Letter 53: My Dashed Olympic Dreams

Dear Elizabeth,

I'm watching the Olympics as I type this, waiting for Gymnastics to come back on. I watch these little girls do unbelievable things with their bodies and am in a sort of awe. I see special moves, named after girls who competed in the past and remember when that move was first done. The moves that were incredible when I was a girl are normal now. By the time you watch the Olympics, even today's amazing moves will have been surpassed.

I was a girl during the Marilou Retton days. I, like probably half the girls in the country, dreamed of being in the Olympics like her. I turned my backyard swingset into Olympic equipment. My little swingset had a ladder style top, and I would walk across that top ladder. I'd swing up, jump from the swing and grab that top ladder like it was the uneven bars.

My parents couldn't afford gymnastic lessons. At the time I was really disappointed, but now I know that, too, was a gift from God. I likely had the beginnings of Addison's Disease even back then and that constant stress on the body would have accelerated it.

(FYI, Elizabeth, I'm not a sports person. Never was. I used to think it was because I was just a wimp. Now I know it was my body that couldn't keep up. For some reason that makes me feel better.)

Anyway, since I couldn't take official lessons, I turned my backyard into a gym instead. I swung, I balanced, I dreamed.

Then I got an idea. We had a picnic table in our backyard. I moved a picnic bench away from the table and turned it into a balance beam. It was wider than the 4 inches the real balance beams were, but what did that matter? I made up my own little routine and twirled and jumped.

Then I did my big move: a cartwheel. This turned out to be a bad idea. The wobbly picnic bench wobbled. I got off balance. My cartwheel went awry. My bare shin scraped down the unfinished side of the picnic bench.

Soon I was inside crying to my mom about the blood and torn skin all up my lower leg.

Suddenly Olympic dreams fell from the heights of glory down the rigors of everyday pain. I decided maybe I didn't want to be in the Olympics after all.

Some dreams should remain just dreams. I retired those dreams back with many others, and now watch little girls do things on a 4-inch balance beam that I couldn't do on solid ground. They are amazing, but I don't envy them anymore.

A lesson on accepting life's limitations, taught to me by a rough wooden picnic bench.

Letter 47: The 2 days I don't remember continued . . .Was I nice to people?

Brian's side of the story continued . . .

 

            My wife needed me, more than ever, and all I could do was pace back and forth in the waiting room.  I was talking to God and asking for 2 things:  I asked him to spare my wife, and to give me the faith to trust Him with whatever He did do.

            And for me to be patient in the meantime.

            Surprisingly, a nurse came out and told me I could go back.  They don’t normally do that, but it had sounded like with my wife’s condition, I had information that may be helpful.

            I don’t remember a lot of the details, but I do remember I was trying to be helpful, but was more getting in the way.  They did order a stress dose of Hydrocortisone.  I was impressed and relieved.

            Kim had become conscious again, but once again looked at me with those eyes full of fear, not recognizing anyone or anything. 

            Make me think of someone with Alzheimer’s looking at their lifetime friend as a complete stranger.  More than that, was afraid of them and wanted to avoid them. 

            But this time I knew it was temporary and was just waiting for it to pass.

            She went out of consciousness, and then came back as herself again.

            My Aunt Cindy had been there for awhile and had been with me for some of this.  And then my Mom and sister, Jennifer, arrived from Norwalk, about an hour and a half away.  My Uncle Dwight had called them when we left in the ambulance.

            I left Aunt Cindy with Kim, and came out to say hi to them. 

            Everything had been so high-intensity, and after hours of overwhelming emotion and fear and trying to think straight, I finally got to step back and take a breath.

            That’s when I finally broke down.  With a flood of emotions as my mom hugged me, I cried for several minutes, and admitted, “I thought I was going to lose her.  What would I do without her?”

           Dear Elizabeth,

            He stopped here and got choked up. I didn't have the heart to ask him to continue. So I will instead. During those two days Brian says people came to visit me in the hospital. I asked him nervously if I was nice to people. He says I was very polite and had conversations with this, which just feels so weird to me, not being able to remember any of it. The things I do remember are pain, doctors not sure what to do, and Brian's love. He's not generally an openly emotional kind of guy, but that day after I came around he was. Despite it being an awful time, it was also a very special time, which sometimes happen when everything falls apart and you are reminded what is most important in life (See blog post, My Last Day).

