The Mid-Term - That's the Day I'd Quit!

"You have to write about everyone, what you do and don't like. And then there's that last question that you have to say who you have the hardest time with in class and why!" Those were the words of a recent graduate of the program, "consoling" me about what was ahead. When I passed that along to my husband, his response was, "That's the day I'd quit!" And he meant it.

In our class, we have a term called "care-frontation," never to be confused with confrontation. :-) And for our mid-term and final exam each quarter, we have a list of questions regarding the program, content, our supervisors, our own feelings as we've trudged along, and then the part that we're to make a statement about and give a suggestion to each class member. A few other questions are tossed in for good measure, and then that last one shows up, the one about singling out the person you feel most uncomfortable with. (But there's a method to that madness.)

I don't like confrontation and I'm not so sure I'm all in love with carefrontation either. But I suppose I'll get used to it. Or that's the day I quit. Ha!

We arrived to a fairly tight circle of chairs, none of the usual lesson materials waiting on a table nearby. No case studies to dissect after dividing up into two groups. This would be four hours of chaplains taking turns passing out their copies and then reading their entire mid-term aloud to the group. And there are fourteen of us!

And what do we learn and gain from this (besides hearing how our eating habits during class bug someone or that it's disrespectful to show up late, etc.) and WHY WOULD WE STAY? Those, my friends, are excellent questions.

We humans are complex bundles of "stuff" that we literally do STUFF into little hiding places that help us to feel safe and function fairly normally. It can be intimidating and painful to go on an emotional dig and find what's hiding. Interestingly enough, it is those very things that keep us from being the clear vessels we need to be in order to help others to heal. Our own "hidden treasures" get in the way. It's been said that "healing is in the feeling" and it applies to chaplains and not just patients.

Since I'm still enrolled, it's fairly obvious that that wasn't the day I quit. Not even close. I certainly had some apprehension, as is normal for anyone going into a situation for the first time and not knowing exactly what to expect. But my fellow chaplains rocked it. They are generous, lovely people, with hearts the size of Texas.

As for me, I simply burst into tears when I got to the very first chaplain on my list and had to read aloud what I'd written. My mother would never bear her testimony in church, and when we would innocently inquire as to why not, she'd matter-of-factly say, "Because my tear ducts are connected to my bladder." Well thanks, Mom, for passing that little gene abnormality along.

My emotions caught me off guard, and were probably a little surprise to everyone else in the circle, but hey! they're now seeing a side of me that is real and raw. I'm a weeper. I feel my feelings and they spill over any dams I attempt to create.

I stated that I didn't feel uncomfortable with anyone in the room (and I don't!), only that I wished one of the chaplains would share more about herself because I have a feeling there's a lot more there that I don't know a thing about. But here's the clincher. The rest of the question says, "And what does this reveal about you?" Okay, fine. It's obvious that I need to be more open about myself and allow others to peek inside to what is really there. And when they look, they get to tell me what they see, and then I get to do something healthy with that. 

My bladder/tear duct connection isn't going to stop me now.
Please send Kleenex.

Survival by Prayer - My Own 9/11, Part II

Read Part I here.

Summer was arriving, and my children would be home full time. I didn't know how I'd have enough strength to take care of them, but I was still hopeful that things would improve. I was hardly eating anything at this point, and I was beginning to get a little frightened. I spent the next few months in decline. My digestive system seemed to be in major rebellion. I'd take a bite or two of food and feel so awful that I wanted to beat my head against the wall. How do you keep eating when you feel that way? I was losing weight right and left, struggling just to keep myself hydrated over the summer. And, I could not sleep. I'd lie awake the entire night without a wink of sleep. That would go on for many nights in a row. It could only be called a nightmare. I found a naturopath that did some testing on me and had me take a gazillion supplements, but it didn't help. I started going to an environmental medicine clinic where they'd give me vitamin and mineral IV's, which would initially give me an energy boost, but then nothing improved.

My youngest had just finished Kindergarten, and I wanted her to have happy memories. We set up a pool and she and her friends would be entertained for hours. I'd settle in on the chaise lounge with a Vitamin Water and a goal of drinking at least half of it in a couple of hours' time. That was hard. My body was completely disinterested in doing anything digestively.

As we got closer to the end of summer, I was sliding faster and faster down the hill. I felt horrible all of the time, not just when I ate, and absolutely nothing any mainstream or alternative clinic suggested was working. I had repeated priesthood blessings, many prayers offered, and we were truly doing everything we knew to do for me to improve. Sometime in the middle of August, my husband came down with a nasty virus. His throat was so incredibly sore that he couldn't bear to even swallow his own saliva. Now he was dehydrated, too, and the doctor sent him to the hospital for a couple of days. That really got to me. He had never been hospitalized in our entire married life and there I was too sick to even pay him a visit. My mother sat at his bedside and fed him little bites of soft foods, encouraging him to get more nutrition. I felt tormented.

Fall arrived and it was by the grace of God that we were able to have things ready for our youngest to start First Grade. It was good that she had something to focus on, but it was difficult for her to leave under the circumstances. She drew pictures for me nearly every day and I'd hang them on the walls near my bed. By now I was in bed nearly all day, as I had no energy and felt incredibly ill. On September 11, 2001, I went in to have a mainline tube inserted so that I could start to receive TPN. It was a horrible day for me personally and a most horrible day for our country. All day I laid on my bed, staring at the horrors happening on the TV and feeling the horrors of my own life appearing to slowly slip away. I have my own version of PTSD from that period of time, different than most people, but still a major issue.

It was during this time that prayer became my only salvation. I felt rotten, I hated the fact that my family was suffering and everything was completely out of sorts. I hadn't attended church for more than a month (and had been released as the Stake Young Women President in mid summer because, well, I couldn't function!) and all that was left for me to do was to pray my guts out. And so I did. Day and night.

