Tag Archives: George

How are you?

cat how are youWhen the nurse is taking me back to the cubicle where I will be imprisoned until the doctor drops by, he or she always asks. “How are you today?”  That question always stumps me.  My first thought is to scream, “I’m at the doctor’s office.  How do you think I feel?”  However, I do possess a thin veneer of courtesy and say, “Fine, thank you.  How are you?”

Then I sit in the little room and ponder that question.    Finally I decide the nurse is not really  asking for a health report. “How are you?” is a  polite social convention which really doesn’t demand an honest answer, only recognition that the rules have been applied and accepted.   Yes, I may be throwing up on the nurse’s feet, but I answer, “Fine.”  I may be doubled over in pain or spouting blood from every orifice, but that’s not what the nurse is asking.   The nurse is simply recognizing that I’m there and my answer merely says, “Thank you.”

But the question came up again six months ago  and again I had to work out what others were saying,  Only minutes after George died, one of our ministers asked, “How are you doing?”  My mouth dropped open.  I wanted to shout, “How do you think I feel?  They joy of my life is gone.”  I didn’t of course but had no good answer.  People asked that over and over in the months after George’s death and, every time, I thought, “You have to know how I feel.”  But I didn’t say that.  “As well as can be expected,” I’d say and that was the truth.  But why did they ask?  comforting friendsDidn’t they know?

Again I realized that, yes they all knew I hurt.  That question meant, “I care about you but I don’t know what to say.”  It meant, “He was my friend and I hurt.  How are you doing?”  It meant so many things my friends and George’s didn’t know how to ask, what words to use.  And thanks to all those friends and ministers and family members, I’m doing fine, sort of.  Thank you for asking.

 

 

 

 

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Goofiness: a stage of mourning

In the 1970’s, Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’ Five Stages of Grief was vastly popular and much preached.   We had the idea that one worked through these stages–denial, anger, bargaining, and  depression–in that order until finally arriving at acceptance, the final stage.   However, Dr. Kubler-Ross hadn’t meant that these five stages made up the entire task of grief, that one could wrap up  mourning in a neat little package and would recover if one followed her teaching exactly.   No, she stated that these were five of the stages of grieving but not all of them.  She also stated some people didn’t go through all of these and, if they do,  probably not in a set order.  

After George’s death, I was drowning in denial but don’t remember bargaining.   If I did experience anger, it was transient and certainly not against George for leaving me.   And I also experienced stages she didn’t include, the first of those being goofiness.  

My favorite color is yellow, the color of sunshine and flowers and, for me, healing and joy.    When my friend Ellen sends me a gift or flowers, she always chooses yellow.  I adored my yellow car.  I felt positive  driving it and could always find it in a parking lot which cut down on stress.   Although it’s not a good color on me, yellow tops and shirts fill the closet because they cheer me up.  Yes, I love yellow.  Always have.

George’s choices of colors were, well, boring to me.  He liked dark green, gray-blue, beige and other earth tones.  When I wanted to buy a light-colored sofa, he reminded me what three cocker spaniels would do to that.  He was right.  Nonetheless, after he died, I needed yellow.  Yes, needed yellow!  Yearned for it, craved the warmth of my favorite color.  I bought two yellow throws on-line, picked up two floral pillows to replace the matching dark green pillows of the love seat, pulled out the yellow towels to replace the blue.   Then I bought bright art.   I replaced a small picture in the guest bathroom with a map of the United States in yellow and orange and bright primary colors.  I bought a 3 x 3 hanging with a yellow background.  

Then, after a  week,  I didn’t need it anymore.  I feel slightly embarrassed about that map now.  It would look great in the room of a five-year-old.  I don’t know what the saying  on that wall hanging is because I never put it.  It now lives in a closet. 

But I needed to do this.  For a few days, I needed to be weird and goofy and crazy.   The yellow throws got me through those days of intense pain, lifted my spirits in the way dark green didn’t. 

For me, goofiness was definitely a stage in healing.  I haven’t arrived at complete acceptance but am moving in that direction.  I’ve gone through gone-ness, curiosity, and shame as well and plan to share them with you.  The point of this blog is that we all grieve in different ways.

Would you share how you’ve handled grief?  Have you felt goofy at any time during the process?

