Mona Karel Author

Our modern world has been progressively distanced from the messier aspects of life. Birth is too often something that happens “somewhere else” and until recently babies “born” on television were produced all smiles and sparkles. Death is even more sanitized.
Sure, we see Hollywood deaths, with a suitable amount of blood and gore scattered around. We glance at horrific photos from war venues while scrolling through the internet or perhaps reading a news magazine in the doctor’s waiting room. Awful, we think. So sad. But when it comes to deaths directly related to us, we generally see only the sanitized version. Unless someone is found dead in bed, many die in some facility, and we see them all cleaned up for their final journey.
Where am I going with this? As you’ve possibly read, in May my husband turned bright yellow, and was admitted to the hospital for tests. He had Whipple surgery in June for a tumor on his bile duct. The Whipple procedure is for those who have cancer in or around the pancreas and too often they don’t know until the cancer has progressed beyond help. In that, we were lucky. The luck didn’t hold throughout all of his far too long hospital stay. Last week his doctors did me the great favor of being totally honest with us. He simply was not getting better. His surgery had healed beautifully, but his body could not process the liquid food going through a tube directly into his stomach, and he had trouble swallowing cleanly, so that there was a constant risk of pneumonia. We had to consider Hospice care for the final destination on his life’s journey.
He asked if he could go home, and they told him I couldn’t handle his care. Being me, I had to ask why not. Hospice supports home care. It would be a matter of keeping him clean, and giving him this final expression of our love, to be able to look out the window at the home we had bought for our retirement. If we had two days it would be wonderful. Two weeks would be a gift. I wouldn’t think beyond that.
On Friday they set up a hospital bed in the middle of our living room, and I surrounded it with portable dog pens. On Saturday they delivered my husband into my care. In studying up on malabsorption, a common after effect of the Whipple, the most frequent advice is to feed small meals every couple of hours, and to avoid processed foods and wheat. I had baked a chicken, and had some other plain but healthy fare for him. A friend had brought over egg custard, and we always have plenty of fresh fruits and vegetables on hand.
I started with half a grilled cheese sandwich (won’t mention the wheat restriction until I can find bread in other grains). Then chilled pineapple chunks. Then slices of chicken and avocado. Gulp. Gone. On with the egg custard, some berries, string cheese, peach slices. Gulp. Gone. Efficiently processed by the digestive system the hospital had wanted to give up on.
Right now I’m working on a sugarless, crustless sweet potato pie with an oat crumble topping. We’ll probably have fish and asparagus for dinner. The proof of processing might be considered a mixed blessing by some but for me it is another gift.
We’re not guaranteed total healing but that path is so much more clear than it was last Wednesday when we agreed to hospice care. He has at least the hope of a life beyond hospital walls. If it turns out he has reached the final destination in his life’s journey, it will be in a messy room, in front of a picture window, surrounded by love

after he was home two days

As Romance authors we concern ourselves with Happily Ever After, and in some cases Happily For Now. Often we also delve into what love is really all about. I’m reminded of the original “Yours, Mine, and Ours” with Lucille Ball and Henry Fonda–a MUST see for anyone who loves a good story. You have a Navy Widower (Frank Beardsley) with 10 kids marrying a Navy Widow (Helen North) with 8 kids, and now she’s giving birth to “their” first. Her daughter, Colleen, has been dating a pushy young man (Larry) who wants her to “prove” her love. This scene is after one of Frank’s sons has discouraged the boyfriend.

“Colleen North: [Helen is about to have a baby] I know this is a terrible time to talk about it, but Larry says…
Frank Beardsley: I’ve got a message for Larry. You tell him this is what it’s all about. This is the real happening. If you want to know what love really is, take a look around you.
Helen North: What are you two talking about?
Frank Beardsley: Take a good look at your mother.
Helen North: Not now!
Frank Beardsley: Yes, now.
[to Colleen]
Frank Beardsley: It’s giving life that counts. Until you’re ready for it, all the rest is just a big fraud. All the crazy haircuts in the world won’t keep it turning. Life isn’t a love in, it’s the dishes and the orthodontist and the shoe repairman and… ground round instead of roast beef. And I’ll tell you something else: it isn’t going to a bed with a man that proves you’re in love with him; it’s getting up in the morning and facing the drab, miserable, wonderful everyday world with him that counts.
[Leaving the house, they say good-bye to the little kids]
Frank Beardsley: I suppose having 19 kids is carrying it a bit too far, but if we had it to do over who would we skip… you?
Helen North: [getting into the car] Thank you, Frank. I never quite knew how to explain it to her.
Frank Beardsley: If we don’t get you to the hospital fast, the rest of it’s going to be explained right here.”

This scene by these actors was a marvel of timing and delivery (oops, no pun intended). In a lot of ways it helped shape what I see as romance. I realize for some people the more drama the better, but there comes a day when the washboard stomach and superior pecs give way to gravity. At that point, we need to believe our characters will have something else to fall back on instead of their good looks and witty repartee.

Life in the arid high desert brings a new appreciation for all forms of moisture, whether it comes from the sky or in a tube of high quality cream.  Often we are treated to a light show beyond anything created in a fireworks factory, and water pours from the clouds so fast and hard it’s gone downstream before our ground can absorb more than a few drops.  Those “dry” gulches form from the excess of water racing downhill, eliminating everything in the path.

Once in a while we get “soft” rains–drops striking gently and absorbing into the ground, pattering down for an hour or more.  These rains mean we can pull the monster weeds out of the ground instead of digging them, and we don’t have to water the trees or gardens for a few days.  They also mean the cisterns will be full again, ready to use in the next dry period, which will be right around the corner.

There’s a parallel between the high intensity short duration storms and getting Mr Stoner better.  His recovery has been a long slow process and at times we had to wonder if the healing was “soaking in” or just running out of him along with unmentionable in polite society effluents.  Every time we thought he was ready for solid foods he would fail the swallow test.  Every new exercise comes with new aches and pains and it all just takes so darned long!

But he is eating solid foods and is now exposed to a hospital diet.  Hmmm, not sure if he’ll see that as an improvement.  Occupational therapy has him working his hands to use a comb and washcloth on his own–we never think of how many tiny muscles are needed just to pull a comb through our hair–he’s acing the flash cards, and far more observant of what’s going on around him.  Since there are still moments of confusion and he was after all a teacher for over thirty years, sometimes we’re not sure if the staff appreciates being directed by their patient.  Fortunately their sense of humor prevails, they nod, smile, and offer to dial his wife for him so she can hear the latest theory on why he’s in the hospital.

But all this slow progress has led to big advances.  He’ll be moving to a rehab soon, and yesterday he picked up a pencil and drew.  Not sure we’re going to share those particular sketches, but it’s another baby step on that road to home.

As an aside, “There Will Come Soft Rains” is from a poem by Sara Teasdale, which Ray Bradbury used in his short story of the same name.  Both are post apocalyptic in nature, one about the world after mankind is gone, and one about the world after mankind has obliterated itself.  Both well worth the short time it would take to read them, though absorbing both poem and story could take much longer.  Kind of like those long rains that do so much good.