My unhappy veins--and this was after several sections had gotten better!

           God saved my life once again by having the doctors choose the right life-risking treatment for my fluid on the brain and eeclampsia. Eventually, I even got released from the hospital. They wanted to keep me longer; in fact, they were planning to put in a Central IV because my veins were so bad. (I'd had one of those before and knew that meant they wouldn't let me out for several more days because that's a big deal and they wouldn't want to take it out if there was a chance I'd be coming back.) So I cried and pleaded and begged to be released. I don't sleep well at all in hospitals and after about 14 days of that, it's hard to do any kind of recovery because you're just so exhausted. Thank the Lord, they let me go.

             We came home with our new little miracle baby. The house was ready, mold problem taken care of, but I wasn't feeling too great and dreaded the 20+ loads of laundry waiting for me (everything in the house would need to be washed because of the mold). But we came home to a clean house with the laundry all done. Brian's sister Jenny had organized a group from the church and they all had taken care of everything. I couldn't believe it. Then the cards started coming in and flowers and baby gifts.

              I don't know when we'd ever felt more loved. Elizabeth, you'll find that crisis times are terrible things that God often uses for good. He uses them to remind us of what is most important, of who is most important, of our complete dependence on God, and of how important it is to show love to those you love, because one day you will no longer have that chance.

            And in this particular crisis, we found out how much we were loved by so many people, which was a wonderful thing. If you ever love someone who is going through a crisis, Elizabeth, even if you are far away you can do a little something, and all those little somethings add up. They really do. Every little thing that people did, every prayer, every note, ever act of service, was such a blessing to us.

           But I have to say, the two most special gifts from the whole ordeal were having my beautiful baby girl and the love shown by my husband and best friend. I'm very glad God has let me stay with him and with my children. I do not take for granted that I am still here with those I love. Life is a gift.

My man and my little girl--yes, this is Hope, who now has blond curls!

          For you, Elizabeth, here are my life lessons from this story:

1. If you love someone, let them know. I have no memory of any warnings that a seizure was coming. I could have died and would never have had the chance to say goodbye to anyone I loved.

2. If someone is in need, your help and love, from the practical ways to the very impractical ways, are a blessing.

3. Don't take life or love for granted.

4. God can take anything, no matter how difficult, and turn it into something good.

         So look for God's hand even in the terrible times. He's there. And He's working out a future and a hope.

         For me it was a future and a baby named Hope. =)

Letter 46: The 2 Days I Don't Remember

Dear Elizabeth,

            This is Brian, the guy you will someday call Grandpa.  Kimi wants me to tell you about the two days that she doesn’t remember. I don’t like remembering them or talking about them, but I will this time for her sake.

            I was startled awake in the morning.  It was morning but it was still dark.  I heard some noise that sounded like someone was falling down the stairs.

            I noticed that Kimi was not in bed and so assumed it was her.

            I ran down the hall and looked down the stairwell as I flipped on the light, but I didn’t see anyone.

            Then I heard the noise again and I thought maybe it was someone pounding on the door or pounding on a window outside.

            So I followed the noise back toward our room (in Aunt Cindy and Uncle Dwight’s house), and I heard it coming from the bathroom.  As I started opening the bathroom door, I realized it was Kimi convulsing on the floor.

            I had a hard time getting the door open because she was behind the door and it was a very small bathroom.

            I was trying to control my fear and confusion to figure out what I needed to do.

            As I knelt beside her to try to help, she was not responsive.  She finally stopped thrashing but her tongue was so swollen it filled her air-passage and mouth.  I could hear her fighting for breath, and I was just begging for her not to leave me.

            “Stay with me, Kimi.  Stay with me.”  I was trying to help.  Telling her to just breathe and that everything would be okay.

            After she had stopped convulsing I ran to Ethan’s room (my cousin) then to the top of the stairs, yelling for everyone to get up.  And I grabbed the phone and ran back into the bathroom.  I called 9-1-1 and as I was trying to calm her down, I was also trying to explain the situation to the operator and get them to send an ambulance.

            Finally, after what seemed like an hour (literally about a minute or two), she started to breathe more freely.

            The worst of my fear at that moment gave way to relief.  She started to open her eyes and she looked at me, but not in a way she had ever looked at me before.