I never had a dog

I never had a dog growing up.  The family dog was given away when I was born–that’s in a much earlier blog.  I don’t know if my brother ever forgave me for that.  I wasn’t nearly as cute as the Scotties that were so popular back then.    My younger sister had a short-lived turtle named Tillie and a shorter-lived parakeet she named Budgie.  Miracle of miracles, I did get a cat when I was in    eighth grade but I never had a dog.

But George had grown up with dogs.  When he was in seminary, his sister gave him a puli, which is a Hungarian sheep dog.  She raised them.  Smart creatures, smarter than their owner plus prehensile paws.  She could wrap my arm in her paw and drag it to exactly where she wanted me to scratch.  She was grey and furry and just a darling.  (But she looked nothing like the gorgeous picture of a beautifully groomed  puli at the beginning of this blog.)  My first dog–and I had no idea what one did with a dog.  This is a picture of twenty-five year old George with his dog. 

Andy–her real name was something fancy like Andromeda of Sunny Brook Farm but she was just Andy, the runt of the litter.  Because I’d not had a dog before, I was amazed at her loyalty.  She wanted to go wherever I went.  She wanted to sleep with us.  She loved me unconditionally.

We had a double bed.  Andy took up a great deal of it.   One stormy night, Andy work me up.  I thought she needed to go out so I put on my rain coat, snapped the leash on her and took her outside.  She looked at me with confusion on her fuzzy face but did her business.    An hour later, she woke me up again.   The same thing happened: I got up, took her out, she looked confused but was a good dog.  I got little sleep that night because she woke me up every hour.  Remember, I had no experience with dogs.  I just knew I was worn out.  George explained the next morning that she was probably afraid of the storm.  She didn’t want to go outside.  She wanted to be loved and protected–inside but, nonetheless, she went out into the storm because I wanted her to.

Andy had one friend, a dachshund.  the two of them would run around the parsonage full steam.  However,   the dachshund had little short legs, so Andy would lap him.  I still remember Andy’s  romping,  happier than any creature who’s ever lived.

Being a lovely, sweet creature, she forgave me all my sins.  She adored me.  She followed me everywhere.  Since then, we’ve had Bridgette, Ginger, Pepper, Daffy, and Dream, but Andy was the first.  Now I live in a apartment and miss everyone of them.  I’ll be remembering them and sharing their stories every now and then. 

Do you have a story about a pet you’d like to share?  I’d love to hear it. 

What I did for love

You have probably guessed this is not going to be a confession about my secret life because you know I don’t have a secret life.  No, as usual, this is about our pets.

We had the carpet taken up and replaced by wood a few months ago.  I had no idea how dull and dark and bare  the room would look without the lighter carpet.   So I bought a rug.  Before I could unroll it and put it down,  Scooter–the fuzzy boy cat–walked to the middle of where I’d planned to put the rug, started hacking, and threw up.   I took the rug back because, obviously Mr. Scooter made it very clear he doesn’t want one.  The first thing I did for love.  Of course, I didn’t want to have to scrub it either.

When we got our first dog many, many years ago, George and I had a double bed.   The dog took up one third, George took up half which left 1/6 of the bed for me.   I demanded a queen-sized bed.    That lasted until we got three cocker spaniels.  Small dogs but even three small dogs take up a lot of room on the bed.   We bought a king.   The second thing I did for love:  give up half of my side to whatever dog we had.  Fortunately, the cats don’t demand that much.

My sister-in-law called a few minutes ago and asked why my Tuesday blog wasn’t up.  I explained I’d forgotten  today was Tuesday (please see earlier blog on this subject) because yesterday was a holiday.   To calm her, I told her I had a title and an idea and promised  it would be up soon.   She said that what she does for love is take her dog for a walk when it’s raining or snowing.  I’m impressed by that.

How do you spoil your pets?  Please share.  It always makes me feel so much better to know I’m not alone.

Wayne Barnett: A true and dear friend

I’ve often said that my husband George was the best man I ever knew, but Wayne Barnett is a pretty close second.  The friendship between George and Wayne stated at church camp in 1958 when they were in high school.  George lived in Pewee Valley;  Wayne, in Cropper.   They were reunited on their first day at Transylvania College in 1960. 

In 1963, on a retreat, George fell from a cliff into the hard mud of a creek and broke his back.  Doctors predicted he would not survive.  He did but a difficult recovery lay ahead.  Dr. Perrine hired Wayne to live with George and push him in his wheelchair.  Since Transylvania and most of Lexington—and, indeed, most of the world–had yet to adapt buildings and curbs that were wheelchair friendly, George and Wayne were almost like conjoined twins, rarely separated.