I would tell Heavenly Father that I was miserable, that I had tried so hard to do the right things, that I really wanted to take care of my family. My children, my husband, and my parents were all suffering. Could You please help me? Why does this have to be so awful? Why aren't there any answers? Why, if everyone I know personally is praying for me, why isn't anything changing? Why? Why? Why? I was perplexed. I was confused. I was baffled to the max. But I kept pleading with God to hear me. And at times I felt calmer.

One beautiful Fall day, I told my husband that even though I felt like I had no energy, I really wanted to make the trek to the bottom of our rocky lane to await the arrival of the bus carrying our little one from school. I was worried that I was soon going to disappear from her life, and I wanted her to remember that I was there, that I loved her, and that I was doing everything I could to show her that. And I wanted something "normal" to happen! I recall saying to him as we walked in the sunshine, in a truly perplexed way, "Why, after I've tried so hard to live a good life, I've served with all of my heart in my callings, I've tried hard to be a good wife and mother, I've kept my temple covenants, I've paid my tithing, etc., etc., why when God is all powerful and knows exactly what's wrong and how to fix it, why won't He do it?"

My husband's gentle response has stuck with me for all of these years. He quietly said, "Because Heavenly Father made covenants with you before you came here, and He isn't willing to break them." That was hard to hear, but I knew it was true. And I didn't know exactly what those covenants were, but I knew I had to learn this the hard way, and maybe it wasn't all going to end the way I desired. But I believed it was true and it helped me have faith that God was watching, that He was aware of my struggle and that I was in His hands.

 The Willamette River in the Fall

After numerous more trips to doctors, and tests galore that would make anyone feel sick whether they were sick to begin with or not, we finally decided that a trip to the Mayo Clinic in Michigan was in order. This was suggested by my sister in law, a physician, who had planned to fly out from Washington D.C. and see what she might do to help me in my miserable state. But with 9/11 having occurred, she decided she was too nervous to leave her own young family and make that flight across the country. We didn't blame her one bit. But she encouraged us to go see what the Mayo doctors might discover.

By now my oldest daughter had returned from college to help us out. She was cooking and cleaning and playing Mom to our youngest. Our middle daughter was a junior in high school and had an extremely busy schedule. She would greet me before leaving in the morning and spend a little time with me in the evenings, but mostly she was a busy teenager with seminary, school and a job. With our oldest there, we could leave to make the trip out to Minnesota. So we did.

I felt so incredibly out of sorts as we entered the airport (and I now realize that I was suffering horribly from depression, but I didn't understand it at the time.) There were all of these strict security measures in place. And at this point, I felt complete surrender. I had no energy to worry about a darned thing. I have never felt as relaxed on a plane as I did on that flight. I felt so close to death that it simply made no difference to me if the plane went down (although I DID care very much that our children would be left without either parent!)

There was a native American man on our flight, and at one point he inquired about our situation. My husband told him why we were headed to the Mayo Clinic. His response was, "She's going to be alright. She has _______ (we haven't really known what he said) in her aura. She's going to be alright." We didn't know much about that at all during that time, but we felt some comfort in his words. He seemed to see and know things that we didn't. And, thank the Lord in heaven, it turned out that he was right! But there was still an uphill journey to make.

To be continued . . .  Part III: The Mayo visit, no more TPN, funeral plans and a Christmas Day miracle

The Little Black Book and the Old Guitar

Man, this school thing is keeping me hopping!! The volunteer training for two different hospice companies, the reading and writing, the visiting, the meetings, the reports, etc., are all keeping me on my toes. Since we have both an "hours" requirement and a "pages read" requirement for each term, it doesn't pay to get behind. Sink or swim, baby!

One thing that is required at the beginning of each term is some professional and personal goal setting. I set three goals in each area (and next term I'll tone it down a little, now that I realize how much there is to do and that I don't have as much time to work on the goals as I envisioned). It has been amazing to me, though, how some things have just come together, nearly effortlessly.

One of my goals was to compile a collection of poems, verses, sayings, etc., that I could bring along and share with patients as appropriate. I hadn't given it much thought since setting the goal because I've been caught up in staying on top of all of the regular requirements. Last week I went to my little book club meeting (there have been only 3 of us, now 4) and my good friend Linda, who was hosting, said, "Oh, I have something for you!" She disappeared for a minute and came back with this little black book, which she handed over, saying, "This is for you."

It is a small book entitled Sunlight and Shadows, published in 1947 by Bookcraft. I flipped through the pages and saw that it is filled with beautiful messages related to dying, resurrection, etc., something I will be continually addressing with patients and their family members. The most amazing part of this story is that I hadn't shared my goals with anyone except my instructor! Linda had no idea that I was intending to put together this type of collection. It is a PERFECT beginning and I cherish it already. It is definitely something that I couldn't even go out and purchase because it's no longer in print. The price penciled in on the inside cover? One dollar!

Another of my goals was to come up with a skill/ability/talent that I could bring as a volunteer. Some folks are singers, others are playing the harp or singing with their ukulele, etc. I was wracking my brain over what I could bring as my "thing". Having no idea what that would be (I took violin in my younger years, and I wish I could say that I was good at it, but that would be lying), I just put the words down and hoped that something would hit me and I'd know what to do.

Several weeks ago, my husband had met with a friend of ours to give him some tips for a book that this friend is writing. Last week my husband handed me a page of it to read, saying that he thought I'd enjoy it, that it was a pretty incredible experience. In that one page, the author mentioned playing his guitar and singing. That's when it hit me! I COULD RE-LEARN THE GUITAR!! Two months earlier, I had reclaimed my 33 yr. old guitar from my daughter's home, saying that I wanted to begin playing it again (and that was before any thought of chaplain school had even entered my mind), but I hadn't even cracked open the case yet. I had taken a few lessons in my early twenties but can't even play a chord right now.

