Six cigarettes yesterday. Today it will be twelve. You are back up to your pre-stroke level of smoking. I change tactics on you.
“What would you do if I engaged in risky behaviour that could leave you a widow and forced to raise our children single handedly? How would you feel about that?” I look at you intensely. You won’t look at me like I am scolding you. I answer for you, “You haven’t had to think about that possibility, because you had the stroke. While you were so ill and near death I did think about it. I thought about being a single parent constantly and I was very scared.”
When I told Tara the other day that you starting to smoke again. Tara was shocked and scared and sad all at the same time. The expression on her face haunts me just like the image of you smoking out on the deck. Our children need two parents. You have to remember that you are a father. It's ’he most important job in the world. And what is more important, I know that you love being a Dad. Start acting like a father and think about your family.”
You are quiet and want to go to bed early. I think that my talk has made you think. I think that I need time to get used to the idea that you are a smoker and you need time to adjust to our new life.
Just before bedtime, you played ball with the children. It was nice to see this interaction. I guess that we will just have to see how this is going to play out for you.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Wednesday April 28 - Six Cigarettes and a Three Page Letter.
I couldn’t sleep tonight so I journaled. I emptied the bad thoughts out and tried to find my way to peace. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say to help you see the your self-destruction.
Last night, when we locked horns, I said, I knew that it would be best for our family if you didn’t smoke, but I knew that I couldn’t make you stop. I am so frustrated. I don’t know how to get you to want to quit smoking. Well actually I could make you stop but it wouldn’t be your decision and it would be a rather poor basis of our relationship. I plan to call your psychologist to see what her advice is in the morning.
I awoke again at 4:30 am. I am angry. I know it is redirected anger. I am really angry at myself for falling for the mulligan ploy. I should have known better. Now, the nicotine is finding a home in your body and once it settles in … it will never want to leave.
My anger turns to the NSRC. I lay in bed for about 2 hours thinking of all the issues that I have with the NSRC. I spent the next few hours writing a letter about our experiences at the rehab. It was a long letter and covered a lot of areas of heartache. I figure that if I am going to be angry, then I should use it for Good not Evil. Even redirected anger is better directed at the people or person who is best suited to make a difference.
I carefully compose a three page letter. I make various suggestions and hope that it will not fall on deaf ears.
In the morning, I called your psychologist at the NSRC. She is very understanding but also somewhat useless with advice. “You can help him go outside and smoke or you can make him do it himself and he might get hurt. There is no right or wrong answer.” Either way you are hurting yourself. She suggests a compromise. “You could give him coupons for trips outside and allow him to trust you so that he is not stressed about when he is going to get outside again.” I like this idea. It could limit the number of cigarettes that you smoke in a day. I promised to try this and we discuss how you get fixated on things and how best to help you get past something that you are stuck on.
By the end of the day you smoked six cigarettes.
Last night, when we locked horns, I said, I knew that it would be best for our family if you didn’t smoke, but I knew that I couldn’t make you stop. I am so frustrated. I don’t know how to get you to want to quit smoking. Well actually I could make you stop but it wouldn’t be your decision and it would be a rather poor basis of our relationship. I plan to call your psychologist to see what her advice is in the morning.
I awoke again at 4:30 am. I am angry. I know it is redirected anger. I am really angry at myself for falling for the mulligan ploy. I should have known better. Now, the nicotine is finding a home in your body and once it settles in … it will never want to leave.
My anger turns to the NSRC. I lay in bed for about 2 hours thinking of all the issues that I have with the NSRC. I spent the next few hours writing a letter about our experiences at the rehab. It was a long letter and covered a lot of areas of heartache. I figure that if I am going to be angry, then I should use it for Good not Evil. Even redirected anger is better directed at the people or person who is best suited to make a difference.
I carefully compose a three page letter. I make various suggestions and hope that it will not fall on deaf ears.
In the morning, I called your psychologist at the NSRC. She is very understanding but also somewhat useless with advice. “You can help him go outside and smoke or you can make him do it himself and he might get hurt. There is no right or wrong answer.” Either way you are hurting yourself. She suggests a compromise. “You could give him coupons for trips outside and allow him to trust you so that he is not stressed about when he is going to get outside again.” I like this idea. It could limit the number of cigarettes that you smoke in a day. I promised to try this and we discuss how you get fixated on things and how best to help you get past something that you are stuck on.
