Extra Ordinary Endings

Happy All Saints Day! If any of my 'regular readers' still check back from time to time, I just wanted to say I am alive and back and thanks for still checking in! I have been away from my blog for a long time for the many things of life and death and change and growth that sewn together comprise our human experience. I will attempt to tell some of the stories of my absence in this and future blog posts. The following post I originally wrote for Mom's Caring Bridge Journal on Saturday, March 28th, 2009, the day before she died. This fall whenever I see apples, I am remembering Mom and hope that you will too.

Wait for the Lord;
Be strong, and let your heart take courage;
Wait for the Lord!
– Psalm 27:14

But those who wait on the Lord
Will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
They will run and not grow weary,
They will walk and not be faint.
- Isaiah 40:31

Keeping vigil is an almost lost art that has thankfully been seeing resurgence in recent years. I wish I had a personal guide though, but I do not. The best I have found is Megory Anderson, but she is in California and not Auburndale, Florida. Plus I don't really know her personally other than having been to one of her workshops and reading her books. We accept childbirth classes, midwives and doulas, and Lamaze breathing techniques and exercises as a common practices. Lots of resources are dedicated to birthing rooms, alternative birthing methods and teaching about preparing for a new life entering this world. We don't do as well with teaching people how to help someone enter into a new life in the next world though. We call it death and focus on the endings, not the beginnings. Popular literature and films when they do address it often make it seems scary and dark. We don't like to face it because to face it we have to admit our own mortality. It is often more comfortable to take part in the funeral than the actual dying process. At funerals there are set customs, traditions, expectations, "rulebooks" by which to go. We know the drill there. Perhaps we would do better if we really embraced this time not as a death and an ending but as a time of helping to give birth to a new life. Who doesn't rejoice when a new baby is born, right?

As a society our culture is not one that likes to wait. Generally speaking Americans hate standing in lines, we hate getting stuck in traffic and we absolutely can't stand to be put on hold when we make a call. Waiting causes us stress and anxiety…we are not comfortable with the process. We want instant tax refunds…We teach our children it's better to get the "Fast Pass" at amusement parks…We like quick, convenience foods...We couldn't even think of having a dial-up internet connection any longer. Some people have even gone so far to schedule their children's births with labor inducements and C-sections just so they don't have to wait and are not inconvenienced by the act of surprise. Fortunately (aside from suicide or physician assisted suicide) we cannot schedule death.

Mom though has never been one to mind waiting and taking the extra time to do things right. She is one of the most patient people I know. She knows that good things come to those who wait. She savors and enjoys the processes almost as much as the end results and sometimes I think even a little more. For her there has always been great joy in the doing. Growing up "convenience food" was a dirty word in our house. She made dinner from scratch almost every night and for the several years we were all at home that meant dinner for eight. She baked her own bread, she grew her own vegetables, she sewed clothes for her kids (and Halloween costumes). When she still lived in Buffalo (before the age of homeowner's associations' rules) having a clothes line was one of her prized possessions so that she could hang her clothes out to dry in the fresh air whenever the weather permitted even though she had a perfectly good electric dryer in basement. She's had a dishwasher since 1985, but it has hardly ever gotten used as she would prefer to wash them by hand, even after a big dinner party. At restaurants Mom will always ask if the mashed potatoes are instant or real…if someone didn't take the time to peel and cook real potatoes and actually "mash" them, she's not interested in eating them. For as long as I can remember we always went to the country to pick every kind of fruit and vegetable in season that was available at "You-Pick" farms so Mom could bring home large quantities to can them or freeze them herself and have enough to last all year.

At Cleveland Hill Lutheran Church in Cheektowaga, NY where we were members for many years, Mom was active on the Family Life Committee which among many other wonderful things hosted a large Strawberry Social for the church and the community every year in June. She always persuaded the women of the committee to go and pick all of the strawberries themselves, rather than just buying them already picked. It was a time of fellowship, friendship and memory building…joy in the process! The rest of the committee always tried to persuade Mom to let them make drop biscuits from Bisquick each year for the shortcake, but Mom saw value in the "real thing", the slower process…so each year she volunteered herself to make all of the biscuits from scratch by hand, rolled out and cut.

Whenever she was able, she preferred to travel by car as opposed to flying anywhere because for her there was always joy in the journey, taking in the scenery. For many, many years she drove all over the country by herself or later with a couple of grandchildren in tow to visit family and friends. When she wasn't in the mood for a sit down "Cracker Barrel" type of meal while she was traveling, instead of visiting fast food restaurants, Mom would always have a cooler and a little portable grill that she travelled with and would stop at a rest area and make her own meals. One fall on a trip back to Florida from Buffalo after she had been visiting family and friends and picking bushels of apples that she could take home for making pies and eating and of course making homemade applesauce to can, she got stuck in a gridlock on the interstate. Because of a huge accident, traffic went nowhere for hours. Most of us would have been beside ourselves, but it didn't faze her one bit. Whenever one of us would comment about nothing ever bothering her, her favorite reply was "Only dogs get mad." Anyway, it was beautiful fall day and she was going to enjoy it. Mom, in typical, quintessential Leoma style, got out of her van to get to the bags of WNY McIntosh and Cortland apples (her favorite varieties) that she had in the back and walked up and down the rows of cars passing out apples and making friends. She has always had the gift of friendship and even complete strangers have felt a camaraderie with her and usually felt comfortable enough to share their whole life story with her when they met.

