Corporate Christmas Cards Company and Corporate Christmas Cards have always been popular here in Ireland, but the trouble is that generally you have to go to a designer to come up with something different and unique so that your cards stand out from the crowd and then to printers to print the cards and the costs can be substantial and if your one of many that leave this to the last minute .... we'll you might not get any cards at all. We can help on all counts, personalised Christmas Cards ordered online, posted to you the next day and at a really competitive price.

Charity Christmas Cards

Important to many Corporate clients is that fact that the card companies contribute to charity. At www.greetingcardscafe.com are delighted to be associated with the LauraLynn Hospice on many different levels outside of the Greeting Card business and contribution goes to this Charity for every card ordered.

My cat, Moorea, and I have been a pet-provided therapy team for 4 years.   We volunteer with Love on a Leash and The Elizabeth Hospice.

One of our hospice clients had his 93rd birthday today, so I ordered a special cake for the occasion.  The baker went all out on this one!   The cake is bigger and heavier than the real cat!

Avow Hospice is Collier County's community-focused, not-for-profit hospice, serving our friends, families and neighbors for 25 years.

Avow Hospice delivers the promise of hospice by providing all residents of Collier County with comfort, care, pain relief and dignity at the end of life. But our promise to patients, their loved ones and physicians goes beyond healthcare and control of symptoms.

Avow Hospice helps all patients complete their lives and fulfill the promises they have made to themselves and their loved ones. For some, that promise may be to come to peace with dying or to help family members cope with their feelings and fears surrounding death. For others, the promise may simply be to go deep-sea fishing one last time or ride down US 41 in a red convertible!

Posted by Joe Ballarino, Amerivest Realty - Naples Florida

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But, I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.

So I walked to the door and knocked. “Just a minute,” answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase.

The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware. “Would you carry my bag out to the car?” she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness. “It’s nothing,” I told her. “I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated.” “Oh, you’re such a good boy,” she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, “Could you drive through downtown?”

“It’s not the shortest way,” I answered quickly. ”Oh, I don’t mind,” she said. “I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a hospice,” I looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening. “I don’t have any family left,” she continued. “The doctor says I don’t have very long.” I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. ”What route would you like me to take?” I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she’d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing. As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said,” I’m tired. Let’s go now.”

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair. “How much do I owe you?” she asked, reaching into her purse. ”Nothing,” I said. “You have to make a living,” she answered. ”There are other passengers,” I responded. Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly. ”You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,” she said. “Thank you.” I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn’t pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought.
For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away? On a quick review, I don’t think that I have done anything more important in my life. We’re conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware—beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

                                                                             Author unknown

Sometimes, I've been really intense and emotional.  And other times I've been casual and status quo.  There are all these cliches I'm living first hand:  The way this knowledge sneaks up on you.  The way you can be in denial of knowledge that is so basic.  The way you can prepare emotionally, the way you can know it's coming, and yet somehow, it's still such a shock.

I've been reflecting tonight on the lie we tell, the lie that is so easy to believe.

The lie is that there is one kind of death.  That it happens all at once.  That as long as our hearts beat, we are alive, and that once they stop beatiing, we are dead.

The most recent death I experienced was the one this morning.  There was this casket.  It was so perfect for my grandmother.  It was this ugly shade of pinkish-purple that she had just loved.  It was suspended over the whole it would soon be lowered into.  This is going to sound creepy.  Maybe it's just my own wierd perspective.  But I experienced a death here.  It was the death of my irrational hope that this was all some mistake.  That maybe she was alive after all.  Because even if she was, when buried under tons of grass, it wouldn't do her any good.

Twelve hours before, the death preceeding this one was the death at the memorial service.  Normally we don't talk about death, as a society.  Here, we came together and admitted it outright.  This was the death of denial for me.  The death of pretending by not-talking about it.

Thirty hours before this I had recieved a call.  She had died at about 1:30 AM.  I was at the nursing home by 2 Am.  I spent an hour or so there, with my brother, my dad, and my grandmother's body.  This is the death that we get so focused on, at the expense of all the others.  We sat in the room.  Together.  It was wonderful and horrible and Godly and eerie.  Her skin was so soft but cold.  Touching her, there was just something missing beneath it.  I don't know if when we touch each other normally we just don't consciously process the tiny movements of blood beneath the skin, subtley moving muscles and what not, or if perhaps there is something more supernatural going on... either way, I just new.  Her body had stopped working.   And if those couple times I touched her weren't proof enough, there were eyes.

They were open (I guess the movie trick where you pull down the eye lids is a Hollywood fiction.) and they were empty.