I was so excited! I remember vividly how singing was one of the great joys left in my mom's life when she could no longer even make a sentence. She could remember all of the words to many songs and would sing and swing her body to the beat. Music can be upbeat, happy, memory-inducing, and soothing. And the guitar is very portable, so that makes it easy to grab and go on a moment's notice.

Last night I finally opened the case and found that all of the strings were in good shape, so I searched "how to tune a guitar" on YouTube and the first link I clicked on was simply going string by string, no long explanations or talking at all - it just got right to the point. I tuned it easily, strummed it a little, and felt like the planets had aligned just for me. I am so excited!!

And now if you'll excuse me, I have a little practicing to do . . .   :-)

Survival by Prayer

Let me explain: I have started a prayer roll for friends and family who feel the need for extra prayers. I'm doing this because I believe that prayer makes a huge difference in our lives and I wish to be more practiced at it. To this end, I am sharing stories from my own life about how prayer made a big difference. Some are short. This one is long. And I'd LOVE to hear yours in the comments. Prayer matters.

Part 1 - Yea, humble yourselves, and continue in prayer unto him. (Alma 34:19)

I was approaching my 4lst birthday, and things weren't looking good AT ALL. A little less than one year earlier, I'd had my gall bladder removed. For some folks, that's a fairly easy peasy event, as far as surgery goes. But the fact that I had been cut wide open earlier (that tale begins here) meant the simpler surgery was impossible with all of the scar tissue in the way. So this became a several nights' stay in the hospital.

As I was being wheeled out of the recovery room, I said to my husband, "That pain in my back is still there!" The doctor believed it was a gall stone, but they had checked during the surgery and none was found outside of my gallbladder. Turns out it was a pinched nerve that had nothing whatsoever to do with my gallbladder.

Let's get something straight right off the bat here: I am NOT a fan of surgery, AT ALL.

I've watched my father have adverse reactions, including a staph infection, a poorly healed bowel resection  that later resulted in a colostomy, other infections, and the inability to "go" when nature called. He has been miserable every time. I seemed to have inherited that from him. I love my dad, but this he could have kept to himself. :-)

I was trying to do everything I should to heal from that surgery, but something wasn't right. I told one doctor, I told another doctor, and yet another. All would concur that nothing could be seen or felt and that everything was fine. But, it was not fine.

Not only did something feel really strange inside my belly, but my body was now so out of balance (maybe because I'm "allergic" to surgery?) that my long ago troubles with endometriosis kicked back in. Only this time, it was also in the nerve shaft. OUCH! I was struggling big time. I'm not a pill popper, but I was taking every pain med a doctor would toss my way. Eventually none of those pills would help enough for me to be functional. I was in serious pain and spending most of my days in bed.

My explorations of natural medicine were in the fetal stages. I knew very little, although I was very interested. I just didn't know anyone to get help from. I grew up in an "even chiropractors are quacks" environment, and I was on my own to figure it all out. I saw one holistic-minded doctor that agreed with the mainstream docs that a hysterectomy was probably the best thing for me to do. I had been resisting that, believing in some small way that there could be other methods for healing my particular troubles, but with her recommendation, I thought that must be my only way out of this. (I have since learned otherwise.)

In April of 2001, I had a gynecology surgical specialist remove my uterus, ovaries, appendix, and make the discovery that my transverse colon had flipped over and adhered by scar tissue to my stomach. Yep, that "odd" feeling that I described was actually real, I wasn't making things up.

For a week following the surgery, I didn't have any of the endometriosis pain. Hurray! But I wasn't recovering very well, I had thrush in my mouth, I wasn't able to eat much and I wasn't regaining my strength very quickly. The doc had prescribed estrogen patches, and it was those that eventually caused the return of the pain in my nerve shafts. All of this horror for nothing?

to be continued . . .  Mainline feeding tube, prayer, forgotten covenants, off to Mayo

Chaplain School or Hamster Wheel - What's the Difference?

Lest you think becoming a chaplain is just "a walk in the hospital corridor," I'm here to tell you it's not! I told my husband last night that I felt like a hamster, stuck on the wheel, wondering when I'd be able to step off.

Here's a shot he took of me just last night!

I wouldn't be lying if I said that you're already behind on the first night you show up for class! How can that be? Did I miss an assignment that was to be completed prior to arriving? No. Was I to have read one of the assigned books before showing up? No. The 50 page syllabus? Yes! (and I did that). But it wasn't until the day after the first class that we received an email explaining that our hours for the week actually began four days prior to class (Wed.) The meter began ticking on Sunday! 

We are required to put in 400 clinical hours a quarter, which averages about 34 hrs. each week (breakdown is below) for the 12 week term.  Lucky for me, I serve in the homeless branch in Salt Lake City, and every Sunday is filled with ministry time. These folks' lives are, for the most part, in shambles and they need a listening ear and a boost of confidence. We certainly cannot solve all of their problems for them, but we can allow them to come as they are and we welcome them with open arms and hearts. I am incredibly blessed to have the opportunity to serve this population.

On the Tuesday evening prior to the first class on Wed., it so happened that that was the Relief Society's monthly scheduled time to visit the homeless shelter with our husbands, who go weekly. We dress up in Sunday clothes (and TOTALLY stick out like sore thumbs!) and walk from the parking lot down the street and into the shelter doors. People are gathered on the sidewalks on either side of the street, many right in the street itself. (A SLC police officer once told my husband and me that that block was by far the most dangerous spot in all of Utah.) It can be a wee bit daunting, but so far we have been treated well, with lots of "hello's" and excited waving. For some reason, folks seem to be more respectful when we are there than when our husbands go without us. I'll take it!