Being a child of the Great Depression, Mom was also hip well before her time and had "gone green" many, many years before being environmentally conscious was popular. For at least my entire life Mom has been an avid recycler and conservationist. One time in the 1970's she even got a spot on the local TV news for her recycling efforts. If it could be reduced, reused and recycled, Mom found a way to do it. She even washed and reused "disposable" plastic plates, cups and utensils from parties that were designed to make clean-up a breeze. "Waste not, want not" could have been her motto. If you ask any of my siblings about some of their favorite meals from growing up they will surely include some of her leftover creations like something we have come to affectionately call "Stupid Meat Pie." We learned to turn off lights and appliances, conserve water and so much more. Mom, until the neuropathy or numbness in her fingers (a side effect from the treatments) made it difficult, even darned her socks if they got a hole. Today Mom continues in her conservationist spirit and is making the most of every breath, getting as much use out of it as she possibly can. Her periods of apnea (even when she is awake) are now lasting sometime a full minute or longer, but her heart keeps ticking and she is conserving her energy for when she needs it most.

To know our Mom is also to know that at the heart of who she is as a person is one of her greatest spiritual gifts, that of hospitality. At her home, her work, her church or wherever Mom goes nothing makes her happier than making those around her feel welcomed and valued, usually that in some way also involves food. Hospitality is her forte and she has used every resource God has given her to share that gift with others. She has always been the coffee hour queen for her churches both in Buffalo as a member of the Family Life Committee and more recently at Abiding Savior in Winter Haven, often times as the one woman show. Where others see work, she finds pleasure. She also loved to have people over to her house for dinner, as many as would fit around her tables and sometimes more. She made birthday cakes or other favorite treats for everyone she worked with when their special day arrived and sometimes, "Just because." She truly cared about the people who came into her life. To this end, the other one of the Hospice Aides (CNAs) shared this with me: she was caring for Mom and was having a particularly bad day and started to cry because she didn't think Mom was really aware or communicative anymore, but then Mom said, "Why are you crying? Don't be sad."

Also in using her gift of hospitality, Mom loved any occasion for a party, reunion or get-together. She had so much fun planning a surprise 25^th wedding anniversary party for my brother Don and his wife Robin several years ago. Holidays were also a great time of feasting at Mom's house. My husband still reminisces about the first Thanksgiving he spent with the "Knitt Clan", there were eight or ten different pies (all homemade) and a buffet line to rival any -- Coming from a small family with a mom who didn't like to cook, he had never seen anything like it before. One can only dream and imagine what the future holds for Mom if this life has offered her only a "foretaste of the feast to come."

The doctor and nurses say there is really no reason medically at this point why Mom should still be with us. Sometime on Wednesday she started to decline dramatically. She has not even had water for a few days now, but she remains with us content, pain free and at peace just to be sharing in the moments of the days. Her vital signs are so low that her temperature and blood pressure will no longer register on the equipment they use to check it. She has stopped initiating communication with us but on rare occasion now she may still surprise us with a very simple reply. Mostly though when we are able to "converse" it is through body language, facial expressions, the blink of an eye, the slight movement of her lips or hand. Occasionally she will still have the reflex to kiss back when we kiss her. Usually it is just us talking to her and her listening, telling her things about the day, sharing memories, affirming the love we and all of you have for her, but I know she still hears. This IS God's time and Mom's time, we are on their schedule now and the doctor and nurses reassure us that each person's journey is unique.

Since yesterday afternoon, I have had the awesome privilege and responsibility of being the sole person keeping vigil with Mom until my brother, Doug, returns sometime later with his wife, Ann. We have listened to soft music and hymns, prayed together, read scripture and "talked." Even though I work in the hospice field teaching others about the dying process and grieving, about how we as a community can carry each other at our times of greatest need, meeting the needs of other families going through this same journey by providing them with compassionate volunteers to share the experience, at times I feel hopelessly inadequate. Keeping vigil, especially with one's mother, is a whole different ballgame. I question… Am I talking to her too much? Am I not talking to her enough? Have I shared all of the memories that I need to share? Am I forgetting something important? What if I spend too long getting something to eat or resting? Should I be doing something different to make it a more spiritual experience? Thankfully people who love us both help me to quiet the questions and just "be." It is too late to ask any more "important" questions that only she knows the answer to…hopefully I have all the answers I will need to know stored away somewhere and in the future recall them when necessary.

Although at first glance she seems to be mostly in a vegetative state, a closer look reveals that she is not. She is thinking -- her eyebrows sometimes go up and down in expression. There is a brightness to her eyes when she is looking at things and perhaps people that we cannot see. She attempts to mouth words at times…Wednesday through the late afternoon and night, she spoke at intervals, but not to us. At one point completely unprovoked she clearly said, "I miss you, Mom" and raised up her arm and made the "Come here" motion. It sent a shiver down my spine. Because often times the waiting is uncomfortable, the natural instinct is to try to help "troubleshoot" the "problem" so that the waiting can be over more quickly… maybe she is waiting for us to give her 'permission' …maybe she is waiting for reassurance that everything is going to be okay - we have done these things and continue to do them. Maybe she is waiting to talk to or see someone one last time…maybe she is waiting for the right person to come for her? These questions could be endless, but I am finding comfort in the thought that maybe she is just enjoying the process and the journey, taking the time to take in all of the scenery along the way and doing it "right" as she has always done, making the most of her resources and allowing them time in heaven to prepare the greatest feast and party she has ever known. I'm sure she won't be late!

When I am talking to groups about the hospice experience I share that although it is true as they say in educational circles that it "takes a village to raise a child," I believe it is also true that it takes a "village" to help an individual and their loved ones through a terminal illness. Thank you for being a part of our village!

I hope while you wait with us, you find a way to share your own special "apples" with those with whom you come in contact!

O Lord, you have searched me and known me.
You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
you discern my thoughts from far away.
You search out my path and my lying down,
and are acquainted with all my ways.
Even before a word is on my tongue,
O Lord, you know it completely.
You hem me in, behind and before,
and lay your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
it is so high that I cannot attain it.

Where can I go from your spirit?
Or where can I flee from your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, you are there;
if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.
If I take the wings of the morning
and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,
even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me fast.
If I say, 'Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light around me become night',
even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is as bright as the day,
for darkness is as light to you.

For it was you who formed my inward parts;
you knit me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.
My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was being made in secret,
intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes beheld my unformed substance.

In your book were written
all the days that were formed for me,
when none of them as yet existed.

Psalm 139:1 - 16

Extra Ordinary Trust

You know that if you get in the water and have nothing to hold on to,
but try to behave as you would on dry land,
you will drown.
But if, on the other hand,
you trust yourself to the water and let go,
you will float.
And this is exactly the situation of faith.
- Alan W. Watts

I love to swim and consider myself to be a pretty good swimmer in pools. In fact when I was younger I would go swimming at every opportunity and loved spending hours upon hours in the pool until my finger tips would get all shrivelled. During the summers of my childhood I remember riding my bike several miles each morning to the local pool to swim until my heart was content and in my early teens I was even a competitive synchronized swimmer for a short time. Sometimes when I am alone or mostly alone in a pool, I love to just lie on my back and float on the top of the water. It is so relaxing and peaceful. However, I live near the Atlantic Ocean and although I love to walk on the beach and appreciate its massiveness and beauty and welcome any chance to go out on it in a boat, I rarely ever actually go swimming in it because it makes me uncomfortable to be out there in this massive body of water which has so many variables that I cannot control - the waves, the current, holes or drop offs in the ocean floor, fish, sharks, jellyfish, seaweed, pollution, broken pieces of whatever on the bottom, etc. -- not to mention the fact that I am legally blind without my glasses, so that adds to my feelings of unease in this uncontrolled environment.

You cannot prevent the birds of sorrow from flying over your head, but you can prevent them from building nests in your hair. - Ancient Chinese Proverb

For the past few months, I have been living this paradox. I was happily sailing upon the ocean of my life in my nicely accommodative vessel when it capsized and forced me to find a way to survive swimming in the middle of the ocean. The ocean is dark and deep. It is not a nice, clean and pretty pool. I cannot see my legs and feet dangling beneath me. I fear the waves overtaking me, fighting against the current, the sharks, in essence all of the unknowns that make me feel helpless in controlling my own destiny and each time the seaweed gets tangled on my legs it really freaks me out until I once again remember it is only seaweed and cannot harm me. At first I began to flail my arms and legs in desperation but there was no shoreline in sight, no edge of the pool to grab onto. I could swim, but to where?? I would tire quickly treading water and surely be overcome. I have had no choice but to learn to trust the water, let go of any illusions of control and simply float. I hope that the Coast Guard comes along soon to make a heroic rescue, but in the meantime I have finally remembered my survival skills.

You cannot control what happens to you, but you can control your attitude toward what happens to you, and in that, you will be mastering change rather than allowing it to master you. - Brian Tracy

I have been without words or even time for words for most of the past eight weeks. The "big picture" has finally been revealed (for those of you who have been wondering about the follow-up news to my last post) and it's not exactly pretty at first glance. I would have to equate it with more of a Jackson Pollock, abstract expressionist, type of piece. If you are used to your art being more realistic or even impressionistic, your first view of Pollock's work may leave you shaking your head in disbelief at what seems to be simply scribbles and spatters of paint without a real purpose or even a cohesive subject that abandons the traditional ideas of composition. However, if one really, truly spends time with it, just allowing one's self to be immersed in the painting, I believe there are things to appreciate and learn from what is before you.When the medical specialists had decided they were finally finished with all of their poking, prodding and probing and the whole battery of diagnostics, we braced ourselves for "the reveal." Unlike a Ty Pennington Extreme Makeover: Home Edition reveal, we knew this would not be something to which we would be really looking forward, but nonetheless could not keep at bay any longer. The ultimate diagnosis for my mom is stage IV uterine cancer that had spread to her cervix, vagina, abdominal lymph nodes and lungs. I was there when the doctor, in his best doctor voice, said some very grave words:

Leoma, I am going to be completely honest with you. The chances of curing your cancer are at best 5%. Right now you will not survive a surgery to remove the cancer because it is too wide spread and you would have to be under the anesthesia too long and would lose too much blood. Radiation will not help you because radiation is a site specific treatment and while we are treating the cancer in one location, it will only spread more aggressively in the others. I am going to try a very strong chemotherapy, but there are no guarantees that it will work. Without treatment you have at best two months to live. With treatment, if it works, you could have nine months. . . to two, three, maybe, if you are lucky, even four years. But then again, I am not God, I am only a doctor. I am treating patients today who were supposed to die from their cancer twenty-five years ago. We will try the chemotherapy and see what happens. If it works and does not seriously decrease your quality of life with the side effects, we will try some more, but if it does not work, I will not put you through further treatments and then we will talk about palliative care.

So far, it is working.

I had spent the majority of the month of March in Florida caring for my mom. I initially went down from the 6th to the 11th and then I was to pass the torch on to one of my sisters, Patti, who was to take her turn from the 12th to the 26th and then my other sister, Kathy, and her oldest daughter, Lindsey, were to come for two weeks in April, and I was going to try to come back to fill the in the gap in between since I am the closest at just over 500 miles away and also have the most flexible work schedule. However, while my sister was there, just days after my return home from my first trip, Mom collapsed, became non-responsive, and was hospitalized. The doctors in the hospital told us that she may not survive, so on Sunday, March 16, we all gathered from near and far in the wee small hours of the morning to rally and support our Mom, thinking we would be saying our good-byes. It turned out that she was very low on all of her essential nutrients because up to this point she had been eating little or nothing for weeks and she had almost two quarts of fluid built up on her lungs that needed to be drained. Then both of my sisters and I and my one sister's oldest daughter stayed for the next 10 days or so to nurse her through that physically, spiritually and emotionally critical time as she began her chemotherapy. Kathy then got special permission through the family medical leave policy at her work to stay straight through the end of April so that the rest of us could feel more at ease returning to our own work and homes.

The closest to being in control we will ever be is in that moment that we realize we're not. - Brian Kessler

Working for a hospice and offering care and service to other families and teaching others to do likewise is a completely different ballgame than having a member (or two) of one's own family looking straight into the eyes of terminal illness. When I have been in Florida with my mom, I have felt guilty about what I wasn't doing at home, being with my husband and fulfilling the obligations of my work and vice versa -- when I have been at home and work tending to my obligations here, I have felt guilty about not spending time with my mom. The events of the past several months have been the greatest refresher course on "living in the moment." I want to be able to control all of the variables, but I know I cannot really control any of them. Nothing I do or don't do can change the course of the disease. There is a growing desire to make every moment meaningful, important, significant, worthy of creating lasting "Hallmark moment" type of memories. The reality is the days and conversations are filled with everyday, commonplace, mundane, unexceptional, ordinary things. I have often said in the past several months that if I knew that taking the job working with a hospice was really going to be training for my personal life, I am not so sure I would have signed on for the gig.

During the fourth watch of the night Jesus went out to them, walking on the lake. When the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified. "It's a ghost," they said, and cried out in fear.

But Jesus immediately said to them: "Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid."

"Lord, if it's you," Peter replied, "tell me to come to you on the water."

"Come," he said.

Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, "Lord, save me!"

Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. "You of little faith," he said, "Why did you doubt?"

And when they climbed into the boat, the wind died down. - Matthew 14:25-32

Control is never achieved when sought after directly. It is the surprising outcome of letting go. - James Arthur Ray

I have been learning to swim in the ocean of a loved one's terminal illness, coming to terms with the sharks of tumors and losses sharing the same water and riding the waves of treatments and tests followed by more treatments and more tests. As I have learned to be comfortable just floating, amazing things have happened. I still cannot see the shore, but the sunrises and sunsets are beautiful from here. My mom is almost finished with the second three week cycle of chemotherapy, tomorrow we will learn if this too has done what the doctor had hoped that it would do as did the first. She has lost all of her hair, but the other side effects that she has experienced up to this point have been minimal and only mild to moderate in intensity. We hold our breath for the results of each report, but so far, things are going well. All of my remaining family or origin, my Mom and siblings, were together for Palm Sunday. . . had it not been for this ugly threat of death, when would we have all taken the time to gather again? I am building extraordinary trust that it will all turn out for good, regardless.

