Stand Up Slowly

  In January of 1995, I began working in a bank and I was excited to have my first job as an adult at a local financial institution. Two weeks after I started I was asked to work a long 12 hour split shift to help cover the numerous absences of my co-workers. My co-workers were attending a funeral of an employee from another branch. I commented that they must have known everyone because it sounded like so many people were attending the funeral. I was told they had been with the bank for about 8 years. I asked how the man had passed. I stood mouth agape listening to what happened. 

  The man was working in the vault room with a teller. Both the small upper and large lower vaults were open. Preparing to load the filled coin bags into the lower vault, as the teller counted the cash from the upper vault, the man leaned over and hoisted the heavy bag into the vault. As he stood up, he cracked the back of his head on the upper thick and heavy vault door. He didn't split his head open, but was in a lot of pain and immediately got an ice pack and sat down. His wife was called to come and get him and bring him home as the pain was excessive. Two days later, the man died from a massive brain bleed. It was horrible. From that day forward, every branch instituted a new rule. One vault open at a time and the 2nd person present had to keep their hand on the open top vault door at all times and the other person would be the counter and note taker. 

  My entire adult life I have been wary about hitting the back of the head. It instilled an unnatural fear in me. I never stand up under a shelf. I get into cars differently than I used to. I scope out my surroundings before standing up when I am seated on the floor. Every physical movement has become calculated and planned because of the death of a man I never met. 

The Winter Cabin

The Winter Cabin

By: Kelli J Gavin

For: Writers Unite!

Picture Story Prompt

  Understanding that he was upset with me yet again, I knew to just leave him alone. Whenever we disagreed, he wasn’t up for a fight. I appreciated the fact that he had lost his will to argue and walked away. I was worn out and did not possess an ounce of the energy it takes to engage with him. 

  Jonathan may be the smartest, most articulate man I have ever met. He graduated with honors in three years and then went on to receive two doctorates in the following four years. When he began to mansplain a simple concept, I sarcastically addressed him as “Dr. Jonathan” so that he would cease such obnoxious behavior. When he persisted, I reminded him that all of those degrees were absolutely not granted in the fields of common sense or how to pick up on social cues. 

  Wondering how long he would be out on the ice again, I knew that I needed to find something to keep me busy. After picking up two or three discarded books, I walked back to the picture window at the front of the cabin. This cabin that I adore has been in my family for as long as I can remember. Because we both didn’t mind the winter chill, we tended to be the only family members that planned multiple excursions up to northern Minnesota and the Gunflint Trail each winter. Enjoying the fact that we didn’t have to compete for space with my siblings or parents, we usually spread out throughout the cabin and sometimes even slept in separate rooms. Piling the beds with warm quilts and lighting a fire in both fireplaces helped keep us comfortable during our long weekend stays. 

  How was someone so tall and strong, so elegant? The way he crossed leg over leg, and glided in a perfectly straight line for such a long distance, made me believe he would, at some point, just keep skating away from me. When he grimaced to himself mid conversation and then said something like, “Let’s take a break” or “I’ll be back soon”, I knew that he would soon bundle himself up in every warm winter clothing item he brought with us and grab a hat, mittens and scarf from the basket by the front door. His too big parka zipped to his chin, he exited with his skates over his shoulder. He liked the bench to the left of where the dock normally resides in the summer. I had never been sure why he gravitated to that bench, but when he sat and methodically removed his tall winter boots and began to put on his skates is when my breathing had usually returned to an expected and normal rhythm. 

  I had always loved Jonathan. Since the moment we met. But I believe our love had changed somehow, even evolved into more of a comfortable companionship and mutual admiration rather than burning desire. I am sad to say that I enjoyed his silent companionship more than anything. When we played cards, watched a movie together or even read in the living room. Conversation wasn’t required. We may have looked at each other fondly while together, but neither of us felt compelled to speak anymore. He always kissed me each morning, when he returned from work and at night before bed, but that may have been the only times he touched me, and I was okay with this. 

