Well, the last three weeks have been the hardest I’ve ever had in my 71 years. I don’t say that to garner sympathy, but more just to explain what has been going on. And let’s face it, we all have had times in our lives that are hard; times we wouldn’t want to relive. But maybe it’s true that “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”. Personally, I don’t believe that - I’m not feeling strong now at all. But I’m still here, loving my family and friends, and doing my best to heal physically and emotionally.
Since my blog is also a bit of a personal diary, I’m going to talk about the last three weeks in this post. Feel free to skip it if you’re not interested; I’ll be back posting my regular quilting content tomorrow.
Let’s start with the physical stuff first. I had a right knee total replacement done on December 4, exactly three weeks before Christmas. Luckily, I had the foresight to stock up on food and buy all the Christmas gift cards, so we got everyone taken care of (even though some items have yet to be mailed). I was able to begin driving again about a week ago, and this week I started outpatient physical therapy. I had heard that knee replacements are brutal, and thought I was psyched up for it. I was not. The pain is constant. Yes, I was given (and used) the prescription pain meds for the first couple weeks. But in order to drive, I can’t be on opioids, so I’m down to just Arthritis Strength Tylenol during the day or Tylenol PM at bedtime.
Nothing I do with my leg is comfortable. But it’s better if I move or rest or walk or whatever in periods of an hour or less (bedtime excepted). I’m doing my exercises. I’ve graduated from a walker to a cane for going out, and am mobile around the house without any aids. But even in the house I’ll use a cane if I’m tired or sleepy, just to be safe. Everyone says I’ll be glad in the long run that I had the knee done, and I’m holding onto that belief. Right now in the short term, I’m not glad. I know I need the perspective that time will give me.
And speaking of time, it was devastating to lose my dear brother Steve at Thanksgiving time. We were close, and he was 18 months younger than me. We squally talked a couple times per week. We had so many plans! He had completely given up drinking a little over 2 years ago and was really seeing the physical and mental benefits of a healthy lifestyle. But his leg circulation was getting bad and he was having episodes of lightheadedness and nearly passing out. A couple months ago they admitted him to a hospital and ran batteries of tests, finally concluding his arteries were in bad shape and he needed a stent inserted in his iliac artery. He had a 4” stent inserted in a crossover procedure on November 19. I won’t explain it all here. Anyway, he came through it fine - the doctor called me and told me Steve was doing great. Steve went home the next day and felt good. We talked a couple times over the next couple days and were going to talk again on Thanksgiving Day. Then on Monday night before Thanksgiving he went to the EMT’s at the local clinic saying he didn’t feel right. They checked him out and couldn’t find anything, but offered to take him to the hospital. He declined. He went home. Later that night or the next morning, he was in his recliner and died. His friend Richard, who had a key, found him on Thanksgiving morning when he hadn’t returned calls for 2 days.
I was dealing with the mortuary paperwork for the first couple weeks of December, even as I was having surgery. Steve’s friends Richard and his wife Sherry have been godsends. They took Steve’s dog as they had promised him before the operation. They have found a home for the cat and will be relocating her before year end. They cleaned out the refrigerator, throwing away spoiled food and donating (or keeping) the rest. They’ve been watering his plants and now would like to buy his house (which sits on 3/4 acre). I’ve finally gotten e-copies of the death certificate (hard copies coming in the mail) and will begin sorting through bank documents, bills, and making phone calls next week from the piles that Richard and Sherry sent. I’m probably going to be chastised for not handling things in a more timely manner, but I am handling it as best I can.
So, I’m a physical and emotional wreck. I cry a lot. I do my exercises, take my meds, get nauseated, cry some more, and slowly have begun healing. I can’t see any progress from day to day, but if I mark time by the week, I can definitely tell I’ve come a ways along the road. I am spending some time in my sewing room again and will have a few things to share in the next post.
One more thing I need to share. I have never considered myself a very religious person in the church-attending style. My parents were atheists, but to their credit let me attend the churches I wanted as I was growing up. I was baptized in the Catholic Church as a baby (yes, by my parents. I have no explanation for that). Growing up, I occasionally attended churches with friends, 2 summers of Lutheran bible school, joined Job’s Daughters (a Masonic organization for young girls) and went into “the line” (leadership) becoming an Honored Queen. At one point my ex-husband and I joined the LDS church (Mormon), but I firmly don’t believe in that anymore. I call myself a spiritual drifter, sampling this and learning that. I’ve tried to live my life in an honorable and good manner. But church every Sunday? No, thank you. But friend Ruby, Cousin Kim and I call our regular Sunday meetings “The Church of Bernina”. Now, having said all that, I can share this recent experience.
On the Tuesday morning before Thanksgiving, I was at my regular Weight Watchers meeting (workshop/social gathering/mental health boost). The subject was thankfulness. Just about everyone had something to share. I was quiet, listening, nursing a bad mood over something minor and irrelevant to the story. And suddenly, it was as though every remark was pointed at me. Not literally, of course, but everything was hitting me and making an impression. My annoyance dissipated and I began feeling overwhelmed and sad and so small. My eyes began tearing up and I could tell I was losing my composure. I turned to my bestie Ruby sitting next to me and whispered, “I’ve got to go; I’m going to crash”. She told me later I was pale. I went out to my car and started sobbing. I didn’t know why, exactly, but I cried for a good seven or eight minutes. Just overwhelming sadness. Eventually, I collected myself and drove home. Ruby did call and check up on me later and I still couldn’t explain it.
Fast forward two days, Thanksgiving morning. Two officers from the local police department visited us to tell me my brother Steve had passed. They gave me the coroner’s number, and I called her within the hour. She gave me all the information she had (which is where I found out he had visited the EMTs, etc), and said he had been dead for two days from when he was found earlier that morning. Ruby came by later that Thanksgiving day and connected the dots for me. The Tuesday morning incident was Steve saying goodbye or making a connection with me. I do believe there are things - connections, energy, love, life, death - that are beyond our understanding. If I hadn’t experienced it so dramatically myself, I would be a skeptic. I still can’t explain it, but I do believe it fervently now. I will always love you, Steve.
