PRAY―for good ride.

A good ride.

“If you do not expect the unexpected you will not find it, for it is not to be reached by search or trail.” ―Heraclitus

A beautiful VA trail ride...

My time in Winchester is drawing to a close.  It has been an incredible first stop.  As I started this journey, I felt like a large part of it would involve getting out West. And I do think it will―eventually.  But my next stop is Bainbridge, Georgia.  A little unexpected, yes.

A rather large pumpkin!

Bainbridge should serve me some excellent Winter weather for a motorhome. It happens to be the Large Mouth Bass fishing capital of the world.  Not surprisingly, my Father has already planned a trip to come visit. I have a feeling I will see him a good bit and I would love that. There are sure to be good hunting and fishing opportunities―Bainbridge is very near Thomasville, GA (which is known to be a hotbed for Quail hunting)―and I am excited to say that the nearby Red Hill Polo Club in Tallahassee, FL should be a good place for me to continue my new Polo habit. 

A beautiful farm house I pass regularly...did not want to forget this view!

The change that’s coming up in my life will thrust me into the unknown again: new people, new town, new job setting (not home health this time, but a combo position of hospital, out-patient, and skilled care work―a lot like my old job in Charleston).  Despite the many nods my way of “Oh, you are so lucky to be able to do what you’re doing” I know everyone can relate to the hard part of uprooting every time I move. At least living in Fran (the motorhome) cuts down on the stress significantly in that I don’t have to pack!  The sad part for me is that I have made some really good friends here.  I love Virginia.  I will really miss the Polo, the mountains, the festivals, the rivers, the fishing, the arts, the smell of wood burning stoves, the hot cider, the trial rides, long walks with Duke, and the life I have lived here.  Virginia has given me her best―and I won’t forget her. It was unexpected how much I fell in-love with her.

"The trail" of life winding on down the road...

But as Buffalo Bill said, “I could never resist the call of the trail.” And my journey does not stop here.  Soon it will be time to shout, “Giddy-up Old Fran!”  Time to hit the trail once more.

Duke riding in the truck while I work...He's always ready to "hit the trail!"

LOVE―to play.

“We don’t stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing.” George Bernard Shaw

Love to PLAY!

I have conflicting information presented to me on a regular basis.  I think life has a tendency to do that. 

In the same week (very recently), I was called “an old soul” by one person while concerns of immaturity were expressed by another.  I will readily admit that more often than not, the accusation of immaturity has been more prevalent than the nod toward wisdom. I believe the main concern at hand by those who love me is that I have held on to my “inner Peter Pan” just a bit too much.

However, when it comes to the LOVE of play, I make no apologies.  I work really hard.  I give 110% to my job for the 50-65 hours a week that involves.  I don’t always do my job perfectly,  but I do always put my patients’ needs first.  So when the computer closes on Friday afternoon, I don’t open it until Monday morning.  That’s just me.  The weekends are time for play!

Dogs teach us a lot―the importance of PLAY just being one thing. Duke in hot pursuit of a bumper...

One recent past weekend was no exception.  Since beginning my travels, I have tried to take full advantage of play.  I have hunted and fished.  I have been learning to play polo.  I have gone to vineyards.  I have paddled rivers. But this past weekend was a “bucket list” weekend.   It involved one of those “you’re insane” kind of activities like jumping out of plane.  Not for everyone.  

So it got me thinking about the why of it all.  Why do I LOVE to play so much?

Specifically, why thrill seeking?  Why does what would terrify some, thrill me?  Why am I not scared?

I am stupid.  I am an adrenaline junky.  I am courageous.  Well...not really any of that actually.  Here’s the admission: I like being scared.

It is my opinion that fear is the emotion we feel that most directly opposes the word lifeless―I dare say even more than love.  It is impossible not to feel alive when you are scared.  When you experience something that evokes fear, it produces the ancient “fight or flight” response.  For me, the feelings associated with that response are the exact opposite of being bored. 

Now tonight I am finishing this blog as I ride out hurricane Sandy inside of Fran.  I am truly scared for the first time in long while.  This is a different kind of scared.  This is not the fun kind of scared―as I am wondering if Fran will be flipped on her side in these strong winds or if a tree will come crashing through the roof.  Luckily the tree that crashed through the motorhome parked here before I came this summer was the only likely prospect within our reach as a potential landing zone.  I’m hoping the other close trees are too far away should they loose their integrity.   