  As I watched him step carefully onto the ice, he did a few gentle glides and then furiously began his endless cycle of crazy eights. Over and over again. I began to wonder if he ever became dizzy from his repetitive paths. If he did, he didn’t show it. Clapping his hands over his head a few times, I understood he was trying to warm himself up and increase the blood flow in his arms and hands. His movements were so predictable, I realized that his predictability is what calmed me. Yet annoyed me all the same.

  When Jonathan came in from the ice, he was silent, as expected. I had prepared a simple lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato soup and apples. He smiled at my own predictability displayed on the small table in the kitchen. As he stowed his hat, mittens and scarf and removed his boots on the mat to catch the melting snow chunks, he looked at me, but said nothing. He never broke eye contact as he hung up his parka on one of the many hooks haphazardly nailed to the wall by the door. 

  When he walked to the kitchen to meet me, he sat and we proceeded to eat in silence. He didn’t even attempt to make a connection, but then neither did I. Five years together and this is what we had come to. Silence while eating grilled cheese and tomato soup at the table in the cabin’s kitchen. 

  “I am going to say something that neither of us want to hear or say. I love you, but I am no longer in love with you. I think you feel the same. I think we need to take a break. I have located an apartment and taken out a 3-6 month flexible lease. I can move in when we get home. I think we should use this time to decide what is next for both of us.” Jonathan calmly explained.

  I didn’t cry. Not one tear. I reached out and touched his hand before I was ready to speak. Staring at my soup, a rush of emotion flooded me. It was a relief. It was the feeling of hope. It was a release from all the worry. It was needed.

  “Thank you. For making this decision for us. To be honest, I don’t think I could have done it. But thank you for knowing that we need to do this. Thank you for enabling both of us to take the needed next step in our own lives.” 

  Jonathan held my hand firmly and then pulled it to lips and kissed it. “I respect you and myself enough to know that we can’t keep doing this. This silence, this walking on eggshells. And also, there aren’t any great skating ponds back home. I need to skate when I am frustrated. Where am I going to skate back home if we were to stay together?”

  I began to laugh. Not just a giggle, but full on laughter. The tears came quickly as Jonathan began laughing. I was so thankful at that very moment for his awkward sense of humor. Laughing while parting ways wasn’t something that I ever expected to happen. 

  We laughed a bit more together as we chatted and finished our lunch. It registered to me that this was the last time we would be at the cabin together. And I was okay with it. We began to pack up our belongings and pick up around the cabin knowing we would be returning home a day early. I wasn’t concerned about what Jonathan would think, but as he drove, I reached out and held his hand for the better part of our drive back to Minneapolis. I knew it was the last time we would hold hands. 

  Now, ten months out, things are so much better. I enjoy my work again, I have made new friends and I joined a women’s art co-op. I am excited to spend this time with my family at the cabin this winter. When my brother’s kids run amuck, I won’t be overwhelmed and wish I hadn’t come the same weekend, but will welcome the chaos and all that comes with it. My parents were so glad I agreed to a family getaway weekend and even came a day early to prepare the winter cabin and make sure the refrigerator was full to welcome all the hungry mouths that would need to be fed. I am thankful for my family, for the cabin and for blustery winters which bring a thick sheet of ice to the lake. I am also thankful for my mistaken sightings of Jonathan skating his repetitive crazy eights. I know he isn’t there, but I will always love the memories of when he was. 

There Is Hope

 On October 29th, shortly after 9 p.m., I had a freak accident in my home. Slipping on water as I entered the bathroom, my leg folded underneath and behind me as I crashed to the floor. I instantly knew my leg was broken, as they were never intended to bend in that direction. I started screaming immediately not only from pain, but also fear set in. I couldn't believe what had happened in a blink of an eye. I summoned the courage to roll and get my bent leg out from underneath me. My family came running towards my screams and entered the bathroom just as I was lifting my leg and placing it on the floor.  

