Can You Count to Twelve?

“O give thanks unto the Lord; for he is good: for his mercy endureth for ever.” (Psalm 136:1)

 

In the hard-scrabble life of the ancient Near East, this admonition seems shocking. Their every day existence was what Charles Swindoll once called “life on the ragged edge.” But there it is. “Give thanks.”  Let’s just go ahead and admit that no matter how rough our lives here in America may be from time to time, it doesn’t compare to being a nomadic shepherd or gleaning from the fields the harvesters have already worked or disease with no antibiotics, scarce fresh water or famine. Even to them, the command was to “give thanks.”

 

Now, thankfulness seems to be making a comeback. A number of my Facebook friends have been posting something for which they are thankful every day. It’s a great idea that I noticed too late to join. I have much to be thankful for, it’s true, but I have struggled to find what I wanted to say; until now.

 

One of my co-workers has been doing the Facebook “I’m thankful for” thing and I reference her here with her permission. Each day she posted something for which she was thankful. Yesterday, the worst thing happened. Yesterday, her husband of twenty years was in a tragic accident at work and did not survive. I thought yesterday would have ended the streak.

 

But it didn’t. I am not sure where such faith comes from and I can only wonder if I had something as painful as that happen to me if I’d be able to muster up thanks for anything. But she did. Just before day 25 rolled into day 26, the new post appeared. Not once, but twelve times in her post she said “I’m thankful for…” I thought it was eleven times at first, but on the recount, it was twelve. Twelve . On the worst of a today one could imagine. Twelve!

 

Let’s face it. Bad things happen to good people too. There is no immunity in life. It is downright delusional to imagine that you’ll skate through with no heartache or pain. You can become bitter. That isn’t hard or courageous. That’s easy. Thankfulness is not for the fainthearted or the weak. It isn’t only for the convenient seasons of life. It is for the hard times, too. It is especially powerful then.

 

So this Thanksgiving, as you gather round the table with friends and family, you may have a bucket-load of problems - and please don’t mistake this for some pollyannish pretend “everything is wonderful” kind of advice. Far from it. Most people have enough problems that if we only knew we’d opt for our own instead if ever given the choice. No, I know you have challenges. Some of you have more than it seems you can bear. Pause for a moment. Think. Reflect a bit before you bite that turkey. How high can you count?

 

Give Thanks!

 

Jerald

 

(All thoughts and opinions herein are strictly my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Medical Center)

I Want To Be Like Ike

I Want To Be Like Ike. My Uncle Ike, that is.

 At age 90, he doesn’t really walk anymore. He shuffles, sliding his feet along, barely lifting them off the floor. He is attached most of the time to an oxygen concentrator by means of a long tube. He still lives alone, though he thinks about moving to an assisted living facility often. He knows the day is soon coming. For now, his daughter and son-in-law live on the next block and help him live as independently as possible.

Franklin Isaac Smith was born in southern Alabama in 1923. He grew up during the Depression as the son of tenant farmer in southwest Georgia. In a family of six children, three boys and three girls, he was roughly in the middle of the pack. My father was the youngest of the six and every time I visit, Uncle Ike never fails to tell the story of how he named my father, Jack.

Most of the things I know about my father’s early life, I have learned from Uncle Ike. All three boys slept in the same bed, under heavy quilts in the winter, in a home that was made of unpainted wood. The floorboards had gaps in places, and on those rare occasions that snow visited that far south, it would dust the top of the quilts as they huddled underneath.

He can tell you all about picking cotton, putting new soles on old shoes using a “shoe last” and being poor and not even knowing it because everyone else was too. After a tour in the Army, he went on to be the first in the family to go to college. He later received his Masters in Education from the University of Alabama. He married Alice Kaiser from West Virginia, whom he met at Bible Training School in Cleveland, Tennessee. They have one daughter, Karen.

Uncle Ike has a gift; many gifts, really, but one in particular that I have tried to develop myself. He has a habit of blessing people. He did not tell me this. Before she died, Aunt Alice told me how when they were out at the drug store, or grocery store or doctor's office, he would always find a way to bless people. One example will suffice. Once, at the grocery store, a young man and his wife were shopping with three small children. He notice the couple was exasperated after herding them through the aisles, trying to keep small hands from the temptations within their reach and it showed. Uncle Ike stopped and said in that soft as butter southern dialect, “Sir, is this your fam-ly?”  “Yes, sir,” he replied. “I noticed you as I was comin’ down the aisle and I just wanted to tell you what a beautiful fam-ly you have.” “You must be so proud of these beautiful children and your lovely wife.” Aunt Alice said that in a second, the furrowed brow and exasperation gave way to smiles as pride replaced tension. “He does that all the time,” she said.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

 

Home Improvement

June 26, 2013

 

“Home Improvement”

 

Home Improvement was a hit television comedy in the 90’s. It starred Tim Allen as “Tim the Toolman" Taylor and Patricia Richardson, who played his wife, Jill. The writing was quite good and the acting was as well. Earl Hindman’s portrayal of their neighbor, Wilson, whose face was never more than partially revealed, was pure genius. The stories revolved around his television show about home improvement and the rearing of their three sons. One of them, Jonathan Taylor Thomas, was a bit of a teen idol at the time so Home Improvement was one of the few shows that we could watch together as a family with three daughters and never hear a complaint.