            Her eyes revealed fear and bewilderment.  She tried getting up and bakcing away from me.  I told her just to relax, everything would be okay.

            In panic, she asked, “Who are you?  Where am I?”

            I convinced her just to lie there.

            The 9-1-1 operator just kept asking me about Kim’s condition and telling me that I was doing great (regardless of what I was saying).

            Kim finally came to herself, recognized me, and asked why she was on the floor.

            I told her I loved her and I was glad she was back, and everything was going to be okay.

            Just then the paramedics came, and they found your Grandma acting quite normal.  I was a little concerned no one was going to believe me.

            So they asked me to step aside and they helped her walk to the recliner in the living room.  They asked a lot of questions about how she felt, the medication she was on, then put her on a paramedic gurney, while I ran and grabbed a few essentials, finished getting dressed, and got ready to ride with her in the ambulance.

            Aunt Cindy was going to follow along in the car.

            I had to ride in the front seat of the ambulance.  I was trying to explain over and over, she was going to need a stress dose of Hydrocortisone.  (With Kim’s adrenal problem, if there is any major stress on the body—such as a car wreck, or major illness like surgery, or a seizure—she needs a stress dose of her medication.  Lack of it can be potentially fatal.)  I knew this was important, but doctors in the past had rarely listened to us.

            However, the poor paramedics don’t have Hydrocortisone, and couldn’t give it to her if they had it.

            A couple miles down the road, she started seizing again. 

            And screaming.

            It was very painful to watch my wife in such an altered state.

            They reassured me she’d be okay and would stop in a few minutes, but I could tell the seizures were getting worse and not better.

            And then they finished putting in the IV they had started when she began flailing about.  With your Grandma being a hard stick to start with, it was not easy in a moving ambulance while she was thrashing—a moving target.  She was not very cooperative.

            Finally we reached Akron General Hospital.  They told me to go around to the admittance desk while they wheeled her through the ambulance entrance.

            I gave them the necessary information, but they wouldn’t let me go back.

            I then tried to convince them that she needed Hydrocortisone.  They told me they would call me when I could go back, but for now I would have to wait. 

            Just wait . . .

To be continued . . .

Letter 40: Married at age 12--can you imagine?

Dear Elizabeth,

            When I arrived in Bangladesh in early 1998, e-mail had just arrived there as well.  It had been big in America for years by then, but it took awhile to get all the way to Bangladesh.  The missionaries thought it was great.  I didn’t blame them, since they were used to sending letters which took two weeks to arrive, if they got there at all and didn’t get accidentally rerouted to Thailand or some other country.

            I’m not sure why, but my mom printed out the e-mails I sent her when I lived in Bangladesh and saved them in a drawer.  When I returned, she gave them to me.

            Most of them were full of the boring drivel that we call small talk, so I threw them away, but I did weed out some good stories and funny stories.  Like the day I traveled to a village and met a woman who had married at age 12.  I’ll let my e-mail tell the story . . .

            Wednesday, 8 April 1998

            A lady and I went to visit a family in a neighboring village.  We walked through the village with our heads covered and had a parade of children following us by the end of the day.  We got to the mud house (not as unsturdy as you’d think) and went in for tea—everybody has tea time here, that’s another great one when it’s hot, drinking hot tea. 

            Get this, the lady was married when she was twelve.  She now has seven daughters and a little boy.  Three of her daughters are already married, the oldest one being my age!  Yeesh, makes me feel like an old maid!

This wasn't the girl married off at age 12, but this was an arranged marriage--from the look on her face, you can get the idea that they're not exactly fun.

            I still remember that day and that woman, who looked so aged, though she couldn’t have been much older than me.  I was staring at her as if she had dropped from another planet until I realized that she was staring exactly the same way at me!  Guess it’s all about what you’re used to.

            Life Lesson:  Be thankful, Elizabeth, that you live in a country and culture that allows you to make choices, instead of one that will marry you off when you turn twelve years old--and likely to someone you've never even met!

Letter 39: Night Market, Tuk-Tuks and a Squirrel

Dear Elizabeth

            That first night we went to the night market, an amazing carnival of stalls.  Most of the men working in the night market were deaf, so we bartered using their calculators.  I’d point out something, then use the calculator to punch in the price I wanted to pay.  The vendor would look at it, shake his head, then punch in his price.  This went on until we were both satisfied.  It was really fun.