All that followed was horrible. An entire night in the ER because a bed wasn't available.  4 mega doses of narcotics and the pain was so intense, I questioned if anything had been administered. Poor communication among nurses, doctors and x-ray techs. No one really knew what had been communicated to me.  Information was communicated incorrectly. And I was still writhing in pain for nearly 8 hours. I wanted to go home and attempt to sleep in my own bed.

With an immobilization brace that stretches the entire length of my left leg, I have been instructed to not bear weight even if I can, to always use my crutches, conserve my strength and focus on swelling reduction and healing. All of this without pain meds due to GI issues and the fact that they rarely help me.

Last Wednesday, I saw the Orthopedic Specialist and was thrilled to find out that my tibia plateau fracture is broken with a indentation next to it rather than broken with shattered bone. Shattered bone would mean surgery with two long pins and a plate that would stay in my leg forever. Indentation of the bone means no weight, immobile, tons of rest and hopefully slowly transitioning to a hinged brace by 6-8 weeks and hopefully off crutches by 12 weeks with a hinged brace and then I would begin physical therapy. Yes, arthritis will set in. Yes, I will need a knee replacement in the future. But not now.  When I questioned the Orthopedic Specialist about how many patients spend these next 6-8 weeks and don't improve significantly and then he ends up having to do surgery anyway. He explained it has never happened and he wouldn't make the recommendation to avoid surgery now if it wouldn't benefit me in the long run. And he heard me when I said I need to get myself back to a point where I can take two walks a day with my dog swim whenever I want. 

So what do I do now until I see the specialist again on the 17th of November? Exactly what he said. Nothing. I move from couch to bed to chair and back again.  I am not a patient patient. I hate sitting and laying all day when I see so many things that need to be taken care of. Being completely helpless is completely humbling. 

I unfortunately have also developed a severe allergic reaction to something and my body is covered in hives. It makes me miserable and am dealing with itchy, burning skin and and many bloody sores. I look like a pin cushion and have tried every over the counter and prescription med under the sun. Two more meds were called in today to the pharmacy from a TeleMed Doctor. It is painful, disheartening and frustrating as the broken leg was already more than I can handle. 

But what have I discovered in the throes of misery? Kindness, beautiful servant hearts and that my local community is ready to serve others at a moment's notice. Jessica started a meal train and countless friends have signed up to bring meals into the month of December. Dawn brought me a desperately needed wheelchair.  Sharon and Emily have come to my home midday for the last 6 weekdays to care for me. Cassie has come every day for the last 6 weekdays to let my dog outside at 10 a.m. Michele jumped out of her car to walk with Josh and I on my first walk this past Sunday in the wheelchair. Alice asked me about my favorite foods from Trader Joes. And Jennifer picked up grocery essentials. Each of these dear people helped me and I am eternally grateful.

Was this all by chance? No. Never. It was orchestrated by a God who cares about the details. He cares about dogs needing to go outside. He cares about loneliness setting in and sending friends at the right time. He cares about nourishment and blessing a family when everything seems to be too much. And He cares about physical safety and provides help to walk on stairs and move pillows and adjust painful brace straps. God cares about each and every detail, because he loves and cares for us. He enables people to bless someone during their time of need.

While I am so grateful, I hope to also encourage you as the reader. If you are ever given the opportunity to help someone in need, do it. Without hesitation. Make that meal, hold someone's hand and pray with them, help with children and car rides. Be the one that selflessly fills in the gaps. 

I have a long road ahead of me, but I am so happy to know that help is there. My needs are great. I can not shower or dress on my own and I can't reach all of my wounds which need medication and bandages applied. But I also know that these needs will not always be present. And I look forward to a day when the pain is less, I am more mobile and everyday life becomes a bit less challenging. I am hopeful as I know how faithful God has been and will always be.