 The Road Home in Salt Lake City

We visit with whomever decides to come join us in the family area. There are single folks, married couples, and entire families there. Seeing the young children and even newborn babies can be quite heartbreaking. (They are exposed to drinking, drug use, foul language, violence, smoking, etc. It's pretty awful.) Some have just arrived and need someone to listen to the tale that landed them in these unfortunate circumstances, others want to talk about where to go to church services, receive Priesthood blessings, and some are looking for Church assistance. And then there are those who are simply there just to be belligerent. Lucky for me, I haven't had to deal with them like my husband has. But it is understood by all of us that mental illness is the most common theme among the population. 

This would NOT be the shirt my husband wears there! :-)

At any rate, with those hours already in place, and the reading and writing I started to do, I managed to get 33.5 hours for my first week. Not too shabby! This past week, though (my week ending last Sat.), I had put in 43.5 hours. There is so much to do! Here's a breakdown:

15 hours of ministry time (visits with patients and other folks who have something bothering or upsetting them that they need to talk about. We then practice the skills we're learning.)

The remainder of the approximately 19 hours is made up of the following:

Reading - We have 5 assigned books and need a total of about 700 pages each quarter; can include scriptures, lesson materials studied for Church, etc.

Writing - Book reports, weekly case studies (those are LONG!), weekly responses (11 questions), journal writing (or this blog!), and due next week is a 38 question "Religious History Inventory" that explores your beliefs and practices, beginning from your childhood.

Supervisory Sessions - Meeting every other week or so (six required) with one of the supervisors, one on one for an hour. I had my first one yesterday. I loved it!

Class Time - 4 hours a week. and it's packed full of good stuff. Rumor has it that it can be quite intense at times. You simply will not escape the deep look into your own self and where you need to change. You can quit, but that would be your only way out. EEEEEEEK!! 

Seminars, Trainings, etc. - This should be great! The Parliament of the World's Religions is coming to Salt Lake (mid-October) as is the World Congress on Families (end of Oct.). Both of those are a BIG deal and I'm so fortunate they will be right in my city, just down the street. WAHOO!!! I also have trainings to attend with the hospice companies I'm volunteering with.

So you want to be a chaplain? Go for it! But it ain't just a walk in the assisted living center. It's work. It's time consuming. And in the end, it is purported to be life changing. I'll let you know . . .

How I Survived My First Devotional - The Ministering of Angels

On our first night of class, there was a lot to take in. New people, new schedules, new ideas, new expectations. So much "new". We were given a schedule to look over and I found my name and what dates I would be presenting case studies. It was a few weeks out, so I could breathe a little easier while I got my feet wet in all of this.

Towards the end of the evening, Mark was reviewing the plans for the next week's class. He spoke of the devotional, saying that it was to be exactly 5 min. long, not 6 or 7 or 8. "If you're asked to give a message by a hospital and they want you to take 8 minutes, then you take 8 minutes. If you go over your time, you may never be asked again."

So the strictness in keeping to our allotted 5 min. is for us to practice sticking to that amount of time. Got it. Then he said, "Cristi, you'll be doing that next week." Um, what?? I hadn't seen that on the schedule. I'm a newbie here! There are lots of folks here who have been coming for a long time and I'm the one that will have to get up so soon??? Okay, I'll do it. Even under the "5 minutes and not a second longer" guidelines.

I tossed around several possibilities during the week.But then I came across this and it felt just right.

When I was in my first semester of college, we were required to do a term paper in my religion class. I had been fascinated by the subject of angels for a good part of my life. My mother told us the story of how her father, my grandfather, was once visited by an angel. Here's the quick version:

My mother's mother, Gertrude Leah Betts, had passed away from pneumonia within days of my mother's first birthday, leaving my grandfather with four children that were age 6 and under. Life was hard. Somewhere along the line, my grandpa starting making some choices that weren't in his or his family's best interest. And one night, after closing up the ice cream shop, he sat on the back steps. That is when Gertrude appeared to him, telling him that he needed to shape up. I'm certain she had great concerns for both him and the four children she had left behind and took a keen interest in what was happening in their lives.

I have thought of that story often throughout my life, realizing that those we love are not far away, and they know what's going on here on earth. The following quotes will truly remind us of how close they are and how many there are. It is very comforting.

I shared highlights from the following quotes. I also sent them all to my missionary daughter because I knew it would be of great comfort to her, too. I hope you find comfort and peace when you read these words.

“Now, this is the truth. We humble people; we who feel ourselves sometimes so worthless, so good‑for‑nothing; we are not so worthless as we think. There is not one of us but what God’s love has been expended upon. There is not one of us that He has not cared for and caressed. There is not one of us that He has not desired to save, and that He has not devised means to save. There is not one of us that He has not given His angels charge concerning. We may be insignificant and contemptible in our own eyes, and in the eyes of others, but the truth remains that we are the children of God, and that He has actually given His angels‑‑invisible beings of power and might‑‑charge concerning us, and they watch over us and have us in their keeping . . .