            And Teena emerged with a hidden talent.  She knew sign language.  She stood “talking” to one man for quite some time, and we were so excited to find out he was a believer! 

            The next day we all decided to go to lunch via Tuk-Tuk, which is a little bigger than a baby taxi, but not much.  I believe it would comfortably seat 3 or 4.  We were 8, if you recall. 

            The driver, and just about everyone we passed on the streets, was quite shocked at the sight of all eight of us Americans piled into one Tuk-Tuk.  We seemed to be popping out in every direction.  They just didn’t know that we had lived in Bangladesh, and given up most of our ideals about personal space.

            We all got very excited to see shops with real shopping carts.  And we went to the zoo, and instead of getting excited about seeing all the exotic animals, we all were really happy to see squirrels!

            One day we walked through an open food market and I saw a huge batch of fried grasshoppers, and fried larvae too.  Who ever thought of frying up larvae to eat?  They also had horseshoe crabs and huge lobsters for sale.

            I kept trying to work up the nerve to try the fried grasshoppers, but by the time I did and went to buy some, the batch was gone.  I was mostly disappointed, but slightly relieved.  Instead I got to buy a coconut drink that was still inside the coconut.

            At one shop, Teena bought a blueberry muffin, but it tasted funny.  Come to find out, the blueberries were actually raisins.  She decided for a raisin muffin it wasn’t bad.

            One of the days after lunch, Teena and I took the girls to the World Trade Center because we heard there was an ice-skating rink there.  We went up to the eighth floor and found the rink, but it was $4 per person to get in and we only had an hour. So we left there and went back to the ground floor and got an ice cream sundae instead. 

            As we had bought socks for ice skating and were disappointed about not getting to go, we instead went back to one of our hotel rooms and sock-skated on the tile floors.  We had a blast.

            Eventually that trip, we did end up getting to go ice skating, but my happiest memories were of us improvising and making a fun day out of what was originally a disappointment.

            Life Lesson:  Things will not always go the way you want.  You can either pout and whine about it, or get creative and make the situation into something better.

            I had noticed that a lot of taxis in Thailand were motorcycles, with the driver sitting in the front, and the rider sitting side-saddle on back.  It looked really scary.

            I wanted to try it.

            I did, and I found out there are a lot more muscles in your rear end than you’d think.  I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to hold on the driver or if that would be inappropriate, so I just held on as best I could with one hand on the back of the motorcycle and every muscle in my back end that would cooperate with me. 

            At red lights, the cars would line up within their lanes, then the motorcycle would swoosh right down in between the lines of cars right up to the front.  I kept thinking my knees were going to hit some car’s side mirror.

            That was an experience I’ll enjoy remembering, but would not want to repeat!

            All in all, we had a great time, and I’m sure we gave the Thai people plenty to talk about after we left.  I would bet that somewhere, someone is still telling people about the strange white tourists who got excited about a squirrel!

Letter 38: Thailand--On the Wrong Train!

Dear Elizabeth,

            I’d been in Bangladesh for a year and a half when my visa required another trip out of the country.  April had returned to the States, and it wasn’t safe or smart to travel alone.  What was I going to do?

            Fortunately for me, there was a group of fellow missionaries headed for Thailand for a few days.  They invited me to come along with them.

            We made an interesting collection of people.  The family, with 3 pre-teen girls and one young son, was quiet and conservative.  Teena, a middle-aged widow, was uninhibited, full of and laughter and spunk.  I guess I was somewhere in the middle.

            Our trip got off to an unusual start.  (You’d think I’d start expecting that since the unusual happened much more often than the usual around there.)

            First was the train ride from our city to the capital city of Bangladesh.  We arrived at the station before 7, where an exuberant train worker welcomed us by yelling, “Last call!  Run!  Your train leaving!”

            Thus, very quickly, we scurried in and out amid all the people, trying to get on the train before it left.  Coolies rushed behind us, carrying some of our luggage.  White people are a sight in Bangladesh at any time, but a whole group of white people jumping onto a train while coolies throw their luggage in through the windows must have been a noteworthy scene indeed.

            About this time, the train man actually looked at our tickets.  He started yelling again, only this time it was, “Wrong train! Get off!”

