Delaware Grammy

It was hotter than blazes in the parking lot at Milford Genesis nursing home.  I had come in several hours earlier with Cecilia as they moved her from her bed in 232b at Bayhealth Milford to her new home in Room 215 in Rehab at Genesis.  Her mother had met us at the nursing home, carrying two new pairs of pajamas.  She stopped by the side of the ambulance as they unloaded her daughter and then waited for me while I was unloading things from the minivan.

Cecilia was distraught.  She had several episodes of shaking that resemble shivering.  She will do this when she is upset or worried or in a situation that is unfamiliar.  She had reached her hand towards me when I got into the hospital room earlier this morning, and grasped mine in hers like she was never going to let go.  When I disengaged her hand and was getting ready to comb her hair, she began shaking like she was cold.

“Cecilia-girl, I’m here,” I said.  “It’s going to be alright.  We are going to get you to a place where we can get your legs stronger so you can walk again and come home.”  As long as I stroked her arms and spoke soothingly to her, she wouldn’t shake.  But if anyone came in or if I wasn’t fully engaged with her, she would start again.  I wondered again about this girlie and what was going through her head.  Did she think she was going to be abandoned again?  Did she fear being stuck and prodded and misunderstood? How much did she understand about this move?

The transport came, and she was taken from the familiar bed and put onto a stretcher and taken the few miles to the nursing home.  I drove over, and then Cecilia’s mother and I answered questions, talked to a lot of different staff, and waited.  I fed Cecilia her lunch that came shortly after we got there, and when Cecilia Mom decided that she was going to go back to Newark around 3:00, I offered to bring her car around for her.  She had parked in a side parking lot  when she arrived because of being unfamiliar with the institution, and the walk was a long walk for someone her age.  At first she demurred, but when I insisted, she handed me her keys and I went out to put some stuff in my car and to bring hers around.

Just before I pulled into the parking circle where there was a handicapped space for her, another quick red SUV whipped in ahead of me and took the spot.  But I wasn’t too perturbed because there were two women getting into their car that was in the same row, and was even under a shade tree, and so I decided I would make the circle and wait for them.  And so I did.  I waited and waited.  The sun got hotter and hotter.  I couldn’t figure out the AC for Mrs. S’s car, but I thought it would not be much longer, and I waited and waited.  The two ladies just sat there in that hot car.  I waited some more.  Someone came buzzing around me and took a spot farther down the row.  That made me cross, too.  Why didn’t I just go down there?

Finally, after it seemed like I was going to melt in that blistering hot car, I decided to see if those gals were going to leave or if they had other plans.  I got out of the car and walked up to their open window.  They were both busy on their phones, scrolling through stuff as casually as if it were their living rooms.

“Excuse me,” I said (with cheerful voice)  “Are you ladies leaving?”

“Oh, yes, we are!” They chorused.  “We’re so sorry.  We really are!”

“If you’re not, that’s okay.  It’s just that I brought this car up for an 88 year old lady and if I could have your parking spot, I would really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” they said.  “Of course!”

I went back and got into my (or rather, Mrs. S’s) car, wondering why I hadn’t done that sooner.  They put their car into reverse and backed out and I slid into the spot before anyone could steal it from me, and was most grateful.   I locked Mrs. S’s car carefully and headed towards the nursing home.  After the sweltering car, the breeze felt good and we were almost finished with the admission and (maybe) I could go home soon.

I walked down the sidewalk, feeling the  weight of  the day on my shoulders.  It had been a tough day on several fronts.  My crazy feet were not co-operating with me like I wanted them to.  I came around the corner to head into the nursing home and caught my toe on the small discrepancy between the sidewalk and the one that was perpendicular to it.