“Those who otherwise might be thought to be contemptible and unworthy of notice, Jesus says be careful about offending them, for “their angels do always behold the face of my Father” (Matt. 18:10). We are in their charge. They watch over us, and are, to a certain extent, doubtless, responsible for the watchcare that they exercise over us, just as we are responsible for any duty that is assigned us (Collected Discourses, Vol.2, George Q. Cannon, November, 1890).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“This great Being of infinite power and goodness, whom we cannot think of in His mighty attributes without sinking in our own sense of personal insignificance, He is our Father; and He has greater affection than we can comprehend by [a] father’s love for His children. As a result of that great love, He has set heavenly beings to watch over us and to guard us from the attacks of evil powers while we live on earth. Do we realize that in our daily walk and work we are not alone, but that angels attend us wherever our duty causes us to go? It is only when we stray into unholy places, only when we tread upon forbidden ground, that they leave us to ourselves; and then they watch us from the distance with sorrow and tears. Those holy beings think it not beneath their state to abide in the hovels of the poor . . . . But as long as we are where duty calls us we are in no way alone. Our eyes are so heavy, our ears so dull, that we see and hear only the things of earth. Could our vision be opened, we would see in this room at this very moment more worshippers than are occupying these seats; could our ears be unstopped we would hear more than our own feeble voices joining in the hymns of praise that we sing.

“When at times trouble comes upon us, and we feel almost given up to despair, and think we have been deserted by friends, let us think of the heavenly companions whom God has assigned to us; who, indeed, would reveal themselves to our eyes but for our lack of faith. Let us read again and ponder over the wonderful experience of the prophet of old, who, with but a single earthly companion‑‑the servant who was with him‑‑found himself surrounded by the army of a wicked king. (See 2 Kings 6:15‑17). In fear, seeing escape by human agency to be entirely impossible, Elisha’s servant cried out, “Alas, my master, how shall we do?” But the prophet answered, “Fear not; for they that be with us are more than they that be with them.” And then Elisha prayed that the Lord would open the young man’s eyes, and the servant saw that the mountains were covered with horses and chariots and hosts of angels sent to protect the prophet of God, whose time had not yet come” (Collected Discourses, Vol.3, James E. Talmage, June 25, 1893).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[T]he Lord has said that there are more for us than there can be against us. “Who are they,” says one? Righteous men who have been upon the earth. “But do you suppose that angels will pay friendly visits to those who do not live up to their privileges? Would you? . . . the God whom I serve . . . has millions of angels at His command. Do you suppose that there are any angels here to‑day? I would not wonder if there were ten times more angels here than people. We do not see them, but they are here watching us, and are anxious for our salvation” (Journal of Discourses, Vol.3, p.230, Heber C. Kimball, March 2, 1856).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Usually [angels] are not seen. Sometimes they are. But seen or unseen they are always near” (Jeffrey R. Holland: Ensign, November 2008, 29).


As for my 5 minute limit? I rocked that. I guess I'll be staying.

The Tale of Two Nurses or How I Ended Up With a Double Colostomy, Part III

Subtitle: The Art of Being a Healing Presence

(Read part 1 here. Read part 2 here.)

"Well, we had to do a lot more than we thought. You have two colostomies." I was drugged up but not so much that I wasn't able to understand what Dr. B. was telling me and my family. I went in believing that they'd fix everything all up, I'd heal and the nightmare would be over. It was shocking news and I was stunned.

"Your transverse colon had fallen into the mess, so we had to remove 12 inches of it. Then we had to clean out the massive infection and repair the hole, which was located very low."  I didn't know what the ramifications of all that were, but I held onto the fact that I was alive, and that was a very good thing.

I had a large meandering vertical incision that was held together by many large staples. It was approximately 12 inches long. It seemed to wander along the middle of my belly because said belly had been so swollen with infection that slicing into it did not create a straight line. I had a colostomy on either side of the incision (although one was technically called a mucous fistula). And I had an incision lower on one side that was hooked to a drain. Doctor B. would later joke that I didn't need a Halloween costume that year, all I'd have to do was flash my belly and I'd cause an immense amount of fright to anyone unfortunate enough to get a glimpse. And it was the absolute truth.

I'd like to say that healing went quickly, that each day was an improvement until I was able to return home. But then I'd be lying. Healing was like a roller coaster ride. I wasn't able to eat until certain criteria had been met, and that took some time. My mouth was dry and that nasty NG tube was in place again. At least this time it had been done while I was deeply sedated. But when I'd turn my head, it would rub against my throat and cause me to gag. It dug a permanent notch into the outer edge of my nostril. I don't expect anyone to look closely enough to find that, but it is there for the rest of my mortality.

Eventually I was able to eat. And one day my mom said, "What would you REALLY like to eat?" I said I'd love some Chinese food. So they brought a large bag of take-out and someone rolled me down to a little gathering area where we feasted. How wonderful to taste something so "normal" after no food for several weeks! But still, healing was hard.

Every morning they'd bring in one of my three I.V. antibiotics, then space the others out by several hours. And every morning I'd look at my husband and parents and say, "I feel nauseous. I think I'm going to throw up." Sure enough, the next thing I knew, I was vomiting. Heaving under the most normal of circumstances is unpleasant, to say the least. But retching when you have a foot-long wound with staples has got to be the worst. It added insult to injury. However you want to describe it, it was absolute misery.

After a number of days, my mother finally put two and two together. When the nurse came in with the little antibiotic bag, ready to plug it into my port, my mom said, "That medication is making her so sick that she vomits." They had been giving me an anti-nausea medicine every day, and it made me so woozy that I didn't want to take it. But now I really didn't want to have any more of the antibiotic. So, they switched it to something else and at least it stopped the every-morning-I-vomit cycle.

I was "dying" to go home (that term took on new meaning to me then!) Every day, Dr. B. and I would discuss whether or not I might be able to go home the next day. Every day he'd say it would probably be a few more days. I was trying so hard to be a good girl, a model patient, do everything that was asked of me (including blowing into the little tube to keep the ball suspended in the air. It hurt like heck; my belly hurt so, so much.) I missed my kids, but they were able to come visit a little more often now without so much fright. And I missed my dog.

