Waiting for Gilligan-Part I

7/31/14 

We are at Hahnemann Hospital in Philadelphia for the second day of Ron’s ketamine infusions and I am pretty much done the school work I have brought for the 5 hour wait. Now I am reading, knitting, and writing. The knitting is a shawl begun last week at Bethany beach and is almost finished, the book is Marian Cohen’s Dirty Details, and the writing is this, my ever-present journal which sometimes transfers to my blog but may just as often stay trapped inside the paper covers. An orange “CRPS” awareness bracelet –a gift from Danielle’s mother this morning—is on my right wrist. I read some of Dani’s blog last night, a cheerful account of her own battle with complex regional pain syndrome. When I saw Dani yesterday, after her treatment, she was not so cheerful but was in intense pain. On the way up in the elevator this morning, Dani’s mother commented, “It is so hard to have an ill child.” I nodded in agreement, knowing that having an ill spouse is no picnic either. As we exited the elevator and steered our patients towards the infusion room, she asked me, “What do people do who have no caregivers?”

No idea.

I do know that I am, in this waiting room off of Broad Street, finding other Well Spouses—or well parents—and benefitting from the shared experiences. Despite whatever initial event –accident, surgery, stroke—brought them to this place, we all share a hard-won knowledge: no one is coming to rescue us.

Most of us felt, in the early days of our journey as well spouses or care-givers, that surely this could not now be our lives! It had to be a cruel joke, this sudden thrust of total responsibility for another’s care and feeding. Far different than suddenly being sent home with a new baby to cuddle, the people we came home from hospitals with were ill, sullen, demanding, and messy. There were no cute smiles or gurgles, no playing “this little piggy” with feet often too painful to wear shoes, no welcoming gifts in pink or blue paper.

“This cannot be it!” we all thought. “Surely we will get help. Surely the—fill in the blank here with universe, God, government, hospital, the good people at State Farm—will not allow this sorry condition to continue.” So, at the beginning, we fulfilled our given roles as caregivers as cheerfully as we could, convinced it would be temporary. We would, sooner or later, be rescued. Like those castaways on Gilligan’s Island, we lived in hope.

It was not so bad, at the beginning. We got some help from friends and neighbors, people at work or at church. They would stop by now and again, bringing a hot meal or offering to do a load of laundry. It is what I came to think of as the “novelty phase.” Just as new grandmas are eager to help out the exhausted new mother, people came.

But a chronic illness does not go away. The well-meaning, good people with casserole dishes go back to their own lives. “Call if you need help,” they say in parting. And we caregivers nod, knowing that we will never make the call. There will be no rescue.

Cohen, in Dirty Details, admits to having tantrums when she realized that rescue would never come. My method of dealing with it all was different: I accepted every burden, every messy task, every indignity as my due. Retribution, perhaps, for some forgotten sin. I suffered for years in a strained silence, waiting for rescue, praying for rescue, but never asking.

I would pass fellow teachers in the hallway and wonder why they did not see my Well Spouse status and offer me—I don’t know—an out? An arm? A prayer? Something. Anything.

But Well Spouses have what Cohen calls an “invisible disability.” When we are with our Ill Spouses, helping them negotiate walkers down hallways, someone will open a door or offer to carry a bag. But without our Ill Spouses by our sides, no one can see our disability. We are still disabled, still working too many hours to support a family that used to have two incomes, still going home to cook dinner and change the catheter bag, relieve the day nurse, run the vacuum cleaner, make a meal our Ill Spouses can digest, run endless loads of smelly laundry, then collapse into a boneless heap after our Ill Spouses are settled for the night, knowing that a solid night’s uninterrupted sleep is a myth.

If only, as Cohen states, the would-be rescuers would not wait to be called but would offer substantive help, such as, “I’m coming over on Thursday night to watch the game with Ron, so take the evening off”, or “I’m headed to the market on Monday. Give me your list”, or “I made two roasts last night and I am dropping one off.”

Some of these things have happened from time to time and I have been grateful. I do not mean to complain. But my Ill Spouse’s problem is not an appendectomy that will be healed. Ron is, like so many, chronically ill and has been for fourteen years. We deal with the after-effects of the accident—TBI, CRPS, COPD, atonic bladder, depression—on a daily basis. We have come to accept them as members of the family, here to stay.

