Broken promises, answered prayers

Day 10 of my mother's stay in the Cleveland Clinic ICU and she's progressing S - L - O - W - L - Y.  She underwent a whopper of a heart surgery: two valves replaced, a bypass and calcium scraped off her heart.

This is my second trip here. I journeyed for the surgery and the few days after, headed home for my daughter's 16th birthday, then back with my family in tow. It seemed to do my mother good to see her youngest granddaughters.

Every day, we're hopeful the ventilator tube is removed and, every day, they say tomorrow. Today, I really think they meant it. She's been breathing on her own for five hours. It's labored and I know she's frustrated that the tube is still shoved down her throat. Apparently she tried to get it out as they changed her sheets and gown. That's why her hands are restrained. I hate that. No more than she, I expect. For her own good, they say, but it still sounds hollow and patronizing. I can't imagine these hospital professionals feeling any differently as the tied-down patient. Don't get me wrong, the care here is excellent and so patient- and family-focused. But what seems like common procedure to one, looks demeaning to another.

As she lays here, I keep reminding her of what she knew would be her greatest challenge: surrendering to the healing and recovery. I had't expected it to happen so soon after surgery. I was thinking more like down the line.

Yesterday her feistiness was her own worst enemy as she struggled to mime words with the plastic pipe strapped to her chin and plunged beyond her larynx. I just Googled an image and it made me gag.
...

The tube did not come out although one of the numerous white-coated docs said it was time to quit foolin' around and get it out. Conditions would never be perfect. Some effort was made, apparently, even though my mother is certain they did not attempt to actually [re]move the tube. Disappointing.

One of the many ups and downs we've come to expect and that I am learning to not let set off alarms every time it doesn't happen. Such a lesson in patience and prayer. They promise that if bloodwork looks good they will make another attempt and send us out of ICU. I trek down to the cafeteria once again praying aloud as I wash my hands and continuing silently all through my meal.

My dad goes next and then we decide to call back – enough time has passed – for another disappointment. Instead, we are buoyed with the news that the tube is out. Wow, I think crumpling. It has finally happened.

Each day has become an adventure, some more so than others, but always a slight step ahead. Once off the ventilator, my mother talks incessantly and we feel our visits are too stimulating. Next morning, she's chewing ice chips and getting every doctor to disobey her nurse and feed her. She even convinced the x-ray tech and then Becky, her guardian caretaker, placed a "no ice chips" sign. Then the delusions appear and she's clearly worried about things possibly imagined. To her, they are real. No one happened to mention the reality of cognitive dysfunction following major surgery, particularly long heart procedures.

Finally my dad asks the question on all of our lips; "did the valve replacement work?" Possibly comes the answer. "We'll know Monday after the heart echo."

One day at a time; this truly forces one to live in the present. I am grateful for the baby steps.

• What experiences have taught me patience?
• How aware of that lesson was I at the time?
• How has that affected my current ability to be patient?
• When I am, how am I rewarded?
• What's the relationship between patience and gratitude in my life?

knocking off
the days

one flowing
into another

in the florescent-lit
room with constant
activity

daily promises
broken

constant prayers
answered

God IS present

even if we
forget

Listen to this post:

Water as surrender

Listen to post:

My swimmer, based on Picasso's/pastel on paper © 2011 Cathy Barney

Water, for me, really does have living qualities. It has taught me much about spirituality; particularly trust, patience, rhythm and surrender.

TRUST

To some degree, you do have to trust the water to hold you. You must believe that it will support you by giving yourself to it, without losing yourself in it – if that makes any sense. Something new is created between what the water offers and what we must give up. Together, this something between is formed.

PATIENCE

Water is 11 times denser than air, so we learn our bodies move and work differently here. We can feel less in control until we trust and practice this way of being. Parts come naturally, others are learned. Experiencing being in the water over time shapes the unnatural into the familiar and, in my case, beloved.

RHYTHM

Breath may be more important in water because we have to pay attention to it. It allows us to submerge for periods and keeps the fluidity in our movement when we are aware and using it purposefully. This combination of in sync breathing and movements creates a bodily rhythm that can become calming and meditative. I usually have to burn off some frustration and busy-mindedness first. When I find the balance and my rhythm, it is magical as I glide almost effortlessly along. Even the drag becomes part of the patterned movement.

