A Rough Start to 2025

Hope your year started out better than ours!

Jan 10, 2025

I was convinced I would have a resolution to the story I share below by today. No such luck. Instead, I offer my week of reflections, and hopefully Pulpit & Pew: Trauma-Responsive Conversations will begin next week—it will be worth the wait. I need to be less distracted and enjoy the writing.

The first full week after the holidays is normally very grounding. Ahhh, it is a Monday and that will be followed by a Tuesday, and so forth. This week has not afforded me that kind of normalcy. Instead, an ER trip for Scott on Saturday evening morphed into Sunday, which began a second day in the hospital on a Monday that felt like Tuesday. It continued to be a long series of confusing days. As of this writing, we have no answers to the extreme nausea and pain, but hopefully, that will happen in one of the upcoming days I will be unable to identify them in a logical sequence. This is my journal. Maybe it is a distraction but hopefully, I will post it on the empty Friday slot with some resolution to the illness.

Writing When Life Turns Upside Down

About fifteen years ago Scott and I—plus our daughter and two children—moved into a large house that could accommodate my 97-year-old father coming to live with us. He arrived with a pulmonary embolism from the plane flight and before we knew this, I fell down a set of steps and ended up in the ER—fortunately nothing was broken. The doctor said, “You are going to be OK, but this is really going to hurt for a few days.” I had barely gotten home (and promptly thrown up the pain meds) when my dad said, “I need to go to the ER.” The same emergency room doctor greeted them, looked at Scott, and said, “You are having quite the day aren’t you?”

My dad was in the hospital for a week. I was taken to his room in a wheelchair and limped around to care for him the best I could. The nurses looked at the two of us and said, “We will bring you ice for your knee.”

I was working on a certification and had a very productive study week. Sitting beside hospital beds deserves a book of its own (there probably is one). You have nothing but time but being able to use it productively is a crap shoot. We shall see how regular content will be over the next few weeks. It could be as consistent as always; it could be filled with gaps. It will be what it is and I am grateful for the support of a continually increasing number of readers and paid subscribers.

Signs of Progress

Midway through the whatever day it was, I saw signs of Scott’s health returning. People are so unique in how they return to the land of the living. It might be showing an interest in scrolling on a phone, remembering an appointment that must be canceled, eating bites of food, or straightening the bedside table. These were my husband’s—they didn’t last long, but it was hopeful.

I generally begin typing on my laptop. That is no surprise to anyone.

I sat and watched the flurry of activity that resulted from him momentarily feeling better and considered the human capacity for healing and desire to live. When that breaks down it is an indication of total overwhelm and loss of hope. I have been there several times in my life. I have also always found a glimmer of something that made me want to live, almost too late three times. I sit in this room, not because I am particularly helpful, but as a reminder that there is a reason to live. Not just me of course, but it has often been me for over 45 years.

As for myself—someone who needed a catastrophic thinking support group most of my life—I need to keep making plans for the future. When Scott has a good moment, I talk about them. Not sure how helpful that is for him, but it is for me. Hope is everything.

So, we plod ahead to day three. I think that is the right day. I created an extra day out of that first very long day and my daughter helped me name it Deliriday: A day that is created when a day is so long it splits into two parts as a result of being completely delirious.

My Thoughts on Miracles

We may never completely understand what happened. Test after test returns without any indicators. But the nausea was real. The blood pressure spike to almost 200 was real. The 2.5 liters of fluid drained from the abdomen was real. The pain was real. The low white blood cell count was real. What was elusive was a conclusion.

I started thinking about miracles this morning. There are two major ways I need a miracle in my life right now, but I am increasingly skeptical of much that we call a miracle. My daughter drove me to the hospital and we discussed the miracles we needed. I said, “True legit miracles that defy all explanation are exceedingly rare.” She agreed. We also agreed that when my granddaughter survived a hematoma larger than she was at the time while she was in the womb was a miracle. The hematoma vanished. She is now fifteen. There is far more to the story but she is our miracle.