 

Now home improvement reality shows are all over the television. There are yard crashers, kitchen hater crashers, Holmes on Homes, Love it or List It. So many shows in fact that there is now a whole channel about home improvement called the DIY network. DIY stands for Do It Yourself.

 

Two years ago, we wanted to replace the carpet in the den with wood flooring. We found a floor we liked and purchased it and we paid someone to install it. I watched with interest as the crew installed it. It didn’t look that difficult to do and the installation was kind of pricey. So I determined that if I ever wanted to install wood flooring again, I would do it myself. I can be a DIYer! Now I am in the process of installing wood flooring in our bedroom and upon reflection I have a few observations.

 

-         There is a reason installers are paid so much money.

-         The flaking on my hands is not leprosy. It is the floor adhesive finally releasing its stubborn grip on my skin.

-         Speaking of skin…it is amazing how much scrubbing with gasoline and mineral spirits hands can take and the skin still remain intact.

-         Measure twice and cut once is more than a cute phrase.

-         Floor adhesive has the amazing ability to transport itself to any other place in the house it chooses.

-         The people at the home improvement store are overly optimistic.

-         When all else fails, read the instructions. Coincidently, the white pamphlet inside each box of flooring contains instructions. Who knew?

-         It will cost more than you think.

-         It will take longer than you expect.

-         Competency in one area of home improvement does not necessarily transfer to another.

-         I have a lot more in common with the “No! Me do it!” phase of child development than I realized.

-         The 1991 song “Losing My Religion” by R.E.M. is about a home improvement project. 

-         One “That looks great, honey” from my wife makes it all worth it.

 

Blessings,

 

Jerald

Somebody's Hero

Glimmers

May 31, 2013

 

I continue to reflect on the book “Flags of Our Fathers” by James Bradley. Reading the account of the Marine charge up Mt. Suribachi left me feeling amazed at what they accomplished and what they endured. More Medals of Honor and Navy Crosses were awarded at Iwo Jima than in any other battle in United States history. No other battle produced such a combination of courage and carnage.

 

Surviving heroes were asked why they did what they did. None said they did it for a medal. “I did it for my buddies,” was the common reply. Other-centeredness is at the heart of a hero.

 

I do not at all mean to equate anything to what those Marines did in February 1945 on Iwo Jima, but I have noticed that the ability to look beyond self to the needs of others is the common factor that produces great deeds in other theatres too.

 

It was not what she expected when she started her day. As she sat in the patient’s room, her job was to assure his safety. He slept most of the time, but in his confused state, he could not be trusted to be alone. Her job as a sitter was to keep an eye on him and to call for assistance if needed.

 

The man in the other bed was slowly winding down. Weary from her vigil, his family member had left in the early hours of the morning to get some rest. Now his body was losing its fight with disease and had reached the tipping point between life and death. His breathing had become erratic and shallow. And he was alone.

 

The sitter slid her chair to the side of his bed and clasped his hand in hers. “I couldn’t stand the thought of him dying alone,” she said. She admitted that it “freaked her out” a little, but she held on to his hand as his breathing stopped and his heart ceased beating. It was not in her job description and certainly not in her comfort zone, but because her compassionate heart demanded it, she made certain he knew he was not alone in his final minutes.

 

How did she do it? How did she overcome her fear and being “freaked out a little?” She chose to focus on him instead of herself. Other-centeredness. That is how heroes are born.

 

Blessings to you all,

 

Jerald

 

The thoughts and opinions here are solely my own and do not necessarily represent those of Parrish Medical Center.

 

Ordinary Heroes

May 24, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is the two weeks of craziness at Parrish Medical Center known as the annual Circle of Giving campaign. Each year, the Care Partners of the hospital split into five teams and compete to raise funds for worthwhile projects that benefit the hospital and our community.

 

Wednesday, I stopped by a used book sale being offered by the Purple team. I was looking for some summer reading material and the sign said all the paper back books were a dollar, so I looked through them. I picked up and put down and pick up again Flags of Our Fathers by James Bradley. I am having a hard time putting it down.

 

The book is about the “flag raisers” of Iwo Jima, captured in the photograph above. James Bradley is the son of one of them, John Bradley. He writes, “History turned all its focus, for 1/400^th of a second, on them. It froze them in an elegant instant of battle: froze them in a camera lens as they hoisted an American flag on a makeshift pole. Their collective image, blurred and indistinct yet unforgettable, become the most recognized, the most reproduced, in the history of photography.” (Flags of Our Fathers, p. 4)

 

The book tells the stories of these 6 young men from different parts of the United States, what their childhood days were like, how they entered the war and how they arrived at that historic moment. It is a story that has become well known to the millions who have read the book or seen the Academy Award-winning movie. I have done neither, so please don’t tell me how it goes because I will not appreciate it.