• Why, my soul, are you downcast?
  Why so disturbed within me?
  Put your hope in God,
  for I will yet praise him,
  my Savior and my God.
  Psalm 42:11
• May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.
  Romans 15:
• Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.
  Matthew 11:28

Some Assembly Required

 

  The Minnesota State Fair is in full swing. Our family is excited to attend this Thursday. Covid-19 made life come to a complete standstill. One of the events that was cancelled last year was the fair. Most people would understand that it was essential that the fair was canceled along with so many other activities. As a parent of a special needs young man, the fair cancelation was one of the hardest things for me to explain to our son.  Every summer, our son looks forward to four main activities. A destination vacation with our friends, a trip to the cabin, a long weekend at Madden's and a day well spent at The Minnesota State Fair. Zach has been tuning in to the local news daily and watching intently as the Great Minnesota Get Back Together took shape.

  Zach yelled to me early last week from the living room. I came hustling up from the laundry room in the basement and found Zach standing face to face in front of the T.V. smiling ear to ear. He pushed play on the Tivo remote and there was a story about the assembly of the Ferris wheel at fair.  Zach exclaimed, "Wait a minute! Where did it go? Where is the Ferris wheel?"

  "Zach, some of the rides aren't at the fair all year long. When they close down when the fair is done, they take some of the rides down. The Ferris wheel needs to put together so that you can ride it next week." I attempted to explain to him.

  "Some assembly is required." Zach responded. 

  I was shell shocked. How did he know what that meant? I was so confused. I asked him to hand me the remote and I pushed rewind for about a minute back in the story. Sure enough, one of the news anchors stated, "Some assembly is required on most rides at The Minnesota State Fair...."

  My amazing son was able to grasp a concept that he may have not heard before and then articulate it appropriately to describe what we were seeing on the T.V..

  His beautiful mind is an amazing thing to witness. Zach may not understand everything, he may not be able to talk about everything, but he takes pride in the new things he learns each and every day. 

  The statement- Some Assembly Required- stayed with me for the next few days. We have been working a lot in our home, and have found so many things that require assembly. Shelves, curtain rods, furniture. The list is endless. Things are purchased, assembled and replaced. 

  I thought of all that we encounter in life that comes in pieces. Usually people. Broken, busted edges, wounded from life, from prior relationships, depleted and even diminished people who struggle even with the concept of unrealized dreams. Not sure where to go, what to do first, or even how to take the first step forward, many of the people are discovered by others when they are in such a state. And sometimes, that broken person is actually us.  

 It isn't our job to fix anyone. We aren't the ones that can do it. To pick up the pieces they have toted along with them.  We can love them, we can encourage them and we can be the light when darkness seems to take over. But we can't fix. Sometimes leading by example and modeling what taking the next step looks like is essential. Even showing why when life presses in, doing the next best thing is of the utmost importance. But not fix. 

  But what do we do when we are the broken one? The one that hurts, and grieves and mourns, the one that feels aimless and just needs something, anything to change? Often, time heals. Piece by piece is restored and placed back appropriately. A factory reset per se. The assembly required is essential and necessary. 

  Life has been challenging for me during Covid, this summer, and these past few weeks seem to have provided food for fodder. I know what it feels like to be dismantled, but I also know what it feels like to built up. Restored and stronger than I was to begin with. I sit with wise counsel, I am encouraged and prayed for, I am loved and able to hear and apply truth. 

  The assembly required in me has made me hopeful. It has enabled me to take a step forward into these fall months not only ready, but excited for what is next.  

  When I see the Ferris wheel at The Minnesota State Fair this Thursday, I think I will appreciate it more than I ever have. Yes, I find a story to share in just about everything. But now I understand how important it is to accept that some assembly is required. The outcome is worth it. Every time. 