By the end of the day you smoked six cigarettes.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Tuesday April 27 – Lose the Battle … Win the War?
The psychologist said, “Don’t make smoking a battlefield.” So instead I have tried both logic and feelings to explain the negative impact that smoking has on our family. I have even shamelessly tried manipulation. I have lost every time. I don’t know what to do to any more.
I even ask you what I should do. “I want to do the right thing for our family and I believe that is to get you to want to stop smoking.” I say to you. “What should I do to do the right thing?”
I could physically prevent you from smoking. That’s not my first or my second or my twenty-ninth approach, but I did try it too and that just led our conversation to an argument and from an argument to silence. It didn’t work.
I tried bargaining with you over the tattoo. “Wait 29 days of no smoking and then get it.” I suggest. You wouldn’t take me up on it. I refused to help you outside. You tried any way. I was right behind to pick you up off the ground. You were shook up but you still wanted to smoke.
You said on the weekend that you wanted a mulligan for a day. Then it was two days. Now it’s been four days of smoking, one cigarette for the last three days and two today. By enabling your mulligan, I have allowed the slippery slope to take over.
I should have never caved to your way of thinking. Your logic sounded good at the time. You said that since you never chose not to smoke eight months ago, then allowing you a mulligan will enable you to officially choose not to smoke. I am mad at myself because I knew that the best defense to not smoking was that you had a streak going. Now the streak is gone, your willpower is gone.
You think I hate you. I try to explain that I don’t hate you … I hate the smoking. There is a big difference. I never knew you as a smoker. I knew you as a wonderful father and friend and husband. That is who I love and who I want you to be now. You created expectations for me by concealing the smoking. I don’t think of you as a smoker.
The mental image of you with a cigarette in your hand or hanging from your mouth is burned into my mind now. I can’t shake the picture loose. I don’t like the picture and I pray that Tara and Quinn never see you like that.
I have to give you credit. We agreed last week that there would be no smoking in the house. When I refused to take you outside to smoke tonight, you could have lit up in the kitchen ... but you didn’t. And last night, when I was especially stressed out about Mum not doing well in the hospital, you choose to be a wonderful husband and said that I should go see Mum and you promised to stay in bed and not smoke while I was gone. You were true to your word.
Why do I hate smoking so much. Maybe because my Father smoked a lot. I believe that the cigarettes robbed his mind from us in the last years before his death. I don’t want our children having the same experience with their Father.
I even ask you what I should do. “I want to do the right thing for our family and I believe that is to get you to want to stop smoking.” I say to you. “What should I do to do the right thing?”
I could physically prevent you from smoking. That’s not my first or my second or my twenty-ninth approach, but I did try it too and that just led our conversation to an argument and from an argument to silence. It didn’t work.
I tried bargaining with you over the tattoo. “Wait 29 days of no smoking and then get it.” I suggest. You wouldn’t take me up on it. I refused to help you outside. You tried any way. I was right behind to pick you up off the ground. You were shook up but you still wanted to smoke.
You said on the weekend that you wanted a mulligan for a day. Then it was two days. Now it’s been four days of smoking, one cigarette for the last three days and two today. By enabling your mulligan, I have allowed the slippery slope to take over.
I should have never caved to your way of thinking. Your logic sounded good at the time. You said that since you never chose not to smoke eight months ago, then allowing you a mulligan will enable you to officially choose not to smoke. I am mad at myself because I knew that the best defense to not smoking was that you had a streak going. Now the streak is gone, your willpower is gone.
You think I hate you. I try to explain that I don’t hate you … I hate the smoking. There is a big difference. I never knew you as a smoker. I knew you as a wonderful father and friend and husband. That is who I love and who I want you to be now. You created expectations for me by concealing the smoking. I don’t think of you as a smoker.
The mental image of you with a cigarette in your hand or hanging from your mouth is burned into my mind now. I can’t shake the picture loose. I don’t like the picture and I pray that Tara and Quinn never see you like that.
I have to give you credit. We agreed last week that there would be no smoking in the house. When I refused to take you outside to smoke tonight, you could have lit up in the kitchen ... but you didn’t. And last night, when I was especially stressed out about Mum not doing well in the hospital, you choose to be a wonderful husband and said that I should go see Mum and you promised to stay in bed and not smoke while I was gone. You were true to your word.
Why do I hate smoking so much. Maybe because my Father smoked a lot. I believe that the cigarettes robbed his mind from us in the last years before his death. I don’t want our children having the same experience with their Father.