 

What I do appreciate so far is how Mr. Bradley weaves the tale of these ordinary young men who became the epitome of heroism to generations of Americans. On this Memorial Day weekend, in whatever way you can in between the bites of your hotdogs or hamburgers or potato salad, find a way to honor those who have so honored us with their service.

 

Blessings,

 

Jerald

 

Disclaimer: Thoughts and ideas presented in this post are solely my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Medical Center.

Dust to Dust

February 22, 2013 

Dust to Dust

Wednesday, February, 13th was Ash Wednesday. Some of our Care Partners have a hard time getting to Ash Wednesday services because of their work schedules, so we made it available to them this year with an assist from the priest and deacon from St. Gabriel’s Episcopal Church. It is a sobering reminder of our mortality when the priest puts the ashes on our foreheads and says “Remember, man/woman, that you are dust and to dust you will return.” I had less trouble remembering that this Ash Wednesday than usual. The day before, it became quite clear to me that I am decidedly mortal.

As I was walking in from the parking lot that morning, my chest tightened, my heart began to race and I felt lightheaded. I stopped and leaned on the trunk of a car, tried to reign in my rising anxiety and then continued to the door. As and aside, my father died at age 40 of a heart attack and I have sometimes experienced mild anxiety about the same thing happening to me, especially as I approached the same age. This time, the anxiety did not subside as usual and the pressure in my chest increased.

As I entered the South doorway of the hospital, I stopped and sat on the corner of the desk there. The two auxiliary women greeted me and I told them how I was feeling. They offered to take me in a wheelchair to the Emergency department. I told them about my sometime anxiety and that it would pass soon. Again, it didn’t. After some encouragement from them, I agreed to go to the Emergency Department, but I insisted on walking.

When I arrived there, I told Martin, the charge nurse, that I was having some chest discomfort. Always the kidder, Martin told me to go back outside and sign in at the desk. “Okay,” I said, and I started to do that. “You’re not kidding, are you?” he said and then he instructed me to go and sit in room 13.

So began a day filled with reminders that I am indeed mortal. I had sticky tabs stuck to my chest that were then attached to wires for an EKG. I had an IV placed in my right arm and blood work drawn- twice. My cardiologist came in and I told him I felt a little silly being here and God bless him, he said what I always say to other people; “You don’t ignore pain in the chest-you did the right thing.”

So, after a stress test and a nuclear scan, I’m happy to say that all the results were negative. I have no idea what caused the chest discomfort or why I felt the way I did. But I will tell you some of the things I saw, felt and heard.

I felt anxious and vulnerable. On most days, I am in the Emergency Department a couple of times a day even if nothing tragic is going on. I cruise through to chat with the nurses, EMTs and physicians and sometimes find things that need my attention. I feel comfortable there. I did not feel comfortable as a patient there. I wondered if my EKG would be normal, would I end up in the Cardiac Catheterization Lab, would I die. Really, I suspected the dying part was only a remote possibility, but I did think about it.

I was not allowed to go the bathroom. My nurse, Traci, handed me one of those bottles with the flip-top lids and said with a smile, “You’ll have to use one of these.” I felt out of control, vulnerable and embarrassed. My bladder helped me get over that.

A few other observations about my experience that I hope will continue to inform my interaction with patients and their families- and maybe yours as well.

• Voices carry into the room more than you think. I could hear conversations between people 20 feet away clearly even with the glass door closed and the curtain drawn. Be careful about your speech.
• No matter how you say it, calling spouse or family to tell them you are in the Emergency Room frightens them. I was reluctant to call my wife, but I was sure happy to see her face.
• I was anxious. That is why I was listening so closely to what was being said outside my room. I was listening for clues to what was going on, what would happen next, what the test results had shown, would I be admitted or would I go home.
• I craved information. The more information was shared with me about what was happening to me, the less anxiety I felt.
• I felt safe. I knew I was among friends. What about people who don’t know us as friends? What can we do to help them feel safe?
• I asked for and received a numbing shot prior to the insertion of the IV. When Traci had a bit of a time getting my vein to cooperate and fill up the tube, I felt no discomfort at all. Maybe that should be standard procedure.
• Allowing me to choose something, anything, helped me feel a little less helpless. I asked if I had to go on the stretcher to the Diagnostic Imaging department for my stress test. I was allowed (do you hear the language…I was “allowed”) to go in a wheelchair. A small thing, perhaps, but I felt less like an invalid in the wheelchair.
• I was treated with care and professionalism. I’m not at all surprised. Do we treat all our patients the way I was treated as a member of our Care Partner family? If we do, we’ll never have any problems with patient satisfaction scores.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald