Completed Prayer Ties
After I finished making the ties, Althea seemed more at ease. She breathed regularly and showed no signs of distress, but she still had not coughed up any of the phlegm that was steadily building up in her lungs. Just then, the doctor came in to discuss Althea’s tracheotomy.
“Good morning, doctor,” I said warmly.
“Good morning,” he replied. “We are scheduled for Althea’s procedure later today sometime between five and five thirty P.M.”
“That’s great. She appears to be doing well and has more energy today than yesterday.”
“That’s wonderful.” This doctor leaned over Althea putting his stethoscope to her chest and back listening to her lungs. “Her lungs are still very congested but they sound open. She should be fine until then.”
I pulled the chair around her bedside and settled my thumb into her awaiting hand. I said to her as she lay there motionless, “Althea. Today you are going to get help breathing and that will help you cough. Once this is done, you will find your lungs clear, your breath easy, and your strength return. Soon we will sit on the bench, toast our coffee to each other, and see two hawks fly overhead. If you listen carefully, you can hear them call to each other as they circle high above and see the beautiful markings on their wings. You can see the sun glint off of their feathers as they circle in the deep blue cloudless sky. You can feel the wind gust on your face and smell the cedar trees that stand behind us. You can feel my hand in yours and you feel completely recovered. You smile to me and as our eyes meet our glasses clink, and you taste that delicious coffee made exactly the way you like it going down your throat and warming your belly.”
She didn’t move but rather fell deeper to sleep. I couldn’t stop looking at her as she lay there so peacefully. I remembered how she snored so loudly when I first found her lying on the couch, much in the same way that she laid there right now. I slowly shook my head back and forth and marveled at how far she had already come in her recovery. It felt like it was just yesterday she was in surgery, and all of the days since swirled together into one big blur.
I heard a familiar voice chatting at the Nurse’s desk. It was Dr. DeWeese, her neurosurgeon, stopping by on his morning rounds to check on Althea’s progress. With her chart in his hand, he walked into her room while simultaneously reading the notes. Looking over the top of the chart, our eyes met and he asked, “So how is my star patient today?”
“She is doing well. I was just thinking about how far she has come since her arrival.”
“You know, Mr. Rastocny, eighty to ninety percent of the people who have this condition never make it out of surgery,” he proclaimed to me in a very loud voice from across her bed. His demeanor alerted me to something else that he was not saying.
This was the second time he told me this, the first being immediately after her surgery. With this repetition, he impressed upon me the severity of her situation and that she was still fighting for her life. From the tone of his voice and the glancing gaze from his eyes I understood the uncertainty in the rest of her recovery. Several sobering thoughts crossed my mind. If only ten to twenty percent of people survive the surgery, what percentage of these survivors returned to normal life? What quality of life do such survivors expect to obtain? How long would it take for Althea to come back to me?
The prospective answers to each of these serious questions sent shivers down my spine. But then surprisingly I rebutted the kind doctor without skipping a beat and in a light tone with extreme certainty, “So this is my little miracle woman right here!” Although Althea was sound asleep, I made sure only positive words were said in her presence. Turning this distressing statistic into positive news is what I needed to do to maintain her spirits, and somehow I was able to think of just the right thing to say.
I was inspired. I amazed myself as to how clearly my words formed from my lips. This was unlike me to quickly respond and to do so with vigor and determination. I am typically a thinker who pauses, considers, and then responds. But this response just blurted out without even thinking. In doing so, I cut off any impact these words may have had on Althea. This rebuttal kept her mind from creating catastrophic or depressing scenarios.
We talked a bit more about her progress and Dr. DeWeese picked up her left arm. “Is she using this yet?” he inquired.
“No, not yet. She can raise it to her waist but no further. It’s almost like her muscles are too weak to do much more.”
“Her strength will return,” he said reassuringly. “It just takes time. At least she can move it. It’s normal for people who succumb to subdural hematomas to lose control of some physical features but she seems to be an exception. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
As he turned to the door, Dr. DeWeese pulled out his dictation recorder and uttered some instructions into it. His voice faded into the distance and my thoughts returned back to his distressing statistic from our earlier conversation. Eighty to ninety percent don’t survive the surgery… Althea’s situation was much more severe than any of her allergic responses or asthmatic reactions of the past. Although she survived the surgery, our life may become quite different from this point forward. I just wasn’t sure how different that life would be.
Not knowing how much Althea would recover was scary. I wanted us to return to exactly the way we were before her stroke but I feared that this may not be the case. If so many do not recover, where would Althea fit in?
Getting back into the moment, I diverted my mind from running amuck and speculating on what could or might be. Releasing my unfounded concerns, I slid my thumb into her awaiting hand. I started reading to her when I noticed how sticky her hand felt. I pulled my thumb out of her hand and walked around the bed dragging my fingertips along the sheets saying to her, “I’m going to give you a sponge bath and help you feel fresh.” My fingers stayed in contact with the sheet gliding over her arms and legs to the other side of the bed staying in physical contact with her the whole time. When I reached the sink, I lifted my fingers from the sheet and rinsed out a washcloth in warm water.
I closed the door to her room, walked back to her bedside, and folded the blanket down from her chest. She was perspiring lightly and her skin felt dirty. I moved the warm wash cloth over her arms and upper body rinsing and re-warming it as needed in the sink. Cordially chatting with her, I said silly things like, “Yes, this feels good…” and “There we go…now this is better.” to maintain a steady pace of our conversation. What I said to her didn’t matter, but the tone in which I spoke did. Keeping my words bouncy and light with warm whispering sounds and soft loving tones, I wanted to make this bath a total healing experience.
I imagined myself as a conductor of a symphony interpreting how each instrument, each detail, each nuance should be performed. To assure a quality healing experience, every detail of every day must be focused on this same goal. It wasn’t enough to just want something; it wasn’t enough to just pray for something; it wasn’t enough to just turn her healing over to the Creator; I had to do my part in making everything happen and I had to be one hundred percent committed to its results. I felt like a cheerleader on steroids.
For every moment of every day, I had to focus on ensuring consistent results. Every word I said in every interaction needed to be carefully chosen and crafted into curing phrases. Each touch and kiss had to be loving, giving, supporting, and uplifting. Each word I read to her had to be genuinely and unconditionally given. Each time I felt at a loss as to what I should do or say next, I gazed at the picture of us sitting on the bench and became re-inspired.
This is what I needed to do today and every day from now on. Doubt? Not allowed. Unrealistic scenarios? Not considered. Tragic fantasies? Dismissed in an instant. All of my pre-conditioned negative responses and energies were tossed out of my mind and replaced with caring, nurturing, healing words and deeds.
My focus was in getting Althea on that bench and doing so as quickly as possible. My life mission was to support her
in even the smallest way without smothering her or causing her grief. Whatever she said, whatever she wanted, whatever she needed, this is what I did. I complied lovingly, caringly, unconditionally, and consistently with her needs. I wanted her to feel like she could count on me.
This was only the second time I had ever made this deep of a commitment. My original commitment to marry Althea and be with her for better or worse, in sickness and in health was the first. I felt like I was being tested on my commitment to this original vow. As sincere as our wedding vows were, I knew it would be easy for me to pass this test.
To me, this kind of commitment is like breathing: you do it without thinking, without thought of getting anything in return, and without ulterior motives. In a single instant, I changed everything about my character redirecting it to this purpose: to help Althea recover.
I moved to the window looking out over the growing day. The sun was shining and the birds were pecking away at the ground. White puffy clouds swirled in the blue sky and I closed my eyes and said a prayer silently to myself:
Oh Great Spirit, Creator of the universe, hear me and help me in my struggles. I am trying my best to support Althea in her recovery and I need you to help me stay focused. I need you to make Althea’s recovery easy and effortless. I need you to send all of your positive, good healing Spirits to her and all of your uplifting, supporting Spirits to me. I need all of their help in getting Althea’s health back and in getting our lovely life back. I cannot do this alone and I need all of the help you can give me. I remember at our wedding when we said our vows, I felt your blessing to us and showed us in that instant our lives would be full and loving. Now I need your help to make sure this continues. I don’t know how to do this and I need you to show me, to help me be alert, to help me be aware, to help me be present in the moment. Help me in all of these ways. Mitakueye Oyasin.
From my first Native American teacher, I learned that the phrase Mitakueye Oyasin (pronounced Mee-tahk-wee Oh-yah-sin) is the traditional closing used by the Lakota people in their prayer ceremonies. Roughly translated, this means To all of my relations. Over time, I have learned it means much more than this.
To me, Mitakueye Oyasin means I am thankful for every one of my relatives—all of those ancestors who came before me, every one of them—for the choices they made that caused this moment to happen. I am grateful for the teachers, friends, and helpers who influenced my relatives in helping them make all of their choices—every one, good or bad—so that I could stand right here, right now, in this sacred way. I am grateful for the guidance of all of the Spirits who influenced all of my relatives in their path for the opportunity to be here in the present. For all of the things that had to happen for me to be present at this moment in time, and I am grateful. I use this profound phrase only when I mean it.
When feeling grateful, I was taught as a child to say “Thank you!” to the one who gave me something or helped me out. When I studied Native American Spirituality, I realized this was just the first step in honoring someone. With my personal spirituality, I thanked not only the Creator but also my relatives, the Spirits, and the people who helped them. To me, this just feels right.
