Blessed Are The Pure Of Heart

Thursday, February 4, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 115 - A Hopeful Heart {FMF}

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

This week's word is...well, I don't know yet. I'm writing in advance, and if you read these words it means I wasn't able to get a word-specific post together. I'm sorry, Kate.

First...many thanks to those who have sent cards, and to those I have not emailed yet...please forgive me. Barb only collects the mail once a week or so (remote rural box), and...I'm very tired.

But please know that they mean the world to me. Truly.

Okay, here we go.

I knew this day would come; I'm wearing out. It's getting too tiring to do more than the minimum, just the bare necessities...and some days, not even these.

Pain, nausea, and other, less pleasant things are taking a toll, and I am beginning to see that it's not recoverable.

There's still so much to do...bring Emerald Isle in self-published form, along with a couple of other completed novels...finish the sequel to Blessed Are The Pure Of Heart (it's nearly done), finish my Civil War novel, Lady Stonewall...and most important, finish my Viet Nam narrative, Travels With The Dude (and where else will you find Marines contemplating a pinup of Katherine Ann Porter?). You can read the latest installment of The Dude's story here, if you'd like.

There are two inspirational self-help books, as well, Your Winning Season, and Keeping The Vow - Christian Marriage In A Pagan World.

And Unsung Heroes Of The Bible, which features such worthies as Uriah the Hippie, Tobit's Dog, and the Rich Young Ruler.

Oh, sorry...Uriah was a Hittite, wasn't he?

And there are airplanes I have been working on, that I'd like to finish...and fly (real ones, not models).

But the tools are quiet now, and so, largely, is the keyboard.

I dreaded this, but the funny thing is that it's not nearly as fearsome as I had thought it would be.

Because, you see, I can still do something, like writing this post. (I have to confess that I'm cheating; as mentioned above, I am writing it long before the word is revealed, and will be editing it to drag the given keyword in by its hair, kicking and screaming...if I can And I'm not setting a timer. I can't do that today. This is being written in fits and starts. Call it 3-Hour Friday. )

My days are much more 'reading' than 'writing'. A good cigar, and energy drink (but where's the energy?), and a good book...and a houseful of quiet dogs who understand that the best support they can give is their loving, warm presence.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not going gently into that good night, but the fight I can bring is exactly that...what I can still bring, and it's much more a matter of attitude.

Not militance, but the knowledge that I don't have to quit. That quiet resistance is still resistance.

That even when I'm too tired to do much else, there's still something worth doing.

That as long as I keep a hopeful heart in spite of the pain, there is still room for a miracle.

And that the miracle is here every day, precisely because I have and keep that hopeful heart.

I may not have keyed in the word for this week...we'll see tonight. But I'm happy with this, right now.

That's it.

Addendum...Kate graciously let me know in advance that the word is FOCUS. I'm not up to retooling the above, but here's 'something'...

A Texas oilman had two sons who wanted, more than anything, to be cattle ranchers. So he bought them a ranch, on the condition that they let him name it.

They agreed, and asked what he wanted to call the spread.

"Focus," he said.

Say WHAT?

"Sure. because it's where the sons raise meet."

As a final word, I wrote a post this week that I kind of liked, on caregiving, dying, and the Lord's Prayer. If you're interested, you can find it here.

The musical inspiration for this post came from Coldplay...

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

Tuesday, February 2, 2016

Through The Forest - A Story of Viet Nam {#BlogBattle}

Time for this week's #BlogBattle, a weekly keyword-driven flash fiction contest hosted by the wonderful Rachael Ritchey.

The word this week is FOREST.

Through The Forest

The engines were rumbling, and blue smoke wafted up into a lightening sky, though 'light' was a matter of conjecture. The clouds were low, it was bound to rain, and it was almost time to see if Charlie had been busy planting mines along the MSR through the night.

Yeah, well, of course he had. It was our job to spot them, and the engineers in the APC following would dig them up.

Just another road sweep in paradise.

There was a sudden whop-whop-whop, reflected between clouds and ground. The Dude looked up. "Brave boys to be out today."

"It's the Cav's AO," said Biff, as if that explained everything, which it really did. The Cav were nuts.

"There he is," said The Dude. A Huey was almost in the trees, and its rotors looked like they were cutting spiral-swirls out of the clouds. He suddenly, banked, and turned toward us.

"Aw, you should've ignored him," said Biff. "Now we got his attention." And if he flew over the tanks we were going to get nicely dusted off...and if it rained the dust would turn into a particularly pervasive mud.

"Sorry," said The Dude. "My mistake."

But the Huey didn't overfly us. It dropped down into the Rome-low area fifty yards away, and skidded to an untidy stop.

"Whoa," said The Dude. He leaned into the turret. "Sonny, grab the aid kit, we got visitors!"

