My dad grew up sickly. I have no idea what the problem was. And, I have no idea how much might have been my grandmother and her eccentricities. I loved the woman more than I can ever describe, but nobody that knew and loved her will claim that they had a clue what was going on in her head.
When my parents had a son they received the news, "You're kid is broke and will probably die very soon." When his little brother was born four miraculous years later, the doctor couldn't understand why the mother went into hysterics when he joked, "Perfect, 11 fingers and 11 toes." During the next six miraculous years, that little brother was rushed to the hospital in an old Hudson Wasp, and Old Packard, and a couple of taxi cabs, once with a police escort. That little brother was not breathing or not breathing well and various shades of blue for each of those trips. He too, was broken.
Then one day, the miraculous years just stopped. The miracle ended. The prediction finally came true. The first broken kid finally died.
I remember finding him that morning. I remember my mother shoving me out of the room as she began CPR. I remember the feel of the street on my bare feet as I ran across to the land lords' house since they had a phone and could call the fire department. I remember old Mrs. Grant shoving her beige padded chair over to the door so I could watch for the fire trucks through her peephole. I remember her holding my hand as we stood on the corner and watched. I remember that the firemen that David and I had always idolized were now terrifying. I remember one looking at me with a very serious look on his face. I remember my brother's lifeless body being carried out to the ambulance on a gurney and my mother running after them screaming and sobbing. I remember my dad arriving at the end of the scene from work and leaving his taxi cab in the middle of the intersection as he ran to my mom. I remember Mrs. Grant passing me to Eve ( a favorite hangout for David and I) so that my parents could follow the ambulance to the hospital. Some time later, my parents took me to the beach. We sat between rock formations and huddled up because it was cold. They try to struggle through an explanation and I simply told them, "I already know. David's dead. I already told Eve." That's all I remember from that day. But every second could have been this morning. Every sound, every smell, every feel. I remember the weight of his head as I pushed it back onto the bed. I remember the velvet upholstery of Mrs' Grants chair. I remember the cold wet grass. I remember the smell of the empty bottle of Chanel No 9 that Eve handed me (we loved those). I remember the feel of the sand under the blanket we sat on at the beach at the sound of the surf hitting the rocks and the smell of the seaweed. That was 40 years and a few days ago.
It's no wonder my parents tried to protect me. It's no wonder I avoided PE and sports. But I was healthier and stronger than any of us believed. I could hold my breath longer than any of my friends. Sure I passed out when I tried to run a timed mile. But I was relatively healthy.
As an adult, I learned that "I can't" and "I have asthma" didn't pay the bills. So I just did. I climbed roller coasters. I broke bolts loose that stronger men couldn't. I carried motors on my shoulder up vertical ladders. I forgot how to stop. There was no end to what I would try to do.
Then in my late 30s two things came together. I was polishing skills that made me special in my trade. And, old injuries began to cause me problems. New injuries just didn't heal properly. So, when I came to a door that allowed me to become a specialist and make some demands about my work life, I walked through it. I stepped away from the grunt work and embraced the brain work. At one point though a convergence of circumstances brought me to another door. This one meant time with my girls but a job that couldn't pay me to be the brain. I walked through the door. I still used my brain and polished my desired skills, but I also took a middle aged dad body and by my 47th birthday I had became the fittest and strongest I had ever been.
In just weeks after that I was unable to get my foot onto a step. I could no longer stand without shaking. And I no longer was considered safe to be at work. A year later, I just went through another turn in my disease. In the same weekend an army of specialists did every advanced test no doctor would before and my disease went to the full blown text book definition.
I'm afraid to go to the store. I won't drive. I don't even like to eat sometimes. And at this time that I seem to feel the most incapable, he reasons to earn extra money are higher than ever. I'm worried about some debt issues, I'm worried about the structure of my home. I'm worried about time obligations. I read the Bible and as many times as I've preached certain scriptures I find little solace in knowing that what God has in plan is different from what I have in plan. I like my house. I don't want it to split in two. I like my view of "my mountain" and I don't want anything to happen to that. I have no idea how I am supposed to move around let alone care for a wife that has depended on me for years. I don't want to trust God's plans. For some reason I am so arrogant to believe that my plans can be somehow cooler than God's. But, I am. And you know what? I DON't CARE!
Then I am lying in the hospital bed. All the muscles in my body have me arched backward as far as I can go from the top of my head to my eyebrows, yes I could feel the pain in my eyebrows. The only thing not arched are my eyes, for the most part they are clamped shut. My right arm is curled under me fast asleep. half of my breaths suck the already soaked cotton of the pillowcase into my mouth. My left arm is waving wildly behind my back and my toes are curled so far under I wonder if I am touching the soles of my feet. All the while I am groaning as my chest muscles relax enough to let me breath. The only other sounds are the hiss of oxygen that is nowhere near my nose and the clicking and clacking of the nurse at her computer just a couple feet from the foot of my bed. I wanted to scream, please hold my hand. I couldn't and she didn't. She did later report to a doctor that the episode lasted 45 minutes as she requested a pain pill for the agony in my back.
I have no idea how long I laid there and bawled. It wasn't just the pain even though I have never felt such pain in every cell of my body all at the same time. No, it was being alone. I felt terribly alone.
That was Sunday. Today, Wednesday, as I had my ear buds in, my wife looked over and saw me bawling again. But today as I listened to worship music drawn straight from the Holy Word of God, I knew I was never alone. And I remembered again that it doesn't matter if my home splits in two. God has a plan. I don't have the foggiest what it is. but He has a plan.
Sure, I have a responsibility to do everything I can. I need to try to save my house. I need to feed my family. I need to be smart with every penny I have. And I need to be smart with my limited energy. I need to try to help my wife be safe as she takes on more. But, I need to remember. I am not alone and God has a plan, whatever it looks like.