Sunday, May 22, 2016

Your DYing Spouse 158 - Walk Of Life

Too ill to write today, so with apologies, here's a video I hope you will enjoy.

Thursday, May 19, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 157 - Don't Expect That I Will Fail {FMF}

Time for Five Minute Friday, hosted by Kate Motaung. It's a weekly timed, key-word-inspired writing challenge, and there are some great writers of faith there. Please visit...and if you're not participating, join in!

The word this week is a good one...EXPECT.

Not quite sure what to say. It's hard to breathe, very hard to move, and this has gotten really, really scary. There is a new and nasty symptom, a fell harbinger, and my right lung's screwed up. This really sucks.

I don't want to be brave. There's a part of me that wants to curl up in a ball on Abba-Daddy's lap, and close my eyes until He makes the bad things go away.

It's an appealing image. Trouble is, it's not how He made me.

He made me something of a hard man; not unsympathetic, and not lacking in compassion (I hope) but relentless in the fight. I take injuries pretty well, and will happily improvise a splint rather than take a broken arm to the doctor. I've done minor surgery on myself.

Still and all, pain and fear make for some pretty high walls. But there is something in which I take comfort...the first verse of I Shall Be Released, written by Bob Dylan and best-performed by The Band (anyone old enough to remember?).

They say every man must need protection
They say every man must fall
Yet I swear I see my reflection
Some place so high above the wall
I see my light come shining
From the west unto the east
Any day now, any day now
I shall be released

I am going to scale those walls. Hardness is my strength; ferocity is my mainspring; and victory will be mine.

The victory is not over death; that comes to all. The true enemy, revealed ever more clearly, is despair astride the fell steed of hopelessness. He will not prevail.

I hear the deguello all around me now; but it's not my throat that will be cut. I will be the last man standing.

And ready for another fight. Which I expect to win.

If you're interested, here are the musical references - first, I Shall Be Released...

and next, the deguello (it';s a bugle call signaling 'no quarter'; it means 'to cut the throat')...

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 156 - Why Bother?

We're linked with Messy Marriage's Wedded Wednesday - please visit Beth's site for some great marriage wisdom!

As I am writing this - and I seriously thought about skipping it - things have gotten a lot worse. I wondered if they could; now I know.

The pain's ramped up past 'stupid pain', the kind that slows down your thinking, and there is another symptom (which, lucky for you, I won't describe) which is both extremely ominous and very disheartening.

And there is fatigue. My effective hours during the day have become effective moments. Otherwise, short of breath and energy, I have to rest.

So the question's begged...why continue the things I used to to, the writing, and the work on aeroplanes? As the walls close in, why bother?

There are a couple of reasons.

First, giving up is acceptance of defeat...it's surrender, and that is something I never learned. Giving up on the physical activities is a moral failure, and opens the door to a steeper decline. No matter how much it hurts - and how little I can still do - I don't think that is a wise thing to do. I'd rather face my fate with tools still in hand.

Second, it sets a bad example. We are not here, in this life, as singletons. We live in and by community, and we are required to take an active role in supporting and helping to form the future of that community. Saying what's the use, even in dire circumstance, is a step back over a line in the sand.

Behind which is another line, and another. I would prefer that I be remembered, perhaps not specifically but in the collective consciousness, as one who did not step back, so that others may be heartened to stand fast in other ways.

Third, I'd feel pretty stupid if I gave up and God, in His wisdom (and, perhaps, sense of ironic humour) sent me a healing miracle.

Fourth, keeping on with the work is a reach into the future. It anchors me in the continued life of those around me who have a more 'apparent' future that I seem to posess. I am still part of their world, if I'm looking ahead.

I need them; and they need me.

I still have something to give.

That's why I bother.

Sunday, May 15, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 155 - Assisted Suicide Revisited

When one's terminally ill, the question of 'assisted suicide' always comes up, and a couple of years ago it received quite a lot of attention when a young woman with brain cancer, Brittany Maynard, became something of its poster girl.