            Off the train we jumped.  Out the windows came our luggage.  For awhile we all just stood there, sweating, catching our breath, rather amazed that all of us and all our luggage was still together in one vicinity.

            Not long after that, another man came to show us the right train we were to board.  Fortunately, this one was not in the process of leaving right at that moment.  We boarded the train and found our places.

            We had seats together (which was good), 5 windows (also good), and ceiling fans (which would have been good had they been working).  We asked a train worker to turn on the fans.  He smiled and said yes.  We didn’t know whether that meant the fans would get turned on, or that they didn’t work but he didn’t want us to be unhappy so he said yes anyway.

            We sat and waited, still sweating.  There were so many beggars at the window, they blocked any breeze that might have been blowing.  The 3 young girls were sitting with me, and the male beggars who had crowded outside kept reaching in to touch their blond hair or white skin.  Finally, I closed the window and we endured the heat until the train began to move.

            Once it did, a refreshing breeze flowed throughout the train.  Our ride would have been nice and relaxing, except for the extremely loud noise it made rocking back and forth.  Not to mention the rocking back and forth.  Teena said it was like a 5 ½-hour long mild earthquake.

            For awhile, I left our seats and went to stand in the open doorway.  That was delightful.  I reveled in the feel of the wind swirling all around me, and felt part of the scenery as we sped past deep green rice fields, clusters of trees, goats and cows wandering around, children waving as we passed.

            I remained there happily until the train man very nicely but emphatically directed me back to my seat.  By then the fans were working.  Apparently they needed the train to be moving for them to move as well.

            After several stops and a snack of bananas, we finally arrived in the capital city of Dhaka.  As the driver who was supposed to meet us was nowhere to be seen, we summoned three baby taxis to take our group to the guest house together.  They agreed, but we found out quickly that they had no intentions of staying together.  Each had his own way to get to our guest house, regardless of whether he knew where the guest house was or not.

            Of our little group, I was the one who had been in Bangladesh the longest, and who knew the most Bengali.  This was not fortunate for our group.  I tried to tell the drivers where to go, but there was only one of me and three taxis.  Taxi number three went the wrong way and we couldn’t get him to stop.  Finally we all regrouped, but were still several blocks from the guest house.  The drivers didn’t want to go the way I told them.  I’m not sure where they wanted to go.

Traffic can get...interesting!

            Eventually, we did end up at the guest house, and then the drivers got upset about the amount of taka we paid them.  They were expecting to make extra off the rich white people and were quite disappointed when we wanted to pay them the normal rate.

            We did end up paying some extra, but not as much as they wanted, so we left them to argue with the gate keepers for awhile while we went inside.  Only problem was, we realized we were locked out and had no key.  So we sat on the steps and waited until the gate guard went up to the roof where the cook lived and got us a key.

            We were happy to get inside.  It had been seven hours since any of us had been able to visit a bathroom or wash our hands—this being in the days before tiny tubes of hand-sanitizer.

            About half an hour later, the driver who should have picked us up at the train station appeared.  He had only gotten to the station an hour late.

            Thus the trip began.  The next day we got off to Thailand without a hitch, oddly enough.  Once there, we couldn’t get enough of the American Fast Food places, or the restaurants with real salad that hadn’t needing washing in bleach first.  I ate a ridiculous amount of french fries, and would have eaten more had I had the chance.  French fries taste incredibly good when you haven’t had them for almost two years.

             Thailand to be continued . . .

Letter 37: Yak Cheese, Rice Wine, Mount Everest and a Knife

Dear Elizabeth,

           Back to Nepal--our first night there we could hear music playing from an open area nearby.  We followed the sound and found an outdoor restaurant that sold “wedding supper,” whatever that was.  We went into the open yard, sat down at the table, and a man offered April a tiny glass of something that looked like tea.  It wasn’t tea.  It was rice wine!  I declined.

            That week I also got to eat yak cheese, which tasted hard and heavy, but most of the rest of our food there was delightfully “normal.”

            People told us about a street named “freak street,” which formerly had a more commonplace name, but was renamed such after the 70s hippie rush.  Apparently during those years, multitudes flocked to places like Nepal to “find themselves.”  For some reason they thought they could find themselves by losing themselves in drugs and mysticism. 

