Thank Goodness for the Little Things

"In grief, the little things are the big things."

~Alan D. Wolfelt, Ph.D

Grief One Day at a Time

I have been expressing my thankfulness for little things in gratitude journals for over 40 years.  This practice has been a support through divorce, illness, and times of conflict and stress, but never as much as these past months since John's death.  So, upon coming across this quote recently, I decided to revisit the gratitude journal I've just completed to see what little things buoyed me up this past summer.  Could it be that noticing and appreciating these things contributed to the summer being easier than I had dreaded?  

• a bumper crop of roses - John would have been so pleased
• a hummingbird hovering within inches of my face
• chilled red grapes
• a decent night's sleep
• and an afternoon nap on the patio chaise
• figuring out how to program the TV on my own
• frozen yogurt on a hot day
• a good book - great writing, thought-provoking, elegant - the perfect book for the moment
• an unexpected call from an old friend
• and an invitation for lunch from a new one
• two dozen, yes two, yellow tulips (my favorite flower) from a friend, "just because"
• the desert sky at dusk
• a slice of cheesecake that I treated myself to
• chicken noodle soup when I'm under the weather
• how much better everything sounds with my new hearing aids
• finding an old love letter
• a sudden, unexpected happy memory
• a card, a joke, a silly gift -  moments that evoked giggles, even outright belly laughs
• a customer service agent who actually provides good service
• helpful strangers who reach objects on top shelves without my asking (I'm only 4'11 and need all the help I can get)
• anyone who asks how I'm doing and is willing to hear the truth
• friends who have walked this path before me and can reassure me that what I'm experiencing is normal
• a stranger telling me how much she or he enjoyed John and misses him
• old musicals - especially anything with Gene Kelly
• and gripping British mysteries
• a good news story that sets the tone for a positive day
• stumbling on an inspirational quote
• finding something I've misplaced 
• and always, always, my sweet Rufus, my little companion, who greets me with pirouettes and soft growls, tailing wagging, a guarantee I never walk into an empty house

Reflecting a bit on this list, I can see that this simple practice of recording 3-5 little things I'm grateful for every night is, indeed, one of the little things that is helping me endure this grief.  Without this as an established practice, I suspect I could find it almost impossible to notice the little things. For this enduring practice of finding gratitude for the little things, I am most grateful.

Coming Full Circle

"We never know from one day to the next what surprise lurks around the corner."

  ~ Joy Loverde, Who Will Take Care of Me When I'm Old 

I know, heaven knows I know, what Joy is talking about.  From the major surprises like disease, death, or natural disasters to the minor surprises like a garage door that suddenly won't open or a burst water pipe or a flat tire, we never know.  But we also never know when we'll meet someone who will change the course of our lives or pick up a book that gives us the answer we've been looking for for months.  Or, as happened to me last week, the information that I made a difference in someone's life who continues to make a far greater difference than I ever could have made.

Joy is an old friend. We go back over 25 years.  More than a friend, more like a much younger sister or the daughter I never had or would have been proud to have had.  There was a day when she asked to come in for a coaching session as she wanted to talk about a career change.  A change from the marketing career at which she was skilled, experienced and successful.  A change to something that would use those skills for something that made a bigger difference than promoting someone else's product or business.

I remember that conversation as though it happened yesterday.  I've shared the experience of it many times in coachings and trainings in the years that followed.  I asked Joy only one question.  "What issues are you passionate about - in what arena would you like to make a difference?" She answered quickly - "The way children are treated and the way old people are treated."  I then suggested she go home and choose the one she would like to focus on and think about how she could apply her skills and talents to the problems she saw.

It was as simple as that.  She returned shortly saying she had chosen to approach the issue of eldercare and knew exactly how she might carve out a new career.  What followed was her first book, The Complete Elder Care Planner, speaking engagements, workshops,  consulting and ultimately recognition as a major contributor in the growing eldercare advisory industry.

Fast forward to a week ago.  I was searching for a book, any book that might address the overwhelm I was feeling about a future without my husband.  The perfect book appeared, at least the title suggested that it might be.  As though the author could read my mind - Who Will Take Care of Me When I'm Old.  And the author - Joy Loverde, my Joy.  

I downloaded it immediately and started to read it.  Exactly as I expected, it is well-written, well-researched, clear and compassionate.  But what I didn't expect was to find my name in her acknowledgments.  After all these years.  I didn't expect the tears, gratitude, and the profound sense of satisfaction and delight that almost overwhelmed me.  To know that I had influenced someone who now influences so many others and will continue to do so.  And that I am now a recipient of what was set in motion in that simple conversation long ago.  We have come full circle.  And that knowledge, in itself, may be more important to me than anything in the book.

*If you found this helpful or know someone who might, please share and like my page.

Dancing in the Rain

You'd think I'd have learned this lesson sooner in life.  Heaven knows, I/we have had plenty of opportunities, but it took a wise and gentle doctor to bring it home recently.  