One day my husband called and said that I should meet him at a certain door down the hall. Mom got me into the wheelchair and off we went. We pushed open the door marked "Stairs" and found my husband with my big yellow Lab, Brandy, on a leash. Brandy was getting up there in years, she had some disc problems in her spine and wasn't able to navigate many stairs, so my sweet husband carried that big girl up three flights of outside stairs so that her sweet spirit could help me heal. I'm not sure who was the most excited about this reunification - her or me! What a big difference something like that can make to a struggling patient. I was so grateful.

And the nurse. How I wish that I could remember her name. She was close to my age and she took the time to talk to me and hear my story. She learned that this whole mess came about because I wanted another baby. Several days later, on a Saturday (which happened to be her day off), she came into my room. In her arms was her 6 month old daughter. She reached over and gently placed the baby on my lap in the hospital bed. Even as I type that sentence, the tears begin streaming down my face. What a Christlike gesture, one that I will remember forever. That is the very definition of "being a healing presence." She listened to me and to her mother heart, and then she acted. It was a healing moment for me, and evidence of God's love through the hands of another. An angel in the form of a nurse.

After nearly three weeks, two colostomies, one drain, one long meandering incision, two nasty NG tubes, several fainting episodes, numerous priesthood blessings, many visitors and acts of service and kindness, I finally got the green light to go home. OH. HAPPY. DAY.

It took me hours to get dressed in normal clothes (although my wardrobe would have to change to accommodate the colostomy business, but I still remember exactly what I wore home, even 25 years later), and I had a lot of flowers, knickknacks, pictures and hospital gear to pack up and bring along. And on that warm October morning, I was heading back to my home. Nothing seemed like it would ever be normal again, but at least I'd be home in my own bed, with my husband and children, my dog and cats, the fall breeze and flowers, the sound of piano keys as the girls practiced, and the smell of cut grass on weekends. Many sisters from the Relief Society had come to make our home sparkling clean and welcoming. But my own sister was the only one I had allowed to navigate the horrors of a fridge left unattended for three weeks! She claimed that it hadn't been that bad, but I knew better.

Life was challenging but it was worth fighting for. My colostomy was very active and noisy, therefore extremely embarrassing. It caused me to change what kinds of settings I'd allow myself to be part of. But it taught me a lot of compassion for others. And thankfully, after six months, I was able to have the colostomy reversed. (And boy is there another story to tell about all that happened due to that "little" reversal. But that's a story for another time.)

The experience isn't something I'd wish on any other human being. But it isn't an experience that I would wish to not have had, now that I can see how much learning I gained by going through it. It was one part of my "school of hard knocks" lessons that I needed. Some folks get their learning in more mild ways. Me? I apparently need the nasty stuff. But it was precisely that sort of nasty stuff that has given birth to compassion, patience, understanding, and a desire to be a healing presence for others.

I am a changed being.

The Tale of Two Nurses or How I Ended Up With a Double Colostomy, Part II

Subtitle: The Art of Being a Healing Presence

 (To read part 1, go here.)

"I DON'T WANT THAT NURSE ANYWHERE NEAR MY WIFE!" That mild-mannered husband of mine had walked over to the nurses' station, informing them of this after I let him know of the nurse's cruel (and untrue) remark.

After that, she steered clear and I never had contact with her again. (Good thinking, Nurse.)

My doctor's partner, Dr. M., would stop by once a day, stick his head around the curtain pulled across the doorway for privacy, and say, "How's it going?" As I mentioned, my belly was constantly increasing in size, I was still on big doses of morphine, and I could neither eat nor drink. How do you respond to a question like that, when you're in a confused state of misery without being given any answers or hope? He never came to my bedside, never examined me. He did order an ultrasound, which showed some bubbles moving around in my abdomen but no one explained to us what that might mean.

On Wednesday, my own Dr. N. returned, and in his gentle manner he came over to my bed and expressed his concern over what had transpired since he'd been gone. He told us, "I'm having a surgeon come in," and within the hour, Dr. B. came in and introduced himself. He asked me a few questions, then announced, "I'm responsible for your care now." He told me I'd be going for an MRI soon, that he believed I had a hole in my colon but they would need to confirm it, see it's location, and determine the next step. Neither my husband nor I understood the significance of that statement or what would lie ahead for us.

I had the MRI and it was determined that I indeed had a hole and a nasty infection. In fact, said Dr. B., we'd need to wait awhile before they could operate (not telling me until a long time later that if they had opened me up at this point, the infection would have immediately spread and killed me). In the meantime, I was on numerous antibiotics, and eventually I had the great displeasure of discovering what it's like to have an NG tube inserted up through my nose and into my stomach WHILE FULLY AWAKE. Following that most nasty (read PAINFUL) procedure, I vowed I would never again subject myself to torture and that if they ever wanted to put one in again at any time during the rest of my mortal life, they'd have to put me out first! (And I highly recommend you do the same.)

For nine days I laid in that bed, unable to eat or drink, losing track of hours and days and, as the antibiotics did their work, the contents of my backed up intestines. It was horribly embarrassing, but when you're that sick and fighting for your life, you sort of just surrender. I'd have to call a nurse in to clean things up and thankfully they were very good natured, especially my 70 yr. old night nurse, who would come in and proclaim, "Oh, you've got the s**ts!!" Not a word I would choose, but I didn't blame her and she'd make me laugh, which was a very good thing.

My husband and parents kept vigil in that little room by the elevator, making sure I got help getting up, getting a med change when the morphine made me see strings hanging from the ceiling and flying horses out the window, and protecting me from too many visitors that wore me completely out. My days were sometimes bearable and at other times downright nightmarish. On a better day, my good friend, who had gone to see Phantom of the Opera while it was in town, brought me the CDs.