I was confronted with the death of her physical machinery, then: the end of the biological processes which kept her connected to her body.

But a few nights before, I'd experienced the death of my hopes that she'd get better.   The first midnight call that she was dying.  It's perfect for her that she confounded everybody's expectations, that time.  She lived nearly a week beyond that night.

And a few weeks before that, there was yet another death, when we made the decision to implement hospice care and manage her pain but not fight the symptoms and prolong her suffering.

And there were all these little deaths, even before that.  The death of her recognition of us.  The death of her wakefullness.  The death of her muscle mobility, robbed by Parkinson's disease.  The death of her memories, robbed by dementia.

Before that, the death of her time living with family, when we moved her to the nursing home.  Before that, the death of her ability to move freely about the city when she gave up her license... prior to that the death of her independence, when she moved in with my parents, the death of her regular contributions to the family when she was no longer able to cook her weekly meal for the whole family...

She started dying over thirty years ago, when her husband died.  I never really new him, except by her fond and loving memories, and a few pictures.   She is with him now.  Her remains are next to his.  But that's so unimportant: what is important is that all she is, all she ever was, the very best of her, is in a world beyond this one, with the very best of him.

Someday, I'll be with them.  It will be good to be with them both.

There is a need for your prayers today. My friend Lisa B who has been battling breast cancer for a year and some months is fighting for her life. You see we went to high school together and lost touch after some years. I got back in touch with her after my diagnosis and we have been talking and e-mailing for some months. She was a really big help to me when I was unsure of my cancer and treatment. We spent several hours talking about life and cancer and our families. She was diagnosed with breast cancer last July. Triple negative just like me. She went through chemo and mastectomy last summer and thought she was finished with cancer. Around Christmas time she found out that her cancer had spread. Just a few months ago she had a second mastectomy and started back with her chemo. But the cancer would not stop spreading. Now she is really struggling. Her husband Matt and two sons need your prayers too.

Please stop for just a moment today and think of her and say a prayer for her.

Thank you,

        Sarah

Cross posted on http://sprucehill.typepad.com/

[This article has been copied to http://northfieldmn.wordpress.com/2008/09/03/grief-and-loss-meeting-sep-8-2008/]

Submitted on Northfield.org by Scott Richardson on Tue, 08/19/2008 - 8:38am.

• Events

Lake Norman is one of the most beautiful inland bodies of water you will ever see and great sailing. It has about 520 miles of shoreline and is 130 feet deep at its deepest point. It took four years of pushing dirt and two year to fill up the lake before it was finished and ready for many activities especially Sailing.

Sailing is just one of the many activities on Lake Norman and happens to be the activity my husband and I have enjoyed for years. Lake Norman Yacht Club is one of the oldest yacht clubs on the lake.  They do a fantastic program for Jr.'s, starting with Opti's right up thru the many different fleets.

The Peninsula Yacht Club is one of the newer yacht club with boating of all kinds and a social membership.  PYC is known for The Peninsula Cup Regatta, which is held in September. This year my husband Skip will be racing his Tripp 26 "Huntin Tripp". A great boat to trailer, it's been to Key West Race Week, The NOOD in St. Pete and  Solomon's Island..

Outrigger Sailing Club has a website at www.outriggeryachtclub.org. They have the best Chili Cook off in the fall of the year.

There are races on Wednesday nites, Friday nites and many special events on Lake Norman. The Hospice Regatta is held every year out of LNYC and the winner goes to the national Hospice Regatta. LNYC had the Soveral Nationals here  in July with boats from places like Atlanta.

To find out  about other Yacht Clubs you can go to GoLakeNorman.com.

Happy Sailing,

Vicki Hildebrand

 "Father Michael, Roman, Lucy, Tino, Cheto, Juanita, Mary, Maria, Michael, Anthony, DeDe, Louie, Tommy, Eddie and Isaac." - said in one breath.

I was a guera - more WASP I could not be.  

I wanted ethnicity - they had what I wanted.  

Our next door neighbors on Porter Street were this wonderful Mexican family being raised by a widowed mother...a bunch of them.  I remember the buzz around the hood when we knew that Father Michael was coming around.  The older sisters in all their glory looked like they walked off the set of Mad Men, like a  60's version of JLo.  They probably don't remember me - I couldn't tell you who is who to save my soul - but they pressed in on me.  

The ones closest in age - relatively speaking - started with Louie.  I just remember dark, Latin and good looking.  But he had the heart of Mary Jimenez who lived 3 doors down right next to the South Shore tracks.  Mary's brother JJ was my age - JJ - Juan Jose, Jorge Juan - I don't know.  It was just JJ to me.  We'd be playing at my house and if we heard the train coming (like it did about every few hours) headed to and from the Loop - we'd run down to stand in front of JJ's house and wave.  Like our own version of trying to get a trucker to toot the air horn...waving at people staring into space.