            One thing that was disconcerting there was the “eye,” the religious symbol of one eye staring.  There were pictures of it and souvenirs with it in nearly every store.  Wherever we went, it felt like that eye was watching us. 

            The eye wasn’t the only disconcerting thing.  We went on a tour, and the guide seemed to think all of us wanted to visit different religious sites, and see a host of statues of different gods and goddesses.  He even showed us a spot once used for human sacrifices.  The guide seemed very proud to show us the blood stains that still remained.

 

            In one spot, he pointed out that the Nepalese worship many gods, like the Christians, he said, who worship God, Jesus and Mary.

            I was so stunned I didn’t even reply. 

            Later, April and I climbed hundreds of steps to get a famous temple at the top.  Once there, we found monks in the usual orange wraparound outfit, but wearing socks with their sandals because of the cold.  We also saw lots of monkeys, who apparently are sacred to this religion. (I never realized the monkeys in the movie Jungle Book are there for cultural reasons, not just an addition to the story.)

            We were instructed to go around the temple clockwise.  That’s the way it had to be done, but I don’t remember why.  I do remember being very burdened, seeing the faith and devotion of so many people and knowing they were following a lie.  It was easy to see that lives revolved around superstitions and trying to appease or manipulate any of the thousands of gods and goddesses.

            One cool day we went trekking in the mountains with a couple from Croatia and a guy from Germany.  We hiked through fields and I personally found it rather difficult to breathe the cold air the longer we walked.  (Found out later that I have asthma, but at the time I thought it just showed how out of shape I was, which probably was really the main cause of my trouble.)

            We saw Nepalese women climbing incredibly steep mountainside trails, carrying heavy loads in large baskets.  The baskets were balanced on their backs, with a rope connected to each side of the basket, curving upward and around the women’s foreheads.  These tiny women put me to shame, scurrying up the mountainside faster than I could, while carrying heavy weights with their foreheads.

 

            I got to ride an elephant, which was really cool but not really comfortable.  I even have a picture of it.  I asked a stranger to take a picture for me and he did—of the elephant.  So I have a photo of an elephant and my leg.

            After a day or two, believe it or not, we got so used to those rickshaw drivers following us around and asking us if we wanted a ride or drugs, that by the last couple of days we’d just say no thank you and move on.

            Finally our short trip was over.  That last morning, as April was checking around the hotel room to make sure we hadn’t left anything, she looked under a bed and found—a space heater!  It had been there the entire time.  I laughed so hard.

            Life Lesson:  Assumptions can make for some really cold nights.  If you need something, ask!

            So we returned to beloved Bangladesh, where our flight to the capital city was delayed two hours.  Not a big surprise.  Then we got to the capital just as our flight to our city was leaving. Without us, that is.

            So we got bus tickets for the next morning, but the next morning the buses would not run because of a 72-hour strike.  We went to the train station, but it looked like Casablanca, with people packed in every space possible, trying to leave.  There was no room left for us.

            Back to the airport, where we did actually find a flight that we could get if we rushed.  We rushed, but I had forgotten to pack the knife I’d bought in Nepal in my luggage.  It was in my carry-on.  (Yes, this was the knife I took around with me to poke robbers.)  That was a fiasco.  They unpacked it and wanted to keep it, but then had mercy on the dumb white girl and a nice man personally ran to the airplane to give it to a stewardess or the captain or someone who seemed safer than myself.

            Thus our trip ended.  I have mixed feelings about Nepal.  I’d love to go back again someday.

            But I was glad to leave after 4 days.  The spiritual darkness there was palatable, and I was ready to leave it behind.  How I have rejoiced since then to hear of missionaries serving in Nepal, making a difference in that hard, lost land.  Perhaps in the future, Nepal will be known not for its drugs and mysticism, but for the Light that can penetrate both and set people free.

            My one regret about our Nepal visit was not flying to the top of Mt. Everest.  It was advertised that for one hundred dollars, a tiny plane would fly tourists up to circle the top of that famous mountain.  I really wanted to do that, but living in a country where one hundred dollars would feed an entire family for three months, I just couldn’t get myself to do it.

            Now I wish I had, though I try to tell myself that the top of that particular mountain would probably look the same as the top of any other mountain.  And I get motion sick anyway, so perhaps I spared myself a miserable waste of money.

            I mean, I like adventures, but who wants to be known as “the American who threw up on Mt. Everest”?