Here is where I, along with Cohen, make the impossible wish; all of you who are friends of the long-suffering Well Spouse or Well Parent need to get together and work it out. Not a once a year benefit to pay for out-of-pocket medical expenses—although it would be nice if even one of Ron’s $225 ketamine treatments could be covered—but on a permanent basis. Offer, say, to do the marketing once a month or clean my house every second Tuesday or visit Ron during the World Series. Take my Ill Spouse to the barber every six weeks or maybe buy us dinner on a day with an “e” in its name. Anything, as long as it is consistent and done willingly—not out of guilt—without waiting for the Well Spouse to pick up the phone.

Because a woman or man who works sixty hours a week at three jobs, who spends  evenings doing housework and laundry and caring for the Ill Spouse, who tries to squeeze in some church ministry, who can only do any writing before the sun rises, is not going to pick up the phone and call you. There is just no time.

So, like those castaways on Gilligan’s Island, we know there will be no rescue. But we continue to look for that search plane in the sky, the one that will finally and forever take us off the Island of the Well Spouse.

Just Being: At the Beach. Part I.

I love the beach. It is the place in the world where I feel the calmest; the lap of the waves, the call of the seagulls, the scent of the salt water all bring me back to happy childhoods romping in the surf at Rehoboth, not a care in the world. Even in those years when trips to the beach meant dragging baby equipment, sand toys, and a cooler full of juice boxes, the peace to be found at the ocean's edge was worth the price.

Yesterday, I wasn't so sure.

Bethany Beach is different than Rehoboth and has a parking system best described as odd. First you need to find a "Park-o-matic" machine, plug in your credit card, and receive your time-stamped ticket. THEN you wander around, looking for a place to put your vehicle. At Rehoboth, it was not unusual to dump kids and spouse at the boardwalk with accouterments, then drive to the third block back before finding a suitable spot. I assumed--erroneously, it turned out--that the situation at Bethany would be the same.

First of all, unloading a disabled spouse with a walker is not the same as unloading active toddlers with strollers and diaper bags. It's harder. You can pick up a toddler and tuck him under an arm; you cannot in any way hurry along a disabled spouse. Just getting Ron's Rollator out of the trunk of the car requires more arm muscle than God intended women to have. Once that was out and Ron was settled on the seat, I lugged out the beach umbrella, chair, towels, and cooler. Then, with a jaunty wave, I was off to find a parking spot.

This is not a quest for the faint-hearted. Only the first block of Bethany, as I soon discovered, is for the sun-seekers. The other blocks are given over to residents and businesses. By 11:45, most spots were already taken. (I blame this squarely on Ron, who is not a morning person. I, as the world knows, am. I could have been on the beach at 6AM.) After 20 minutes of our allotted two hours, I found a spot about four blocks from where I had left my husband. Then I walked back and began the fun part of the day: getting Ron and his walker to the sand.

I scooped up all the equipment and dumped it in a spot as close to the ocean as I could get, burning my feet along the way and leaving Ron perched on the Rollator at the end of the wooden path. Then I went back to help Ron, valiantly trying to push the darn walker through the sand. Not to be. Finally, I folded the walker up and carried it on one arm while Ron leaned on the other. Okay, now you have the image. Me, with my 350 pound husband on one arm and his 30 pound walker on the other. We finally made it to where I had dumped our stuff and when I began to struggle to put up the umbrella, a tanned and blonde young fellow came to help. Blessings on you, young sir. Someday, you, too, will be old.

I settled Ron into his seat with a sandwich and a coke, and sat in my own beach chair with an iced tea for a few moments of quiet. Ahhh. There is , as my mother often pointed out to me, no such thing as rest for a woman, so as soon as Ron had wolfed down his sandwich, he wanted to go sit by the water's edge. Now the beach at Bethany has what is best described as a cliff that drops off to the water's edge. I was contemplating how to manage this feat of strength when Ron called on a young fellow sitting near us for help. Vacationers are generally nice people, so while the young fellow carried the Rollator to the surf, his girlfriend and I help to steady Ron down the cliff.