The Huey was shot-up, with smoke coming from the hump on top where the engine sits...and the chin bubble on each side was red with blood, under broken windscreens.

A skinny black kid gingerly climber down onto the skid, and then tripped. He looked toward us and waved. A spray of blood splashed off his arm.

"Sonny, move it!" The Dude leapt off the deck, and I followed him, telling Biff to stay with the tank. I heard Sonny hit the ground with a grunt just behind me.

And we ran.

The Rome-plow furrows were uneven, and I saw The Dude trip once, then Sonny cursed as he caught a boot behind me, and then I went down.

The hurt Huey was sitting tilted, engines shut down and rotors coasting to a stop, and the black trooper wasn't waving now. He'd bled out.

The Dude reached the right-hand pilot's door, and as he pulled it open it came off in his hand. He looked around the side armour, then recoiled, gagged, and spun around to throw up in the dirt. I stumbled up behind him, and was about to look in when I heard his voice.

"TC, don't...just, don't."

"Yeah." The blood in the chin bubble contained other things, and I could tell it wasn't worth a look.

Sonny, ran around to the left side, and as he reached the door the AC opened it, and dangled out a bloody arm. "TC, Dude, I'm gonna need y'alls help heah!"

The Dude got shakily to his feet, his face white. I lent him a hand, and he spit vomit from his mouth. "Just glad Biff didn;' see that."

When we got to the AC's open door The Dude crawled onto the pedestal between the seats, and was putting his jacket over what was in the right-hand pilot's seat. Then he threw up again.

The AC had his helmet off, and was sitting sideways in his seat. Sonny had pulled back the side armour, and the man was writhing in pain from multiple holes in his legs. That he could have flown the thing at all was a miracle.

Sonny was tending to his wounds with a gentleness that belied his bulk.

The AC looked me in the eyes. "We need help."

"We're here, man. " I didn't know if he was a warrant or a real officer, and I didn't care. "We got you."

"You don't understand, tanker...the Blues are getting overrun, the other lift bird's down...we need you to bust a trail and get 'em out."

The Dude put a hand on the man's shoulder, and then quickly removed it as the pilot winced. "Where?" he asked.

"I'll lead you...help me get this thing cranked again and I'll lead you. You bust a trail...through the forest..."

Sonny looked at me, and shook his head.

"Yeah, we'll do that. Let's get you fixed up first, OK?"

"The AC was weakening. "Through the forest, tanker...we gotta go now..." He reached for what I took to be the controls to start the thing, but his hands fell away.

"Help me," he said. "I can fly...just help me get it started."

Sonny said to me, "TC, here, hold pressure," moving my hand to a dressing on the pilot' leg. "OK, there."

Then, to the pilot, "OK, talk me through it."

The pilot's words were slurring now. "Batt on...ok, fuel onnn..." He pressed a trigger on the collective, next to his seat, and there was a ticking sound. "Igniters..." he said.

The engine caught with a low whoosh, and in his last movement the pilot meshed the blades, and they began to turn.

He died then, and Sonny gently closed his eyes under the strobing of the rotors in the grey dawn.

Your Dying Spouse 114 - The Service Dog Blues

We're linked to Messy Marriage's Wedded Wednesday...please visit Beth's wonderful website for faith, love, and wisdom.

This post is a change of pace. I...we...hope you'll enjoy it.

I have two service dogs. The one you see in the right'hand sidebar is Sylvia, a large and very warm-hearted Pit Bull.

The one pictured below is a Red Heeler named Ladron. She is not quite as fast as Syl, and thereby hangs a tail...uh, tale.

Ladron is very attentive, and very alert. She sleeps right next to my shoulder, and if I stop breathing, she calls in The Muscle...Sylvia...who will jump up and down on my chest in a field-expedient canine version of CPR.

They have brought me back a couple of times...and yes, you can stop breathing and be conscious. It sucks.

Ladron is at my side 24/7; she helps me feed other dogs, for instance. She is perfectly capable of carrying a dish full of food to someone else, opening a feeding crate, and putting the dish inside. She does not steal food - ever - and no one is brave enough to mess with her.

Especially since she doesn't sleep much. When I sleep - and I don't sleep much, either instead lying awake trying to biofeedback the pain into something manageable - she's awake, watching.

Unfortunately, her diligence can cause her problems...since I have a real problem with nausea...

I throw up a couple of times a day...often quite a bit of blood comes up as well.

When I go down, I go down hard, and the girls move to keep me from hitting my head on the floor, but when Syl realizes that something is about to happen, she scuttles backward (and she can back up faster than most dogs can go forward).

Ladron hasn't mastered that art, and by the time she spins around it's usually too late.

And it's bath time.

Ladron does not like baths.

And thus, so you can get an idea of The Service Dog Blues, and for your viewing pleasure...

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

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.

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.