Then there was Tommy, Eddie and Isaac - all closest in age to my brother who is four years older than I am.  What girl can't have a crazy crush on three Latinos living next door that always hung out with her brother?  

Maybe my memory is all whack - but I remember Mrs. Ortiz opening her back door - calling for the boys and they'd line up for hand-outs.  I got into that line a time or two.  Fresh, hot, homemade flour tortillas, dripping with butter and salt.  To DIE FOR.  To this day - one of my favorite breakfasts, lunches, or dinners - but mine are I store bought imitations that I throw on the griddle till they start to puff up.  Carb heaven!

Mrs. Ortiz doesn't know that I was so fascinated by Hispanics that I started taking Spanish in 5th grade when our elementary school started one of the first bi-lingual pilot  programs in the States.  So many had come from Mexico to work in the Steel Mills that they capitalized on that influx of kids to help us learn Spanish.  Just think of it - 40 years ago we were glad to welcome those workers to our industries and were even smart enough to learn a thing or two about a culture other than our own bland one.  Who'd a thunk it?

And Mrs. Ortiz doesn't know that in high school and college I took as many Spanish classes as I could.  Nor does she know that then I moved to Spain to live for 12 years.  And she doesn't know that for the last number of years I've been working as an interpreter in a rehabilitation hospital helping Hispanic families who's kids have all kinds of challenges.

But I see Mrs. Ortiz whenever I'm at work - Latinas that know how to love and nurture their broods.  When the Hispanic families I know are admitted to the hospital - their rooms are full.  Family comes from Chicago, Iowa, Florida, Kentucky - wherever to sit beside the bed of their suffering loved one.  The "white" people's rooms - especially the older ones - no one comes to visit those grammys and grandpys.  They might be "graced" with a visit when it is convenient on the weekend as long as it doesn't go too long...

There are so many things I'd like to tell Mrs. Ortiz about.  How I wish I could speak to her in Spanish.  How I'd love to hear her story from her mouth.  But I can't.  Two hours after my dad died on Monday morning - we got a call from Tommy saying that his 96 year old mom died in another area hospice center.  Two hours later!  Tomorrow I will take my mom to the viewing.  With 49 grandchildren,  74 great grandchildren and 5 great great grandchildren...they may not even notice us come in.  With the exception that we're gueras.

Wonder if Mrs. Ortiz lives next door to my dad again?  That neighborhood would be heaven.

As time ticks away I sit here with my family and listen to the stories of an amazing woman who lead a remarkable life.  She is my Grandmother.  I call her Tootsie.  I am starting this in her memory.  My kids are 22, 13 and 3.  They have not had the chance to spend the time with her like I was so privileged to.  I could not think of a better way to express my love and respect for such a great person than to pass all the stories being told about her to my kids.   So many memories of growing up include being at Tootsie and Granddaddy’s house.  So here I will put them down for my children to read anytime they miss her or ask questions about her.  I also want to include the stories I have heard her tell over the years and the memories her friends and family are sharing about their time with her. 

Before she started this journey we talked about what she wanted.  Her biggest concern was that she wanted what was easiest for the family.  She told me “I am blessed, I am grateful, I have no regrets."  She was the kind of person that was always thinking of her family.  It’s what she loved the most.  Everything she did was for us.  That is what I truly admire about her.  She was the best grandmother I could have ever asked for.  And to my kids, I apologize you don’t have the Grandmother I had.  But this to you I promise, I will be your kids “Tootsie”.  Your family will be welcome at my home anytime.  Sunday afternoon diners, Holidays, summers, Weekends, Spring breaks or just for an afternoon, you and your children will always be welcome.  I want more than anything to be the place where my future grandchildren can come and feel the unconditional love and support and praise I felt any time I walked in that home on Marigold Street.   To their friends also. My sisters and I tried to count the numerous friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, boyfriends of girlfriends and friends of friends that have come in and out of that home.  No matter who or how many we brought for any occasion they were always welcomed with a hug from Tootsie, Granddaddy wasn’t always as giving with the hugs at fist.  If we brought an unexpected guest for Christmas, she would pull something from her secret stash and get them a gift ready and it would appear she picked it especially for them weeks before.  That’s how she was, always thinking of others and wanting everyone to feel special. 

As she lies there now, gasping for every last breath, she is the one reassuring us, saying “I’ll be alright.”

Billy I know where you are-

you've been put back in your proper place and I will find you.