“Oh, no!”  I felt myself hurtling forward towards the ground at an alarming rate.  Thankfully I remembered what happened when I let my face hit first, and I threw my left arm out to try to break my fall.  Ker-thunk!  Now I felt the weight of my day (Plus a lot more!) on my left elbow.  I scrambled to my feet, looking frantically about to see if anyone saw me.  Whew!  No one in sight.  I had kinda’ rolled over onto the mulch beside the sidewalk, and there were long black strands of sticks hanging onto my sweater and skirt.  I hastily brushed them off and kept on walking, into the sanctuary of the front door of the nursing home and its cool, welcoming foyer.  No one noticed as I made my way down the hall and into Cecilia’s room where Mrs. S waited.  I’d been gone a long time for just moving her car up.

“Wow!” I said.  “It’s really hot out there!”

“Isn’t it amazing,” she said in her cheery voice.  “It was cold when I left Newark, but by the time I got here, it was really hot!”  I was grateful that she didn’t ask why it took me so long.  We made small talk and then as she was getting ready to go, I discovered that there were a whole lot more strands of mulch hanging from my person in diverse places.

“Oh, dear,” I said, as I tried to pull them off.  “I must have missed these.”

The story came out, then, and one of the pleasant staff observed that there were even more that I had missed on my shoulder and the back part of my upper arm.  She pulled them off for me, and finally I was cleared of all the evidence.  I laughed about it and brushed it off as inconsequential because, in fact, it pretty much was.  Finally, Mrs. S left, the last questions got answered and I could flee to my car and drive to the safety of my house and the quiet of my chair.

No one watched me as I searched for any abrasions or blood.  (There was none.)  No one saw me pull up my sweater sleeve in front of the bathroom mirror to see if I had somehow broken a bone in my forearm or elbow when I came crashing down.  Nope.  It  just aches.  As does my right foot.

Most importantly, no one knew when I checked this aching heart and found that I finally had time to sit and think and cry a bit.  Some days are just hard, and even though I keep telling myself that this day could have been a whole lot harder, and even though I KNOW that I’m a woman blessed beyond measure.  — This day was one more really hard day in a string of hard days, and I’m good and ready for some normalcy.

I came home to fresh chocolate chip cookies on the kitchen counter.  The dishwasher had been loaded and was clean, and after a while, Nettie came home and was pleasant.  Certain Man is on his way home and he averted the accident on Route One by taking another way home.  There are happy secrets to be told very soon, and there are highly anticipated visitors coming and family reunions and picnics and all sorts of wonderful things to look forward to.  The driveway monitor just notified me that Certain Man is home and it’s time to catch up on his day and enjoy the evening.

Blessed???  You bet’cha!

My heart gives grateful praise.

There are some things we just can’t wish/pray away. That’s when I’ve made a choice to trust His Heart when I cannot feel His Hand.

Which, quite honestly, is right now for me. I’m sitting beside Cecilia’s stretcher in the emergency room. She is breathing, but pretty much unresponsive. She didn’t bother to protest when they stuck her again and again trying to find a vein, finally on about the fifth try, they got one in her thumb. They “hope they have enough . . .”  (Not sure how they plan to filter IV’s through there, but that is, after all, their problem. It still makes my heart ache.)

The last six weeks have been one mad rat race. Actually, ever since the first of the year I haven’t had time to catch up. Didn’t get my taxes done, no flower beds tended, haven’t had time to write any of my head or my heart like I would like.

And it’s been very lonely. Not because people haven’t cared and helped and prayed and shared, but because there are some things in life that are hard to explain and even harder to understand. I don’t know how a blind, non-verbal, stubborn as a mule, autistic scrap of humanity worked her way into my heart 17 years ago and stayed.

I didn’t want her.

I had done respite with her for a friend and I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to endure her for an extended period of time. There were too many behaviors and too many “messy” things.  But when she was in desperate need of a home, My Sweet Mama took her in during the summer of ’99, and made it clear that it had to be short term.  As the months passed, I changed my mind.  And when January 1, 2000 came, Cecilia moved into the bedroom with Old Gertrude and became a part of our family.