Ron was settled and said he would be okay for a while, so I climbed back up the cliff to the umbrella and my novel. I gave the nice young folks a brief explanation: "He was in a car accident 14 years ago. He's had 26 surgeries and he's frequently in the hospital." The lovely girl puts a hand to her chest and gave a gasp. Then, because they are young and tanned and in love and because Ron and I were once all those things, too, I went on. "We've been married 37 years. You don't give up on someone because they are ill."

"Of course not," said the girl. She gave her boyfriend a steady look.

"For better or worse," I said and smiled.

They both nodded, this golden couple on this golden day, and the girl touched my shoulder. "Good for you," she said. "Good for you."

And so for a few moments out of what has been an incredibly long journey, there is not pain or hospitals or classes to teach or bills to pay. There is just me and the ocean, listening to its soothing sound as I sit not reading my novel, just for a short space of time being.

Good for me.

Daddy's Little Girl

She was trying to be okay about it. Fine, she said, if Dad can't come to the rehearsal, it'll be okay. But I really, really hope he can make it on Saturday.

I really hoped so, too, but when you are dealing with regional chronic pain disorder, traumatic brain injury, and the after-effects of a years-ago car accident, the future cannot be predicted. The doctors call it the trifecta of ailments, all of which we have dealt with for fourteen years. It makes life chaotic and messy. In fact, just two days ago, her father was at the doctor's office with symptoms if a urinary tract infection. And just two weeks ago, he was flat on his back at Hahnemann Hospital for ketamine infusion in a last-ditch attempt to give him some relief from the pain disorder.

He'll be here if he can, I assured her. I just called home and he's resting.

She nodded, her mind occupied with other things on this last day before her wedding. At least my  brothers will be here, she said. And you.

And your wonderful fiance, I reminded her. The most important ingredient to any wedding. She smiled at his mention, an action that had happened very naturally over the last two years whenever she heard his name.  He was the one she had waited and prayed for. Now, on the eve of their wedding, I was
determined to let nothing mar her happiness.

Remember what your brothers told him, I reminded her. No take-backs.

Yes, she said, they are anxious to get rid of me. She was joking, of course. Her two brothers--one older, one younger--had thoroughly scrutinized the wonderful fiance and declared him acceptable husband material for their sister. They had each confided to me that they would do all they can to make her wedding day a happy one, even if their father was absent.

It's sweet that the boys will walk you down the aisle, I said. Months ago, she had realized that there was no way her father would be able to walk the length of the church with her on his arm. She had recruited her brothers to "tag team" her to the altar, where her father would--if he as able--be waiting to give her over in marriage.

Our family had somehow adjusted around the catastrophic accident that almost ended their father's life. The boys often played father to their sister, just as she and her older brother filled in as substitute parents for the younger boy when hospitalizations and long, long surgeries kept me away from home and sitting in the plastic chair of a hospital waiting room. It was, we often acknowledged, a different sort of family. And different, she would remind me, don't mean bad.

But it did mean absences sometimes and while her brother played the part at the rehearsal of giving her in marriage, I knew her heart longed for her father, her daddy. Not the one that shuffled and limped and got his words mixed up. Not the one that was in the hospital more often than not. Not the one that was missing that night, but the one that she had grown up with, the one that coached her softball league and taught her to ride a bike and took her to the Father-Daughter middle school dance.

She and I stayed in a hotel over night, counting on the younger brother to get Dad to the church on time. I called home as she showered. Okay? I asked my husband.

I'm coming, he said. I'm getting dressed now. I crossed my fingers and my toes and said a little prayer. I had laid out his wedding clothes the day before, pressed and neat.

She was in the bride room when he arrived, looking better than he had in days. I pinned a boutonniere onto his jacket and kissed his check. There were still faint traces of the man I had married 37 years ago and I squeezed his arm.

Wait until you see her, I said. She looks beautiful.

Just like her mother, he said. I blushed. His sons helped him to the front of the church where he sat in the first pew, waiting. I returned to check on the bride one last time. The prelude started and, on the arm of my oldest son, I made my own way down the aisle, sitting behind my husband and putting a hand on his shoulder. The bridesmaids came next, and I stood when she--the bride--came to the door on the arm of her younger brother. Slowly, carefully, he led her to the middle, where her older brother offered her his arm. With an effort, her father remained standing. I saw him tremble and prayed he would have the strength to do this.