Our bishop's wife came for a visit on one of my more awful days. She was a nurse and my visiting teacher, and she took one look at me and went off to call her husband, saying, "You have to do something! We're going to lose her if we don't do something!" He came soon and gave me another priesthood blessing, one of many that I received. And I was very grateful.

Then, Dr. B. announced one day that it was time for another MRI and possibly surgery in the next day or two. So off I went, tucked safely into my hospital bed with the side rails up, being pushed by a young male orderly. Down the halls we went and into the elevator. He tried hard not to bump and bang my bed around, but it sure didn't take much. I certainly had learned that pain meds can only help to a certain degree!

The MRI showed that the grapefruit-size infection had finally encapsulated and it was time to have surgery. Dr. B., the man who LOVED doing surgery (and repeatedly said that any doctor that wasn't a surgeon wasn't a "real" doctor!) told us that it might be a "possibility" that I would end up needing a colostomy, but that he hoped he'd be able to get in there, clean things up, repair the hole, and I could go on my merry way. Ha! Just kidding about that last part. Either way, I was going to have a very long vertical incision.

I was nervous but anxious to get this over with. My children were a little frightened at the sight of me (with good reason), and I missed them, my big yellow Lab, my home, temperature changes from daytime to night, eating food, uninterrupted sleep, and just being able to do the everyday things a mother and wife does for her family. I had no warning that I was going to land in the hospital for weeks, and it really messes with you. I wouldn't recommend it. :-)

Once again, the orderly showed up to wheel me and my bed through the halls, but this time we were headed straight to the OR . . .

To be continued . . . (part III: the nurse & the baby, Chinese food, the dog!)

The Tale of Two Nurses or How I Ended Up With a Double Colostomy

Subtitle: The Art of Being a Healing Presence, Part 1 

(I began reading this assigned book last night. It brought forth the following memories.)

"If you'd have walked after your surgery, you wouldn't be in this condition." Those were the unbelievably sharp words coming from the mouth of my nurse, who was "helping" me circle the nurses' station while I used my I.V. pole as a support. I was much too sick to respond and defend myself.

There I'd been, 30 years young, lying in a hospital bed in all manner of unexplainable pain, with morphine dripping into my vein. My father had pulled his chair up to my bedside, turned to my mother and said, "What do you want me to do?" She gently and encouragingly said, "Just hold her hand." I hadn't held my father's hand for a very long time, but now it meant everything to me, as my world was crashing down and there didn't seem to be anything I could do to stop it.

It was the fall of 1990 and I'd had a minor same-day surgery, the exact surgery I'd had 6 years earlier. Back in 1984, I had been struggling with secondary infertility and my doctor wanted to "take a look around" at my nether parts to see if he could find anything obvious that would explain my inability to become pregnant again. I'd had my first child in 1981 and, by this time, we were plenty eager to have another. The surgery didn't reveal any obvious signs other than some minor scar tissue, but it was successful in two ways. One, it was a not-so-happy trigger for my irritable bowel symptoms that had been well under control for quite some time, and two, I conceived the very next month. WAHOO!!

So here I was again, exactly 6 years later, same surgery. Now, though, there was an even more glaring gap because our "baby" was well into her 6th year of life. However, this time I was prepared so that the surgery would not trigger those nasty IBS symptoms. And you know what? I was successful at that! In fact, I felt so fantastic that I offered to have the missionaries over for dinner less than a week later. I cleaned, I shopped, I cooked. I was incredibly delighted that things were remarkably better than the first go-round.

But then. And that is a really big THEN.

My doctor had called two days earlier to check up on me, letting me know he was leaving town. He was nearly as pleased as I was that I was feeling so well and that I hadn't had the same unhappy reaction to the surgery that I'd had years before. All was well and off he went.

Two days later, I was writhing in pain, completely clueless as to what could be wrong.

In the afternoon, my husband arrived home from work, scurried around packing his bag and hunting for his camping gear. He was a Boy Scout leader and he and the boys, who were running around wildly right outside my bedroom window, were taking off for an overnight camp out. Finally, after observing me and hearing my explanation of this horrid pain, he decided he shouldn't go. (Very good thinking, Mike!) We called my doctor's partner, Dr. M., for advice. He gave a simplistic explanation, telling me to take some Advil.

It. Did. Not. Help.

By midnight, the pain became bigger than me and we decided that a trip to the ER was in order. I could barely walk, but I managed to get myself out to the car and my husband drove carefully to avoid as many bumps as possible. Lucky for me, it was a slow night at the ER. Unlucky for me, they were less than helpful. They seemed bent on quizzing me about "what my husband had done" and continually wanted him to leave my side so that they could get the "straight truth" from me. I couldn't think of anything worse than for them to send my only comfort away from me. Somehow I convinced them that he had done nothing, that I had been recovering from surgery and something seemed to have gone haywire. Really haywire.

They took some blood, poked around a little, asked some questions, and finally gave me a pain pill. I laid on the hard narrow gurney, inquiring as to when the pain pill should kick in because I was getting no relief at all. "Oh, maybe 30 minutes." It had already been more than 30 minutes. They decided there was nothing else to be done, it was time for me to go home. By now, I couldn't walk, so I crawled out of the hospital. As we made our way along, my husband noticed the ER doctor sitting casually with his feet propped up on the desk, the newspaper spread out in front of his face. That image is forever burned into his memory.