Life goes on as it is wont to do, and there have many momentous occasions since she arrived. There was the death of Old Gertrude, who loved her with the pure sweet love of innocent unselfishness.  There were family weddings, graduations, the death of family members and both Daniel’s parents and mine. Each of our delightful grandchildren joined our family, and every one of them was inordinately interested in the little lady in the chair in the corner. (I would find toys piled up on her lap after the grandsons visited, tribute to Frankie’s concern that she needed something to play with).  There were walks on sunny days and always, always music playing for her in the corner chair where she sat in a nook off of the kitchen; she listening to the sounds of the family, and swaying her head slightly to the music. And so the days passed.

But back in December, she had a positive Cologard test. In January, she had an appointment with the gastroenterologist. In February. she had a colonoscopy.  In March, she had surgery for a malignant polyp in her colon. And that set her on her current decline.  She was in the hospital almost the whole month of April with various complications. There were many times when I despaired of her getting better again.

Daniel and I had plans to go to Missouri to see his biological mother’s Amish relatives for the week from April 29 to May 6th. His sister, Lena, had made the arrangements, (we were in 7 different beds on 7 different nights) reserved a rental car (with Daniel being the designated driver) as well as a motel for our last night. I hardly thought I would/should go, but Deborah insisted, and Daniel was not looking kindly towards my uncertainty.  I finally decided I needed to go.

“And why not?” I reasoned, more than a little conflicted. “I was in Ohio with Daniel’s parents and siblings when old Gertrude died. I might as well be away when something happens to Cecilia.” That Man I Love Best looked at me a little strangely when I voiced those sentiments. I’m afraid I might have stuck my chin up at him and said, “It would almost seem like it’s a test of my loyalty and commitment!”  He kinda shook his head a bit and  just went on out to the chicken house or wherever.

Little did I know what a mix of joy and concern, new relationships and blessed exchanges, as well as inconvenience and discomfort that week was going to be.  (And sometime I MIGHT get around to writing about it.  If you are interested, Daniel’s sister, Lena, has a blog where the trip is chronicled.  Find that here: http://happytrailswithlena.blogspot.com/)

We all know that Cecilia has behaviors that make it difficult for us to determine exactly what is behavior and what is a symptom.  And last Wednesday night when she went from walking well to suddenly leaning into Deborah who was guiding her to the bathroom and then crumpling on the floor- well, that was probably behavior.  Usually when she pulls that trick, someone always catches her and lets her down gently.  But this time, she was going over backwards and Deborah could not do anything except keep her from hitting her head.  She heard a snap, saw that the ankle was at an odd angle, and until it was all said and done, Cecilia was in the ER until 3 the next morning, getting a cast on a “significant” fracture to her left ankle.  Thankfully, it was not dislocated, but she was to be non-weight bearing until she saw the orthopedist.

Of course.

But there were appointments scheduled for the week that we are now in — three in fact.  One to the Primary Care Physician, one to the Surgeon, and now one to the Orthopedist.  Back in Delaware, my case manager and team from the Department of Disabilities handled the authorizations and took care of legal necessities. From Missouri, I handled home calls and took care of making arrangements for the appointments scheduled for this week with the transport company.  I made appointments and wrote down numbers.  I talked to nurses and dispatchers and my case manager.  The transport company wouldn’t provide transportation unless I gave them three working days notice, so they refused to take her to the appointment that was yesterday (Monday) with the orthopedist.  So, again from Missouri, I called my brother, Mark, Jr., and begged  for help.  He said that he could help with transportation on Monday, and not only provide a van, he could also provide his strong, young son, Timothy, to drive and help. Wow!

Back home, Deborah was so concerned about Cecilia.  She wouldn’t eat.  She  was lethargic and seemingly depressed.  Deborah tried to tempt her with her favorite foods.  No interest.  She played her favorite music.  She talked to her and made sure she was clean and dry.  Nothing made any difference.  The messages I got in the last few days of our trip were singularly lacking in any good news.

We got in on Saturday afternoon.  My heart sank at my first glimpse of our Cecilia Girl.  I made my voice as cheerful as I could and tried to rouse her from her quiet apathy.  She brightened briefly.  I thought I saw the shadow of a smile, and she reached her hand a short distance off the sheet on her hospital bed.  But something seemed terribly wrong.

