May 28: Festively Enough, Book Club Meeting, Photos

That evening passed festively enough.  The tree had been decorated with great aplomb and by ten thirty everyone had left and the children were in bed...

Ives throws a tree decorating party every Christmas, where family and friends come together, eat, drink, and listen to Bing Crosby records.  The kids tinsel the tree, and the adults get mildly drunk.

This evening, my book club met at my house.  Our monthly gatherings are full of food and drink and conversation.  We talk about the month's reading selection (this month--We Are Not Ourselves by Matthew Thomas), and we catch up on gossip and family news.  As I've said in previous posts, it's one of my favorite evenings of the month.

Tonight, I had great news to share at book club.  My sister, who has been in the nursing home since February, flew down to the University of Michigan Hospital this morning to have her parathyroid removed.  The surgery went very well.  Before she was even out of the operating room, my sister had her calcium level checked, and it was in the normal range.

I received several pictures from my sister's hospital room.  My sister was sitting up in bed, eating potato chips.  There are two things in that statement that are remarkable.  First, my sister was sitting up--she has been flat on her back for almost four months, too weak to move.  Second, my sister was eating potato chips--my sister hasn't really eaten in almost four months either, throwing up everything.  So, two miracles in one picture.

It was a good evening.  Good book.  Good news.  Good friends.

One of the ladies in book club recently returned from a trip to Ireland.  She visited W. B. Yeats' grave and showed me a picture.  I just sort of sat there, staring at the photo.  Dumbstruck. 

Saint Marty has had a really good day.

P. S. Sorry about not posting last night.  I had a plumbing emergency at 11 p.m.  A plumber had to be called to unclog the only toilet in my house.  It was not a good scene.

Thanks to my friend for sharing this photo

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?