Monday April 26 – First Homecare Day
Today was the first day of the official homecare. The worker you had today was very nice, but her hands were somewhat tied. She wasn’t able to do much with you. It’s no fault of hers or yours. It’s the system. Until a bath assessment can be done, she can’t get you showered. Until the PT and OT train her and her colleagues they are not allowed to perform any therapies. The homecare worker has to be creative to find things to do with you that are helpful.
In the afternoon, you visit Donald. His 90th birthday will be in July. He is tired and seems a little confused. You are saddened by this. I understand how you feel. It’s hard seeing a good friend shrink away from living.
As we leave you stop to talk to another resident. He is your age and has been in the long-term care facility for many years. He has seen a lot of people fade away over the years. He has known Donald for some time and has seen a difference too.
Some wise words come from you as the two of you talk. “What happens to you is up to you.” A long-term care facility would disable you further. I can’t image visiting you in this place with the children. I found it hard to visit my father as an adult, I can’t image what it would be like for children to visit their father in a nursing home like this.
There are moments that you think this is where you should be. No! I scream in my head. I couldn’t bare that. You have to be home with us. As long as it’s possible, I will do anything to have you home and give our children a shot at a normal family life.
I will no let you give up.
In the afternoon, you visit Donald. His 90th birthday will be in July. He is tired and seems a little confused. You are saddened by this. I understand how you feel. It’s hard seeing a good friend shrink away from living.
As we leave you stop to talk to another resident. He is your age and has been in the long-term care facility for many years. He has seen a lot of people fade away over the years. He has known Donald for some time and has seen a difference too.
Some wise words come from you as the two of you talk. “What happens to you is up to you.” A long-term care facility would disable you further. I can’t image visiting you in this place with the children. I found it hard to visit my father as an adult, I can’t image what it would be like for children to visit their father in a nursing home like this.
There are moments that you think this is where you should be. No! I scream in my head. I couldn’t bare that. You have to be home with us. As long as it’s possible, I will do anything to have you home and give our children a shot at a normal family life.
I will no let you give up.
Sunday April 25 – We are Dominos … surrounded by Pillars
This morning is worse. You are very contrary. I had hoped that the mood you were in last night would have melted away by morning. It hadn’t. In fact, it got worse. Now you not only refuse the your medicines, but you don’t want me around you.
Tara tries her best to bring you out of the slump. She did an old Knock Knock joke that she made up when she was three. It always got a rise out of you. “Knock knock” “Whose there?” “Old MacDonald had a farm EIEIO.”
It didn’t work. She resorts to the internet to find jokes that might made you laugh. No luck. She gives up. Quinn starts on his approach. He lays beside you and cuddles and talks softly to you in soothing tones like a parent to their baby. “Quinn’s the only one who really loves me.” You say.
I felt desperate. I didn’t know what to do. I reached out over the phone. I though of the church and the people who have stood strong behind us all these months. I thought of them and reached out.
Within the hour, Janice and her husband, Les, were by your side. Les, a fellow baseball player from many years ago, gave you the type of pep talk that you would have loved if this were a baseball game. Janice sweet talked you into taking you medications. You rallied a little. A little while later, Hollis came to your side to try to bring you back to reality. He talked about you needing to realize that although the effects of the stroke really suck, life does go on and the sooner you comprehend this the better.
Later, in the afternoon, the minister from the church Jay and his husband, Marty, came to talk to you. After sharing thoughts and feelings with you Jay asked you to promise two things. The first was to remember that you are a member of a family. You have to let the needs of the others in the family come first. Part of your role is to be a giving person. Secondly, when you are frustrated about the things you can’t do, you should breakdown the problem and learn how you can do it in a different way that works for you.
You seemed much better after this talk. You even listen when I tell you about my worries and fears. I tell you that when you are good emotionally, I am strong and can take on the world. When you falter, I grind to a halt and cannot muster the energy to even think about the next step. I need you to be strong.
“You do have a choice … the bigger choice then anyone of us in the family can have. You can choose to be an inspiration or a burden.” These two paths are very different and they are determined by the little choices that you make. You can choose to be a smoker and a 4X4 coffee drinker and doughnut eater who refuses your medication. If you do then you will be an overweight, angry and depressed man who treats his feelings with cigarettes. No one will want to be with you. You will be a burden. OR You can made different choices that enable you to make the best recovery that you can make. You will be an inspiration.