She did kill herself, after going for a last walk with her husband and dogs.

At the time I wrote a post on another blog in which I disagreed violently with her course of action; and I wrote a post earlier in this series looking at the same subject. . But now, with a little thought,and a lot of experience, I feel compelled to revisit the issue.

I still think it's the wrong thing to do, but I understand it better. Lately, I've had a run of really bad days and new, ominous symptoms (which I won't describe, so count yourselves lucky), and lying semiconscious on the kitchen floor - more than once a day, let alone more than once a week, I've wondered...is this how I'm going to die?

The answer is, probably, yes.

And the pain's gone to new heights, or a new low. My walk has become amusingly crablike...kind of bent-over and scuttling sideways.

No, scutting implies speed. I'm limping, really, because putting weight on my right leg sends pain straight through the pancreas, and that can drop me.

So the operative question is, how much more can I take? How much worse can this get?

The answer is, obviously, a lot.

Faced with this, I can understand why the bleakness of the prospect can make a person yearn for it to be over. The large agonies and the small humiliations...just over.

However.

First, well, I'm a Christian, and believe that suicide is a sin. As in cardinal sin. Yes, I believe there are special circumstances that excuse it...the people who jumped from the World Trade Center Towers rather than burn to death were probably not castigated by the Almighty.

But I am not in that position. I have pain that is extreme, but the fact that I am writing this means I can still function, at least to a degree...and offing myself would simply be an emotional response...I don't wanna do this any more!

Second, it seems to be a terribly cruel burden and memory to place on one's loved ones...to see someone drink the hemlock, knowing that there is nothing now that will arrest the death. To keep talking while the responses become slower, trying to get in the last important words...I could not do that to anyone.

Third, it rather cancels God's ability to send a miracle. That miracle may not be a healing; it may merely be a clarity of understanding and purpose. But we are God's creatures, and in the end I don't think that we can take the play out of His hands (barring the World Trade Center example above, or similar things).

But having lived the last few months, and especially this last horrible day, I really can't bring myself to condemn anyone who takes this way out. I'm not in his or her shoes, and I have no insight into his or her relationship with the Almighty. There are things that can't be endured, and those are different for everyone.

All I can say now is, I hope that I can extend this compassion consistently, if I ever face dealing with someone who's backed into this fell corner, this fatal choice.

But in the end, I'll stand by the closing of my earlier post on this blog, written a long time ago...

"The terminally ill still have a lot to give, and they should not be thrown away...by society, or by themselves.

That line really says it all...I'm rather proud of it, so I'll stop here."

Thursday, May 12, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 154 - The Politics Of Death {FMF}

Time for Five Minute Friday, the weekly keyword-driven writing challenge hosted by Kate Motaung. Please visit; there are some great writers there!

I'm writing this ahead of time. It's been quite a week, not in a good way, so I am trying to make sure I have something. I'll amend this with some reference to the given word if I can. (The word is GROW, and I did add something to the end of this post.)

This is something that has been on my heart for awhile. I promised myself I'd never 'go political'; but it seems that there is a need to. I hope I won't lose any of you, dear readers...and I hope that at the very least you'll indulge me for a few minutes.

The upcoming presidential election is important to me, for two reasons.

The first is personal. The Affordable Care Act has changed the face of medicine in the US, and some of the potential it has is worrisome for someone in my position (well, not necessarily for me; I'm done for, but you know what I mean).

The law includes the provision for healthcare rationing by what have been colloquially - and accurately - labeled 'death panels'. These can be formed at the behest of the administration if the money coming in falls below a certain percentage of the money being spent on health care.

They will decide the fate of those who need expensive and life-saving treatment, based on an economic calculus. Yes, insurance companies have done something similar to maintain profitability, but insurers are accountable to their shareholders, and at least to some degree, their subscribers.