They arrived at the front, my two oldest children, and the boy helped his father to his feet, then slipped into the pew next to his girlfriend. The bride stood with her hand in her father's left hand. In his right hand, he held onto the bridegroom, the man who would, from this day forward, care for the daughter.

Who gives this woman to be married to  this man? asked the minister and without hesitation--because he knew all along that this young man was the right one for his precious little girl--he said Her mother and I do.
Slowly, my hand guiding him, he joined me in the second pew. My brother, in the pew behind us, helped my husband sit down.

The wedding was, as weddings are supposed to be, perfect. I am certain things went wrong, but none of it mattered. All that mattered were the two at the front, exchanging vows and promising to be with each other through sickness and health. I held my husband's hand. We knew something about that promise. In a matter of minutes, our daughter became a wife. She beamed her brightest smile.

You did great, I said to my husband. Just great.

I'm going to dance with her, he said. I promised her I would.

I tried to dissuade him. How would he ever get up onto the platform with her to dance? But he remained determined. He would give her this gift. I resigned myself to it. I had lived with this stubborn man a long time. Perhaps his damaged brain would forget the promise.

After the wedding party entered the church hall, after the announcements had been made, after the bride and the groom shared their first dance as husband and wife, the bridesmaid whose husband was in charge of the music whispered to my husband. Do you want it played?

Yes, he said and nodded. Slowly, painfully, he rose from his seat and, assisted by a good friend, managed the steps to the platform. And there he took his daughter in his arms and danced in small steps to Butterfly Kisses. She, the happy bride, cried and buried her face into his shoulder.

She was dancing with her Daddy.

A Tale of Three Dresses

A note to the reader: This was written on 8/1/13. 

"My heart is beating so fast," she says as she slits open the box. I--and only I--have been invited up to her room to share this moment. She puts her hand on her chest and her lovely face pales, making the freckles that Jared loves stand out clearly. Angel kisses. I sit on the edge of her unmade bed, forcing myself to ignore the piles of clothes strewn about the room, and sink into this moment.

The box pops open, revealing a froth of white. She gasps-oh!- and carefully, almost reverently, lifts out the contents. Yards of white chiffon spill onto the floor, topped by a beaded bodice and frothy sleeves. "This," she says dramatically, "is the dress I will wear when I marry Jared."

Quickly, she sheds her work uniform, anxious to have the miracle of the dress against her skin. Shirt and pants are kicked aside and she steps into the pool of chiffon, carefully pulling it up and slipping her arms into the sleeves.

Perfect. Despite two panicky phone calls necessitated by her inaccurate measurements--done while I was away on business and she too eager to wait--the dress fits her perfectly. "Try on the sandals," I suggest, and she kicks off her clogs and slides her feet into the white rose-trimmed flip flops she will wear because, "I hate dressing up."

But here she is, busily fussing with her hair and describing what she wants:just a simple flower and maybe some netting on the right side. I agree that her hair should be up and loose, the way Jared likes it, the way that makes her look twenty-one instead of thirty-four, the way that makes one forget she has seen more than her share of pain.

"What do you think?" she asks and spins.

I clap my hands together. "Beautiful," I say. "It is just exactly right." She grins and turns back to the mirror.

Just exactly right. And it is, both the dress and the man. Jared has never given me a moment's worry, and I cannot say that about others she has dated. Deeply moral and old-fashioned, Jared puts God before all other things in his life, but Bonnie runs a close second. He will not only spend his life loving my daughter, he will honor her as well.

We begin to talk of practical things. The hem needs to come up and inch or two so she will not trip her way down the aisle, and the bodice is a bit lose and needs a few small tucks. "I have nothing up here," she says regretfully. "Wait until you have kids," I say. She smiles. She possibility of children is once more in her life.

Reluctantly, she peels the dress from her shoulders and we tuck it neatly back into its bag. There is a span of eleven months between now and the wedding day. "I will become Mrs. Jared Widger in this dress," she says and even though she is an independent woman, a strong woman, a woman of the 21st century, there is an old fashioned sentiment to her words. She wants to be a Mrs.