After George’s graduation his dad purchased a home where George and Wayne lived while attending Lexington Theological Seminary.  Wayne married LaDonna on June 4, 1966, with George performing the ceremony.  George and I married two weeks later with Wayne as best man.  Both graduated, were ordained, and began their full-time ministers.  They wrote sporadically, visited a few times when George returned to visit family in Kentucky, and saw each other at church assemblies.  After retirement, they renewed and deepened that friendship with several visits between Northern Kentucky and Austin, Texas. With George a huge fan of the University of Louisville and Wayne a long-time Kentucky fan, basketball season was filled with teasing and taunting.    They kept up on email.  When George realized how sick he was in October, 2012, I email Wayne and asked him to call George, to help keep his spirits up.  Wayne called at least weekly, every one of them a joyous event for George.

All of his life George battled health issues and had numerous surgeries.  On January 31,  2013, the doctors operated again.  Everything seemed to go well, but after the surgery, he couldn’t breathe.  Although brought back, George never fully recovered. s

In February, when George knew he was dying he scribbled his last message, “Call, Wayne.”  He wanted the man he considered a brother to be with him.   Of course Wayne came.  I never doubted he would.  He left for Austin the next day and stayed until 18 days until after George’s funeral March 5.  I’m grateful because he supported me and helped with decisions regarding George’s health care but I’m most grateful because this best of all friends came when George asked him, no questions. No excuses.  No delay.  Wayne came and was here for George as he always had been.

On March 2, the day George died  and although George was probably too sedated to know this, the Wildcat fan watched a UofL basketball game in the hospital room and cheered for George’s Cards against Syracuse.  Then he watched George being taken off life support with George’s sister, Diane, and me.  He cried with us. 

As sick as Wayne was with some bug he picked up in the hospital, he attended the Monday evening visitation, coughing his lungs out.  Fortunately, he got a prescription that night.  He didn’t cough during the funeral but was there to remember George. 

Wayne was George’s best friend, always there to love and care for and support and joke with him.  I will always admire and appreciation your loyalty and friendship, Wayne.   You truly are a fine Christian man.  Thank you.

George and his donkey

Sometimes Monday evenings are difficult because I put my “major” blog up on Tuesday and have to come up with something. 

In reference to my blog, major doesn’t mean spectacular.  It’s like the prophets in the Bible which are divided into two categories:  major prophets and minor prophets.   How does a book become major?   It’s all based on length.   The longer books are major.    The short are minor.    That’s a lot like my blog posts.   The longer one is on Tuesday; the shorter, on Friday.

The reason I’m madly searching for a topic to writer this major post is that I had one ready to go but needed an okay which I haven’t received.  Maybe next week.

For that reason, I’m going to discuss George, the donkeys and Palm Sunday.  Not a timely topic but it’s all I have and I’d forget it by next spring.

When George was associate minister at First Christian Church in Louisville, KY–which is really in Prospect, KY, but that’s not our discussion for today.  He felt a donkey should lead the procession on Palm Sunday.  It’s not easy to find a donkey without connections to the donkey set but he did and was so excited.  Everyone at church was excited until late Saturday evening, the owner of the little creature called and said, “Your donkey has the flu.”   I cannot describe how disappointed George way.  He said if he ever wrote an autobiography, the title would be, “Your Donkey Has the Flu.”

The next year, he found a healthy creature,  We processed at the Christian Church, then the donkey walked across the highway to the Episcopal Church to lead their procession.

In the church in Burnet, TX, George found a donkey named George.  Palm Sunday mornings were a little confusing.  Shout “George” and who knew who’d turn up?   The donkey George seemed like a placid little animal.  He allowed children to rub his nose and adults to wander around it–at least, until James, who was playing the part of Jesus, tried to sit on top of him.  Then the donkey George reacted.   Not happy with someone on his back, he took off with James hanging on.

If you’ve read my book THE MATCHMAKERS OF BUTTERNUT CREEK, you know that I used this scene.  In reality, the donkey only moved a few yards before he was captured and James was saved.  I made it a lot worse but that’s what writers do.

After that, Palm Sunday was celebrated with only waving palms.  No more donkeys.

Help! I bought a new computer and I can’t set it up!

Actually, what I wrote in the title isn’t true.  I have much of it set up but still have some glitches.  I was on the phone for an hour this morning with MOZY to get my files transferred from one to the other and need to talk to them more,  then AOL, and then the Apple store.  Maybe by next week I’ll figure out how to do everything on the iMac.