To whom would a government-appointed panel, selected by and composed of unelected bureaucrats. To whom would they be accountable? To accountants.

Government accountants.

And so, there's the possibility that one day your mother or father or wife or husband might, instead of receiving lifesaving or at least life-extending care, might be counseled on...assisted suicide.

This would not be based on a national emergency, like a war...it would kick in when too much was going out, and not enough was coming into the health care system. Middle-aged men would still be getting Viagra, and gender-troubled people would get sex-change operations...but after a certain age, your loved one would not be deemed worthy of continued life.

Meanwhile, National Public Radio would still be funded, the National Science Foundation would still pay academics for studies on the sex life of shrimp, and the President would still get taxpayer-funded golfing vacations.

That sucks.

The second issue is related to the last point...not deemed worthy of life. Yes, it's abortion (which is a subject addressed in my latest novel, Emerald Isle).

The Christian view is quite clear. Life begins at conception, and abortion is therefore murder. Period, full stop.

But let's back out of that for a moment. Most supporters feel abortion is allowable until a fetus can'survive outside the womb. In other words, independent viability is the hallmark of a valued life.

There's a problem there. A lot of them, actually.

First, viability is a moving target, informed by the state of medical knowledge. A viable fetus today would not have been viable twenty years ago.

So does that mean that what might be considered a child today would not have been a child back then? Was today's life really just a collection of cells, back in the day?

Second, viability is a process, not an event, and 'personhood' is a development of which we know very little. The fetus can respond to stimuli far earlier than we once thought possible, and it's reasonable to assume that it can feel pain, as well. Abortion's a brutal procedure. Do we have the right to assume a lack of feeling to indulge our own desires?

A baby bird isn't viable out of the nest. Are you OK with someone killing it because they want to?

Third, the question of viability is itself something of a red herring. A person in a coma, on a respirator, is not viable without it, but as long as there is hope of recovery the plug won't be pulled.

And a baby in the womb has an excellent prospect for 'recovery'. It's a nine-month process, and is successfully concluded thousands of times a day, all over the world.

Not fair to say that the dude on the respirator has a chance of becoming a functioning member of society in short order, while the baby won't be that for awhile...unless you're willing to pull the plug on those who would be left crippled for life. (Which also addresses the 'abortion of fetuses who would be born disabled, doesn't it?)

And those who need government assistance, in the form of Social Security disability...for which I am still waiting.

There are two life and death issues in this election. The Affordable Care Act, and abortion.

There are two likely candidates. Hillary Clinton has vowed to strengthen the Affordable Care Act, and support free access to abortions.

Donald Trump opposes abortion, and will dismantle the Affordable Care Act.

For a Christian, I believe the choice is clear, because these issues are the meat of the decision.

It's not about immigration or gun control or trade deals. Those are important, yes, but the vote you cast can and will impact life itself for thousand living today, and, as the cliche says, millions yet unborn.

It will set the agenda for the Supreme Court for perhaps a decade to come.

Yes, Trump can be obnoxious and downright mean. He can sound hateful and arrogant. But on these two vital points, his values are shared with the Christian community, and I am surprised...nay, shocked...that many Christians say 'they can't bring themselves to vote for the man'.

Because not voting for him is a vote for the other side. It's a vote for abortion, and placing a monetary value on life.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer said, "Not to act is to act."

NOT TO VOTE IS TO VOTE.

PS...the word this week is GROW.

Ladron my service Heeler
thinks like a wee Belfast peeler.
She's grown into the job
(and there are teeth in that gob!),
she'd drive the Pope to his kneeler!

Yes, Ladron...the pint-sized policeman. She is now pushing me away from the computer...bye...

Tuesday, May 10, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 162 - Incontinence

Did the title scare you off?

It did me, in trying to write this thing. But while talking about it's painful and embarrassing, the problem of bladder and bowel incontinence exists for many of the terminally ill.