I stayed home from church with her on Sunday, hovering close most of the time.  She ate more for me than she had for Deborah, but probably because I worked harder to get past her resistance.  She often acted like she was going the throw up, but never actually did.  It was hard to tell what was really going on, because Cecilia can make herself throw up when she wants to, and she will do it if she is upset.  Deborah kept track of her active tummy sounds.  Those seemed fine.  And so Sunday passed.

Yesterday morning, I came down to discover that she had vomited profusely during the night, and I was sure she had another obstruction.  Deborah listened, and all her stomach sounds were good.  But something seemed so wrong.  I called her Primary Care Provider and they said that they could see her at 12 noon.  Her orthopedist was supposed to see her at 1:00.  So Tim came early, and he and Deborah helped me get her loaded onto the Geri-Chair and into the van.  She looked almost comatose.  The PCP listened to everything.  Vitals were normal.  Tummy sounds were active.  No temp.  We discontinued the new blood pressure medication that was started in the hospital because she was exhibiting a lot of the negative side effects, and they gave me an order for a CT scan of her head to rule out stroke.  We were very late at the orthopedists, but they had told me to come in when we could, and they checked her leg, determined that it would not need surgery, and encased it in a hard cast, with instructions to have no weight bearing for at least four weeks when they would see her again.  We couldn’t get the CT scan of her head on that trip (we tried!) and so we came on home.  Nothing much resolved and poor Cecilia exhausted and as sick as ever.

Today there was a multitude of visitors through the house.  The Millennium Home Health Care nurse, the Physical Therapist, and the CNA.  Soon after lunch, Cecilia’s mother showed up unexpectedly.  One look at Cecilia and I could tell by the look on her face that she was beyond upset.  She was frantic.  We talked a while, and I told her all that we were doing, and what the nurses said.  The tummy sounds were still good, no fever, BP in the normal range for Cecilia; pulse and respiration good.  Mrs.S was quietly distressed and did not stay long.  After she left, I cried a bunch.  I felt so helpless.  And sad.  And desperate for answers.

It was after Mrs. S left that the CNA came and gave Cecilia her bath, and lovingly lotioned her up and made her look sweet and clean.  Cecilia slept the sleep of the very sick.  No responses, no movement except an occasional frown, and an occasional strange, raise of her arm towards the ceiling in a strange sort of wave like she is trying to bring something in close to her face.  My heart felt like it was going to burst.  I finally called my nurse from the state.  Diane Timmons, my resource, go-to support and friend, said that I needed to take her to the ER.

“I have no way of transporting her,” I said, my mind so boggled by the day before and its difficulties that I couldn’t think.

“Call 911,” directed Diane.  “If they can’t find anything and send her home, then we will know, but we need to at least cover our bases in case something is really wrong.  I think there really is, but she needs to be at least evaluated.”

911 was called, the ambulance came and brought her in here.  It is now much later.  The night has been long and drawn out, and eventually a doctor “straight tapped” an artery to get the labs they needed after getting a good IV line in that afforded anything they needed for the CT scans.  She rests quietly now.  She has an NG tube draining the liquid from her stomach.  She is in acute renal failure.  And she has another bowel obstruction.  Her White Blood Count is high, and she is septic.

I prayed over her, and played music up close to her ear, and when they finally found a bed for her upstairs, decided to go home.

Oh, my Cecilia-girlie.  What is there going to be for you?  I’m reminded of what Old Gertrude would often say to me as she looked at you with love in her eyes. “Oh, Mom,” she would say, her voice almost pleading, “I wish she could say somethin’!  She’s so purty!  I just wish she could say somethin’!”  How very much I wish you could say something!  How very much I wish you could even just point to where it hurts. I think I wish I could know what is in the days ahead, but maybe I don’t.  You nor I nor anyone who loves you are given grace now for the days ahead.  I’m not even going to tell you to “hang in there.”  I am going to say that you need to rest easy.  That you need to listen for the Angel Song, whether protection or assistance or summons, you can trust their song.

