Today's the Day

Hello friends,

Colleen has gone to drive Ivy to school. When she returns, we'll be heading downtown to the Toronto General Hospital. 10th Floor. Pulmonary Clinic. 11:00 This is my first appointment with my new doctor.

I'm feeling emotional this morning.  Frightened.

Remember that expression about today being "the first day of the rest of your Life"?

Well, today feels like that day.

I know you'll be thinking of me. And that means a lot.

***

Busy Week

Meagan is on her way to Kincardine by bus to see her brother today. Dan and Meagan haven’t seen each other for more than two years. The meeting will surprise Dan. His girlfriend, Ashley has planned it, and even paid for Meagan’s bus ticket. I’m thrilled that they will finally get together. I’m sure they’ll discuss me, but they will not talk about my illness. They don’t know of it yet. I dread telling them. I don’t know how to tell them without worrying them, without hurting them. I’ve told them of the challenges facing my parents. They seem to accept that without fear or sadness. Grandma and Grandpa are old. Old people get sick and die. It’s normal. But I’m not old. I’m their father. I guess I’ll let them have their fun in Kincardine this week. On Friday, I go to the hospital to have a lung function test. I’ll know more then about the progression of the disease. Maybe I'll have good news to tell them. Maybe.

This afternoon, Ivy is excused from school. The three of us are going downtown to see our eye doctor. We go every year. Colleen insists and so we do it. We'll have dinner after and then come home amid the frantic rush of suburban commuters. Not looking forward to that.

You know, I’ve always looked forward to a visit with my parents. For more than twenty years, I’ve gone happily to Mt. Forest to see them. But quite honestly, I don’t look forward to it anymore. It’s very hard to see my parents so needy and infirm. I plan to spend Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday with them. I’ll continue to visit, of course, for as long as they need my help. It’s only right that I should give back something to the ones who’ve given me so much.

 

Thursday afternoon, I'll meet with my Healing Circle for another Reiki treatment. And on Friday, I'll go downtown again to Toronto General Hospital. 10th floor. Pulmonary Clinic.

 

And so it begins. Wish me luck.

 

***

My Healing Circle

I attended the first session of my Healing Circle this afternoon. Colleen was there along with three church friends. Nina and Charlotte are both trained Reiki practitioners. Nina is also an ordained minister. So is my friend, Paul. The experience was hard to describe. I felt heat in the exchange of energy as my friends laid their hands on me. I felt intense joy and sorrow, simultaneously and in equal measure. I felt the Love of friends and through them, the Love of God. Images of Mum came to mind and I asked God to be with her, to grant her peace. The image of my lungs came to me later. They were bright pink and healthy! Toward the end of the session, I experienced a profound sense of hope in the colour yellow. Colleen promised to buy me a yellow shirt. And at the end, there was great calm and a feeling of security as I saw myself held gently in the palm of God’s hand. I fell asleep. Nina offered me two affirmations to carry me through until we meet again. 

“I am safe.”

“I am held in the palm of God’s hand.” 

Our next meeting will be on May 8^th, the day before my appointment at Toronto General.

... 

Happy Easter

I sat in church in Windsor this morning and listened to the minister gush about the "joy" to be found in the resurrection story. Easter Sunday is the hands down happiest day of the whole Christian year. The service was all about joy. There were happy songs, and grateful prayers. We clapped our hands and rejoiced in the risen Lord.

Most of us did. A few of us, though, were somewhat less enthusiastic. I tried to find the joy in it. Really I did. I thought I'd be happy. But I wasn't. All I could think of was poor ol' Mum sitting in church alone in Mt. Forest, and crying. Her problems are too big, too many, too insurmountable. She's losing her husband. Soon she'll be without the only man she's ever loved. She cannot imagine Life without him. And if she somehow manages to survive her crushing grief, she has only the ghastly spectre of Alzheimer's to look forward to. A desperate Life alone in a nursing home. A slow descent into mental oblivion.