SURRENDER

Describing how to surrender is difficult because it isn’t just giving in or up. This act is more creative than that. Surrender is, really, all of the above: trusting the water to hold you, patience in being in it and finding your rhythm. When you strike that balance, there is a newness in the space. All you and something else, merged as the boundaries between skin and water recede. Today as I was swimming, I noticed it comes as what’s inside myself fuses with what’s outside. And for me, that feels divine and requires me to let go of thinking and control.

The living water is life-giving, supportive, healing, renewing, creative, loving, challenging, strengthening, soothing, calming, discharging, yet also demands respect and gratitude.

This living water has taught me so much about my spirituality. It is a tactile way I experience the divine.

Dive in!

• What is my experience of water?

• How do I surrender?

• What similarities does that share with my experience of the divine?

• Where else do I surrender in my life?

• What new emerges when I do?

as I dance

down the steps,

I find myself

gliding off

under the ropes

gracefully,

headfirst and

without my arms

like a dolphin

dipping under one

lane barrier and

into the next

the invitation

fully accepted,

I dive right in

Patience is part of the process

I've always been a patient person. My mom remembers how I would wait while she fed my twin sister first. I was 27 when I married and 38 when I gave birth. I saved every penny I earned at a part-time job for a year-and-a-half as a down payment on our house. However, my patience is wearing thin right now. How much longer do I have to wait?

TEN YEARS ago, I began a journal, prompted by an art coach. As a former journalist, I'd never considered keeping one. Diaries are a waste of time, I thought. I just wanted the facts, not someone's bothersome musings. One Christmas when I received a chained-and locked diary, I opened to the middle, scrawled the words "I murdered Sid," replaced its golden security system, ditched the key and let it sit, hoping someone would find it years later and want to unravel the mystery.

But in this art workshop, we were strongly nudged to begin writing about our art. Seemed simple enough and, after all, I was a rule follower and wanted to remain in the instructor's good graces. I did what I was told. Slowly it opened a path to my soul because my art expressed the things that really mattered to me. Had I been asked to do that initially, I would have balked. Interestingly, I stumbled upon Quakerism about the same time and learned that Quakers have journaled for most of their 350-plus-year history. I was in good company.

FIVE YEARS ago, I realized I was keeping a journal for words and another of images, describing similar experiences, events and feelings. I recognized they formed a book documenting my spiritual journey and began to assemble it.

FOUR YEARS ago, I developed two websites as a part of a project for School of the Spirit, a two-year Quaker program for spiritual nurture. One [ ww.turtleboxstories.com ] shares others' experiences of the Divine and the other [ www.salonforthesoul.com ] is undeveloped with the goal to create a virtual place to share our hearts.

A YEAR-AND-A-HALF ago, I took up what I had started and left during my earlier child-rearing years, seeing there were two, distinct books documenting each half of my 40s.

A YEAR ago, in a bold, perhaps ridiculous, move I sent it off to Oprah with a beloved turtlebox* in a beautiful purple package ... hoping to attract her attention. I sent a matching postcard every month for six months asking if it had been received.

FOUR MONTHS ago, I initiated this blog as another avenue for sharing my story in the hopes it helps others share theirs.

TWO MONTHS ago, my Quaker meeting publicly supported what I consider my ministry by sending me to a Quaker publishing conference.

LAST WEEK, I sent my first e-mail query to an agent, encouraged by two very successful Quaker writers.

TODAY, I sent six more.

WITHIN FIVE MINUTES, an agent replied, asking for more,

I needed that encouragement. Writing and helping what I write find the right audience can be lonely work, leading to some doubt. However, I realize snagging an agent is another step in the process, well before publishing ever happens. And I am also open to pursuing other routes. It's just that I want it to happen NOW.


* When I originally wrote a paper for School of the Spirit about people's experiences of the Divine, they seemed just too precious to simply print on sheets of paper. I dreamed up the idea of a beautiful art box, which took the shape of a colorful turtle adorned with trinkets. In some cultures, the turtle represents the bridge between heaven (the shell) and earth (the belly), which seemed exactly what they stories told. Since the original, I have made about 35 turtleboxes.


• What happens when I am patient? And when I am not?
• Have I ever been demobilized by it? Or acted rashly?
• For me, where does the balance between waiting and acting lay?
• How does finding that balance affect my doubt or confidence?
• What role does prayer play?



it's been
forming
my whole
life

one experience,
feeling and
event
at a time

slowly,
without
me even
realizing


not even
when I
began to
record
the journey

now that
I feel
led to
expose
it

the
moments
of waiting
drag

BREATHE
deeply
and let
the anxiety
go

patience
is part
of the
process

creating
opportunity
for
even more
transformation