There are lots of miracles that occur when we have a need and a human or a resource shows up. Does God prompt someone to help us or bring a resource? I think so. I think we get prompts all day long to do simple things for others. I don’t think we are always listening. I got so much better at listening during my healing journey. I call these the miracles of community. It is how we care for one another. I have had several of these this week.

Today I want a miracle. I am also fully aware that miracles happen or they do not. There isn’t a prayer quota for them. I mean, we can hope as we pray, but I have seen thousands pray for the miracle that did not happen and a time when no one prayed and a clear miracle happened anyway. There is so much about miracles and what has to be in place for them to happen that we do not understand. But I could use one—so could millions of other people—especially in my beloved Los Angeles today.

The small things matter. I needed to talk to the doctors and they appeared instantly. I was surprised. I will count it as a glimmer miracle. They are trying a more intense regimen until tomorrow and we shall see what a new day holds. Today I am going home to rest. I am no good to anyone at this level of tiredness. A sure sign of being too tired is that I cry and Scott doesn’t need that. I have decided that I am going to invent crying pods to place in hospitals. You know, like the pods for lactating mothers? They will be soundproof with lots of tissues.

The Healing Practice of Solitude

There was more progress today. The plan the doctors implemented seems to be helping—but it isn’t a medication regimen that can happen at home. That means we are still here. Being with a loved one in the hospital is a lonely journey. Not that I do not have people who care and are helping me, but they can’t solve the problem.

I am OK with being alone—it isn’t that kind of lonely journey. At one time in my life that would not have been true so I am glad that healing has helped in that regard. I am also so much better with catastrophic thinking and do not need others to talk me down from that ledge very often. Still, it feels lonely. I wonder why.

I have reflected on this lonely feeling and think it is the result of no one being able to walk in our shoes. They can try but it really isn’t possible. I am not sure that is a bad thing. It is a kind of solitude. In Trauma in the Pews 2.0: Healing as a Spiritual Practice, solitude was defined as:

“The Spiritual Practice of Solitude asks you to purposely choose or embrace being alone—as a time to draw closer to God. It is best found in silence—when the noisiness of your life is set aside—even if only for a short time.”

Ahhhhh, this is solitude that I am experiencing! This aloneness is a spiritual practice and if embraced it can be healing. I don’t think I ever have been peaceful enough in crisis situations to experience this. I believe God knew I would figure this out and might need a view of the sunset to understand it. I am grateful.

The Most Difficult Question: “How Can We Help You?”

I have had this question asked of me many times this week. People really do want to help. I am most often at a loss as to how to answer it. Difficult even when those people are present with boots-on-the-ground capability and even harder from a distance. It takes so much brain power to try to think of something. (Unfortunately, just writing that feels ungrateful—it isn’t.)

I am grateful for my wonderful neighbors and daughter who have given me rides to the hospital and back so I do not have to navigate through debilitating driving anxiety which is connected to trauma and feels like my final frontier of healing. It is difficult to overcome at 71 and frustrating when up to five years ago I could navigate LA freeways. Sometimes healing makes some things more difficult. It is still definitely worth it. (I should write about that oddity of healing.)

So, how would I answer the question—maybe in general for all who end up in this situation. Maybe instead of asking, “What can I do to help?” which is almost impossible to answer, we could ask, “What is the most difficult part of what you are going through right now?” I would answer, “Having to ask for rides and tossing the needless shame in the trashcan knowing I have been a very capable diver my entire life.” There are many ways to be brave.

Everyone’s answer would be different. Maybe a run to the store. Maybe laundry. It could be having a meal delivered. Maybe to sit and have lunch at the hospital with someone. Those are not on my list right now but the question does stump me. Taking care of the chickens and helping me with Weber were taken care of without being asked this question. I was asked, “Have you eaten dinner?” Other than that, “What is difficult right now?” is a great question. I can answer that one.