The sound of the choir brought me back into the sanctuary. The organist was playing something upbeat and happy. The preacher was smiling and clapping her hands in rhythm. "Hallelujah," they sang. "Hallelujah." But I wasn't feeling it. I was numb. It was better, I reasoned, than crying. I glanced at the faces around me. Louise was across the aisle with her daughter. Both women were crying. Louise's husband has lung cancer. Stage Four. There is no Stage Five. Soon Louise will be a widow. The future is bleak for Louise, and no better for Mum. Hopeless was the word that came to mind.

But isn't Easter a time of Hope? Doesn't God promise us an afterlife? Jesus died, but was raised to Life. It seems to me that if there's any Truth in this, death is not something to fear. It seems that even in death, hope abides.

"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?"

I can't change what will be. Dad will die. Mum's Alzheimer's will progress. So will my lung disease. But I mustn't lose hope. Easter is about hope. This blog is about hope. Without hope, there is nothing. Only pointless suffering.

“Only in the darkness can you see the stars.” –Martin Luther King Jr.

Happy Easter, friends. Thank you for caring.

...

Reiki

World English Dictionary

reiki  (ˈreɪkɪ) — n a form of therapy in which the practitioner is believed to channel energy into the patient in order to encourage healing or restore wellbeing [Japanese, from rei  universal + ki  life force] We visited an old friend on Tuesday. Her name is Nina. She was the pastor I first met when I returned to church in 2000. Nina is retired now from ministry. She's a former nurse, former spiritual guide, former owner of a spiritual retreat west of Toronto. She is a certified Reiki practitioner. Nina is a healer. We met for coffee and I told her about my father, hospitalised recently with chest pains and internal bleeding.  Colleen spoke of her gastric bypass surgery, and later, of my illness. She listened to our stories and responded in typical Nina style - with great compassion. "Why don't we go back to my place," she suggested, "and I'll give you a Reiki session." So we did. I was skeptical at first, but I vowed to keep an open mind. I laid down, face up, on a raised table. Colleen stood beside me. Nina stood at my head and quietly explained things as she went. She began with a short prayer and then placed her hands gently on my head, my eyes, ears, throat and chest. At one point, she invited Colleen to place her hand on my collarbone. Immediately, it felt warm. Very warm. It seemed to radiate into the muscles in my shoulder. I told Nina what I was feeling. "That's just Colleen sending you her Love," she said matter-of-factly. When Colleen removed her hand, the feeling was gone. When Nina's hands reached my ankle, my toes felt suddenly cold. I was relieved when she caught them and held my foot between her hands. The pressure was very light. I felt at ease, relaxed and completely comfortable. My eyes were closed. My breathing was slow and natural. In my mind's eye, I saw my father. He was healthy and smiling at me. After a minute or two, Nina's hands moved to my other foot, but I still had the sense that someone was keeping my toes warm. "There's probably someone else here," she explained. I knew it was Dad. I was certain of it. I could feel his fingers as he held my toes with both hands. Nina invited me to share my thoughts and I told her Dad was there, warming my toes. "It's probably his spirit you feel," she said softly. "Is there anything you'd like to tell him?" I held my eyes closed and Dad was in a hospital bed. His hands still held my foot gently, but my imagination saw him in the hospital. He was dying. I began to weep, uncontrollably. "It's OK," Nina whispered. "It's just energy. Let it go." "I love you, Dad," I sobbed. "Thank you ... for so much. Bye, Dad." Dad smiled his I'm so proud of you smile and then he was gone. My ears were full of tears and I knew Dad would find that funny. I wanted to laugh, but suppressed the urge. I was aware of my broad grin. I could sense Colleen's tears, although she didn't make a sound. "OK, Dale," Nina was saying. "It's time to come back into the room, but you don't have to hurry. Whenever you're ready, you can slowly open your eyes." I heard the door open and then softly close again. I was alone. I felt relaxed, content, completely at peace. I hated to return to the noise and bustle of reality, but I forced my heavy eyes to open. I was suddenly drowsy and could easily have fallen asleep, but I heard the women chatting in another room. They were waiting for me. Reluctantly, I rolled off the table. We exchanged some ideas and thoughts at the front door before we left. Nina promised to phone a mutual friend (also a Reiki practitioner) and involve her in our next 45 minute session. Another friend, Paul, is an ordained minister, currently employed at my Mimico church. He's accepted an invitation to be part of our "healing circle." Nina was beaming as we said our good-byes. "With me and Charlotte and Paul and Colleen working together," she said, "we are going to knock your socks off!" When I imagine being surrounded and supported by three women of great faith and spiritual power, along with a true friend like Paul, I feel as though I am in good hands indeed. It may not be enough to heal my lungs, but it will be more than enough to carry me through the most difficult portions of my journey. I can't wait to get started! ...

