Wednesday, April 1, 2015

April 1: A Worry, God's Love Number Forty-Three, My Sister

If they had a worry, it was about Carmen, who seemed not long for the world, but she felt insulted at the notion that she would "suddenly" die after having coped with one thing or the other for the past seven years and had practically gotten out of bed to run out around the block to make sure that her American friends had some happiness, by way of their late-life journey.  And they left sadly, reluctantly, feeling as if they might never see her alive again.

Carmen is dying.  Ives and his wife know it.  They have a trip to England planned, but they know that, if they go, they will never see her again.  She is that ill.  Like any good friend, Carmen insists that her friends go on their journey.  It's important to her.  So, Ives and Annie leave.

It's difficult having a close friend or family member who's gravely ill.  The world seems to stop, waiting for the inevitable.  Trips are canceled.  Holidays are ignored.  Happiness takes a holiday.  Carmen knows this, but she refuses to let her loved ones stop living.

My sister is still in a nursing home.  She's not getting any better.  All she does, all day long, is lie in her bed, stare at the ceiling, and cry.  My sister is tough.  Really tough.  A friend visited her this weekend in the nursing home, and my sister told her, "They might as well just throw me in a hole and bury me."

Yesterday, however, we got some promising news.  A doctor did an ultrasound of my sister's parathyroid.  It seems that it has been spewing out calcium at unbelievable levels, which, among other things, results in loss of muscle tone.  The doctor believes this condition explains my sister's current state.  No strength.  Excruciating pain.  Long story short, my sister is having another surgery next week to remove her parathyroid.  While the recovery is still going to be long and hard, there is now hope for recovery.

That's God's love number forty-three:  hope for my sister.  She will get better.  She will walk out of that nursing home.  She will come home.  Of course, her life will be drastically different than what it was, but she will have a life.

That's what Saint Marty is holding onto tonight.

Who knew such a little thing could cause so much misery?

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