This note on 05/13/17:  Cecilia has improved significantly his week.  The obstruction has resolved, her kidney failure has started to reverse, and she is responding to us more normally.  She will need to go to a nursing home/rehab facility until she can walk again, but the plans now are to attempt rehabilitation with the hope that she will be able to eventually return to Shady Acres, and her spot in our home and family.  She is  still hospitalized and we do not know how long that will last, and things change so rapidly in our world, so we cannot really predict what will happen. Please keep us in your prayers.

I sat beside her bed last night, and sang to her.  A week ago this morning, she had surgery for a mass in her colon, and I knew that we had a rough road ahead.  Cecilia either does a whole lot better than expected or she breaks all the rules for everything that are in place for a speedy and relatively healthy comeback.

There are so many limitations.  She will not blow into the incentive inhalation spirometer to prevent pneumonia following surgery.   She will not cough.  She has an ability to hold an incredible amount of urine and she will not go unless she decides to.  (1,000 cc on a straight cath?  Really???  Why don’t you just go???  And for those of you who don’t think in cc’s — that’s over a quart!)  She doesn’t like to walk.  Her veins are so incredibly inadequate for all the medications and tests that they need to do.  And she is non-verbal.  She cannot tell you anything she wants, needs,  or feels. And she is blind.  So she cannot see what’s happening or communicate with her eyes.

So we went into surgery last Tuesday morning, and things went so well that there was talk in recovery of discharge in two or three days.  It really did go extremely well.  But things have gone steadily downhill from there.

Pneumonia, a UTI, fever, IV after IV line blown and multiple attempts to restart. Foley Catheter removed, then replaced.  Then removed.  Success for a day.  Then a bowel obstruction.  A straight catheter in hopes of not having to replace the Foley.  Then a replacement of the Foley because of the misery of the bowel obstruction and difficulty with any kind of procedure that involves getting her up and down. Spiking fever, and through it all, pain, pain, pain.  I’ve watched this Cecilia girl through so many things, and she doesn’t acknowledge pain until it is unbearable.  Then she has this noise that she makes in her throat — (not the squeal that she reserves for needle sticks, and believe me, there has been PLENTY of THAT noise) but another, “hooking her breath” then a guttural, breathy moan noise that is  not what the nurses are looking for.  And since she is NPO (Nothing By Mouth) she has to have her pain medications by IV.  But the rules are, “No IV pain meds are allowed to be scheduled.”  She has to ask.  (REALLY???) Or the nurse has to deem her “uncomfortable.”  Most of the time they try to stay on top of it, but if no one is in there to observe her who knows her and knows the signs, it’s easy for her to get really uncomfortable before anyone gives her anything.

Her Mom and one of her sisters have been there parts of every day except one.  It’s a long ride from Wilmington for her 87 year old mother.  Cecilia’s two sisters alternate in bringing her, but it’s hard for them, too.  They worry about their mother.  Her health isn’t the best.  And Cecilia’s Mom worries, too.  About Cecilia, of course.  Wants to make the right decisions for Cecilia, but doesn’t want her to suffer unduly.  Wants to KNOW about everything that is done and why it has to be done.  Wants to make sure that Cecilia is given the attentions she needs and isn’t left without being checked on.  Whew!  It’s a hard thing to manage from so far away.  This whole thing has her in such a torque, not only for the present, anxious and heart wrenching situation, but also as she looks to the future and treatment for what brought Cecilia into the hospital in the first place.