The morning after I realize how lucky I was!

I did say I liked being scared, right? A dear friend jokingly accused me tonight of doing this on purpose.  

“Lucy, I bet you looked at the Farmer’s almanac and saw that it said there would be a hurricane in Virginia at the end of October and thought to yourself, ‘I bet it would be fun to ride out a hurricane in a motorhome’ so you went there on purpose...just for the fun of it!”  

My friends know me all too well.  But no―I didn’t plan this.  And no...I won’t do it again.

A near miss to a motorhome parked near mine.

Mark Twain once said, “To succeed in life, you need two things: Ignorance and Confidence.”  I am sure of both tonight.  One: my ignorance of how powerful this storm was going to be.  Two: my confidence that God is not yet done with me on this earth―so I will likely survive to seek out the good kind of being scared in the form of “play” again soon.  

EAT―It’s stew time!

"Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity".  ~Voltaire

What a wonderful thing food is. It follows seasons. It becomes tradition.  It stirs memories and nourishes souls.  

A good start on Lamb Stew!

One of my favorite things about food is how it becomes an expression of love.  I love you enough, my friend, to cook for you―to feed you.  My Mother comforted me with food when I was sick.  I ordered my favorite meal from her for my birthday.  I came home from college to favorite dishes and was sent back to school with leftovers from other favorite dishes.

In Psych 101 Maslow’s hierarchy of needs taught us all that we had basic, physiological needs: Food, water, shelter, oxygen, and sleep (the latter of which I should be trying to do right now).  Unless these needs are met we are unable to move up the hierarchy to safety, love, esteem, and self-actualization. When those basic needs are catalogued―the ones the allow us to function―food is always listed first.

To feed someone is to love them and meet them at their most basic need.  I think I love that part more than anything about cooking for others.  It is why, no matter how much of a cliche´ it is, when we take people a meal when someone dies in the South, it’s a simple way to say, “I love you and I’m thinking about you.”  

When I was a child we would go “crabbing” every Summer at Pawley’s Island.  We would catch crabs on crabbing lines and in crab traps. Then we would spend hours picking the meat on the back porch while sitting in crickety wooden chairs pulled up to a metal table with newspaper spread over the top.  I would get lessons from my grandmother and aunts each year on how to  perform properly this task.  How to “release the meat” when getting the lump meat from the bodies was taught only once I was old enough and dexterous enough not to destroy  the precious cargo inside the crab body...younger children were only allowed to pick the claw meat which was more of “an appetizer.”  

The whole process―from start to finish―was so involved.  Catch the crabs.  Boil the crabs.  Pick the crabs. Put the meat up in the freezer.  Not to mention launching the boat, packing the cooler so us children would have all the proper provisions, etc.  The summer process was then followed by the winter one...(which is where I was going with all this).  We would take the meat from the summer crabs, thaw it, and then start the process for the Christmas crab casserole (which is a whole other process!).  The crab meat became this symbol of tradition in our family―of how the years would come full circle―but we would all still be together in the same place each year on those two times.

So there it is.  Food is all about tradition to me.  Comfort. Memories. And a hearty goodness that is meant to be enjoyed.  As Voltaire states, a pleasure―and may I add “in every way possible.”  

There's Something 'Bout a Green Truck!
(the name of the wine if ya can't see it)

When you eat you must also drink.  So food is often accompanied by this other pleasure we call―wine.   

So it came to be that on the first cold weekend here, as my dog was sick and I was at home tending to him, I made a good stew.  Oh, how I love to eat a good stew! This concotion was not just any stew either.  It was a lamb stew.  Oh, how I love lamb!  Sometimes I get so excited about food I feel like I must look and sound like my nephew on Christmas day.  “Oh, it’s just what I wanted!!!”  He is so excited and appreciative of each gift.  I will often find myself doing the same thing when eating a good meal as I make my way around my plate.  “Oh, these field peas are the best I have ever had!  What on earth did you do to them?!?”  Then I few bites later I am asking for the recipe for the squash casserole I’m inhaling.  

Enjoyable.  Yes.