I read to her on and off easily staying focused and bringing new power to the words that left my lips. Even when massaging the excess fluid from her face and left side, I felt a renewed life force flowing through me and into Althea. It was easy, effortless, and natural. I was coasting knowing that what I did was not from me but from the Creator. I felt reassured in everything that I said, did, and thought. I surrendered to this feeling and allowed it to breathe for me, to think for me, and to decide for me. All I had to do was to surrender.
Sometimes good things happen. A few months ago, a friend of ours from church invited us to a social gathering of the Tampa audio club held at one of the member’s home. Here, one delightful summer evening, we met some interesting people, drank some good wine, and listened to some really fine music. We were introduced by our church friends to a couple, Kimberly and John, who we found had similar interests. Kimberly and Althea got along especially well with each other.
As it happens at such gatherings, we did not see Kimberly or John again but believed a reunion would one day occur. Interestingly, I found myself occasionally thinking of what these two new friends were doing and how their own life adventure was unfolding. As it is with some passing thoughts, I did not act on them.
Shortly after Althea’s stroke, these same church friends mentioned to Kimberly and John I was commuting daily from Brooksville to the Tampa hospital. Kimberly instantly recalled her first meeting with Althea, called me last night, and left a message on my home phone. Today during a late-morning break, I returned her call.
“Hello?” a familiar voice resounded on the far end. I recalled Kimberly’s thin frame, long dishwater blond hair, and welcoming smile greeting me at this party. Kimberly was much like Althea: energetic, sincere, and passionate about enjoying life. It was no wonder that these two found peace in each other’s presence.
“Hi Kimberly. This is Phil. I got your message and I’m returning your call.”
“Hi Phil. Do you remember me? My husband John and I met you at a listening party with the audio club in Tampa.”
“Yes I do. How are you two?” John was a retired physician, tall with a medium build, and dark hair with a fine ear for high-end audio and smooth jazz. John was a talented individual who took life more seriously, but his pleasant demeanor and passion for music instantly attracted me to him.
“We’re fine but the more appropriate question is ‘How are you’?” she inquired.
“Things are good. Althea is recovering slowly and today she is getting a tracheotomy to help her breathe. She hasn’t coughed at all in a week and this is proving to be problematic.”
“I see,” Kimberly said. “I hear you are traveling home to Brooksville each night and we want to offer you a place to stay. We live just down the road and this could save you about two hours of commuting time each day.”
I had to think for a few moments. She was right. My commute was getting exhausting and although I felt at ease at our Brooksville home, I seriously needed to find something closer. Our church friends offered their house earlier, but this just didn’t work out. Their house was truly a great place to stay being on a lake and very close by, but I would still be alone and I my mind games could keep me from sleeping well. But Kimberly and John had three children that may prove to be just what I needed. Interacting with people and sharing my day with receptive ears would be beneficial for my own mental health.
“Where exactly is your home?” I asked seriously considering the offer.
“We’re close by. We live just down the main street in front of the hospital and then about ten blocks through the neighborhood. We have plenty of room and can give you your own room to stay in too.”
“This sounds like just what I need. When can I start?” My hopes were high.
Without a single moment’s hesitation, Kimberly gleefully said, “You can come tonight but your room won’t be ready until tomorrow. We can put you up in the art room for now. Should we expect you?”
“Yes,” I said with a huge sigh of relief. “I’ll see you about nine-thirty tonight. I stay until nine to spend as much time with Althea as I can.”
“Of course,” she replied. “I’ll see you tonight!”
I wrote down the detailed driving directions to their home on a scrap of paper. This is going to be fantastic! I thought to myself sitting back in my chair with a huge grin on my face. No longer would this lengthy commute wear me—or my car—out.
Jonathan came again for lunch today and brought me another sandwich. It’s good to have family around and Jonathan is the only family we have here in Florida. Jonathan is an interesting, highly intelligent, and sports fanatic just like his father, Hubert. Taking a lead from his grandfather Shan, Jonathan enjoys subtle humor and a laid-back lifestyle. He deliberately chose an apartment within walking distance of Tropican
a Field, the St. Petersburg sports complex, so he could see as many Major League Baseball games as his free time allowed.
We were standing side by side next to Althea’s bedside, our lunch bags in his hand, and I said to him, “Thanks for coming Jonathan, I’m glad you’re here.”
“No problem. I just had to finish a few things up at work before I came over and the deli is in the lobby of the building where I work. It’s no trouble at all.”
“She’s scheduled for a tracheotomy later today to help her breathe better. This will speed her recovery,” I said hopefully.
We stood there for a few moments in silence, Jonathan not really knowing what to say. He looked more closely at the tubes and wires connected to her sleeping body and took a breath. Jonathan is a man of few words. He sees things and usually doesn’t react to them rather allowing people to do what they choose, an asset I personally admired.
Althea: A Story of Love Page 13
