Waiting through the pain...

On January 18th I began part two of my writing course with Wilma Derksen. A lovely one morning a week zoom call with many aspiring writers across North America and even Mexico. Wilma leads us with discussion and presents a powerpoint presentation. At the end, she gives us assignments to work on, and we turn those in at the end of the week.

A deadline is helpful in avoiding procrastination in a writing project. I was able to get most of my first draft of my autobiography done in the first 8 week course. A miracle!

My instructor Wilma lost her husband Cliff to gall bladder cancer in May of 2022. I emailed her recently to let her know that we just found out that my own husband Darrell has stage 4 pancreatic cancer. It is so similar to her own story.

Due to loss of nurses at the St. Boniface Hospital, my husband spent four nights in cramped quarters in the emergency ward. He slept on a narrow stretcher with a bright fluorescent light on the ceiling above him 24 hours a day. He couldn't remember what time of day it is. Every hour felt like ten hours to him. Other patients lined the hallways of the emergency ward. There was a promised bed upstairs, but it never materialized. Waiting.

But there were kind people looking after him. His son and daughter-in-law are medical professionals, and still keep close tabs on him. He endured dozens of tests, the last ones being on Wednesday Jan. 25th, the glad day when I brought him home.

I hurt to see him suffer. He is in a lot of pain and discomfort, and is now on serious pain-killers.

Telling people is hard. Everyone is shocked by the suddenness of Darrell's diagnosis. The aggressive cancer has spread to other areas of his body. 

But we know many praying people. Family, friends, church members, my own co-workers, and many others are praying. One thing I've learned in life is the power of prayer. No matter what the circumstances, prayer can buoy me into the ability to be calm, loving and wise.

We wait for more information. We wait for the next steps.

Sixty-five years of life is the line that was just crossed when my mother retired from nursing and my father died.

We bought a huge cake shaped like a nurse to celebrate her grand career, and put part of it in the freezer to eat another day. A few months passed, and then my dad was due for a quadruple by-pass surgery at the St. Boniface Hospital here in Winnipeg.

I remember the night before the surgery, he didn't want to see me, as it would be too emotional for him. He said last words to my mother. Then the next morning we got a call and saw him for the last time in post-surgery. He was drowning in his own blood that wouldn't clot.

In the following years, I moved my mom to a new apartment, and started a long process of surgeries, cancer, and the eventual take-over of dementia.

I just turned sixty-five. The passage of that year does not mean that it's the beginning of the end of my life, but it does make me think. I plan to finish my autobiography soon, for my children to have, and then I plan on writing about the story of my mother's dementia.

People seem to be dropping dead lately, famous people and people I know. We're trying to recover from a scary two years of sickness and fear. Depression, suicide, fear and more sickness is ongoing.

I am still relatively healthy, semi-retired and working two days a week. Each day I put one step in front of the other. I no longer dwell on my looks, as my hair has gone whiter and my body is slower and weaker. I only wear makeup for special occasions. It's too much effort to keep up.

I dwell on my relationship with my husband, children, grandchildren and close friends and family. I still paint occasionally, but wait for meaningful moments to inspire me.

I have fallen twice in the past year. Once on my bike, and most recently on my icy front steps. I am so blessed that I did not crack any ribs when my back hit the cement steps.

It reminds me of another accident, several years ago. I like to walk for exercise, and at the time it was on a pre-dawn morning in the winter. I slipped on some ice, and felt my right foot slip upwards. It felt it was in slow motion that I realized I was going to land on my back and hit my head. No one would find me in the dark for quite a while. There was no way that I would be able to right myself. But then, my swinging leg started to go back down, as if someone else was controlling it. I was still on my feet. I was in shock. I was positive that my guardian angel had stopped my fall. An overwhelming sense of gratitude overcame me, and I started to weep, and took my steps directly home, thanking God for saving me. 

I painted an abstract of myself walking in the night, with light around me. You can see this painting in the background of the self-portrait I have on display. God has directed my steps throughout my life, and as I pass into my latter years, I trust Him to continue to do so. He is so good.