So for Fran’s (the motorhome) first big stew I went all out.  I bought a good leg of lamb and made sure there would be an abundance of meat available in the stew―for there is nothing more disappointing than for a dish to advertise a main ingredient but then have only minuet portions of it present.  To a red wine, tomato, onion reduction I added carrots, plump golden raises, the lamb and almost an entire spice bottle of curry.  It was delish I must say...  And more than anything I was amazed by how well I functioned in my little kitchen on such a shoe-string budget of counter space.  Since the bathroom is two feet behind me, it made for nice “spill-over” when I feel behind on the “wash dirty dishes as you go” effort I tried to maintain.  Other than that...flawless execution.  

"It taste so good..."

WORK―Perspective

“Those who think they have not time for bodily exercise will sooner or later have to find time for illness.”  ~ Edward Stanley

So originally the last blog and this blog were ONE blog.  However, it was getting ridiculously long so I divided them into two parts. And rightly so!  This one has its own weight and merit.  While my previous one was focused on  GRACE...this one focuses on perspective in life.

Our need for grace certainly gives us perspective―that is the connection. 

But when it comes to perspective on what is important in life (in general), I can thank my lucky stars that I do what I do for a living.  It is almost impossible for me to forget what is the single most important thing in life!  OUR HEALTH!

I have been hurt recently.  Physically.  For the first time in a long time my health and livelihood was threatened with an injury to my right hand.  For someone that doesn’t get sick...someone who heals those who are hurt―but is never the one in need of healing―it was humbling to feel the fear that came with this injury.  What happens if I cannot write? If I cannot wash dishes?  If I can’t bathe myself, dress myself, open a jar for myself?  I help people learn how to work around these issues all day long.  I try to do it with patience and compassion.  But it has been a long time since I have been there myself. It was in 1993 when I dislocated my right thumb the fall of my senior year in high school to be exact.  But back then I lived at home with my parents.  I didn’t count on myself to provide for my independence like I do now.

This dominant hand injury has been a good reminder of how important one’s independence is.  We have no idea how important our health is until we lose it.

“I have a time limit.” 

A friend and colleague recently stated this realization as we discussed the patient from my last blog―the one who’s tithing check was laid out on her dresser.

Wow!  What a thought!  Do you live your life with full knowledge of this awareness?

I absolutely HATED (during my second rotation as a PT student at a hospital in Columbia) that when a patient died I would be notified of this event by walking into work and seeing a big red line crossed through their name with the word “expired” tagged to the end of it.  Expired? Really?  

Milk expires.  NOT people.

People die.  And when they do―there’s no “do over.”

These are PEOPLE. These are my patients.  These are the people who give me more by fighting to get better than I ever give them in my attempt to help them fight.  PEOPLE.  People who have lives...who have loved each other for over 50 years.  People who have sons and daughters and grandchildren.  They are fighting colon cancer, lung caner, pneumonia, and heart disease.  They have fallen and shattered their pelvis, their hip, or their arm.  They hurt and are struggling.  They will die too soon.  They will beat the odds and live two years longer than they were supposed to.  They will miss a grandchild’s wedding.  They will see a great-grandchild born.  They are veterans who fought for our country. They are teachers who taught in small town schools. They are ill and they are fighting.  They are ill and have given up.

I can’t change one bit of their fate, their genetics, or their family dynamics.

All that happens in our interactions when it comes down to it is this...I may teach them something that helps them get stronger, become more independent, or improve their quality of life.  I may give them a wheelchair, a walker, or a piece of advice that helps them in some way.  But they give me perspective on life―a far greater gift than I give them. I cannot ignore or push to the back burner what is important―what is truly  important.  NOW―is important.  Do it now!  There is a time limit on your life...and you are not the clock-keeper.

“I have a time limit.”

If that were tattooed on your head―backwards―so that you could read it every time you looked in the mirror―how differently would you live your life?

And guess what?  The fact that you have a time limit is as true as the sun coming up this day. Your days are numbered.  Your health is a gift.  Get busy.  And keep perspective.

I had a man (just this day) tell me he thought death was an easy process.  He has been close to death himself in the last two months―experiencing total organ failure.  He had lost his wife 4 months ago to cancer and spent the last few weeks of her life holding her hand before she died.  

“She never looked like it was hard.” He said.  “And I don’t remember ever being in pain or distress when they said I was so close to dying.”  “So I think dying must be easy.” 