Happy Birthday, Mom

Today would have been my mom’s 76th birthday. She passed away at the young age of 67. Liver Cancer was the diagnosis and it claimed her in just a few short months. I say the diagnosis and not her diagnosis for a reason. A diagnosis is defined as “The process of identifying a disease, condition, or injury from its signs and symptoms”. My mom didn’t have any signs or symptoms of the Stage 4 Cholangiocarcinoma (Cancer of the Liver Bile Ducts). There weren’t symptoms to help diagnose. It was a fluke discovery when something was picked up on a blood test. Additional tests were run to figure out what was so confusing on the blood tests. She was given a diagnosis that was unheard of. At least we thought so. Stage 4, radiation and chemo wouldn’t help as it may cause more harm than good, surgery was impossible and the goal would be to make her as comfortable as possible focusing on Palliative Care in her final months. Months. They gave her only months. This diagnosis was confusing and hard to accept for my sister and I. Our mom smiled and held our hands and said she was always ready to meet Jesus. 

When you look at someone who possessed as much pep and joy as my mom did, Cancer didn’t fit into that picture of who she was. There was no room. She had someone who needed help, a phone call with words of encouragement that needed to be made, a plant for a friend that needed to be watered. She had bread that needed to be baked as a gift and pretzels and chocolates that needed to be made and packed for the next wedding reception that she would attend. Cancer simply needed to take a number and get in line. Because our mom didn't ask for it, didn’t need it, and had places to go and people to see.

I reminded her that to be absent from the body meant she would be in the presence of her King. She smiled and patted my hand and drifted back to sleep. Our mom loved deeply right up until her final moments here on this earth. She prayed for others, held other people’s hands and made sure that everyone knew they were loved and she was thankful for them. She was ready to be in the presence of her Savior. 

Today, I miss my mom, but the joy that sweeps over me when I know she isn’t in any pain, and she is where she was ready to be. I will always miss her. That will never change. But today, I have shed only a few tears remembering her. I walked a back alley in Minneapolis this afternoon on the way to a client’s home and thought how if she were to be walking with me, she would have noted how pretty the grass was growing in each crack. She would have pointed out the overgrown trees and how she loved the wood-paneled Datsun sitting in a driveway. She would have talked about all the things she saw and what she was thinking about. She surely would have spoken about Jesus. Because how could she ever contain and not talk about the Love that she has for the lover of her soul?

Happy Birthday, Mom. You are missed, you are treasured and I take joy today in remembering you.

When the Smoke Fades

I know it is just a bit of break, but today in Minnesota, we could see the sun. The blue sky and the clouds look prettier than ever before. I know that it won't last, but the beauty was welcomed today.

Minnesota is experiencing thick smoke and severe air quality alerts daily due to the epic amount of fires near the Canadian border. For days, we have left our car windows closed and prayed we could get enough fresh air in our homes. We cough the second we go outside and know that our clothing can not be worn again without washing it first because of the strong smokey smell. 

Sometime after midnight tonight, another wave of extreme smoke will arrive and drive us indoors until late Tuesday, possibly Wednesday. We made the most of today know that Wednesday of this week will be the soonest extended outdoor activity is deemed as safe for those with asthma and allergy issues. 

This evening after dinner and a few rounds of cards, Zach, Josh, Murray and I headed out for a walk. I didn't think I would be able to go the full circle since I have been nursing a bad ankle and knee. But I found that stretching my limbs out was exactly what I needed to feel better. 

And it wasn't just my knee and ankle that felt better, my heart seemed mended a bit more also. To see my son walk Murray with Josh's direction and encouragement is something I could watch all day. Josh is so patient and kind and uses constant affirmation and reminders to help Zach as he is learning how to keep Murray walking and responsive the whole way. I allowed myself to fall back and watch my three boys enjoying an evening walk on a beautiful 80 degree day. 

When the smoke fades a bit, I see it all so clearly. Some days are challenging, some a bit easier like today. And the days that are challenging, I will remember this evening and savor it. I will remember that not all days are good days, but there is always something good that can be found in each day. 

Today, the goodness is treasured. 