And hence for their caregivers.

True incontinence, where there's absolutely no control, is pretty rare. Thank God.

What I'm talking about is a system that's compromised so that the timeline between the "I've gotta go!" warning and the point at which the sphincters release is maddeningly short, and by that I mean seconds, or maybe a minute.

And it does let go.

Puts one on a pretty short leash, and makes any kind of nonessential outing pretty unpleasant to contemplate.

Yes, I know about adult diapers...some people are OK with wearing them, but to some - like me - even the term is anathema. It adds humiliation to pain, and so no, I won't be coming to the party or the church service.

If your husband or wife is in this position, here are some suggestions, gleaned from experience -

Don't suggest adult diapers. Just don't. Your mate knows about them, and will bring up the issue him-or-herself if it's an option. (And don't offer the thought that using the things would allow 'freedom'; again, it's a very personal decision, and it's not your decision.)
Don't make light of it, or compare it to a time in your life when you may have had the problem. You survived; the soon-to-be-dead-dude will likely not. Comparison, even as well-intended sympathy, comes across as condescending.
Offer to help with a cleanup, but don't push. Your spouse may not want you to see him or her 'that way'. Respect their privacy, and what's left of dignity. It's not about you; it's about horrible, total embarrassment.
Some people will make light of the problem (like saying, with feeling, "Oh, crap!"). Set your response by their tone. Don't make light if your husband is weeping from the frustration, and don't make it out to be a tragedy if your wife's laughing it off.
Your spouse may suddenly want to do his or her own laundry. Allow that, and don't interfere, or comment. (Likewise, if you';re doing the laundry, don't comment unless you see something really bad, like large bloodstains that are otherwise unremarked.)

One more thing, and this deserves more than a bullet point...your spouse may physically withdraw, and be reluctant to touch, or be touched, far less engage in physical intimacy.

That's something you've got to respect...up to a point. Being incontinent makes one feel kind of...well, 'soiled', and a hard or unexpected hug can cause something...well, unpleasant if not entirely unexpected. And as for sex, you can well imagine.

You've got to respect boundaries, but don't fall into something of a retaliatory withdrawal. That sounds awful, but as a caregiver, you're human...and you can feel rejected.

Instead, try to imagine how you'd feel as the worst physical version of yourself, with a self-smell that never goes away, even when you've just washed.

Try to imagine what it's like to be seen as you never wanted anyone to see you, let alone the man or woman whom you wanted most in the world to impress.

And put all of that feeling, that compassion, into a gentle caress of the shoulder, a soft brushing of the hair.

Just don,t...please...make it a surprise!

Your Dying Spouse 153 - Self-Medicating

We're linked to Messy Marriage's Wedded Wednesday; please visit for some great marriage resources.

What do you do, as a caregiver, when you realize that your terminally ill husband or wife is self-medicating?

Self-medicating can take many forms; what they have in common is that they address the combination of physical pain and discomfort along with the emotion burden that dying places on the soul - the fear, disconnection, and loneliness.

Understanding where it's coming from is the first step in dealing with the issue...and as a caregiver, you have to find a way to deal with it. You can't turn away.

The process usually begins when a patient feels that he or she is being 'let down' by medicine, that the prescribed treatments either aren't effective enough, or cause side effects that are hard to tolerate.

"I now how I feel...I can do a better job."

Well, no. Unless one's well-trained and well-educated, and can work with an almost superhuman detachment from oneself, one can't. I mean, would you take out your own appendix? That's an extreme example, but not completely hyperbolic, because self-medication can and sometimes is fatal (consider Prince and heath Ledger).

There's also a sense of entitlement, as in, "I don't have long, and I deserve to feel better in my last days."

Sure, you deserve to feel better. But as Mick Jagger said, You Can't Always Get What You Want, and sometimes, to continue to function as part of a family and part of a community, you simply have to bear the pain, and face the sadness.

Self-medicating can take many forms, such as -

Finding a tame doctor who'll over-prescribe pain meds (harder now, but still possible)
Alcohol
Marijuana use
Street drugs
Shopping (especially online)

I separated out marijuana from 'street drugs' because there is some social tolerance for it, and therefore often more reluctance in confronting someone who's using it to self-medicate.

What should you, as a caregiver do, when you realize that self-medication is happening on your watch, so to speak?

First, talk to a counselor to get your own bearings.You should be doing this anyway, if possible; caregiving takes an enormous toll.

Next, try to determine the extent of the problem...and stay involved. There are some levels of self-medication that aren't worth a confrontation. If your husband goes to the house of the old hippie dude down the street to share a marijuana cigarette or two once or twice a week, you may find that it's simply better to keep your own counsel, and keep an eye on the situation, especially if death is close.

Creating an emotional rift at the end of days can make for damage that's hard to repair.

Likewise, shopping. If you can afford the 'feel-better' purchases, you may choose to let it go.

But sometimes, it's past tolerating, and you have to take action. Prepare for it.

Talk to your spouse's medical care team. Don't make it about 'you'; but do make them aware of what's happening.

Talk to your pastor. You'll need prayer, and all the spiritual support you can get, because I promise you this...

When you confront, it's going to be ugly.

Your spouse is going to get defensive, guaranteed, and when he or she realizes that you've called in outside parties, feelings of being ambushed will arise.

Be firm in your commitment to the health of your relationship. Don't make it a power-play; someone who's dying is losing influence steadily, and raming this as a matter of exerting control will make things really horrible, and can kill the good times you may have left.

Be supportive in every way you can. If your husband or wife is having problems with medication dosage or effects, listen attentively, and if possible, go with them on doctor visits to lend your support. Make the system work.

Don't take the abuse that may be hurled your way personally. While part of it is personal, and intended to hurt, a larger part comes from feelings of guilt and shame. Your spouse may, on being confronted, say that he or she hates you; but the amount of self-hatred is even greater.

Don't expect a quick 'healing' if you have to confront. Bad habits can be hard to break, and quitting cold-turkey can cause some pretty nasty physical and psychological problems. It's going to take time to mend.

And it will take time to mend your relationship. From both sides; you'll have to be watchful, and untrusting for awhile, and that builds distance. Your spouse will feel, at best, 'on probation', and something less than an equal partner in your marriage.

Finally, pray...a lot.

Sunday, May 8, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 152 - Death Letter

"To be opened on my death."

As a caregiver, do you want a voice from the grave, form your husband or wife, wrapping things up, so to speak, with final thoughts of What It All Meant?

Or would that be just too painful to read?

Regardless, some people, facing the end, do find it necessary, sometimes urgently so, to get something down on paper. It's a call to legacy, to show, first, that I Was Here, and second, that My Life Mattered.

It's a message to a future that this individual will never see. (Randy Pausch's The Last Lecture is a book-length death letter to the kids he'd never see grow up.)

So, dear caregiver...what's your role in this? What kind of encouragement can you bring? How can you help. even if it tears you up inside?

First, don't throw cold water on the idea, if your dying spouse brings it up. That's the flat-out worst thing you can do, because even though you don't mean it, the interpretation is that you don't want to look back at the shared life you had.

Second, be open to exploring those shared memories...and, sometimes, doing some research to spark them. For someone who doesn't have a tomorrow, and for whom today is both painful and frightening, yesterday assumes huge importance.

Yesterday becomes the definition of a person's life, and a definition of value.

Third, try to keep hope, or at least anticipation alive. The doctors may have given up, but you can give your mate something to look forward to. You've got to take on the role of Cruise Director for this last voyage, by planning meals that can still be enjoyed, and watching - together - DVDs that you may have seen many times, but that still bring a sense of involvement and purpose to the dying.