I looked at this sweet little man and said, “Your wife was a woman of faith, wasn’t she?”  He said she was.  And I said, “I think that had a lot to do with what you saw.”

I explained that I had seen a fair amount of people die at this point in my life.  Mostly in the skilled nursing unit of Bishop Gadsden in Charleston.  It hadn’t always been a pretty or peaceful process.  Sometimes it had been...sometimes not.  But what I have learned is this...

1. Much like seeing a baby be born―it is the same privilege to be present when a soul enters this world as when it exits this world.
2. It should not shock us that the physical process of dying (much like birth) is traumatic for the body.
3. It is the same miracle to die as it is to be born.

God brings us in.  And he takes us out.  I have been there for both.  And both have moved me to tears.  I think the dying more so than the birth in its finality.

There is nothing more final than death.  And there isn’t much more humbling of an experience to work with people who are close to doing it (dying) everyday. 

We have a time limit.  Ask someone who sick what is really important.  You will find out very quickly how small your “so called” problems are.

What is my point?  Death must be thought about constantly in order to live well.  The obligation of your ability to breathe and your heart to beat is to know that you have a time limit.  

Love. ―requires Grace.

"Graciousness has been defined to be the outward expression of the inward harmony of the soul. Grace must find expression in life. Grace glides on blistered feet. Grace is the refinement of your soul through time."

Love requires Grace―what an understatement.  I absolutely love this quote and hate that I can’t find the author to give credit where it is due (if anyone knows please pass my way).  

I am acutely aware of one very hard fact to swallow right now.  When you love people (be it family, friends, or significant others), you inevitably hurt them and get hurt by them.  That will always be true.

I am clinging to the quote above as what to do when that “hurt” occurs.  The extension of grace is what allows us to get back to a place of peace.  We are supposed to ask for grace and be willing to extend it to others.  I am learning that this appears to be a process I have to do daily―like going to the gym―it must be maintained in order to get the desired results.  Hence the line about gliding “on blistered feet” and the mention of it being the “refinement of your soul” over time.  It is a process.

Grace is the connection factor of life.  It connects us to other important elements like forgiveness, love, loyalty, service, and selflessness.  The ability to extend or receive grace rolls in like a gentle fog when we get perspective on what is important in life. Both when we see our need for it AND when we see how extending it to others can heal us.  Grace must come for forgiveness to come―and both must come for healing to take place.

Grace (by definition) is the free and unmerited favor or beneficence of God.

Grace was manifested this week in moments of having “perspective on life” after having my finger crushed but my flexor tendon spared.  Moments that were followed by even more humbling demonstrations of real perspective when I walked into a patient’s house who had just received a diagnosis of bone cancer.  I saw the expression of her thankfulness for God’s grace when I noticed she had faithfully placed her tithing check on her dresser―like she always does.

I know these things to be true:  I am in need of grace.  I must continue to work on my ability to extend it to others.  And any ability to do so is not of me―but of God through me.  I know this last part to be true because I do not want to be gracious.  I would rather sit and rot in my bitterness than extend grace and forgiveness to someone that hurt me.  I didn’t used to be this way.  This is new for me―this festering.  

My patients cancer diagnosis hit my face like a bucket of cold water.

How can I be bitter?  I am still “in the game.”  I am healthy and I have a choice in this matter.

Maya Angelou once said, “Bitterness is like cancer.  It eats upon the host.  But anger is like fire.  It burns it all clean.”

And so there it is...the pathway laid out before me clear as day.  First of all, I am lucky enough to have love ones. I will hurt them and they will hurt me. When I am hurt, it’s okay to be angry―but I have to move on to grace and forgiveness.  If I don’t, the bitterness (or bone cancer) of life will eat away my peace.

And heaven knows―most of us need all the peace we can get.

EAT. Don't let your food spoil...

“You might as well learn that a man who catches fish or shoots game has got to make it fit to eat before he sleeps. Otherwise it’s all a waste and a sin to take it if you can’t use it.” 

―Robert Ruark, The Old Man and the Boy 

Duck breast pre-grilling

Duck breast post-grilling
(with fresh sweet corn and green beans)

The changing of the seasons is always special.  Fall in particular.  Everything happens so abruptly. You wake up one morning, feeling like it was Memorial Day just a few days ago, but your tan lines are fading and you are sitting in that same part of town, behind the same darn school bus that was there in May.  Where did Summer go?!?

