Coffee, Faith, and Chronic Disease

As I rode down my stair chair this morning, I balanced a large cup of coffee and a tumbler full of power juice. Unable to sleep much the night before, I jarred awake just in time to dress and meet Lu who had agreed to drive me to another podiatry appointment. Settled in her passenger seat, the warm liquid filled my veins and our second trek across town - in only a matter of days - began.

After relying on tramadol to get through Grandpa's last days, I realized the semi-narcotic hadn't controlled the pain in my right foot. Knowing my doctor had offered a steroid shot for nerve pain in June, I sent him an email and made an appointment. Lu drove through almost pre-dawn traffic a few days later.

However, when Dr. Tucker looked at my foot, he said, "Look, there's swelling. I think you have a stress fracture. You need an MRI."

The MRI was ordered stat, performed Sunday night, and confirmed the diagnosis. Thus, I've had a stress fracture at the base of my second metatarsal since early June. And all the other metatarsals are in "stress reaction", meaning they could fracture too.

But let's not talk about that.

Suffice it to say, my upcoming left foot surgery has been postponed again. And I'm oh so very thankful.

On Wednesday, a Bible study friend sent a prayer request text. Her husband's dear friend had died. When I read it again, I realized that not only did I know the vibrant 55-year-old husband and father who died of a heart attack on his morning jog, he and his wife had attended my book signing.

Always ready with a smile, Michael had a charm and ease that ministered to everyone who entered his zone. The world was a party and he needed to meet and encourage every life he encountered. And he did that well.

I cried more on Wednesday than the day Grandpa died.

On Thursday, I went to physical therapy, wanting to try anything to make my foot better. Signed up for "needling", I was mentally prepared for my therapist to stick needles in my foot, like acupuncture. So when she explained she would stick a needle into my muscle and move it around underneath the skin, like an EMG, I freaked.

I wanted to muster up the courage to continue, but couldn't. Weeks of pain combined with recent losses and I wept.

Relief flooded in the next morning when I learned about the stress fracture, especially when I realized needling wouldn't have helped.

But after the long night and several long days, I questioned going to Michael's Saturday funeral. I wasn't ready for more emotion.

Somewhere in the midst of those muddled thoughts, the Holy Spirit spoke, "You need to go. You need to walk through this underworld of grief with your church family. Don't be afraid of the emotion. It's not time to lighten up. It's time to 'walk through the valley of the shadow of death and fear no evil'" (Psalm 23: 4 NIV).

So I went. And surprisingly didn't shed a tear.

Michael embodied the essence of life and the overflow filled our sanctuary. Stories were told. Laughter ensued. And great strength was displayed in lives of his three girls.

"Don't feel sorry for us," one of them stated. "We got to live with the best dad the world could offer."

And she meant it.

The service was emotional and powerful.
It was Jesus in full motion.

And Michael must have loved every minute from the place where the sky knows no limits.

The underworld continues to call. The more I read. The more people I get to know. The more I recognize the deep places of pain and loss we all swim through in hopes of processing our way back to the surface.

But maybe the real surface is on the bottom. The Psalmist did say, "Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls..." (Psalm 42: 7 NIV).

Will you reach out today, this week, this month? Will you dare to breathe the air of another's under-the-surface-world?

There are beautiful places just beneath the surface.

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Early Sunday morning, I woke on a blue foam mat that was stretched across the floor in my Grandpa's retirement home room. Dad loomed tall above me and asked, "What can I do to help?"

Without hesitation I answered, "Coffee. I need coffee. A big Dunkin Donuts cup of coffee."

"You got it," he promised before searching google maps for the closest brew.

I napped while he was gone, just like I had all night. Having caved to sleep around 11pm, I stirred every hour or so, checked on Grandpa's stats, and then faded back into oblivion certain he wouldn't last the night.

But he did. Much to everyone's surprise.

In fact he breathed another 19 hours before finally letting go. While his stats indicated he was hanging on by a thread, that piece of thread must have been made of steel.

But that was my grandpa. Strong. Stubborn. Determined.

Grandpa and my mom

In the days before Gramps became unresponsive I started a blog post about stillness. While my cough had abated, sinus pressure still slowed my days and as it dragged on, the continued illness made it easy to give into fatigue, aka: stillness.

Being still makes me somewhat crazy. Or perhaps I should say being still challenged my sense of self until week five and six of bronchitis unfolded. Somewhere in the midst of vaporizer steam, mucinex, antibiotics, sudafed, steroids, albuterol, grapefruit seed extract, bronchial syrup, cold and flu soup, etc., I leaned into the stillness and accepted that simply breathing was enough for now.

I didn't have to do anything to feel purpose. I just had to be His.

Like a rose.

Or a wild flower.

Or a brook.

"Be still and know that I am God..." (Psalm 46: 10 NIV).

Just breathe and know that I am God.

Just lay in bed and know that I am God.

"... I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth" (Psalm 46: 10 NIV).

I was still valuing stillness when mom called and said Grandpa was unresponsive. We spent a lot of time at his beside over the weekend, singing, praying, and sharing. But one memory trumped them all.

It was late Saturday night. Dad had stopped by with Lily (the King Charles Cavalier) and we'd sat around talking and laughing and waiting.

At some point, one of Grandpa's caregivers stopped by. She peered around the corner at his tired frame and immediately teared up.

"Oh Mr. Hughes," she began, "we won't fight at bedtime no more. But I'll miss you."

Her tears fell in earnest as she prayerfully blessed him and his family and said goodbye. By the time she finished, we all wiped tears, including the hospice nurse.

What got to me was that the woman who stirred our emotion only knew my grandfather less than a year. During that time, he was fully dazed by Alzheimer's.

He rarely talked, played with his food, slept for hours, and occasionally caused problems. Stubborn to the end, nurses developed a dance routine to get him ready for bed.

Lost in a mental fog none of us want to experience, he still meant something to that nurse. Something enough to make her say more than once that she will miss Mr. Hughes, my grandpa.

He was far from a perfect man. Alcoholism marred his life after his platoon followed Patton's into the Battle of the Bulge. Haunted by foxhole memories of WWII, he struggled, but fought on.

And in the end, he blessed a woman who's paid little to care for those on the dementia ward.

Be still.

Live quiet.

Just breathe.

And be healed.

Like Grandpa.