John's hematologist must have some psych courses in his background because he has an uncanny ability to deliver information in a direct, yet compassionate manner at  the most opportune moment. It is one reason we so trust and respect him.  From the day he delivered the diagnosis and prognosis of John's disease, he has never failed to be forthright and considerate, consistently striking that tenuous balance between reality and optimism, a balance too few physicians have yet learned.

He also is a natural mediator, sensing when to speak directly to either of us or both of us as the case seems to warrant.  So, whenever John wants to do something that I fear may be detrimental to his well-being, or I want him to do something that he does not feel ready to do, we turn to Dr. W. and ask him to arbitrate.  

One of those occasions occurred a month ago, when John wanted to go to a nearby casino to celebrate his 75th birthday.  As infection is a threat to John's survival, I have been adamantly opposed to any large group gathering for either of us, and especially so to the casinos.  And John has been remarkably agreeable, a great patient.  This time, however, he persisted.  It was, after all, his 75th birthday, or as he puts it, the 50th anniversary of his 25th birthday.  Fortunately, we had a doctor's appointment within a few days of his birthday, and we agreed that if Dr. W. gave the ok, I would concede to John's wishes.  If not, he would comply.  

The day arrived.  We went through all the preliminaries, weight, blood pressure, temperature, blood test results, the list of typical questions and answers.  And then John posed his request.  Dr. W. paused, looked at John, looked at me, paused again and then - first to both of us, "I don't want to cause any marital discord here."  Then, at me - "We're not keeping John alive at the expense of his quality of life."  Then, at John - "So, I think you should go, but do it wisely.  Take intelligent precautions.  Have a good time and happy birthday."

We did go to the casino.  We went early and he wore gloves while he played.  A few days later, my sister and brother-in-law surprised him for his birthday with a visit from NY.   We had a small party with his Starbucks buddies and a get together with friends. He received several cards and calls and e-mails.  All in all, he had a great birth week.

I've returned to that conversation several times in the interim.  I realize that I've been hoping this storm might pass.  If we are vigilant, if there are medical breakthroughs, if I can protect him.  But the reality is it might not.  So, I'm not throwing away the umbrella or rain gear, but I'm trying to splash in the puddles.  To consider every day some ways to celebrate that we can still go out in the rain together.

Gratitude Is an Attitude

"Gratitude is one of the sweet shortcuts to finding peace of mind and happiness inside.  No matter what is going on outside of us, there's always something we could be grateful for."

~Barry Nell Kaufman

It was an unusual Thanksgiving for the two of us, the first time in our 33 years of marriage that we celebrated alone. Had to cancel meeting old friends for our tradition of a marvelous buffet near Zion - can't risk being in large gatherings anymore. Had to decline the warm offer of sharing dinner with a friend and her family -- couldn't risk passing our debilitating head colds to her elderly relatives. 

Each year at Thanksgiving we take turns expressing what we are most grateful for. This year, as you might expect, the list was significant - having each other in this fight for John's life, our doctors, the wonderful hospitals we have at our disposal, modern medicine, the safe community in which we live, the remarkable network of support, my loving siblings, sufficient resources, the strengthening of our already strong relationship, our home. 

As we acknowledged one blessing after another, our lagging spirits definitely lifted. In the hours since, I've turned my thoughts to other, more personal gratitudes and the list is somewhat overwhelming. 

• homemade soups and biscotti delivered by friends who know I don't enjoy cooking
• a particularly thoughtful gift - a king-sized flat sheet because I can't fight with fitted sheets right now
• photos via the Internet by friends who suspect we may be feeling isolated
• the clinic office manager who heard my frustration and rectified a problem immediately and without attitude
• e-mails that have brought laughter and tears
• unexpected calls just to see how we're doing
• Robitussin and NyQuil, cough drops and throat sprays
• retirement - how do people who have to work find the time and energy for such a battle?
• the last Henry Fonda roses of the year
• jigsaw puzzles and adult coloring books, my meditation practices of choice
• afternoon naps induced by a few pages of a good mystery
• jokes John forwards, often outrageous, always fun
• and seeing that this blog is being read in Portugal and France, Germany and the Ukraine, amazing, humbling

My list is actually much longer than this.  A good reminder that in spite of John's disease, in spite of an election outcome I did not want and still fear, in spite of head colds and being alone at Thanksgiving, there is always something to be grateful for.  Some things, many things to be grateful for. Just need to remember.

A Three-Legged Marathon

"We take the hill for a better view of the next hill and the gear we'll need to take it as well."

~ Pamela King

It's taken a few days of recuperation and this message from Pam to realize that, though our trip to MD Anderson was a challenge, it was the first hill and we took it.