Barbara did just that this evening; she has an early day tomorrow, but she stayed up with me to watch Star Trek - Into Darkness. It was her suggestion. She knew I'd had a miserably uncomfortable weekend, and she sacrificed her sleep to bring me this gift.

Because, you see, writing a death letter focuses on the direst of prospects, and it's easy to get caught in them.

Finally, show interest. If your mate wants to talk about what he or she is writing - to you - be present, and listen.

Because it's really a cry for help -

Tell me that I mattered..

Thursday, May 5, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 151 - Missing Ewe {FMF}

Time for Five Minute Friday, the weekly keyword-inspired timed writing challenge hosted by Kate Motaung ( who graciously gave me the word ahead of time...thanks, Kate!

The word is MISS.

Not feeling up to much today, so here goes...

There once was a lamb named Shiloh
who loved her corn and her milo.
She followed afar
that culinary star
and last seen, lived in a silo.

Posting that leaves me feeling a bit sheepish.

This week was also the launch of my new novel, Emerald Isle. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the FMF community, for keeping my head in the game, and my eyes up. And I owe a lot to others, too, as you'll read below.

Emerald Isle is about finding the faith and hope to overcome a devastating loss, only to have to face the hard truth that sometimes God asks more than we think we can possibly give.

It's on Kindle now; a physical version will come. Please click on the cover below to go to Amazon, and learn a bit more about it.

Thanks to the hard work a dear friend I've never met, Carol Ashby, let me introduce...drum roll, please...

The paragraphs that follow come from Monday's post; not having the energy to rewrite them I just pasted them.

Yes, Emerald Isle made it out of the shadows. It's about love and hope and death and second chances.

I's about life.

But mainly, for me, it's about people who will pick you up when you can't walk another step, and carry you over the finish line.

I was out of strength, and, to tell the truth, out of hope.

And I did the most important thing I could have done, even though I didn't know I was doing it. I asked for help.

In participating in the blog run by the agents of the Books and Such literary agency (of which I am not a client...I don't have an agent), I mentioned that I had some work that probably, due to my physical situation, would not see the light of day.

It wasn't a cry for help or reassurance; I don't do that easily. And while there may have been some self-pity involved (some?), I don't think that was the motivator. I've seen things that are way more deserving of pity than me.

It was, as close as I can say now, with hindsight, a warning...don't wait too long. Some day tomorrow won't come.

At any rate, the Books and Such blog community leapt to my aid, with encouragement, and in Carol's case, with editing expertise.

I cannot tell y'all how humbled I am.

Emerald Isle meant a lot to me when I wrote it; it still does. But even more, the lesson I have learned here has changed my life, even this close to its ending.

I learned that when God opens the doors of Heaven's treasurehouses, what rains down is love. We have only to accept it.

Tuesday, May 3, 2016

That Little Voice - A Story of Viet Nam {#BlogBattle}

Time again for #BlogBattle, the keyword-inspired flash-fiction contest hosted by the vivacious Rachael Ritchey.

The word this time is VOICE.

This is the second installment in a multi-part anecdote...part one was Hope Floats.

That Little Voice

As it turned out, no one cared whether we were wearing our A's or not.

The Dude, Biff and I were waiting in the transit shed at Tan Son Nhut, slowly wilting. The C-130 we'd been booked on for what the departure clerk smirkingly called our 'hop' to Bangkok was being taken to bits on the ramp by a group of puzzled mechanics, and there was no beer.

Could life get worse?

Suddenly The Dude straightened up, then stood. "I don't believe it...Brother Cedric?"

The Marlboro Man, or his twin brother, had been walking past on the ramp, and he stopped at The Dude's call. Tall, and lean, he wore Levi's, cowboy boots, and a shirt that had once been plaid. There was a holstered .45 tucked under one arm, and a cigarette dangled from the fingers of his left hand. Mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes.

I wondered about smoking where there were airplanes filled with gas around, and decided not to ask.