"You me too too and that makes four of us"

              with all the love our hearts can hold-

                                                Rosemary, Melinda, Buddy and "the boss".

William E (Bill) McNiece  October 31, 1922 - August 25, 2008

p.s.  in case you wondered...this blog is JUST getting started.

Plan your routes and save up errands that are in the same area-instead of running out to the bank on Monday, the grocery store on Tuesday, PetSmart on Wednesday, etc., try to group your errands on one day or two, so you're not making extra trips.

Drive slower...the old 55 speed limit was not just for safety reasons, driving slower saves on gas, too!

Eat out less often-take your lunch to work at least 3 days per week.

Something as simple as carrying a bottle of water with you in the car, and maybe a few snacks for yourself or the kids, to keep from having to stop at the convenience store and spending way more than you would have if you'd bought in larger quantities at the grocery store or BJs...

And while we're talking about grocery stores...coupons are great, but only if you were already going to buy the item anyway

Same thing goes for sales at department stores and stuff-if you wanted something and it went on sale, that would be a great time to buy it, and you've saved money on something you had already planned to buy.  If you go to a sale and buy stuff you weren't planning to buy, just because it's on sale, have you really saved money? No, you've just spent money probably not in your budget.

Take advantage of FREE stuff to do-hike, bike or swim at the State Park, check out your local library  for programs-or check out some books you haven't read yet!  As I mentioned above, the Science Center in Hickory has free admission on Fridays. 

Family/friends night in-board games, cards, star gazing, watching rented movies

Join your local YMCA-yes, I realize that costs money, but if you use it regularly, you'll find that they offer many free or low-cost activities for you and your family.  And here's a tip:  there will be NO joiner's fee if you sign up for membership October 27-November 2 (Barium Springs Y and Statesville Y)!

Still not finding enough to do?--  Become a volunteer!  Here are just a few ideas to get you started-- Cooperative Extension Service, hospice, Special Olympics, Barium Springs Home for Children, -it doesn't cost $, you'll feel good about yourself, set a good example for others, and be giving back to your community!

Hospice is like the heavenly lotto...I know I've said this before but we've been overwhelmed with the care that has gone into the design of this entire facility.  A place to do our laundry, quiet rooms to escape to when we need it, a library, baked goods brought in each week by volunteers, pop for 50 cents a can...last Friday two massage therapists giving chair massages along with some aromatherapy and meditation from a stress-relief therapist.  We were like noodles.  Who does this?  What haven't they thought of...

The demons of hospice live in my head - the voices that come at me each morning I awake grabbing at my cell phone to see if I've slept through "the" call - or is my ringer turned off?  - or is my phone not charged?...only to find there were no calls, no news, no changes to report.  A heart still beating at 180 beats a minute, a blood pressure that has dropped lower than 80/50, rapid breathing...then apnea...then rapid...then apnea.  But we are still in the game...  

The voices that echo in the stillness of the night wondering what if I'd never called hospice in the first place...where would we be...better? worse? over?  The screech that says maybe this is a cruel thing afterall - there must be some reason he's not gone - is he mad at me afterall for having moved him out of the house?  Is there someone he wants to talk to that never showed up?  The whisper that says I must have imagined the severity of his symptoms and put wheels in motion that can't be stopped.

Then my insanity is gone - like a brain burp.  I focus once again on the bingo card of life and grapple with the harsh reality that our number has yet to be called and I can't fault the "Caller" for how the numbers come out of the tumble cage - hand picked and carefully read. No mistakes, no re-do's.

Maybe this long game has been good for us all - a slow adjustment to learning to play the game without Billy right here rather than a  more sudden exit that would have left us breathless and reeling.  This is the marathon bingo - the triatholon event of the sport.  I should have known Billy is a world class competitor.

The clapping monkey is poised ready to swing into action the minute our number is called and our bingo card is complete.  Go monkey go!

As we met around the big table at hospice, going through patients' charts to discuss treatment and prognosis, I became aware of withdrawing. Not just emotionally but pushing my chair towards the periphery. I felt reluctant to take in what was being said, didn't want to hear.

During three days of my absence, all but two of last week's patients had either died or been transferred. As I turned inwards to listen, asking “What is this?”, I encountered a heavy heart and an ego cowering in its corner. Oh not again, it lamented, do I have to meet all-new patients today, only to have them die? Last week I was lulled into thinking that we'd reached some kind of stability. I knew everyone a little, had established relationships, was recognized when I entered their room. Now they’re all gone. And I (my scared “me”) have to start all over, expose my heart again and again. 

It’s good to listen to these voices. And to realize, as my teachers remind us, that they are just that: voices. They’re not me but they’re part of me. Coming and going, arising and falling away, serving some purpose beyond comprehension. Like breath. Like the seasons. Impermanent, yet as real as anything that enters awareness.