Miserable Cows and Disgruntled Pelicans

    

    

My children have decided to make it as difficult for me as possible each and every day. Well, not really.  But they complain about everything. And I mean everything. They start in just as their eyes open when sunlight enters their bedrooms, and sometimes they do not cease complaining until sleep overtakes them each night. At this point in the summer, I firmly believe that they may master a way of complaining while they actually sleep if possible. The sun, the heat, the bugs, chores, being told no, chores again, the heat, mom having to go to work, not being able to entertain themselves, the list goes on and on. You would think that with a summer curriculum and suggested reading, a swimming pool, bikes and scooters, chores and media time, that their days would be so compressed and full, that they would simply run out time and the ability to complain. Unfortunately, this is not the case. 

    Most of their complaints can be easily solved.  Get out of the sun, remember deodorant, bring a water bottle.  Or - go in the house, grab the bug spray, go for a swim.  Here is a popsicle, I am making your favorite dinner, here are your clean clothes. I feel like these are the things that easily solve my every day woes.  I am overheated and need to get out of the sun. I make a habit of wearing deodorant daily as to remain as comfortable as possible in the heat. I always pack a water bottle, if not two. When I am too warm, I go back inside to the air conditioning. When the bugs are retched, I locate the bug spray. When the heat threatens to overtake me or I need to relax, the pool will always call my name.  When I need a little sugar boost in the late afternoon sun, a popsicle puts a smile on my face. An excellent dinner that fills my stomach and clean clothes for the next day so I can do it all again.  These are the easy problems to solve in the heat of the summer. Why can't my children problem solve and remedy their own woes? Why must they perpetually complain and then also make it my issue? 

    It took me awhile to figure out why this bothers me so much. My children voice all of their complaints. Everything from an underwear problem to a grudge held far too long. I, as an adult, as a mom and wife, have a tendency to figure out a way to solve my own problems. And sometimes, I just bottle them up. I push them down, ignore them, stew over them, and even reach for them when I want to make sure that  other people know even if I feel mildly inconvenienced. 

    My mother always quoted from Philippians 2:14- "Do everything without complaining or grumbling." I frequently find myself reciting this verse to my children in the throes of a complaint laden day. Yes, they know it is from the bible, but the eye rolling still commences. 

    I also have asked them to stop being miserable cows and disgruntled pelicans. They already believe me to be on the ridiculous side, these comments cement that idea in their minds. 

    When I feel complaints arising within, I often remind myself of my mother's beloved verse. But it isn't my favorite. It reminds me that there is no place for my complaining and grumbling. That I need to figure out what the root issue is, deal with it, or solve the problem at hand. Stewing and throwing around scenarios in my brain over and over again only drag me down. The heft and the weight of the complaint or grievance only affect me. I can't hold on to what hurts me, what ails me, or what plagues my memory. I can't use my upset as an excuse to treat other people poorly and lash out at them. Even when my complaints and grumblings of the heart are because of things so much bigger than heat and sun and hunger, I still owe my children, my husband, and even myself more than choosing to continue to complain.  

    It is daily for me. Daily. Sometimes multiple times a day. But the joy that I ultimately feel when make the choice to not complain, is indescribable. This choice is what changes my day and even the trajectory of my life. When there is upset and hurt and my heart seems to be a mess of broken pieces and busted edges, God is always the one that hears my prayers. He bends low to hear when I can not voice the prayers that so desperately need to be spoken.  

    It really isn't as confusing as I think it is - the why my children complain. They complain because they have yet to realize that usually what they need or desire has already been provided for them. The how, the what, the information to solve their own problems. But that takes time and maturity. And until then, I will continue to remind them of what they need to do so that the minor issues of life do not seem so big each and every time they feel assailed.  And sometimes, I will just hand them a second popsicle, pull them in close and love them until things don't seem so out of control and complaint worthy.  

    No wonder my kids struggle each and every day. They are my children and they are human. Trying to solve it all on their own. I will remind them that prayer should always be the first choice. Because complaining is futile.