Sunday night, after coming home from the hospital around ten o’clock, and feeling like Cecilia’s room had become a place of anxiety and tension and sadness and even chaotic hurrying because of the busy nurses and the completely full floor, I thought long and hard about what we could do to make the room a place of tranquility and calm.  A place where doctors and nurses and family come and feel peace.  Where professionals and commoners alike could find affirmation and co-operation and would know that, no matter what the outcome of this whole thing would be — whether Cecilia lives, or (Oh, Lord Jesus, please!) whether she doesn’t, that Jesus is in This Place!  That people would know Cecilia is loved, and that she matters, but that she ultimately belongs to the Father, and that we trust HIM to hold her tenderly and to give them wisdom for the decisions that need to be made, and the procedures that need to be done.  I know that they cannot always find the vein, know the pain, understand the needs or even feel compassionate towards this patient who cannot respond to them in hardly any way.  But if Jesus is there, and His presence is felt, we will all be far better off and much more able to do the right thing, free of guilt, pride, fear, or even that anxious sorrow that can sometimes drive our thoughts, actions, reactions, and decisions.

To that end, will you please pray for us?  Pray that it will be a good day in room —?  Pray that Cecilia would be calm, and that the tests that are needed today could be done with a minimal amount of pain for her.  Pray for peace for us all, and that the decisions made today would be under the careful direction of the Heavenly Father.

For the very presence of Jesus, a Heavenly Father who knows our Cecilia-girl and each of us, and for friends who pray —

My heart gives grateful praise.

Yesterday was Cecilia’s birthday.  She was a St. Patrick’s Day baby, and one of the things that she seems partial to is her birthday.  Usually when I go to get her up in the morning, I sing the old, “Get up, get out of bed, c’mon you sleepy head” song (my version) but on her birthday, for pretty much the last 17 years, I sing a loud and happy rendition of “Happy Birthday to YOU!  Happy Birthday to You!  Happy Birthday, dear Cecilia!  Happy Birthday to you!”

Yesterday morning she rolled out of bed with a happy, happy smile and she stayed happy until she realized that we had yet another doctor appointment in the early afternoon.  Then she was grumpy.  I decided to get her a haircut before bringing her home since it was about time.  Also, with her surgery coming up, I wanted to get it done ahead of time.  So I called the hair salon and they said they did have space for her.

Usually (as in “always”) when I get Cecilia a haircut, I take Hettie, too.  For some reason, getting a haircut is not something that Hettie can just say she wants and does it.  There is always this sort of conversation.

“Hey, Hettie.  I’m taking Cecilia for a haircut.”  You would think I had just told her that bananas were not being grown any more.

“Oh, no!”  Crestfallen look, great sighs.  (This is all part of a very predictable exchange.)

“Yep, I’m going to take her. Do you want to come, too?

“I ‘on’ know.”  Shrug.

“Well, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but do you or don’t you?”

“I on’ care.”  Owlish eyes looking at me, more shrugs.

“You really don’t care?”

“No.  I ‘on’ care.”

So I will turn to just go back to what I was doing until she says, “Wha’ you fink I shoul’ do?”

“Hettie, it’s whatever you want to do.  I need to take Cecilia and if you want to go, I will take you, too, but it’s entirely up to you.”

The burden of decision is so hard for her, but eventually she usually says that she will go if I want her to.

“Hettie” I will say, “it’s not whether I want you to or not, it’s whether YOU want to or not, and if you don’t want to, that is fine.  But I need you to say that you want to go or that you don’t want to go.”

“Alright ‘en,” she will say with the air of a great martyr,” “I’ll go!”  She almost never gets herself around to saying that she wants to, but she is greatly aggrieved it she thinks I’m not going to take her.

Yesterday, after finding out that there was a spot for her with her favorite hairdresser, I called First State Senior Center  and let them ask her if she wanted to go.  They may have been smoothing things over for me, but they said that she said “That would be okay,” when they told her and so I picked her up from Center and took both her and Cecilia for haircuts.  When we were done there, I stopped at Walmart and bought a chocolate birthday cake for Cecilia to have with our supper.  It was deliciously chocolate, exactly what I had gotten for Hettie on her birthday two months ago.  She had told me precisely what she wanted, and it had been good, so I decided to get exactly the same one and Hettie could enjoy it, too.

We had a special dinner.  I had planned it with Cecilia in mind because she likes food to be separated out — meat, veggie and potato.  If it were up to her, nothing would ever be served in a soup or a casserole.  I noticed that Hettie was rather quiet during supper, and she looked at Cecilia’s birthday cake when we were getting ready to serve it and pointed at the white flower that was on it.