He who has faith has an inward reservoir of courage, hope, confidence, calmness and assuring trust that all will come out well, even though to the world it may appear to come out most badly. - Bertie Charles Forbes

Now I know that the LORD saves his anointed; he answers him from his holy heaven
with the saving power of his right hand. Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God. - Psalm 20:6-7

Extra Ordinary Hope

Hope is like a road in the country;
there was never a road,
but when many people walk on it,
the road comes into existence.
~Lin Yutang

In January, I got some extra ordinary news. It is ordinary news that thousands of people around the world get every day, but yet each time it is your turn, it is still ordinary news that changes your life. Having just finished reading Joan Didion's, "The Year of Magical Thinking," a memoir about the course of her life in the year following her husband's death, I have to borrow her words now . . .

Life changes fast.

Life changes in the instant.

[The ordinary instant.]

You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.
The question of self-pity.

These were the first words she wrote after her husband's death, a day or two after the fact. For a long time after that though, she wrote nothing else. In Joan's case she was referring to her husband, John Dunne, dying instantly of a massive heart attack as they sat down for dinner on December 30, 2003. In my case I am referring to "the phone call." Sometimes it is so easy to relate to the desire to engage in magical thinking.

The day before my thirty-sixth birthday, January 21st, I got "the call. " It became, however, simply the first call in a series of many. It was from my sister, Patti. It started out rather normal enough in a brief exchange of pleasantries to assess how one another were doing. She lives in Ohio, but we are fairly close and talk pretty regularly. There was something a little different in her voice this time though that I could not exactly put my finger on. Then, she saved me the detective work and got right to the point. "Mom is in the hospital," she said, "the emergency room."

Nobody likes to be the bringer of bad news - Sophocles

Though it be honest, it is never good to bring bad news. - Shakespeare

My mom has never been a patient in the hospital in all of her nearly seventy-eight years other than the few days following the birth of each of her six children. She rarely even goes to the doctor's office at all except for an annual check-up to renew the prescription for her blood pressure medication and she would not even be doing that had it not been for my sister's persistent prodding several years ago that it would be prudent to go in for a physical. She was especially happy when for a few years her doctor's office employed a nurse practitioner and she could get her prescription renewed then without actually having to see "the doctor"at all. Being a paragon of health has long been a source of pride for my mother. Throughout my lifetime she has joked, "Every time I went to see the doctor, I came home with a baby...my family is complete, so I don't need to go anymore." You see, in Mom's world there has been no affliction that could not be healed by an aspirin, Sayman Salve or some combination of the two, along with maybe a little chicken soup at times. Her favorite moniker to use when referring to herself is proclaiming, "I'm a 'Tough Old Bird,' " implying I guess that [from her perspective] people who get sick are somehow not as stalwart as herself. She has been for her family the model matriarch - always the caregiver, never the care recipient. We, her children and family, have, I think, bought into this on some level, taking for granted that she is always healthy, will always be our "Mom" and will always be there to support the rest of us in whatever capacity we need at the time. Although this type of thinking has served us well for so long, it perhaps has become our collective Achilles' heal.

A healthy body is a guest chamber for the soul

a sick body is a prison - Sir Francis Bacon

We, as a family, must now face the consequences of that pride. It turns out that Mom has been bleeding for sometime, months in fact, but she will not confess exactly how long. I can only imagine the thought processes of a "Tough Old Bird" who lives alone and whose self-image is so dependent on being that paragon of health and strength for everyone else: "This is. . .just a thing," she must have thought. "It will go away." "It can't be anything serious, not for me anyway." "I don't get sick, that happens to other people . . . this too shall pass." My mom, a child of the Great Depression beginning her adult life in the idealistic early 1950's, has been a woman of strong faith who simply accepts everything as it comes and does not [openly, anyway] question anything. Suffering in silence is somehow something to be admired in her world, character producing.

It's no use reminding yourself daily that you are mortal: it will be brought home to you soon enough. - Albert Camus

The evening of "the call" she had not been able to eat for several days prior and had been cramping a lot and lost a great deal of blood and was beginning to be very lightheaded, nauseous. She reached a point where fear of her own mortality was setting in for the first time in her life and now she was ready and willing to seek help but her doctor's office, the place she loved to avoid, had closed for the day.