The day ended pretty well. We talked and analyzed what happened to make the second 24 hours of your home life so hard. We both feel much better about the future and communicate and work things through.
We have to thank the outside support that came by our side today. They are the only reason that we got through it and are stronger for it.
Tara tries her best to bring you out of the slump. She did an old Knock Knock joke that she made up when she was three. It always got a rise out of you. “Knock knock” “Whose there?” “Old MacDonald had a farm EIEIO.”
It didn’t work. She resorts to the internet to find jokes that might made you laugh. No luck. She gives up. Quinn starts on his approach. He lays beside you and cuddles and talks softly to you in soothing tones like a parent to their baby. “Quinn’s the only one who really loves me.” You say.
I felt desperate. I didn’t know what to do. I reached out over the phone. I though of the church and the people who have stood strong behind us all these months. I thought of them and reached out.
Within the hour, Janice and her husband, Les, were by your side. Les, a fellow baseball player from many years ago, gave you the type of pep talk that you would have loved if this were a baseball game. Janice sweet talked you into taking you medications. You rallied a little. A little while later, Hollis came to your side to try to bring you back to reality. He talked about you needing to realize that although the effects of the stroke really suck, life does go on and the sooner you comprehend this the better.
Later, in the afternoon, the minister from the church Jay and his husband, Marty, came to talk to you. After sharing thoughts and feelings with you Jay asked you to promise two things. The first was to remember that you are a member of a family. You have to let the needs of the others in the family come first. Part of your role is to be a giving person. Secondly, when you are frustrated about the things you can’t do, you should breakdown the problem and learn how you can do it in a different way that works for you.
You seemed much better after this talk. You even listen when I tell you about my worries and fears. I tell you that when you are good emotionally, I am strong and can take on the world. When you falter, I grind to a halt and cannot muster the energy to even think about the next step. I need you to be strong.
“You do have a choice … the bigger choice then anyone of us in the family can have. You can choose to be an inspiration or a burden.” These two paths are very different and they are determined by the little choices that you make. You can choose to be a smoker and a 4X4 coffee drinker and doughnut eater who refuses your medication. If you do then you will be an overweight, angry and depressed man who treats his feelings with cigarettes. No one will want to be with you. You will be a burden. OR You can made different choices that enable you to make the best recovery that you can make. You will be an inspiration.
The day ended pretty well. We talked and analyzed what happened to make the second 24 hours of your home life so hard. We both feel much better about the future and communicate and work things through.
We have to thank the outside support that came by our side today. They are the only reason that we got through it and are stronger for it.
Saturday April 24 – What are we going to be? Dominos or Pillars?
My lazy Saturday that I have been dreaming of for a long time, started out great. I had a shower and sat on the edge of the bed, contemplating whether to trim my toenails or not. Something that I have never ever given much thought to in the past, even before your stroke, but for some reason it seemed important to think about it today.
Today, the first day of being together again officially as a family and I’m thinking about my toe nails. Well the moment passed quickly, The phone rang. Whoever called didn’t stay on the phone to get an answer but Tara and I both picked up the phone to take the call. The result was that we were talking to each other on the phone … Rather odd since she was in the next room! She reminds me of all the things she has to do. There’s the birthday present and party as well as the choir practice this afternoon and the performance tonight. I sigh and cut the nails short as she rambles on. Then you pick up another phone and butt into the conversation. “Don’t forget I want to visit Donald, and go to the bank and the tattoo place. We need things for the fish and we have to registrat Quinn for baseball.”
The only thing I wanted to do today was to get groceries. We didn’t have time to do this.
It was a very busy day. I can’t believe we got through it. We very nearly didn’t. I started the morning by forgetting your wheelchair. When we registered Quinn for baseball, you had to walk into the building. Although it had a ramp, it wasn’t a well-designed ramp and the access to the ramp was not ‘mobility-impaired friendly’.
How crazy is that? A ramp built for the mobility impaired that the mobility impaired can’t get to. I was angry at the stupidity and wondered how often we would come across this situation.
We dropped Tara for the birthday party and Quinn at a friend’s place. When we got to Donald’s we realized that your wheelchair was broken. Your brand new wheelchair. The chair that we were forced to rent because the paperwork wasn’t done in time to get the chair that was ordered for you. Even though the staff at the NSRC had 14 weeks to make this happen. We still were forced to rent a chair.