Stephen Levine speaks of “hindrances” in our spiritual unfolding. They “reinforce the unfinished business of the mind, the dead spots in the body acquired over a lifetime of compulsively pushing away the unwanted. They encourage the mistaken identity that causes us to lunge with anger or cringe in fear, the confusion of the mind that hinders the pathway to the heart and limits our healing.”

Hindrances and obstacles, I am reminded, are not getting in the way, they ARE the way. What is new for me is that instead of reacting, I pay attention to them. Instead of turning away, I turn towards. In Buddhist practice the Sanskrit word samskara refers to the deepest-rooted tendencies sitting beneath shallow awareness. Relating directly to discomfort, pain, and illness has the power to take us to the deepest level of healing. ”The discomfort that arises,” writes Levine, “… can be seen metaphorically like a drill probing through the hard layers of armoring and denial, reaching the deep reservoirs of long-held isolation and fear.”

Indeed, while in the past I might have gotten stuck by withdrawing from the table at hospice, even left the room under some pretence, I stayed put and paid attention to the voice form within. I became curious and inserted the gentle probe of “What is it?” into my heart. I still don’t know what “it” is, but I’m becoming more at ease with what I don’t know.

sources:  Levine, S. (1987). Healing into life and death. New York: Anchor Books, p. 221. The tool of asking “What is it?” comes from the writing of Zen teachers Joko Beck and Ezra Bayda. image: stanleybronstein.com.

 He knew nothing of the internet or relying on some androgynous voice telling him to "turn left in 500 feet..."  I never remember seeing him take out a map - he just knew.  I learned I could always trust my dad's internal compass even in a raging blizzard.  But there would be those occasions when someone would ask him for directions and his first answer was always, "You can't get there from here..."  And he was usually right...it is one thing to get somewhere as the crow flies and then there was Billy's way.

 I learned that there are many ways to get to the same destination.  Some might be fans of going miles out of their way to get to the limited access highways when Billy knew full well that there were perfectly driveable two lane highways that  would eventually get him to where he was going.  "What's the big hurry..."

After he was hospitalized last spring with a serious illness, the committee was in residence to help with rehabilitative care and we'd been toying with the decision.  Someone grabbed his keys to use his car and was met by a horrible surprise.  A special kind of treasure hunt revealed that he had taken one of those urinal cleaner cakes - deodorant things - and put it under the driver's seat as a "freshener".  Wow...that pushed the NO vote forward...

And in all of the adventures of the last couple of years I would have to say that taking his keys away was hands down the hardest, lowest, most rotten thing we could have done.  His voice would crack with emotion anytime he told people that we wouldn't let him drive any more. And it's not like he'd forgotten what we were doing to him as  the most recent time he mentioned that we wouldn't let him drive anymore was just within the last month and a half.  To this day I'm not sure how I feel about that particular decision.  But after losing his keys while in a store we felt like we needed to take definitive action.  Yeah, we felt "safer" but he felt miserable, bored, useless and punished.  

He loved his car - it meant independence and freedom.  He'd go to garage sales or resale shops, the dollar store or grocery store, church or post office and a million places in between.  Always comin' and goin' - my mom would never know half the time where he was or when he was coming home.  Often he'd drop a few dimes in a pay phone from the grocery store before heading home to ask if there was anything she needed from the store. 

So what goes 'round comes 'round...we cannot understand how he is still hanging around.  His body cannot take much more - it just can't.  We feel that we've been in this space for much longer than a ten days...this feeling of imminence.  But he's back in the driver's seat calling the shots.  He is behind the wheel and he's gonna backroad it the whole way home takin' his sweet time.  Just putzing...

For a number of years, as a documentary filmmaker, I made films about people at the end of their lives. And more recently, as a personal historian, I've completed several video memoirs for people who were dying. As a volunteer at our local Hospice, I've recently initiated a pilot project where trained volunteers will help the terminally ill record their life stories to leave as a legacy for their families.

Here's what I've learned from over a decade of working with the dying. Recording their life stories has the capacity to relieve suffering. Medical research by such dedicated individuals as Dr. Harvey Chochinov is also pointing to the therapeutic quality of life review.

For those who are gravelly ill, life stories can provide the following benefits:

• Affirmation: I'm more than my disease. Those caring for me have acknowledged my personhood.

• Legacy: Something lasting will transcend my death. The hope that I will be remembered and that my story will provide some comfort to my family in their bereavement.

• Purpose: By doing this work there is still meaning to my life. I am contributing to others.