Behind the frustration, you manage a smile as you think of the next "warp-speed cycle of life" we call Fall.  In the back of your mind, you know the holiday seasons of Thanksgiving and Christmas will be here―with all their hustle and bustle―way too soon.  

If you live in the South and are privileged enough to have grown up with the obsession of college football, you take a large deep breath through the open window of your car hoping to smell freshly cut grass while driving by the recreation park or high school fields.  A deep breath in and ah...you think the word―Football.  And like God, at the end of each day of creation, you smile, as you tuck away your last thoughts of Summer saying to yourself, “And it was good.”

Fall means many things to many people.  In my family, fall was the time of year that those funny looking clothes were pulled out of old trash bags with baking soda sprinkled in them (to keep them from absorbing the cleanly smell my Mother had permeated into every part of our house).  The shotguns and rifles and were cleaned to a shine.  Hair dryers and snow-seal were pulled out to weather proof hunting boots for yet another season.  And my Father would check to make sure I hadn’t outgrown last years hunting clothes.  (Back in the day it was awfully hard to find hunting clothes to fit a little girl).  

An early morning sunrise duck
hunting in a favorite spot with
one of my favorite people

I thank the Lord for She Safari and the advances in hunting gear in general.  I have learned three things about myself through hunting that are very important when it comes to gear.  1) I can do cold 2) I can do wet. 3) I cannot do both.  

Often when I was a child I was frequently both. There wasn’t a “knock-off version” of gortex back then.  A decent hunting jacket was expensive and I would have lost it or outgrown it before the expense could be justified. So when it rained, I got wet. I used an old fashion camouflage poncho that would blow and flap in the wind like a flashing sign that read “HUMAN SITTING HERE!"  It would often let in more rain than it would keep out.  Not to mention the temperature would rise to 104 degrees underneath it. 

Cold feet were what I discovered made me really miserable. Most of the time, I had to decide between cold or numb because my socks were limited to big and bulky wool ones.  So if I chose to double layer them they ended up getting stuffed into my boots so tightly I couldn't wiggle my toes and they would go numb but stay relatively warm.  If it was cold and I did a single layer, I could wiggle my toes but my feet would freeze.  I usually chose numb. These days, I thank God every time I slap on my "ToastiToes" (like Scarlett O'hare saying "As God as my witness, I'll never go hungry again!") and I say, "My feet will never be cold again!"

As a child, my feet were not my only problem. My pants weren't much better either. I wore a pair of thick oversized corduroy pants that were usually layered over sweatpants.  Due to the bulky under layer of sweatpants the corduroy made a “zip―zip” noise as I walked. The only way to walk quietly and prevent myself from being heard by the game I was hunting required walking with extreme bow-leggedism (if I may invent a word).  I’m surprised this did not create a permanent Forest Gump-like gait deformity as much as I did it.  I can't imagine what I looked like doing this.  With the sweatpants and the bow-legged mambo thing going on I must have looked like a very weird cross between the Michelin tire man and Elvis walking in the woods.  It's truly a wonder that I ever shot a deer.

Now as I have gotten older, I have moved away from deer hunting. I still enjoy eating the meat immensely.  I simply prefer to focus my passion on game that possesses feathers or scales because I love EATING these things too.  All of these pursuits (both in harvesting, cooking, and eating them) are in one way or another inherited loves from my father.  It is impossible for me to engage in these activities without thinking of him or feeling like a part of him is there with me.  I can say that many of the “life lessons” I have learned from my Father have been extrapolated from the basic lessons that came with hunting and fishing.

For instance, as my "title quote" suggests, one of the Cardinal sins a sportsman can commit is to let their bounty spoil.  I learned very early that if it took until midnight to find a “downed” animal―that is how long we would look for it.  It didn’t matter if I was hungry, or cold, or wet, or both.  It was not acceptable to take another life without making good use of it.  If it took tracking dogs and the efforts of every other hunter at the club that night, that is what happened (along with a great deal of harassment to the shooter about learning how to shoot better).  
I have also stayed up heading shrimp and freezing them or scaling fish to the wee hours of the morning too many times to count.

I took this picture and sent it to my
brother-in-law making fun of how
long it took my Dad to "bait up" and
start fishing...FOREVER!