“Wha’s ‘at???” She demanded querulously.

“That’s a flower,” I said.  “Remember?  There was one on your cake just like it.”  She looked at me dumbfounded, and shook her head.  “You remember,” I said, “you had a cake just like this for your birthday.”

“I don’ ‘memmer,” she said.

“Sure you do,” I said, convinced that she had to remember.  “I bought you a cake just like this for your birthday, and we sang ‘Happy Birthday’and you blew out the candles.”

“I don’ ‘memmer.” she said again.

“Hettie!  You have to remember!  You asked for a chocolate cake, and I bought you one and brought it home!  We sang ‘Happy birthday for you –”  He face was closed, and she had that empty look.  “– Wait a minute!” I said, “I took a picture!”  I fished in my pocket for my phone and pulled it out.   “I even took a video!”

I brought up the picture first because I couldn’t find the video.  She looked at it without much interest, but then I found the video and she actually could see the cake and she could see that it was in fact, her very own self and she saw herself blowing out the candles.

“Huh!” she said in disbelief.  “I don’ ‘memmer nuffin’ ’bout it.!”

This morning has been a tough morning.  There have been so many things chasing themselves around in my heart that all I want to do is find a quiet place to cry and to really cry hard.  It was bed changing morning, and I needed to take Cecilia for pre-op lab work, EKG and Chest X-ray.  My pharmacy didn’t deliver Hettie’s and BL’s meds that I had ordered twice, left messages about twice and even asked that if they weren’t going to be delivered last night, would someone let me know so I could come and get the ones that I so desperately needed this morning.  Certain Man was busy in his chicken house with a situation that was less than encouraging.  Hettie was upset that I was going to go out with BL, even though it was for needles and such.  She was planning to clean her room and told me close to five times that she needed a new can of furniture polish (when she really didn’t) but time is hard for her to internalize, and she didn’t know that I would be back before evening.  And of course, she didn’t want to run out.

It’s just more of the same behaviors with her that have been going on with Hettie ever since Cecilia was diagnosed.  She is so jealous of the attention that she feels she is missing out on, so determined to have something seriously wrong with her, and so demanding that it gets more than a little wearing at times.  I am reminded that it is Hettie’s “pain speaking” every bit as much as Cecilia’s behaviors are her pain speaking – it’s just that Hettie’s pain is springing from a heart that has never felt like anyone really loved her or thought she could do better.

This morning, though, I finally sat down to write my lament to my Father, and I spilled the words onto the page of my prayer journal as the tears spilled down and down and would not stop.  I put numbers to the things that were troubling me, and then –

4. “. . . I wish that Cecilia didn’t have cancer.  I wish she wouldn’t need surgery . . . “

5. “I wish Hettie would remember the good things that people do for her.  I wish she wasn’t so paranoid.  I wish she wasn’t so demanding.  I wish she wasn’t so jealous.  I wish she wasn’t so selfish.  I wish that I could make her love me.”

And then I was struck by this “Holy Ton of Bricks” as I suddenly thought about The One to whom I was complaining.  I looked at that last paragraph and I wondered if God ever said that about me.  Oh, I know, He wouldn’t complain, and He wouldn’t say it like that if He did think it, but would He have reason to say it about me?

Yes.  Yes, He would!  

And while I don’t believe that Our Father caters to our wily ways, I wonder if it hurts His Father Heart when we don’t love Him when He has shown us His love in so many ways?

And someday, when the story of my life is played before my disbelieving eyes, There won’t be any excuse for me to say, “Huh!  I don’t remember anything about it!”

Oh, Lord Jesus!  Do serious work in this self centered heart, and may I love you, not for what you do for me, but because you love me, you chose me, and you have my good at the very center of your plan for me.  Let the sadness of this day, the things that make me cry, the things that weigh me down — let these be the very things that turn my thoughts and heart towards You with Grateful Praise.