• Pattern: I see more clearly a purpose and meaning to experiences that often seem random and discontinuous.

• Support: Having a care provider, friend, family member or personal historian actively listen and encourage my life stories is bearing witness to who I am and the significance of my journey.

In his distinctive block print - his name...William E (only) McNiece. Do you know what E (only) means? It is just an 'E'...no dot behind it because it is not short for anything...just plain old 'E'.When he would sign important papers he'd write the "E (only)" so there was no mistake. Does that E stand for everything, everlovin', even-tempered, even-keeled or every-man...just an E. What is it in our human nature that doesn't GET simplicity...the simpler something is - the more explanation it requires..."Your middle initial?"..."E - but just E - E only - it's not short for anything...it's just an E."

Carefully I bend back the fragile sheet - this was a gift from his fiancee who was to become his bride eleven short weeks later on the day after her 21st birthday. They'd met during the Holiday season of 1945 at Christmas caroling party...and somehow his hand found hers and both were snuggled away from the freezing temps in the warm pocket of his Navy issue pea coat. He was in the process of being honorably discharged after his three plus years of service in the Asian Pacific Theater - his discharge would be official by the end of the first week of the new year.

"You should have seen him when he was courting," she reminiced.  They dated about a year - beach parties with friends, church events - their relationship progressed and she received her diamond engagement ring on the evening of July 3rd.  The 4th was celebrated by going to a parade then into Wrigley Field for a double header Cubs against the St. Louis Cardinals.  I remember her saying that she spent the whole time just staring at the sparkles on her finger.  

Sixty years of marriage.  A household that was marked by love - gentleness - quiet strength. The sundial that stands in their front yard - a great reminder of what it takes to stick to the business of making 60 years work or 6 months for that matter.  Sundials don't work unless their starting point is true north...and I think they figured which way was their north.

1 Thessalonians 3:11-13The Message>May God our Father himself and our Master Jesus clear the road to you! And may the Master pour on the love so it fills your lives and splashes over on everyone around you, just as it does from us to you. May you be infused with strength and purity, filled with confidence in the presence of God our Father when our Master Jesus arrives with all his followers.

Romans 8:28 26-28 The Message>Meanwhile, the moment we get tired in the waiting, God's Spirit is right alongside helping us along. If we don't know how or what to pray, it doesn't matter. He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans. He knows us far better than we know ourselves, knows our pregnant condition, and keeps us present before God. That's why we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good

By 5 a.m. she was up and an hour and half later, showered, dressed and breakfasted, she was ready to be back at Hospice with my dad. Aside from her desire to get there sooner than later- it also gave me a chance for the changing of the guard allowing my brother to go back to mom's house and get some sleep, eat something decent and chill a bit before doing it all again tonight. Billy had a dose of morphine soon after we'd arrived - but he was awake enough to give "knuckles" to my mom when she reached for his hand. The nurse thought he'd been plagued a long time with arthritis in his hands because they looked so stiff and swollen..."no," I told her - "that's new"...more and more edema in his extremities. Slowly the fluids will continue to back up in his system. No more meds to help rid the body of what the heart can't take care of...the pump is just too weak.

Sticking to my guns of the lipstick threat of yesterday -when my phone vibrated- I stepped outside to have the conversation. All reports of the last 12 hours given...everyone was informed. After a few minutes of sitting in the warmth of the morning sun with the faintest tinge of crispness in the air, I realized that summer is waning - but I'm still in Indiana. It was time to go back inside. As I got up from strattling a pretty fountain with no water in it - one foot in and one foot out - I lifted my head to see the shekinah glory...hovering right above the entrance to hospice. Well of course, it's there - I've been feeling it all along.

Just the tiniest residual of Sunday School imagination made this come true but my rational mind says this is actually a contrail, vapor trail or jet trail whatever it's called...from one of the gazillion jets a day coming to or from O'Hare that has part of its trajectory over this part of the state. But I didn't have to see it, it didn't have to be right over the entrance...but it was - my shekhinah glory...just for me.

Shekhinah means to settle, inhabit or dwell. And just when I need things to mean what I want them to - I turn to WIKIPEDIA: "The Shekhinah is held by some to represent the feminine attributes of the presence of God (shekhinah being a feminine word in Hebrew), based especially on readings of the Talmud.[1} And I needed it today - when I can't figure out why this is taking so long, when I'm too tired to be gracious, when I could sleep 20 hours, get up and sleep some more. But shekhinah is here - hovering - knowing what's what - in charge. My shekhinah.