A hospital is no place to be sick - Samuel Goldwyn

So, she found her self in an emergency room when she should have been in her doctor's office, months ago. Waiting through all the protocol of emergency rooms, waiting hours for her turn, the fear did not necessarily decrease. Although part of her, for sanity's sake, was still holding on to the credo, "Nothing is wrong with me," the other part, however, knew that not to be true. Being there, admitting to the problem, giving it attention somehow gave it life and made it real. The magical thinking in prior avoidance of dealing with the problem had kept it imaginary and aloof. The tests they did at the hospital that night revealed what the ER doctor thought to be endometrial cancer, but he would not provide her with a confirmation and had her promise to follow-up with a gynecologist as soon as an appointment could be obtained.

How much of human life is lost in waiting - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Six weeks have passed since that night. There have been many doctor's appointments in the intervening time. First with the regular gynecologist who did some more basic tests and announced that he believed she did indeed have endometrial cancer and that a standard hysterectomy operation would be all she needed to remove the offending cells, leaving her afterwards, "as good as new." "However," he said, "I am not an oncologist. You will need to see the gynecologic oncologist before any course of action can be finalized." So off to the gynecologic oncologist she went, feeling rather confident with this new information that indeed her troubles would soon be over. We too, though a little sceptical from taking illnesses more seriously than Mom, felt a collective sigh of relief that such a simple solution would soon bring every thing back into the status quo.

Patience is waiting. Not passively waiting, that is laziness. But to keep going when the going is hard and slow - that is patience. - Unknown

The gynecologic oncologist, however, is much more thorough and comprehensive in his assessments before randomly or prematurely deciding on a course of action that would be perhaps incomplete. Mom, the novice patient, has now been subjected to a whole battery of tests. She has seen not only the gynecologic oncologist, but also a radiologist and has endured needle biopsies, ultrasounds, PET scans, MRIs . . . the full monty of cancer diagnostics. Every time we think they have settled on a diagnosis and accompanying treatment plan a new test reveals even more telling information that seemingly results in yet another test. The standard hysterectomy surgery, it turns out, is too risky to attempt in her situation. It has spread beyond the uterus and there is also cancer present in the cervix. The lymph nodes in her abdomen are enlarged and she is having fluid build up in her lungs. We do not yet know the full extent of all of these tests and still must wait longer for the "big picture" to be revealed. So now we pray. We wonder. We contemplate. We hope.

For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for that he already has? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently. - Romans 8:24-25

We judge of man's wisdom by his hope. -- Ralph Waldo Emerson

I have to keep reminding myself that "false hope" is a contradiction in terms. Unlike Mom, I question most everything. I have a somewhat scientific, mathematical and rational mind. I believe that knowledge is power and avidly research to gain that necessary, powerful knowledge in any given situation. Stages, Statistics, Prognoses - these can all be scary things. Together we face Mom's mortality as well as our own. Hope, though, is about belief and faith, intangible things that cannot be plotted on graphs and represented in charts. Hope comes when we don't have the promises of science to hold onto. "False hope" would seem to describe a situation in which the desired outcome is improbable and unlikely, but isn't all hope based on that belief that good will endure?

Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark. – George Iles

Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us. - Romans 5:1-5

I know that my mom will not live forever, but I am not ready for this to be the beginning of the end of our time together. So, I have hope that the self-proclaimed "Tough Old Bird" will live up to her name. She has been ageless to us all for so long. Mom and I have not always seen things eye to eye. Sometimes our words, thoughts, and actions have left us each dumbfounded and grappling to make sense of what we cannot understand about one another. In recent years though I think we have both come to a new level of respect, acceptance and even admiration for one another and the lives we have chosen to live. So much of who I am, my values, the things that I hold dear, my personality traits, are linked in some part to being my mother's daughter. There are even marked similarities of character that have simply chosen to manifest themselves in different ways in the forty-one and a half year generational gap that separates us. I dearly love my mom and she loves me. We both know that to be true. I have extra ordinary hope that I will have years yet to enjoy more quality time with my mom as in her heart and in our minds she is still young. I have so much remaining to learn.

Hope is the word which God has written on the brow of every man. ~Victor Hugo

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace
as you trust in him,
so that you may overflow with hope
by the power of the Holy Spirit.
-- Romans 15:13

Extra Ordinary Roots

The hero draws inspiration from the virtue of his ancestors.

- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

In one sense we are all the heroes of our own stories. In crafting my life story, I do draw inspiration from the virtue of my ancestors. Sunday, July 15th was the annual (as of now though, I am told it will be biennial - a little disheartening since it has been three years since I was last able to attend, and now next year will provide no opportunity) family reunion of my paternal extended family, the family of my maiden name - Knitt - yes, it is Germanic (Prussian actually) and you do pronounce the "K" so in rough phonetics it is "Kuh´- nit, " not knit (as in lower case "k" and only one "t"- like what one does with two needles and a ball of yarn). That is one commonality we have all shared through the years - educating the world on the proper pronunciation of our name. Along with one of my cousins I have helped to compile quite a lengthy genealogical history of our family. My cousin, a freelance historian and genealogist, has done the majority of the research however and I, mostly the compiling, especially before he had a computer at his home, but nonetheless it has been a shared passion. To date we have records dating back to the late 1600's.