I somehow made it back into the car and we drove home. It was now after 2 a.m. and I was back in bed. My husband decided that a call to my mom was in order. I will always remember the moment that she arrived, came into my room in the middle of the night, smelling like her favorite Victoria's Secret hand lotion, wearing one of her soft blue silk shirts with big flowers on it, and leaned down to give me a mother hug while we both cried. No mother wants to see her child in pain; they may as well be the one with the illness or injury because they feel the pain just as keenly.

She sat at my side, wiping my brow and wringing her hands until morning, when my husband called the Dr. M. once again, telling him that he needed to see me. He said fine, bring her over. By now the pain was so incredibly intense that not only could I not walk, but I did not want to be touched at all. My brother in law came over and devised a plan. They would bring one of our wooden kitchen chairs to my bedside and allow me as much time as I needed to get myself onto it. Eventually I did, and then he and my husband grabbed onto the legs and carried me through the house, down the stairs and out to the door of the car, all the while NOT touching me. It was brilliant, but it was awful. I'd like to say that "everything was awesome", but in truth, everything was AWFUL.

We made our way to the doctor's office, which was conveniently located right next door to the hospital. It was 9 a.m on a Saturday. My husband went inside, asking Dr. M. if he could come out to the car. The response was to have me come in, to which my mild-mannered husband replied, with a fist slam on the doctor's desk, "She cannot come in. She needs to go the hospital." With a roll of the eyes, the Dr. M. said, "Okay, take her over there."

I was admitted, gowned up, and put on morphine. My slim body was now misshapen with a protruding belly that seemed to grow larger by the hour. No one knew what was wrong and no one was doing anything to find out, thanks to a doctor that did not know me and seemed to believe I was making this all up. The hospital staff acted accordingly.

After a few hours, my nurse came into the room and, with a less than sympathetic voice, said, "Let's get you up. You need to walk."


To be continued . . .

I Am Not Enough

Your vision will become clear only when you look into your heart. Who looks outside, dreams. Who looks inside, awakens.   - Carl Jung

And so it began! I showed up early to the Veterans Nursing Home near the U campus in Salt Lake, working hard to keep my wiggling nerves under control. I entered the room to find a large circle of chairs, one other student sitting off to the side, and Chaplain Mark getting things prepared. A small part of me wondered if I was ready, if I could handle what all was about to transpire.Am I ready to look deeply into my own soul and find things I may not like there? Because I know that is a big (if not the biggest) part of the journey.

I came in, chose a chair, and proceeded to write out my tuition check. I was staying. And that was that.

On the floor in the middle of the circle sat a small sculpture (pictured above), surrounded by 6 large colored jewels, two boxes of Hawaiian chocolates and a can of Pringles. I wish I'd taken a photo, but I wasn't yet in my right mind. I wasn't sure what it all represented, but it was fascinating nonetheless.

Others trickled in, introduced themselves and chose chairs. Some of them knew one another because they were returning students who had started at different terms throughout the year. Eventually I learned that there were just 5 of us that were brand new, with others on their 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and even 5th terms.

We began with a devotional led by a newly graduated chaplain who stated that none of us is enough, that by ourselves, we simply aren't enough. He wondered if any of us had a problem with that statement. No hand went into the air. We understood that truly, by ourselves, we simply cannot be what we need to be, that only being paired together with Jesus Christ can we be enough. He handed out copies with the words to "You Raise Me Up" and shared several verses of scripture:

". . . for when I am weak, then am I strong." (2 Corinthians 12:10 , ESV)

 "My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever." (Psalms 37:26, ESV)

"I can do all things through him who strengthens me." (Phillippians 4:13, ESV)

We listened as Josh Groban reminded us (in this particular setting) that it truly is our Savior Jesus Christ that raises us up so that we can be equal to whatever the task may be.

The rest of the four hour period of time was filled with much learning of the head and heart. We're here to discover our blind spots, to practice reading "documents of flesh" as we visit patients, to provide a healing presence, to practice the skill of love, to go where others are afraid to go, to acknowledge that when we're visiting patients, their space is sacred ground, and so much more.

There is SO MUCH to learn. So much growing to do.

Two students shared case studies of visits with patients. One was brutally honest in that she was tired and distracted and so the visit did not go at all as she had wished. Another was of a visit to the hospital where a young woman, whose baby had died less than two weeks before birth, was in the depths of grief and sorrow as she held her infant son in her arms. I (unsuccessfully) fought off the tears as this student read through the experience, feeling awed by her composure and ability to show up in the moment, to offer solace and healing to an entire family. And I wondered if I'd ever be up to doing the same. Heaven help me. I would be a blubbering idiot who would need someone to rescue me from the pain.

As Chaplain Mark wrapped things up, he "reminded" me that I had the devotional next week. WHAT?? I had looked on the provided schedule and saw that my first case study presentation wasn't until Sept. 23rd and figured I'd feel a little more ready by that date. But somehow I'd missed that I was up the very next week for the devotional. Five minutes, said he. Not a moment longer. This is part of learning the rules of the game. If you're given 8 min. for a presentation by a hospital, etc., you take 8 minutes and not a minute longer. And don't waste most of your time explaining why you're going to talk about what you're going to talk about. Just present already! Okay. Deep breath. I can be the first newbie and still live for the rest of the class time. Maybe.

We ended the night with a circle just like the one above, calling upon God for the needs of those in our group. I felt the beginnings of a bond, connected to those who are on the same journey. Those willing to "sit in the ashes" and give their hearts in times of need.

I arrived back home close to 11 pm and found myself completely wound up. There was so much going on in my head and heart. I will be meeting with a hospice organization tomorrow morning for training so that I can start the process of visiting patients. The organizer of this, Chaplain Cory, said to me, "You will become attached to these people, and then they will die."

By myself, I am not enough and cannot be. But with Jesus Christ as my companion, I can do it.

Oh, my heart!