]]> http://1eyedmonkee.wordpress.com/?p=396 Wed, 20 Aug 2008 00:34:03 +0000 1eyedmonkee http://1eyedmonkee.wordpress.com/?p=396 They aren't exactly Irish twins but 18 months difference between kids sets the stage for some interesting dynamics- The firstborn was quiet, brooding, mysterious...someone once accused me of leaving him in the crib all day just because he was happy and didn't need to be entertained. So if the kid was content - why move him? There are four years between me and my closest sibling so I understood the concept of individual play and necessary space. But that second one was always looking to live fully engaged in community - as if she'd been born onto the set of the music video for "Let's Get This Party Started".

Her first step onto the stage embraced every ounce of joie de vivre. It took him a while to adjust to the new force in his universe. It was like having a gypsy dancer twirling around him at all times. Colorful and graceful but sometimes just not what he was looking for. She wasn't deliberately looking to annoy or pester - she was just being who she is designed to be. I don't think he was more than four years old when his famous words came out with a force that surprised us all - when he'd had all he could take and needed more head space for figuring out a Lego construction designed for someone twice his age - he exclaimed with all the exasperation a mini could muster - "no talkin' Brie!" So 20 years hence - it is now the code in our household for, "I need space - quiet the chatter - you are suffocating me!"

I've thought of that so many times as we are trying now to adjust to Billy's present reality. One of the things that happens at the end days of life - one will hallucinate or have conversations with others that preceded them in death. Generally these are private conversations as the person is doing the work of preparation for the afterlife...the body is still here talking but the spirit and soul have a foot in the other world. Some people understand it all intuitively - others don't. But there are those who feel that these conversations are an attempt on Billy's part to communicate...so before you know it there is hovering and hollering. "What did he say?"

I couldn't have any more vivid reminder of this than as I sit here typing. While my mom and I are in his darkened hospice room waiting for his bathing aides to arrive and bother the heck out of him, my brother just stepped out to stretch out on a couch in the family room and to watch a dvd. My mom is in a recliner closest to the bed working through her book for word scrambles. My dad has been sleeping since dealing with a number of visitors this morning. People have come in and he's slept right through. And as I was sitting here working on this very theme...with my eyes on my computer screen, he yells out in a loud voice from deep within his gut- "WHAT?". My mom levitated off the chair - half way to her feet - leaning in to see what is going on...and his eyes are closed and seemingly hasn't moved a muscle. My heart is still racing with instant RedBull in my veins. Sweet Jesus - what was that all about? We'll never know.

There are so many similarities between the beginning and end of life. Picture your first visit to see a newborn sleeping in it's nursery...tiptoe in, hushed tones, barely moving a muscle. But sometimes in this space what we have is the total opposite...as if we were at a Cubs game hawking down the hot dog vendor! I keep having to restrain myself from whacking people upside the head. I'd be hard pressed to know of too many new mothers that would think it cool for you to walk into that nursery, get in that baby's face and do the Broadway stage whisper till the baby opened its eyes. Is it just me or does this not make an ounce of sense? Let's invite 10 people to stand into the baby's room and chat it up about life while the baby tries to drift off to sleep...that's not gonna happen.

So I am thinking of advocating for hospice bodyguards...people with a certain kind of energy (and yes I mean that in all the zen- yoga-chi-chakra reality) that set the stage for how to let someone die in PEACE. I want to take my magic wand hands and run them over each individual that comes to visit just like airport security and check them at the door. With my xray ability I will pull them aside and rid them of negativity, excessive drama, too much chipperness, raw sentimentality, crazy ass voices and anything else I deem unfit to be in the presence of my dying father. When your dad dies, you'll get a chance to choose your own way and your own tone. It'll be your stage to set.

I don't blame people because it is normal for us to want to have some significant interaction with people that we love dearly who are soon to be gone. We want quippy last words, we want an endearing look, we want to know that we have been special in the life of that person or to tell them how about the impact they have had on our lives. But what I imagined end of life to be and what it is...or at least in this case seems to be taking it's own unique course. Billy was never a betting man...but dimes to donuts - he's waiting till everyone leaves him well enough alone before he checks out.

I'm gonna get lipstick and write across his forehead, "No MORE TALKIN'!"

Larry Sievers has died from the cancer about which he blogged and reported the last several years.  He  was an exceptional writer, and brought us insight into his battle with a brutal honesty and grace.  More than that, he built an online community of which he was justifiably proud.  As he said in the farewell piece on NPR this morning:

But I am at peace because I have done my best to make a difference.  I hope when the real time comes, someone says that about each of us.

No worries, Larry.  Thank you for all you did in sharing your humanity with us all.