The Marlboro Man removed his glasses, and squinted into the dim shed. "What...no, really?" His voice had a nasal new England inflection that didn't really go with the hat.

"It IS you!" The Dude ran out onto the ramp, and for a horrible moment I thought the two would embrace...but fortunately they stopped to shake hands and flail at each other's shoulders in an emotively manly greeting. "Guys, get out here!

The Dude was beaming. "This is Brother Cedric...he's a Jesuit, taught spiritual formation at the seminary." He introduced us as might a proud parent, with praise that neither Biff nor I deserved.

Brother Cedric shook our hands, and the Northeasterly twang softened. "I've heard about you guys. It's good to meet you."

He sounded like a monk, but sure didn't look like one. I looked at The Dude, and he asked the question for all of us.

"So...uh, what gives with the..." He waved his hands up and down in an almost helpless gesture.

The monk grinned. "No I haven't left the order, but you remember, before I went in, I flew for Uncle Sam. Did an early tour over here, training the VNAF. The experience gave me religion."

He paused, expecting a laugh, which came. We'd heard of some of the VNAF's antics.

"Anyway, vocations started to tail off...and since the abbott didn't think I was suitable for parish work, he gave me the option of coming back out here, as a missionary."

He looked more like a mercenary to me, but I held my tongue.

"When I got here, there was someone waiting, with an offer I couldn't refuse. So now I'm flying for Air America, spreading the gospel along the way."

Biff, the innocent, asked, "What's Air America?"

The Dude answered for Brother Cedric. "It's the CIA airline."

"They can be persuasive," said the monk. "So what's with you guys? R&R?"

"Bangkok," said The Dude. "Someday." He pointed to the increasingly disemboweled C-130.

"Gosh," said brother Cedric, "that doesn't look too good. You want a lift?" He pointed down the ramp to an unpainted and unmarked C123. "I was heading upcountry, to NKP, but I can drop you and Don Muang, no sweat."

The Dude, Biff and I exchanged glances that spoke of this bit of divine intervention, and headed for our ride.

Brother Cedric's copilot was a small dark man with a ready smile and no words. He was introduced as Sam, and we were introduced to him in a sibilant blend of vowels of which he understood not a word,not even our own names repeated.

"Sam's Laotian," said Brother Cedric.

"Is Sam his real name?" asked Biff, still testing the bounds of naivete.

Sam startled us all by saying, "My real name..."

Brother Cedric was right. It was unpronounceable.

The 123 was smaller than the 130, and had a cozy feeling. Brother Cedric and Sam stepped up a small ladder to the cockpit, and then the monk motioned for The Dude to follow them.

The cargo hold had the usual wildly uncomfortable tube-slung nylon seat, a kind of hammock for one's butt. Since we were the only passengers, we gave ourselves plenty of room.

"Do you think we can go the the Floating Market? Pattaya Beach?" Biff had been loaned a Fodor's Guide, and I figured we were doomed to every tourist trap in the area.

"Sure," I said. "You can send home all the monkeypod you can afford, and we'll keep you sober at Pattaya."

The Dude came back from the cockpit, smiling enigmatically. "What do you guys think about a change in plans?"

Biff, anguish touching his tones, said, "But I want to see Bangkok!"

"You'll have way more fun. Trust me."

The two most dangerous words in the English language, said my Little Voice.

But at least we wouldn't have to babysit a drunken Biff.

Your Dying Spouse 150 - Death Song {FMF}

We're linked with Messy Marriage's Wedded Wednesday - please visit for some really great marriage resources.

My newest novel, Emerald Isle, is now available on Kindle. Please click on the cover if you'd like to have a look.

Not really up to writing, but I thought y'all might enjoy this - from Chief Tecumseh

So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart. Trouble no one about their religion; respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people. Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide.

Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and grovel to none.

When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself. Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools and robs the spirit of its vision.

When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.

Blessed Are The Pure Of Heart

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