Today's News and Ruminations

My son Daniel is 27 now. He lives in Kincardine, a delightful lakeside community about 140 miles from here, with his girlfriend and her two young kids. They're a happy family. Dan is happy, happier than he's been in many years. His sister Meagan lives about 45 minutes away from me in Hamilton. As she lives closer, I see her more often than I do her brother. She's happy enough, I suppose, although she continues to struggle financially. She left school at sixteen and has worked at a series of minimum wage jobs ever since. She'll be 22 in June. I love them both, of course. And they love me too.

I have an appointment to have more tests done next month. On May 9th, I'm to attend the respiratory clinic at Toronto General Hospital where I'll undergo another pulmonary function test. The results will be compared to the first lung function test I took which was in January. I've been asked to bring a copy of the CT scans they took then as well. I suppose the doctor will order new CT scans for  comparison. I am not yet, nor do I expect soon to be on the list for transplant surgery. Neither do I expect to be admitted into the transplant programme. I am not nearly sick enough. I do, however, hope to gain some sense of how quickly my disease is progressing. It feels like it's moving quite slowly, but the tests may show otherwise.

Ivy is my stepdaughter, Colleen's girl. She's fourteen. She knows of my diagnosis. She doesn't speak much about it, but she knows. I haven't told Dan and Meagan about it, though I know I must. I wonder how to tell them. I wonder when I'll tell them. I've been thinking that I'll wait until I learn the results of the next tests. Maybe then I'll know more about it. No sense worrying them before I have to. I can worry enough for all of us.

Do you think it's possible that worrying about it will turn out to be worse than the disease itself?

...  

More Thoughts of Mum and Dad

I’ve been thinking of Mum and Dad today. I think of them every day. Dad said something while we were there on Wednesday that’s stuck with me.

 

“My hearing is getting so bad that I can’t hear half of what your mother says. I've tried every kind of hearing aid there is, but none of them helps. I wish I could hear better. And when her brain isn’t working right, she can’t follow a conversation at all. I miss that. Talking with her. We used to talk a lot, you know. Just chatting about the news of the day, or about our family and friends. I guess pretty soon I won’t be able to talk to her at all anymore.”

 

There was sadness in his voice. Sadness and bitterness.

 

"And there's not a goddamn thing anybody can do about it."

 

Things have worsened so quickly. Six months ago, Mum’s mind was still pretty good. And Dad was still able to hear her. I don't think Life gets easier as we age. I think it gets harder. Mum is trying to come to grips with the dreadful news she was given recently by her doctor. After a routine physical exam, he casually informed her of the results of her brain function tests, given a few weeks ago.

 

"And you know you have Alzheimer's, don't you?" he said as she was leaving his office.

 

In the kitchen after supper, Mum cried as she told us the story.

 

"It was devastating news," she sobbed. "He could have been more sensitive."

 

Colleen and I shared a glance. I was given my IPF diagnosis in a similar fashion. We understood completely what Mum was feeling. But we couldn't tell her, could we? She told us of her fears around the rate of progression of her disease. "A ticking timebomb," she called it. Colleen and I know that feeling too, but we couldn't tell her. 

 

"I'm so sorry to put your dad through this," she said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. "I know it hurts him, but I can't help it."

 

As I held my mother in a gentle embrace, my heart ached to offer her some words of comfort. I am all too familiar with the feelings she described, but to tell her this would, I think, bring her more worry than solace. Dad is thinner and more pale each time I see him. I think about all this, and I plan the best possible schedule of events: If Dad dies before Mum gets worse, and I stay well until after Mum's decline, then nobody will have to hurt too much.

 

But Life rarely respects our maps and plans, does it?

 

...