January

January is a month of hope for a lot of people. It is for me. I am ready to take down the beautiful Christmas decorations, perhaps rearrange furniture in my living room, and do some deep cleaning. January is also a month of resolutions. We’re going to…..you name it. I regularly go to the gym, but because of foot surgery was not able to until the past two weeks. January 2nd, dawned with partly sunny skies and no rain, with promise of colder weather later in the week. We walked into the gym and we were amazed at the amount of people who were spinning in the biking class, doing machine circuits, lifting weights, on the treadmill, and doing their stretching and floor exercises. I had to wig and wag my way around the circuit of machines I use, because those diligent people had made New Year’s resolutions and were sweating and straining their muscles—and getting in my way! I don’t blame them. I’m doing the same thing. I’m restructuring after being less disciplined with special holiday treats.

January is a month of memories for me. Some good. Some difficult. Some beautiful, but some I will never forget.

I’m thinking back to January of 2006 now. My husband of forty years was recovering from five months of extreme pain because he’d been battling Shingles of the Eye. We looked forward to his getting better. I was getting ready to begin classes again after a Christmas break from teaching. Bill had one of his many doctor’s appointments, and afterwards, we went to lunch at Red Robin.

As we savored the plate of french fries and juicy burgers, Bill said to me, “I wish you didn’t have to go back to work. I have a little bit of hope I might get better. Is there any chance you could extend Christmas break?”

“Maybe. I could talk to Vicki (my principal) and see…”

I did just that—I called her to see if I could extend my break for two weeks. She said yes. Next day, I drove to my school and room, wrote out two weeks of lesson plans for my music classes and library classes, called for a short-term substitute, and returned home.
The doctor’s visit, and time off gave us hope Bill would get better soon. I had a journal just for Bill’s medications and how he responded to them. We kept track so we could tell Bill’s numerous health professionals what seemed to help, what side effects he was experiencing, and so on. He had a pharmacy of prescriptions to take. I was his pharmacist, caregiver, working with his case manager to keep up the journal—chart really. We used this journal nearly every hour. It was necessary—his oncologist, primary care physician, ophthalmologist, and neurologist, needed to know how to help him—and make him better. And they tried.

Those two weeks were difficult. I looked back in the meds journal I just came across. They were filled with unpronounceable names, with high dosage that shocks me looking back now. There were brief statements that remind me of those difficult days. Here are some of them:
Woke up feeling very medicated
Ate breakfast
Got up to lay down
Cancelled dinner at Mom’s
Felt good
Felt wacky and drugged
Had a good day
Doctor appointment
Left for dinner but turned around because of pain

I could go on, but you get the idea.

Looking back, at that conversation at Red Robin’s where Bill asked if I would take time off. Would, not could. We knew I could, but would I? It sounds noble to think your classes, school, boss need you more than a sick husband, but honestly, those thoughts crossed my mind. I’m so glad I pushed back those thoughts and listened to Bill, and put on hold my classes at Portland Christian, my ten piano students, any responsibilities at church. I could have talked myself out of it really easily. At that time, we had Mom Rudberg—Bill’s mom—who had loads of time and love to give. She could have stayed with him during the daytime. But Bill needed me not her. Little did we know how little time we had left.

No one knows the future. You look at life spans. Statistics. Your good health and good health habits, but you really don’t know the future. I heard someone say, “Things can happen in a blink of an eye”—and you’ve probably heard it too, but I liked what he finished with: “But God doesn’t blink.” None of them is a surprise to God.

As I reflect on January, the hopes, the dreams, the plans, the excitement of what the year might bring, I’m remembering a difficult time that didn’t turn out the way I expected. My husband did not get better—but we shared those precious last fourteen days together at home before January 20th, when he suffered a stroke that put him in the hospital and he never returned home. That is his home on earth. He left the hospital for heaven instead.

Let’s look at today. We have plans and dreams. Desires to clean out closets and put decorations away.

Empty Stockings.

We hope we’ll have many days to build relationships with people in our lives important to us. I learned from those fourteen days I had at home with my ailing husband that we don’t know what the future is. Be sure you set some goals. Do some personal reflection about your emotional life as well as your physical one. Do you need to forgive? Give more time to a relationship? Give a hug instead of rushing out the door. Say I love you before you drop off to sleep. You may only have fourteen days.