Jim Downey

Now here we are standing in front of another door with our full weight on the welcome mat and that door seems stuck.  This business of dying is quite tricky.  I'm getting familiar with the signs and sounds accompanying the process but it's not over till it's over.  I am still having a hard time realizing that it was exactly a week ago today that hospice came for the assessment interview and by this time I had meds in hand and he had oxygen.  Reading and re-reading the little blue book that tells me what this process looks like I find myself becoming impatient now because I've been living it for over a year.  So many times in my drive back to Michigan I've spent that travel time thinking of what this reality would be like.   Now I'm here and I'm ready for the next thing.  Seriously.

You'd think I had enough experience with process that I'd learned a thing or two - but apparently not. When my young family first left for Spain in 1983 there were lots of things involved in the passage.  Months of sorting, buying, wondering what we'd need there, what I should take from here - the babies were small, one just barely two years old and the other 7 months...I kept trying to imagine my life here transported to a country I knew relatively little about and imagine myself living there.  Packing up all our belongings and learning my way around phone conversations that dealt with shipping methods, customs papers, inventories, etc.  But that wasn't the only thing I had to do to get us moved from one place to the other.

There were the dreaded good-byes.  At that point, I knew these separations could mean four years until my parents saw their grandkids again.  It was breaking my heart.  All the little things that they wouldn't be a part of and would only live through letters...again this was pre-technology iChat, email, skype, and other instant goodies.  Farewell gatherings were exhausting as I felt like I had already stepped through the door but I didn't fit with all the people hanging on to my ankles holding me back.  I barely had any more tears left because in my mind - I'd moved on and was living with an adreline rush of anticipation to get on to the next thing so I could get my family settled.

Looking back on all of that now - I'd say it took nothing short of a year or two really before things felt normal. What I thought it was going to be and what it turned out to be were two very different thing. It wasn't just about getting across the Atlantic Ocean part done - it was the journey of doing it all- that made it what it was.  

So I am in this waiting space and I don't like it much.  I'm projecting ahead and trying to be prepared - wondering how long I'll be in this spot that seems like the pneumatics on the door quit working.  Will it be in a space when no one else in the room?  Will we all be there?  Will there be words or just mumblings from a hallucination?  Will it be sacred or ordinary?  The threshold is close enough to touch but the door won't open.  There is no way of knowing what moment in time that is reserved for Billy's foot fall to be the final "open sesame" - but I know that there are things for me to learn while we wait.

But we are quiet. We are at rest.  We've all read the booklet left us by a hospice nurse.  A folder full of pamphlets  - but this ONE...we must read.  Yeah right.  Do you know how much information is coming our way?  But these people radiate such an energy of calm and a quiet "in charge" that their lead must be followed.  They have not been wrong yet.  They do death.  That little blue book explaining the signs we will see - our only touchstone that this is really happening.

So after almost 48 hours in a hotel, conferring with the committee - I drive back to home home for a couple of days or less depending on the situation.  The time in the car was typical except I kept thinking of all the times that I tried to imagine how I'd feel on this particular trip.  When the doors to the hospice center closed behind me, I walked out into the courtyard where all rooms have their windows overlooking plants, flowers, trees, statues...from outside, I leaned into the window to his room and peered through the slated blinds.  Just as I'd left him...just as he'd been all day.  They said we'd have days like this following days like yesterday.

Yesterday there was some activity that we had to play along with - feeling as if we were entering into the game of charades mid-stream.  It was fairly easy to pick up the cues and roll with it.  Lots of visitors - some expected and anticipated, others a surprise.  Playing the part of gracious hosts at a party we didn't even want to be at - never wanted to host.

As exhausting as it was for me - it was harder on Billy.  The afternoon shadows were lengthening and he still had words for my brother-in-law, "are there going to be any more down and outers?"  Down and outers...we laughed quite hard.  He was tired too.  Too tired.  So much so that today there were barely any words or even a hint of understanding when he was being spoken to.  Maybe it was the perfect time to say good-bye - I didn't have to deal with an answer from him or look into his eyes and wonder if he even knew who I was.  

"I'm going home to get some clothes.  If you fall asleep before I get back, it's okay, I have the key.  I know how to get in."  And I was out the door.

Half my trip home was more NPR - then I put in some cd's.  Natalie Maines summed it up best. 

These walls have eyes
Rows of photographs
And faces like mine
Who do we become
Without knowing where
We started from

It's true I'm missing you
As I stand alone in your room

Everyday that will pass you by
Every name that you won't recall
Everything that you made by hand
Everything that you know by heart

And I will try to connect
All the pieces you left
I will carry it on
And let you forget
And I'll remember the years
When your mind was clear
How the laughter and life
Filled up this silent house...

Not to worry - there won't be more songs...we have better things to talk about tomorrow!