A friend took this one of me
doing the same thing (for
about as long) just a few
weeks later

In the process of learning that lesson, my Father exposed me to a host of other lessons:  Persistence is necessary to finish any task in life; Be prepared for anything at anytime (hence the assortment of paraphernalia that stays in my truck); Do not waste things (especially food); It is wise to wait for the right moment to pull the trigger or to pass up the shot if you don’t have a good one (yes, in life, not just from the blind); Always have good friends to call when you need help; You are responsible for your own actions. 

That last lesson―being the most important one.  

Ruark had two great lines about being responsible for your actions in particular... “You always got to remember that when the gun is loaded it makes a potential killer out of the man that’s handling it.” AND  “Any time a boy is ready to learn about guns is the time he’s ready, no matter how young he is, and you can’t start too young to learn how to be careful.” ―Robert Ruark, The Old Man and the Boy 

Papa and Me--first time shooting a gun.

I think hunting was the first place I felt the responsibility for my life and others around me.  My Dad told me as many stories as he could about other people's accidents to increase my sense of responsibility for my safety and those around me. The seriousness and expectations that came with handling a gun were not taken lightly, and to feel that burden at a young age was a very good thing in my opinion. Later in life, I think it made it easier to recognize that same expectation of responsibility when my Father spoke in a similar tone.  Most notably as a fifteen year old when he said,  “That car is just as dangerous as a loaded gun.”  And with the way I drove (back then) he had no idea how right he was―or maybe he knew exactly how right he was....

With fall hunting came more than lessons of responsibility―there was also tradition.

My dove hunting partner, Duke!

Fall hunting (and fishing) brings order back into the world of the sportsman like the rhythm of a pendulum on a grandfather clock.  It's predicability and occurrence is ordered like the tides of the ocean. Tick-tock...It will come and go yet another year. Tick-tock...The birds will fly south once again.  Tick-tock...The deer will go through another rut. 

Tick-tock...The tradition of fathers and sons (and daughters too)  and early morning sunrises over familiar tall trees will come and go yet another year.  Tick-tock...Labor Day hunts with doves and dumplings and scuppernong hulls tossed on the ground around the tailgate of a truck will come and go.  Tick-tock...The tradition of Thanksgiving week duck hunts over water holes that had hours of sweat poured into them over the summer will come and go. Tick-tock...The tradition of bonfires and oysters and beer at cabins in the woods will come again another year.  

That is Fall.  We will harvest our game.  And we will eat it.  And we will say, "it was good."

I am going home this weekend for the first time since leaving home and (excepting a weekend in October for one football game) quite possibly the last time for a while.  So here's to one of life's best traditions...coming home to those you love...and to those who have taught you so much.

My home...Southern Comfort Farm

Pray: An unexpected gift

"I've been to church; I've read the book; I know He's here but I don't look near as often as I should.  Yeah I know I should.  His fingerprints are everywhere; I just slowed down to stop and stare; Opened my eyes and man I swear, I saw God today"  ---George Strait

I have always loved the George Strait song “I Saw God Today.”  I think it is a great way to simplify how God works in our lives.  He can give us the gift of one tiny flower blooming up through the concrete in a sidewalk (where it has no business being) and we are touched by the thought that He put it there “for us.”  

Not everyone sees things from this point of view.  I think that is okay.  But I had a compelling case for seeing God in a daily occurrence just yesterday.

I was walking in to an assisted living facility to see my last two patients of the day when I heard something up and off to my left.  I looked up at the ceiling on the open porch and there was a hummingbird franticly trying to free itself.  It could not figure out that the six inch overhang of wood surrounding the porch ceiling was the only thing keeping it stuck there.  All he had to do was fly down six inches first and he would be free.  Instead, he was fixated on a light fixture in the middle of the porch ceiling--convinced this was the exit.  I had seen a hummingbird stuck like this before on a friends porch who knew more about them than me.  And she said every now and then this “would happen” and the hummingbird would often die if she wasn’t at home to free it by gently pushing it free with a broom.  The hummingbirds fast metabolism requires that it eat about every two hours under normal circumstances (but under the stress of being trapped they would only last about an hour).

Right about the time I was pondering this situation a man in his fifties hurriedly walked out of the main door.  I said to him, “Hey, do you know where I can get a broom to help free this bird?”