Johann Friedrich Knitt, who at some point Americanized his name to "John," was born November 29, 1839 in a rural farm area called Schwetzen outside of Glowitz, Stolp, Pommerania, Prussia, which now lies within the present day political boundaries of Poland. On June 12, 1869 just shy of his thirtieth birthday, he set sail for America on the immigration ship The St. Bernard from Bremen, Germany to the port of New York. Upon arrival he traveled further to make his way to the state of Wisconsin where worked for several years as a stonemason in Eureka and Berlin, Wisconsin until August 1875 when he purchased what would become our family's homestead farm in Larrabee Township. Johann married Henrietta Brandt in February of 1874 and they had five children - three girls and two boys. He was worried that the "Knitt" family name would die out in America, however, one of his boys, my great-grandfather, Henry, had ten children (eight boys, two girls) and his brother, Otto, had three, two of which were sons.

Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city. - George Burns

I do not believe that when Johann set sail from Germany in June of 1869 he could have possibly imagined that 138 years later the Knitt family would be flourishing in the United States as it is today. Nor that he would have the road on which he established his homestead farm named in his honor, "Knitt Road." Now the households of his descendants number in the hundreds. We are a large and varied family that has spread far and wide, but still we are all united by the same origins, the same roots. As teachers, artists, homemakers, doctors and health care workers, engineers, military personnel, scientists, clergy, missionaries, writers, film makers, bankers, lawyers, athletes, entrepreneurs, researchers, race car drivers, fire, police, and EMT personnel, and yes, still farmers too, as well as many, many, other occupations and great friends, neighbors, citizens, and families. Knitts are definitely making their mark on history. Knowing where you came from is an important part of knowing where you’re going to. I love the diversity and stability of such a large extended family and the identity it provides. Being a part of this family is one of the first places where I learned to accept and love others for who they are, encourage their strengths and overlook their weaknesses.

Families are held together by choice. Members are alike and unalike, yet there is comfort in the sameness and excitement in the differences. When we respect and relish both conditions, we can truly call ourselves family. - Maya Angelou

In his book, Self Matters, Phillip McGraw states that everyone can trace who they've become in life (their "life story" so to speak) back to ten defining moments, seven critical choices, and five pivotal people. I first read this book just over five years ago as I was about to turn thirty and first felt the need to rediscover myself. At that point I didn't take the time to do all of the exercises set forth in the book, but they have been one of those things bouncing around in the back of my mind that I think about and ponder from time to time. This is an intriguing exercise from which I think everyone would benefit. I'm still working on unearthing my 10-7-5. The first defining moment in my life that has shaped me into the person I've become, however, was the death of my father, while I was just six years old. This may sound odd, but I view that experience as a blessing because of the resulting gifts that it brought to my life. So, what about those gifts?

For me, the death of my father brought me into a very deep and personal relationship with God, our heavenly Father, at a very young age. Never once did I think, "Who is this terrible, monstrous, heartless God who would take away my dad?" In fact, for me it had the exact opposite effect. It caused me to be drawn to God and I wanted to know everything about Him and His Church. I was fascinated with the concept of heaven because that's where my dad was. Because I was so young, I didn't question the concept of heaven and an afterlife, I embraced it. Even as a college student one of my first priorities in living away from home was to find a church home. I will confess though that at a couple of brief points in my adult life when I have been involved in negative communities that overwhelmed me, I have somewhat neglected my relationship with God and did not do my part in nurturing it as I should have, like a long time, close friend that moves away and becomes involved in their new life in their new city and gradually loses contact with you. In this case, I was the one who moved away, not God. All in all though, my relationship with God that was solidified at such a young age, I can identify as one of the underlying constants and defining factors of my life - he is always with me.

Another gift that I believe was a direct result of my father's death is that I am very in-tune with reading people's underlying emotions and motives and seeing their hurts and pain. I have a great capacity for empathy and accepting people for who they are and meeting them where they are. I forever find myself in the position of being an advocate of those who others are quick to label negatively. I have the ability to see God in most others. I seek out the good where others see bad. I usually recognize the hands and feet and face of Christ in others. I think that this stems from being a six year old and witnessing the extended illness of my father with cancer prior to his death, during, and afterwards as well as the reactions of our immediate and extended family and circle of friends - being a watcher and a listener in an attempt to make sense of the world around me. The children of our family were involved in the whole process, but at the same time when you are six in an adult world, when serious things are taking place, people take for granted that you are involved in your own little world of imagination and play things and are easily diverted, but in reality, when you are six the world is your classroom and you are a sponge soaking in everything going around you.