My guess was that we had to wait for the wheels to be harvested off the wheel tree before the chair could be made. I was angry about this too. When I discovered this yesterday, I shoveled the anger under some other thoughts and tried to forget about it.
It didn’t work. When the chair broke, I couldn’t suppress my anger any more. It flew out of me. The anger that I’ve been keeping stuffed in all the corners of my mind comes springing out of my mouth.
You did what you usually do when I get stressed, you tried to make a joke of it and lighten me up. It usually works … but not today. Today, I had too much anger and even your best attempts to curtail it would have failed.
I took the chair to two local drug stores on town that deal with wheelchairs. I had hoped that someone there could fix it. Of course, it’s Saturday, the person who could fix the chair wasn’t there on a Saturdays. I tried calling the company in Halifax where the chair came from. They were closed. I left a searing hot message about the “piece of s… contraption you are renting us that you call a wheelchair”. I was still angry.
Thankfully, the lady who worked at the local Lawton’s drugstore and homecare center, has a marvelous dog who is a patient of mine. When I saw her familiar face, I tried to explain the problem and finished by bursting into tears with frustration. She jumped into action and the next thing I knew was she dug out a wheelchair, just your size, that we could use over the weekend … at no cost.
My outburst of insuppressible anger affected you. I think you felt like you failed me by not being able to rally me out of my strong emotions, like you could always did in the past. You thought that you had lost another talent because of your stroke.
The whole chair ordeal ate up the afternoon. By the time we got to the tattoo place, there wasn’t enough time to get the tattoo. You were angry now too. Angry and sad and disappointed and you felt like you weren’t important enough to get the tattoo. Even thought I explained that the broken chair was the reason for the lack of time, you were convinced that I felt it was a low priority to me.
The fact that I never did get groceries today or visit Mum, who was moved to the Colchester Hospital yesterday, my only priorities, didn’t pacify you at all.
You wanted to smoke. A ‘mulligan’ you said. You explained it by saying that you never choose not to smoke. If you smoke now … for a day … then you can choose to stop tomorrow and the choice would be yours to claim. The logic appealed to me. I swallowed hard and against my better judgement, I took you outside. I half expected you to consider the idea and then back off and keep the streak. But you didn’t, you smoked. I caught a glimpse of you smoking. A very foreign gesture to me. I had never seen you smoke before and I was struck by the impression the image left me.
The cigarette didn’t help your mood. By bedtime you were sullen and not talking. You wanted to go to get early. You don’t want to sleep with me. You want to sleep in the hospital bed in the family room. I get you into bed. You refuse to take your bedtime medications. You want to force me to accept your choice about medications.
You want desperately to control something … anything you choose to smoke. For the first time I see you with a cigarette in your hand and you sit out side smoking. I felt physically ill thinking of the image.
Earlier this week before you came home, I talked to the children about the strength that a family has as a unit. I tell them about dominos and how when dominos are stood on their ends side by side. They are only as steady as their weakest member. “When one falls so do the rest.” I said. “What we have to be as a family is to be pillars that hold up the roof.” I point to a house as we drive by it with pillars supporting the roof eave. “Pillars hold up the roof. If one goes the remaining ones support the roof and if town go, the remaining pillars continue to hold up the roof.”
“When Daddy gets home it will be great and bad moments. During the bad moments, it will be hard to us to hold up the roof. The family. But we will be pillars because that’s the only way we can survive. Survive with the strength and support from each other.”
At the time of my little talk, I wasn’t convinced that the children really understood what I was trying to say.
I was wrong. Tonight, as I tuck Tara into bed. She is saddened with the news that you refused your medications. She hung her head in her hands as she sat at the edge of the bed. “We are dominos.” She repeated sadly. “We are all dominos.”
If this is going to be how the first day goes, how am I ever going to get through the rest of our lives? I pray that tomorrow will be a better day.
Today, the first day of being together again officially as a family and I’m thinking about my toe nails. Well the moment passed quickly, The phone rang. Whoever called didn’t stay on the phone to get an answer but Tara and I both picked up the phone to take the call. The result was that we were talking to each other on the phone … Rather odd since she was in the next room! She reminds me of all the things she has to do. There’s the birthday present and party as well as the choir practice this afternoon and the performance tonight. I sigh and cut the nails short as she rambles on. Then you pick up another phone and butt into the conversation. “Don’t forget I want to visit Donald, and go to the bank and the tattoo place. We need things for the fish and we have to registrat Quinn for baseball.”