“Yeah, he’s been stuck there for almost an hour,” the man said.

“Thanks for noticing buddy,” I thought to myself. 

“But there he comes, right now!” the guy said and pointed.  I turned around to my right (in the direction he pointed) and sure enough the little bird was fluttering to the ground.  “Oh no!” I thought.  

It was like watching one of the Jetson’s cars sputter and run out of gas.  For the first time in my life I could actually see the wingbeat of a hummingbird (they were moving so slowly) as he softly landed on the ground.  I immediately dropped my bags and scooped the bird up--just incase he tried to fly again--I didn’t want him to fly right back up into the same situation. 

He did not try to fly though.  He lay in my cupped hands without moving at all.  I was so upset.  “This little bird is going to die right here in my hands,” I thought to myself.  

Thinking that was his fate, I walked out to the lawn near the hedges that surround the building where I could lay the little bird down under a bush or something.  Something was very special about knowing I was holding a hummingbird that made me want to hold onto him a little longer.  I was wishing there was some kind of “bird CPR” I could do to him.  However, I knew what he needed was food and I had no means to give him any.

My hand was cupped but open.  He could fly away if he was able.  But for five minutes he just sat there in my hand.  He blinked every now and again but no other effort to move.  I was still hoping.  I wasn’t ready to give up on him, and seeing how aggressively hummingbirds fight over food at feeders I was convinced that he could muster up some strength from somewhere.  So in one last ditch effort to coax him to try, I began to “stimulate his feet.”  You know how when you push on the front of a parakete or other “house bird’s” feet they seem to automatically pick them up and perch on your finger?  I was hoping there was some sort of "perching reflex" I could stimulate by doing this.  (This was digging DEEP back into the neuroscience classes of PT school for Lucy).  I couldn’t believe it!  It was working.  The little bird began to open and close his feet and I felt him go from being “dead weight” in my hand to feeling more rigid and alert.  He picked his head up.  He came to full perch even!  He looked straight ahead just sitting in my hand, still resting for about two minutes like that.  

Then he turned his head back toward me one last time.  I saw him blink. And he flew off. 

I went in and treated my patients and told one of them (the one who was in her right mind) the story and showed her the pictures I had snapped off while holding him. I loved what she said, “Well, you rehabilitated more than just humans today.”

I guess I did.  And THAT was an unexpected gift from God.  I saw God today for sure.

WORK.

“Only people who are capable of loving strongly can also suffer great sorrow, but this same necessity of loving serves to counteract their grief and heals them.” ― Leo Tolstoy

I haven’t blogged about WORK yet...Not really.

Friday I treated a woman who was “status-post stroke.”  It was a massive stroke.  And trust me, that term, “massive stroke” is right up there with the term “cancer.”  The situation is not good when you hear a doctor utter those words.

The woman I saw Friday looked at me very early in the visit, with honest eyes, and said, “I am just done with all of this.” I knew what she meant and had heard that “white flag of surrender” tone before.  But to be sure I asked her to explain what she was talking about.  She was “ready to die” she went on to say.  “I can’t eat or swallow, I am a silent aspirator (which means she will get pneumonia easily), I’m in diapers, I can’t walk, and I am in pain all of the time.”

This is the hard part of my job.  What do you say to that?

After some gentle conversation that centered around assessing her depression scale (which turned out to be low), it was obvious that even though the impairments she had listed out were depressing, she was not depressed.  She was just ready to die.  She was totally at peace that her body had been robbed of all of it’s function, and after a year and a half of fighting to get it back--unsuccessfully--she was just done.  She was proud that she had “fought a good fight” for as long as she had.  But she was ready to take the “next train home,” she said.

My job deals with this decision frequently.  More specifically...this question: “when is time to stop fighting?”  It is a very hard choice to decide to die.  Our minds don’t handle it well, sometimes--even when our bodies are ready.

In response to my patient on Friday, I could only think of one thing to tell her to console her in the bowing of her head in defeat.  I told her my story...which is not really “my story”--but a story about how someone else’s misfortune can lead to something good for someone else. I told her about how I ended up being a physical therapist.  It was the only thing I could think to tell her to help make sense of everything she was feeling in that moment.

The story starts like this...

“Let me tell you about the worst stroke I have ever seen,” I said.  