From now on, therefore, we regard no one from a human point of view; even though we once knew Christ from a human point of view, we no longer know him in that way. So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new! - 2 Corinthians 5:16-17

The third main gift that I attribute to experiencing my father's death and my resulting life afterwards is that I internalized at a young age that everything in this world is fleeting and life is short. It has greatly affected my value system. I value people and ideals and intangible things like making memories and traditions. I have little use for the material or superficial. What matters is how you treat people. When I listened to Mark Lawrence, the once (and soon-to-be future) Bishop elect for the South Carolina Diocese of the The Episcopal Church, speak this past May while addressing a women's group, I thought he expressed this concept in an analogy that was the best I have heard. It has so stuck with me since then and it comes to mind often. He compared our life experiences to playing a game of Monopoly. He explained to us that he was a very aggressive, take-no-prisoners, passionate Monopoly player and he had tried to pass his love of this board game on to his own children as they were growing up. However, as he would inevitably put all the other players in a position that made a comeback on their part and an attempt at winning seem hopeless, they would one by one give up and walk away from the game and he would be left alone to "put it all back in the box." He may have "won" proving his superior Monopoly playing strategies and skills, but when it's all back in the box and the kids left one-by-one disenchanted, what had he "won" really? He wanted to communicate to us that at the end of this life all the "stuff" which seems so important and consuming, all goes back "into the box." The only thing we take with us in to the next world is our love for others and the way we treated the people with whom we came in contact.

All this is NOT to say that I am any sort of saint. I am not. I sin. I hurt people. I do things wrong. I get angry. I lose my temper. I make mistakes, lots of mistakes - just ask my husband or my mother or... hmm... just about anybody with whom I am close...or better yet, ask me, I'm well aware of all my faults and shortcomings. These three things, though, are a part of my roots. They are my equilibrium, the foundation upon which the other aspects of my personality and character are built. When I waiver and stray from these "building blocks of me", as I inevitably do, these are what draw me back in to what and where I should be. They are the gifts God gave me through my father. When I am functioning at my best, these basics about my person are evident to all with whom I come into contact. When I am functioning at my worst, they are the ideals upon which I can focus and to which I strive to return. They give me strength to work through the adversities which cross my path.

My dad, Donald Henry Knitt, Sr., is part of my extraordinary roots. Because I was six, for me my dad never left the superhero phase. I knew deep in my heart that he loved me unconditionally. I had no vision of his faults or shortcomings as perhaps some of my older siblings may. He read to me, every day. He danced with me in our living room. He played games with me. He let me be his helper. I remember having snacks with him after he would cut the lawn. To this day, I love cutting the lawn and the smell of fresh cut grass. It is a simple pleasure for me.

"Honor your father and mother" -- this is the first commandment with a promise: "so that it may be well with you and you may live long on the Earth." - Ephesians 6:2-3

I attempt to honor my father by the way in which I live my life. I try to regularly stop and take a litmus test, re-evaluate and re-group. I want to live in manner in which he would have been proud. Part of honoring my father, is also honoring my father's family. I am proud to be a Knitt. Most of my online user names and emails incorporate all of my initials "BRKM." The "K" is an important part of the whole, which composes my self-image and identity. Some of being a Knitt for me means being a person of integrity, ingenuity and fortitude, honest, passionate, genuine, intelligent, spiritual, generous, resilient, independent, stalwart, pragmatic, practical, determined, staying true to one's beliefs, creative, visionary. These are obviously ideals which are exhibited by different extended family members at different times, and I call upon the strengths of my roots in different situations in which they are appropriate. Having an identity and a connection to my roots though enables me to persevere and borrow strength where I otherwise might not be able to do so alone.

Your Name

You got it from your father
It was all he had to give
And right gladly he bestowed it
Its yours as long as you may live.
You may lose the watch he gave you
And another you may claim
But whenever you are tempted
Be careful of his name.
It was fair the day you got it
And a worthy name to bear
When he got it from his father
There was no dishonor there.
Through the years he proudly wore it
To his father he was true
And that name was clean and spotless
When he passed it on to you.
- Annonymous

One of my dear friends is a deep thinker. This past winter as we were conversing one day, he shared with me an impromptu "homily" of sorts reflecting on the "living stones" of 1 Peter 2. He related to me his own addendum to the chapter with the Love of God being the mortar which holds all of us rough hewn living stones together into to the body of Christ. I cannot do his homily justice here because he has a beautiful gift for language and words that I do not. I wish I had recorded the moment in time in which he was telling it to me. I do know that I will never look at the gorgeous stone silos built by the hands of my immigrant, stone mason turned farmer, great-great-grandfather in the same way. Now in the stones I see the members of my extended family with all of their unique, individual rough edges and cracks and blemishes that make them beautiful individuals, and the mortar the Love of God that holds us together as a family and a"body." Knowing that you have a place to belong, where you are loved, and accepted in an entity that is bigger than yourself, that you can return to at will but are not tethered, gives you strength to blossom and grow as an individual.