Her room--my once and future office--is woefully short on closet space. The small closet was made into a bookcase for my many volumes on literacy and reading. The books have been relocated to a corner of the dining room--my current office space--and her yarn collection and uniforms fill the shelves. "I'll hang it in the back of my closet," I say. She nods and gives the dress a farewell pat. "Soon," she says to it.

Carefully, I carry the wonderful dress into my own bedroom and shove open my closet doors. I make a space in the book and hang up the dress that will take her into her new life. I will get my office back. I know that this move back home is only temporary. She and Jared want to pay for the wedding themselves and save towards a house. She is here, she points out, with an exit plan. For now, I am blessed to share these moments with her. They will not last.

There are two other wedding dresses hanging in my closet. One is mine, a heavy sateen with long sleeves and an empire waist worn for an October wedding more than thirty years ago. It is "old-fashioned", she has declared, and something she would never wear. But I keep it anyway. My marriage to her father has not been easy. Even now, a variety of maladies keeps him from enjoying his family. From time to time, I expend some energy on trying to move him along, but the effort is mostly wasted. I pray a lot. Right now I pray that he will be strong enough and well enough to walk his daughter down the aisle.

She shrugs and says that she has two brothers to pinch hit, but I know that it is really her Daddy that she wants, the daddy she remembers coaching her softball team and digging sand castles at the beach.

There is yet another wedding dress in this closet, much fancier than the one that just arrived. This one was crafted--there is no other word--from embroidered lace and netting and brushed jersey, trimmed with lavender ribbons and pouf-ed out by many layers of petticoats. It was a combination of three patterns she liked, and sewn together on my mother's old machine. It, too, will never be worn again. I think sometimes of cutting it up into something useful or giving it away, but it is hard to part with something into which my daughter and I infused so much of ourselves. We spent hours and hours on the dress, and it held her hopes for her first marriage. The dress is now stowed away in a plastic box. Up until a year ago, it seemed that she had stowed her dreams there as well.


I brush my hand over the new wedding dress before I shut the door. He dreams have been transferred. After five years of sadness, of declaring she would never marry again, of keeping herself in a very small and safe existence, she is envisioning a future with a husband and a home and a family.

"Ten years ago," she says, and I realize she has followed me into my bedroom, "I married Bill. I am wiser and stronger now. I will wear that dress, and I will marry Jared, and this is the marriage that will last forever." She gives me a hug. "Thank you," she says.

I am not entirely sure what she is thanking me for. Hanging her dress? Providing her with a home? Listening to her plans? All of the above?

"You are always welcome," I say. I think of the three wedding dresses sharing space in the back of my closet. Each has been a journey, often leading onto unexpected roads. Each has led to this angel-kissed daughter.

"Let's get some ice cream," I say. And, arm in arm, we leave the dresses for another day, for June 28 when she will begin a new life.

In a perfect dress.

To my daughter: How to be incredible

It is one of our last days driving home from the city together; in less than two weeks, Bonnie will marry Jared and begin her own commute from his apartment in Springfield. She is chattering on about the wedding, and her students, and things she is worried about. I am half-listening because sometimes it is just best to let her spin instead of trying to make sense of it all. I am still trying to reach the MICU nursing station at Hahnemann, where my husband is receiving ketamine infusion treatments. But then my daughter says something that makes me put my cell phone away.

"I don't think I can do it," she says. I am on high alert now. Do what? What part of the dialogue
 have I missed? What can't she do? Marry Jared? Teach special needs students? Finish her degree?

Casually, I try to pick up the thread. "You never know until you try," I say.

She shakes her head, her ponytail moving from side to side. Her freckles stand out from her pale face. "I just don't think I can do what you have done. What you do."

I want to laugh with relief. "Not everyone needs to get a doctorate, " I say. "Or teach college."

"Not that," she says. "What you do with Dad. How you take care of him and all of us. How you have for years. Frankly," and she shakes the ponytail again, "I don't know how you do it. You are the strongest woman I know, but I don't think I could ever be that strong."