The only thing I wanted to do today was to get groceries. We didn’t have time to do this.
It was a very busy day. I can’t believe we got through it. We very nearly didn’t. I started the morning by forgetting your wheelchair. When we registered Quinn for baseball, you had to walk into the building. Although it had a ramp, it wasn’t a well-designed ramp and the access to the ramp was not ‘mobility-impaired friendly’.
How crazy is that? A ramp built for the mobility impaired that the mobility impaired can’t get to. I was angry at the stupidity and wondered how often we would come across this situation.
We dropped Tara for the birthday party and Quinn at a friend’s place. When we got to Donald’s we realized that your wheelchair was broken. Your brand new wheelchair. The chair that we were forced to rent because the paperwork wasn’t done in time to get the chair that was ordered for you. Even though the staff at the NSRC had 14 weeks to make this happen. We still were forced to rent a chair.
My guess was that we had to wait for the wheels to be harvested off the wheel tree before the chair could be made. I was angry about this too. When I discovered this yesterday, I shoveled the anger under some other thoughts and tried to forget about it.
It didn’t work. When the chair broke, I couldn’t suppress my anger any more. It flew out of me. The anger that I’ve been keeping stuffed in all the corners of my mind comes springing out of my mouth.
You did what you usually do when I get stressed, you tried to make a joke of it and lighten me up. It usually works … but not today. Today, I had too much anger and even your best attempts to curtail it would have failed.
I took the chair to two local drug stores on town that deal with wheelchairs. I had hoped that someone there could fix it. Of course, it’s Saturday, the person who could fix the chair wasn’t there on a Saturdays. I tried calling the company in Halifax where the chair came from. They were closed. I left a searing hot message about the “piece of s… contraption you are renting us that you call a wheelchair”. I was still angry.
Thankfully, the lady who worked at the local Lawton’s drugstore and homecare center, has a marvelous dog who is a patient of mine. When I saw her familiar face, I tried to explain the problem and finished by bursting into tears with frustration. She jumped into action and the next thing I knew was she dug out a wheelchair, just your size, that we could use over the weekend … at no cost.
My outburst of insuppressible anger affected you. I think you felt like you failed me by not being able to rally me out of my strong emotions, like you could always did in the past. You thought that you had lost another talent because of your stroke.
The whole chair ordeal ate up the afternoon. By the time we got to the tattoo place, there wasn’t enough time to get the tattoo. You were angry now too. Angry and sad and disappointed and you felt like you weren’t important enough to get the tattoo. Even thought I explained that the broken chair was the reason for the lack of time, you were convinced that I felt it was a low priority to me.
The fact that I never did get groceries today or visit Mum, who was moved to the Colchester Hospital yesterday, my only priorities, didn’t pacify you at all.
You wanted to smoke. A ‘mulligan’ you said. You explained it by saying that you never choose not to smoke. If you smoke now … for a day … then you can choose to stop tomorrow and the choice would be yours to claim. The logic appealed to me. I swallowed hard and against my better judgement, I took you outside. I half expected you to consider the idea and then back off and keep the streak. But you didn’t, you smoked. I caught a glimpse of you smoking. A very foreign gesture to me. I had never seen you smoke before and I was struck by the impression the image left me.
The cigarette didn’t help your mood. By bedtime you were sullen and not talking. You wanted to go to get early. You don’t want to sleep with me. You want to sleep in the hospital bed in the family room. I get you into bed. You refuse to take your bedtime medications. You want to force me to accept your choice about medications.
You want desperately to control something … anything you choose to smoke. For the first time I see you with a cigarette in your hand and you sit out side smoking. I felt physically ill thinking of the image.
Earlier this week before you came home, I talked to the children about the strength that a family has as a unit. I tell them about dominos and how when dominos are stood on their ends side by side. They are only as steady as their weakest member. “When one falls so do the rest.” I said. “What we have to be as a family is to be pillars that hold up the roof.” I point to a house as we drive by it with pillars supporting the roof eave. “Pillars hold up the roof. If one goes the remaining ones support the roof and if town go, the remaining pillars continue to hold up the roof.”
“When Daddy gets home it will be great and bad moments. During the bad moments, it will be hard to us to hold up the roof. The family. But we will be pillars because that’s the only way we can survive. Survive with the strength and support from each other.”
At the time of my little talk, I wasn’t convinced that the children really understood what I was trying to say.