“Worse than mine?!?!?” the patient questioned with anger and suspicion. 

“Much worse,” I answered.

One of my best friend’s grandmother had a “massive stroke” my Freshman year of college.  I was doing very poorly in school and struggling on multiple levels.  I had no direction. No drive. No God. No dream. No purpose.  

Then, one evening, a phone call came from the family going through this nightmare from the Mother of my friend (her Mother was the one who had the stroke).  “Lucy, you have to come see this place (HealthSouth) and these people (the therapist)!”  “You were born to do this...”

So I went to HealthSouth to see for myself.  I remember the moment I knew my friend’s Mother was right.  I was watching a girl (about my age) who had sustained a spinal cord injury and lost the use of her legs learn to get her sitting balance again.  There was a moment I witnessed that was like watching someone teach a child to ride a bike for the first time.  The therapist held onto the girl until the last possible moment, withdrawing her support as slowly as she could.  When the PT knew the patient was ready, she let go of her.  The patient balanced on her own for a few seconds before she even realized that she was doing it on her own.  Then the patient realized the success and believed. The therapist knew the patient could do it, but she had to teach and support the patient in a way that allowed the patient to learn at her speed.  That was the only way to get the girl to believe she could do what was being asked of her.

Well, I was hooked.  It was the coolest combination of coaching and teaching that I had ever seen.  

In the next three years I figured out a lot about myself.  First and foremost, that I was horrible at physics--but that part of the journey is for another blog.

I got into PT school.  And more importantly, I was able to look at the woman on Friday and tell her what I was able to tell my friend’s grandmother before she died: “Your suffering was not in vane...it led me to my dream job, deepened my faith, and it taught me to fight.”

After I finished “my story,” I told my patient, “Maybe your life since your stroke has had a profound impact on someone too...and even if you don’t know for sure that it has, I would bet you will know one day.”  

It’s hard to see the silver lining in our hardship in that way, but I think it is important to recognize that the way we go through our troubles can have a profoundly positive impact on those around us.  I thank God everyday that my job forces me to keep a realistic perspective on what is important in life. Watching my patients struggle and overcome the basic hurdles of being able to walk and toilet for themselves without assistance makes it easier to not complain about a flat tire, or the fatigue of a short nights sleep, or an expensive grocery bill.  

People tell me all the time during work--“you must have to be so patient to be a therapist.”  Haha!  Anyone that knows me knows darn well I am not patient at all.  What I DO have is good perspective.  

There is a scene from the 1980 classic “Oh God!” (and I think it was “Oh God: Book 2”) where George Burns plays the character of God.  In it, God responds to a little girl named Tracy’s questions.  She asks God, ‘Why do bad things happen?”  His response was so simple it baffles me: “I kept trying to make a world with just the good but it wouldn’t work.  I couldn’t have the light without the dark, the heat without the cold, or the bad with out the good,” God says.  

And as a therapist I have learned you can’t have strength without struggle.

I will conclude with the thought on loss (the Tolstoy Quote).  My patient will soon get her wish, I have no doubt.  She will die...she is ready...and that is okay.  The two hardest fights we ever face in this world are likely birth and death.  If we could remember our birth, I’m sure we would recall being squeezed through an opening that small, being hit with a 30 degree temperature drop with no clothes on, and breathing air for the first time as a traumatic experience.  

So why should it surprise us that exiting this world is any harder than entering it?  

As for my patient, I hope she leaves behind a legacy to those that have loved her here on earth. They have watched her “fight the good fight” and that is where their strength will come from when is is their time to do the same thing.  Just like my grandparents showed me (and others I have loved and lost)--there is a way to fight with grace and honor.  And when that battle is won, it leaves behind a legacy where the sorrow that follows the loss is healed by the same love that causes us to grieve losing them in the first place. 

Saturday was a dear friend’s Birthday.  She would have been 36 years old if she was here to celebrate it.  I know that my grief for her is healed by the same love that respects how bravely she fought--very much in the same way my patients do.

I think Tolstoy was right.  Sorrow isn’t fun.  But love, though it causes the sorrow, can heal us.  And healing is good thing.

The Sheep behind my parking space...

...have good perspective. Much like...

...my happy cows.

If you are enjoying this Blog, you may enjoy my friend Will’s too.  

Check it out at: http://www.lifeartistwill.blogspot.com