It is hard to know how to respond. Certainly, in the last fourteen years, much has been required of me. It is not easy--and never has been--to take care of Ron's physical needs, work to support us all, and provide for the kids as well. I work too many hours and have too little rest, but I somehow manage to be there for each of my family members. I am pleased that my daughter recognizes what I have done. But have I set the bar impossibly high?

"I didn't know I could do it," I remind her quietly. "When Dad was first injured, when everything first fell onto me, I was certain I would crack in two. But God gave me strength I didn't know I had."

I hear the tears in her voice. "I love Jared so much," she says, "that I do not think I could stand to see him injured or in pain."

Immediately, I am transported back to March 1, 2000, and the recovery room at Crozer Hospital where Ron lay after the surgery, so still and gray he might have been carved from marble. I reached out to touch him, but there were tubes and monitors everywhere. My knees buckled and Pastor Lou grabbed my arm. "You can do this," he said. And I did. I found a spot by my husband's left shoulder and touched it lightly, then bent and kissed his dry lips. We were told that Ron would be hospitalized for several weeks, but would likely make a full recovery.

Fourteen years and twenty-six surgeries later, and I am still leaning on Lou's words: You can do this.

I clear my throat. "I don't do it alone," I say. "God gives me what I need."

She looks at me for a moment, then turns her eyes back to the road. "See," she says, "you and I look alike and talk alike. But I think I'm more like Dad in some ways. I don't know that I could trust God to get me through what you've had to do. I think I would crumble."

"I thought I would, too," I say. "I still do, sometimes. And I am not saying it is easy, Bonnie. I am saying that with God all things are possible." I try to remind her of her own strength that has seen her through heartache and loss, of the love she shares with Jared that will strengthen them both. But she remains unconvinced. Our conversation moves onto other things and eventually we are home and she is heading off to meet her fiance. She kisses me first. "I love you so much," she says. "You are an incredible woman."

I watch her drive away, a wave of emotions hitting me with scenes and sounds from the last few years. As I walk into the house, I become convinced of this: she will be strong enough for whatever life brings her way. She herself needs to know this.

So, this is for her, my beautiful daughter, light of my life. I may be the strongest woman she knows, but she is the strongest one I know.

Dearest Bonnie,

Your strength does not come from your freckles or your blue eyes or your wonderful laugh. These are things that attracted Jared to you, but what he fell in love with was much, much deeper. It is your faith and your trust that makes you the woman that you are, the woman he wants as his wife. He, with a disabled father, knows as well as anyone that life has no guarantees. The only thing we can count on is God and our love for each other.

I pray that you never need to experience the ongoing illness of your husband. I pray that he will continue to be strong and healthy, but I cannot promise you that it will be that way. We live in a world in which accidents--such as red pickup trucks running red lights--happen. People we love get hurt.

I have no doubt at all that God will equip you with whatever you need, whenever you need it. I believe it because I have seen it. I have seen you take over as Allen's mother when Dad was first injured, making sure that he had supper and did his homework. I have had you by my side throughout many of Dad's surgeries. I have seen you share your deep faith in God with those who came to inspect our knitting and crocheting as we sat in many waiting rooms. I have seen you through the heartache of loss of a dream and a home and a job. I have seen you turn to God to help you rebuild your life and allow yourself to love again.

I know you better than anyone else does. I knew you before you took your first breath. And I know, without any doubt at all, that you are strong and capable. I know that your love for both God and Jared will allow you to do things you do not think you can do. I know that you will face the unknown future holding tightly to your husband and your faith.


I wish--oh, how I wish!--that I could promise you light and roses and all good things. I wish I could protect your from the evils of the world. I wish I could wrap you in a hand-knitted cocoon of the softest yarn and keep you always safe. But one does not grow in a cocoon and one does not get to experience all the joy that God has for us. 

And here is the secret to being strong, dear daughter. Even in the midst of chaos and tragedy, even as I struggle to help your father with yet another hospitalization, yet another recovery, I have joy in my heart because I do what is right, because I honor my marriage vows, because I continue to trust and believe in God. When we give ourselves in marriage, it is for better and for worse, in sickness and in health. It is a promise that is difficult to keep. While I am sometimes physically exhausted by all that is expected of me, it is always well with my soul.

It will be well with yours as well.