I was wrong. Tonight, as I tuck Tara into bed. She is saddened with the news that you refused your medications. She hung her head in her hands as she sat at the edge of the bed. “We are dominos.” She repeated sadly. “We are all dominos.”
If this is going to be how the first day goes, how am I ever going to get through the rest of our lives? I pray that tomorrow will be a better day.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Friday April 23 – Coming Home and Inspiring Thoughts
There you were – waiting for me at the front door of the NSRC . I had said that I would come over right after my vet meeting at five. I got there five to five and you were waiting.
“I’m going to exercise and eat healthy … like blueberries.” You said smiling and reaching out to hug me.
As I pack up your things, you show me a poster. It’s the poster that you gave your PT. The Boston Marathon poster with the phrase ‘Greatness goes by many many names.’ “I don’t know why she gave it back.” You said sounding a little sad. “I was hoping that she would give it to someone to inspire.” I hugged you and said “I think she did ... she gave it to you!”
She gave it to you but with a few small changes. Beside the poster message “Greatness goes by many many names.” She wrote “Few can hope to ever run a marathon, Many can hope for happiness. My hope for you Chris is that you will be happy.” Below, she put a photo that she took of the whole family on St Patrick’s day. We were all dressed in green. All four of our heads are huddled together in a big family hug. Smiling and loving the togetherness of our family.
You were expected to only need 7 weeks of rehab initially, but you were there for 14 weeks. Double the stay. The NSRC team managed to do more with you then they initially thought that they could. We are thankful for all that they did. You had some pretty amazing team players at the NSRC.
One of the last things that I packed was a little magnet that the cleaning lady at the NSRC gave you during your second week there. The two of you had become friends and she gave you a magnet with the word ‘Believe’ stamped into it. I threw it into the bag as an after thought. As we were getting prescriptions from the nurse you spy your PT working late. You ask me to dig out the magnet. “There is someone I want to give it to.” You say. I find the magnet and hand it to you. You wheel up to your PT and palm the small magnet and reach out to shake her hand. “What’s this?” she said. “We already hugged.” When she realizes what you are up to, she doesn’t want to accept it. You insist. She agreed to keep it. And shook your hand.
The nurse had to find some other medications and we followed her to collect the last of the medication. When we get to the elevator, we meet with your PT again. She smiles and says “I know what I’m going to do with the magnet. I’m going to put the magnet on my locker door here ... it will inspire me.”
Mission accomplished. Your magnet will not only remind her of you but also that miracles do happen.
“I’m going to exercise and eat healthy … like blueberries.” You said smiling and reaching out to hug me.
As I pack up your things, you show me a poster. It’s the poster that you gave your PT. The Boston Marathon poster with the phrase ‘Greatness goes by many many names.’ “I don’t know why she gave it back.” You said sounding a little sad. “I was hoping that she would give it to someone to inspire.” I hugged you and said “I think she did ... she gave it to you!”
She gave it to you but with a few small changes. Beside the poster message “Greatness goes by many many names.” She wrote “Few can hope to ever run a marathon, Many can hope for happiness. My hope for you Chris is that you will be happy.” Below, she put a photo that she took of the whole family on St Patrick’s day. We were all dressed in green. All four of our heads are huddled together in a big family hug. Smiling and loving the togetherness of our family.
You were expected to only need 7 weeks of rehab initially, but you were there for 14 weeks. Double the stay. The NSRC team managed to do more with you then they initially thought that they could. We are thankful for all that they did. You had some pretty amazing team players at the NSRC.
One of the last things that I packed was a little magnet that the cleaning lady at the NSRC gave you during your second week there. The two of you had become friends and she gave you a magnet with the word ‘Believe’ stamped into it. I threw it into the bag as an after thought. As we were getting prescriptions from the nurse you spy your PT working late. You ask me to dig out the magnet. “There is someone I want to give it to.” You say. I find the magnet and hand it to you. You wheel up to your PT and palm the small magnet and reach out to shake her hand. “What’s this?” she said. “We already hugged.” When she realizes what you are up to, she doesn’t want to accept it. You insist. She agreed to keep it. And shook your hand.
The nurse had to find some other medications and we followed her to collect the last of the medication. When we get to the elevator, we meet with your PT again. She smiles and says “I know what I’m going to do with the magnet. I’m going to put the magnet on my locker door here ... it will inspire me.”
Mission accomplished. Your magnet will not only remind her of you but also that miracles do happen.
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