At times, it felt like a mountain.  Physically - just getting to Houston from our small community in Utah took almost 10 hours. Pushing John's wheelchair across the walkway between our hotel and the main building, and in and out of elevators, and up and down corridors was exhausting. For John, being poked and prodded, having another bone marrow biopsy, another blood transfusion took their toll.

And then emotionally - waiting for doctors, waiting for lab results, waiting for a glimmer of hope.   All the time surrounded by others in waiting.  This time we were struck by the number of young patients, in their 20's and 30's.  Surrounded by an epidemic of cancer.

But along the way the glimmers appeared, what Pam calls morsels of hope.  In the kindness of strangers who pushed the wheelchair up ramps I couldn't manage or who went out of their way to open doors with card passes we didn't have.  In the consideration and professionalism of every person we met, from housekeeper to waitresses to clerks and ancillary personnel.  We always were treated with dignity and respect. And in the courage, strength, and determination we saw exhibited day in and day out.

Two special moments stand out.  The first, when we met with the physician who gave John his stem cell transplant 11 years ago.  In our past experience, he was cordial and the ultimate professional, perhaps a bit contained.  This visit, he shared a different and more compassionate side of his personality, touching us both when, as we left, he reached over, placed his hand on John's shoulder and said, "Remember, you're tough."

The second moment, on our last day, a follow-up visit with the hematologist to hear the results of the bone marrow biopsy.  She had already confirmed the original diagnosis - Therapy Related MDS - and was leaning toward the same prognosis of six months to a year.  She had agreed with the proposed treatment.  So, when she arrived with a big smile, I dared to hope there could be some good news, any good news.  

I think she was as happy to give the news as we were to receive it.The bone marrow results indicated the disease is not as aggressive as originally thought.  The prognosis - two to two plus years.  Enough time for better clinical trials.  Enough time for breakthrough treatments to surface.  

So, the next hill is before us. John is in the middle of his first treatment cycle and so far, so good.  I am in the middle of researching the gear we need to take the hill.   How to detoxify our environment, as infections could be catastrophic.  How to reduce salt and sugar in our diet. How to enroll him in drinking more water.  What to do in case of an emergency.  How to pace ourselves - for this is a marathon, not a sprint!  A three-legged marathon.

The Odd Little Moments

"The happiest of lives, seen in retrospect, is but a collection of odd little moments."

~  Unknown*

I don't remember the author of this quote, one of my favorites.   But I do remember the moment I first saw it.  It was one of three quotes, written in elegant calligraphy on a postcard, sent by my then principal who, though not given to intimate conversations, was obviously concerned about my emotional state at that time.  In the throes of a devastating divorce and wallowing in self-pity, I was sure I would never be happy again.  And, I am embarrassed to admit, I let everyone around me know it!  Ad nauseum!

This quote in particular, and the fact that this reserved woman had sent it, caught me up short.  That night I began to capture the odd little moments of the day that might give me, even for a second, the hope that I could be happy again one day.  Night after night I persisted, not noticing that eventually, the little lists developed into a gratitude practicel. 

In the almost 40 years that have passed, I have continued to list the odd little moments, sometimes in a journal dedicated only to that.  Sometimes I've included them in my daily journal. Sometimes at night, sometimes the next day, but rarely with a lapse of a couple days.  During the happiest periods of my life, during the difficult - the suicide of a friend, the death of my parents, Cat Scratch Fever (yes, there is such a thing), my cancer, John's. During all the transitions. Some days it was a stretch to recall even one positive moment, let alone the minimum of three I set myself. Some days I could, and do, list ten.

These days, when I am learning to deal with issues related to the short term memory lapses that develop with aging - where did I put my glasses, what's that actor's name, why did I come into this room, etc., etc., - remembering these special little moments has taken on a new relevance. (It's not my memory that's going, it's just the retrieval mechanism that falters now and then.)  And oddly enough, these little moments can come more easily.  Sometimes almost unbidden, reminding me that I've been blessed.  Odd little moments, like - 

• digging a tunnel in the snow drifts of my childhood
• being asked to sing for a Halloween treat
• hunting for Easter eggs
• holding my baby sister for the first time
• winning an oratorical contest
• being elected to the prom court - yup, me!
• coming upon a tree laden with blue birds and years later, another laden with monarchs
• waking up from a tent in Alaska and seeing the top of Mt. McKinley, quickly covered by a layer of clouds
• my first piece of Godiva chocolate 
• the moment I met John
• the first time he said, "I love you"
• hugging a tree
• bursting into tears at the sight of the David
• stumbling, almost literally and certainly unexpectedly, on a relative in the Sicilian hometown of my grandparents
• flying in a helicopter down the face of a waterfall in Kauai
• holding my breath as a butterfly rested upon my hand
• the news that I was cancer free
• the news that John was cancer free

I keep a list of the most significant of these moments handy because it can be too easy to remember old hurts, or dwell on current aches and pains, or worry about future loss and decline. Far too easy.

* Does anyone recognize this quote, and it's author?