Always and forever, to the moon and back,

Mom

Why the Cowardly Lion Never Married: An Open Letter

May 28, 3014

Dear Bonnie and Jared,

Your wedding is a mere month away! It is hard to  believe that the time has finally arrived for you to take your vows as husband and wife. I have no doubt that you will be very, very happy in your marriage because I know that God has planned your union. In the meantime, there are a few loose ends to tie up. This is one of them.

Several weeks ago, you gave Dad and I a copy of the "Parent Questionnaire" from your pre-marital counseling handbook. We have worked together to fill it out, trying our best to give you what little wisdom we might have to offer from our many years together. But one question stumped us: What one memory or time would we choose to represent the essence of our marriage? It was a tough one; 38 years have brought a myriad of experiences our way. Some good, some not so good. We filled out the rest of the survey with no problem, but the answer to this one eluded us.

Finally, though, we have found that one particular moment in time, in the span of 38 years, that stands out above the rest. And here is that moment, far too rich in memory to fit onto the few lines on the questionnaire, and far too important to share with just the two of you.

On our 25th anniversary, as Bonnie will recall, we had a lovely service to renew our vows and commemorate our commitment to one another. It was special for many reasons, the celebration of our silver wedding just one. It was nine months after Ron's horrific car accident on March 1 of 2000, and Ron had been home and back into the hospital three times. He had undergone 8 major surgeries and had barely survived. He limped from the displacement of his hip, and he had lost almost 50 pounds from problems with his pancreas. But he was alive, and we wanted to celebrate the fact. The kids--Dennis, Bonnie, and Allen--helped us plan a wonderful party and invited everyone we knew.

Ron and I renewed our vows in front of Pastor Lou Tripler; Lou commented on what a miracle it was that Ron had survived, that our marriage had survived. We felt, at that time, as if we had indeed come through the fire. We could not have known that the next 14 years would demand even more of us and our commitment to one another.

Each of the kids did or said something special at the service. Dennis painted a family portrait, the one that hangs in the dining room and in which Allen resembles Austin Powers. Bonnie sang a song and let us know how much her family meant to her. But it was Allen, only 14 at the time, who gave us the word that has come to epitomize our marriage, and that we think should define any marriage.

"Mom and Dad," our youngest said on that day, "from the two of you, I have learned the meaning of the word 'courage.' You have survived Dad's accident and you have stayed together and you have kept all of us together because you have courage. And because you have shown me what courage means, I know that I can have courage, too."

So, we can describe our entire marital experience in one word: Courage. It takes courage, dear ones, to be married and to stay married. It is not for the faint of heart. It takes courage to take on an unknown future, full of possible hills and valleys, to continue holding onto each other's hands and trudging forward, to not get lost in the dark of night. It takes courage to continue to love when love means changing bandages and sitting through surgeries and visiting emergency rooms. It takes courage to both lose and gain what marriage brings.

Joshua 1:6 has this to say about courage: Be strong and of a good courage: for unto this people shalt thou divide for an inheritance the land, which I sware unto their fathers to give them. Often, we think that courage belongs to heroes and soldiers, but courage allows us to fight against the powers that would destroy us and our relationship. It allows us to trust fully in God and the partner he has given to us and to know that, even when times get tough--and they will--, he wants to bless us and our marriage.

I Chronicles 22:13 goes onto say this:Then shalt thou prosper, if thou takest heed to fulfill the statutes and judgments which the LORD charged Moses with concerning Israel: be strong, and of good courage; dread not, nor be dismayed. It is often hard NOT to be discouraged or dismayed! There are so many, many things that can strive to destroy a marriage. As it is a sacred covenant with God, Satan would much prefer marriage not exist! We must remain strong and of good courage to forward God's kingdom AND receive the blessings that a marriage can bring.

So, dear ones, have courage. Take courage from one another. Take courage from God. We hope that, in some way, our life and our marriage has shown you what you really need to make a success of your own union:


Courage.

Flat

Having adult children, particularly if they live at home, does not guarantee restful nights. Both over-20s were out late last night, Bonnie with her fiance at a birthday celebration and Allen at work. I wasn't worried--not really--until 1AM rolled around without nary a word from either of them. Now, Bonnie in particular is wont to call me about,well, anything, but Allen is more forgetful of his cellphone. I'd already headed up to bed and attempted sleep, but the day's cleaning had kicked up my asthma and breathing wasn't going so well.