The reason for the change is that my PC is sooooooooooo slow loading and was freezing up all the time and I had to restart two or three times a week, usually completely wiping out the most beautiful sentences ever written in the English language.    My friends with Macs tell me they never freeze.

George was always pushing me to upgrade.  Without him, I still would be using an Apple IIE.    We started in 1981 with a TI (Texas Instrument for you young ‘uns) which save to a tape recorder.  No pictures only words on the screen.    A few years later, we started on Apples but by 1993, we’d switched over to PCs because of the software.  And I fought George every step because I was comfortable with the previous models.

And now I have an iMac which I don’t now how to use.

But I’m sure I’ll be a much better writer.  Perhaps now I can work on that proposal and first twenty-five pages my agents has requested with out cursing (but only in the nicest, least nasty words) because I can’t finished the sentence without restarting.    I hate to pretend that’s the reason I haven’t done the proposal but it’s as good an explanation as any.  I can only hope she’s note reading this.

I’m writing this blog on the old PC because I can’t figure out how to get into the backdoor on my blog on the new computer.  Someday I will.  Nor can I figure out how to save pictures–someday I will.

Which do you prefer?  A PC or a MAC?  Why?    Please tell me all the hassle with the iMac is worth it.  I’d feel so much better.

Obnoxious and anxious

Knowing how much I love University of Louisville basketball and that George and I used to watch every game together, two lovely couples from church each  invited me to watch the Louisville/Wichita State  game with them on Saturday.    I do have wonderful friends and want to express my deep appreciation to Rhonda and Drew, Karen and Bob.  However, I turned both couples down.

I’m a terrible person to watch basketball with.   Much of this comes from my father who was a huge University of Kansas fan.  He took me to nearly every KU basketball and football game from the time I was three or four until I left for college and Kansas State.    He was the most pessimistic fan I’ve ever known.   When the Jayhawks were thirty points ahead and the opponents hit a basket, he’d say,”Oh, we’re going to lose this one.  We’ve blown it.”       Heredity or nurture,  I don’t know but I’m the same way.    I don’t know why I want my Cards to do well because the better they do, the farther they go in a tournament, the more miserable I am during the game.  Close games are nerve wracking.  There are no leads big enough to calm me.  I go outside.  I move to another room.  I play computer games or do crossword puzzles.   I change channels and watch House Hunters International for ten minutes before going back to check the score.   And, when Payton steals a ball or Russ drives, I will rewind and replay that, even four or five times so I can see how the play happened.

No one wants to spend a few hours with a person like me.  And, to tell you the truth, I don’t want to watch with anyone because then I’d have to behave.    When George and I watched together, I did behave.  Oh, I still moved around and did crossword puzzles, but he held on the the remote so I couldn’t watch a play over and over .  He did NOT allow me to change channels.

So, again, thank you, dear friends.  I hope you’ll watch and cheer for Louisville but you truly do not want me around.

Seeking your opinion

My friend Ellen assures me that pets feel the emotion of their owners and react.

Okay, I accept that about dogs.   Our Pepper would run whenever she thought George and I were about to argue because she could feel the tension between us.  Many a fight ended before it started because we laughed when she took off down the hall.    Our Dreamer would get on my lap and quiver when I cried.  She never did any other time.

But cats?  Ellen assures me they do and I might believe her now.  

We have two incredibly spoiled tuxedo cats (I may have mentioned them before).   Maggie hasn’t slept with us for years and Scooter only bothered George at night.   But during the last weeks of George’s latest and last illness,  both cats slept with me.  It wasn’t a matter of there being more space on the bed.  They cuddled with me.  Scooter used my legs as a pillow and Maggie slept against my side.   This lasted for two weeks after George died when they quit.  

So what do you think?   Did the cats pick up on my sadness and worry?  Were they comforting me?    I think so.  I believe they were using their warm little bodies to keep me warm, to keep me company.   It helped.

And here’s a picture of Kansas State’s Rodney McGrudder

Please continue to pray

On January 31, George had surgery.  Afterward, he could not breathe.  He had pneumonia.   After a week of treatment, he was released to a skilled nursing center which didn’t take care of him.  When he returned to the hospital six days later, he was admitted into ICU on life support, very sick.

People say to me, “He’s the finest man I know.”  He is.  Please keep prayers and loving  thoughts headed toward Texas.