Enter Bonnie, arriving home around 1:15. I'd moved her phone charger in an attempt at organizing a small space with too many people, and that was the first thing she said: "Hey, where's my phone charger?" Hello to you, too, my dear. And, oh, did I wake you? My kids believe I require no sleep.

A few minutes of chichat later with my about-to-be-married daughter--I'm not really losing a daughter, I'm gaining a bedroom--and I was ready to try sleep again. Try being the operative word.

Ron woke me up a scant 45 minutes later to tell me he thought he heard my cell phone ring. Truth is, Ron could sleep through the eruption of Mt. St. Helens', but I checked the phone anyway, then tried calling Allen's cell. Which I heard ringing in his room. Not good. Just in case you haven't figured it out by now, I keep my cell phone on at night. The reason should be obvious; search and rescue missions often happen after midnight. Ron continued to worry about Allen and, just like magic, the land line rang.

It was Allen's co-worker, Ethan, who is more often than not in need of a ride home. Allen had a blow-out on Baltimore Pike and had no spare. Figures.

Ron is not so great after midnight--he's kind of like a gremlin--so Bonnie and I headed out into the now 3AM gloom, recounting the days she'd worked at Springfield Mall. I'll give her this, she was more concerned than grumpy; spending a whole day with Jared, afore-mentioned fiance, mellows her out. We found Allen without too much trouble, lectured him on the necessity of carrying both a spare tire AND his cell phone, and called it a day. Er, night. We set our alarms for 7AM--the time Allen said the Mobil station across the street opened--and got a little shut-eye. Very little.

The three of us jumped up at 7AM. Perhaps "jump" only really applied to me since none of my kids are what you could call morning people, but there were at least vertical by 8AM. Bonnie headed off to meet Jared for church and I began Part II of Rescue Allen Mission XXV. Okay, I don't really know that I've rescued him that many times, but it feels about right.

Would it surprise you if I said that the repair station did not open until 10? Allen was. Rather than waste one and a half hours, we trucked back down Baltimore Pike into Media, where we found a Just Tires just opening and the additional benefit of a McDonald's with tea and Egg McMuffins across the street. Long story short, this part of it, Just Tires had the right size.

But--and here's where the whole thing gets a bit sticky--we didn't have the rim. Oops. You'd think with that many rescue missions under my belt I would have thought of that, but even my brain has trouble functioning on less than four hours of sleep.

Back to the Springfield Mall parking lot. We had a jack but no handle, although Allen did his darnedest to make due with a screwdriver. I, ever helpful, texted Bonnie so she could know how much fun she was missing. She put me on speaker while Jared tried to offer advice. In the meantime, Allen had convinced the guy at the now-open Mobil station to come on over and help us. After explaining to a mall security guard that we weren't attempting to jack the car, we thought we were on Easy Street.

We were wrong. We were actually on Bumpy Drive because the Mobil guy with the tools wasn't having any better luck than Allen. Finally, he suggested that Allen drive his car--flat tire and all--over to the station. I followed Allen with my hazard lights on, making mean faces at the people who honked their horns and made rude gestures. I am not given to road rage, but I'm a mom with very little sleep. Don't mess with me.

We got to the station, a little shaken but in one piece, but the party had just begun. The station guy--never did get his name but he told us he preferred skiing to mechanics--couldn't get the nuts off the tire, even with his nifty machine. We might, he said, need new nuts and studs. My wallet started aching.

I went in search of a cold drink and a bit of prayer. By the time I returned, the situation had improved a bit and slowly but surely the nuts were coming off, rust and all. Ski guy needed to let the machine cool off in between nuts. So, a mere four hours after Rescue the Sequel began, we were good to go.

Here is where I'd like to leave you with a wonderful analogy between tires and life, or the care and feeding of adult children, or at least warn you to keep a functioning jack in your car. But I think the lesson is much simpler than that. Ski guy went out of his way to help us. I went out of my way to help Allen.

Life is, after all, a journey. We need to help each other along.

And keep our cell phones handy.