Posted in Uncategorized

The Miracle

My husband has smoked cigarettes for 42 years. He started when he was 11 years old, after he spotted his older brother smoking in the woods with his friends. So, to ensure that he wouldn’t rat them out, they made him smoke too. This isn’t to say that he wouldn’t have smoked anyway.  I’m quite sure that he would have, given the pack of ruffians he hung out with when he was growing up, and since a pack cost 35 cents in 1976, they were not hard to come by. His parents eventually found out, and grounded him, but he was not deterred.

I smoked too, for at least 10 years, my favorites were Marlboro lights 100’s in a box. There was nothing like the feeling of zipping the cellophane off a new box and inhaling the sweet smell of tobacco from what looked to be a box of perfect, white chalk sticks. I enjoyed the social side of smoking, and I’m pretty sure we were both smoking when we met at a pit party in 1989.  I continued to smoke, even throughout my first pregnancy (hey! my easy-going OB-GYN said “pfft that’s like smoking nothing” when I tearfully admitted that I still smoked three cigarettes a day), and even while I was in labor (although I’m not proud of this fact, please know that our now 27-year-old daughter has never smoked a day in her life, and has no health problems related to my foolishness). However, 5 years later, when I was pregnant with our son, I was older and wiser (24! LOL!), and felt too guilty to continue, so I quit only to pick it up two weeks after he was born in attempt to lose that baby weight, which I did – seven pounds worth in the first week. When our son was about a year old though, I had a patient about my age, who was on birth control like I was, who also smoked, and had had a stroke so severe that she could not pick up her own baby. The similarities were striking and scared me into quitting the very next day. It’s been 20 years since then, and although I still dream about smoking occasionally, and have often joked that I plan to return to it when I’m 80, I’m actually pretty sure that I won’t ever smoke again.

My husband, although proud of me for quitting, did not stop. He continued to smoke even after he went to college for physical therapy, and worked with patients who were dying of cancer and those whose activity was so limited by lung disease, that not only could they not walk due to breathlessness, but eventually even eating took their breath away. As a caregiver, it is such a helpless feeling to watch someone struggle to breathe; I can’t even imagine what it feels like for a family member to watch their once vibrant loved one become a shell. I didn’t want to see my nature loving, exercise obsessed, gotta-move, husband become like that, and I told him so, but still he smoked.

It’s not like he didn’t try to quit. Over the years he had many periods in his life that he did not smoke for days, and sometimes weeks, due to unfortunate incarcerations, or self-imposed week-long Appalachian trail hikes, meant to get him over the hump, literally and figuratively. He also tried the gum, patches, and even hypnosis, but nothing worked for him. Each time he came home, he was so restless, and so terribly irritable that he couldn’t stand himself, and I couldn’t stand him either. I once told him to leave the house and not come back until he had smoked because I couldn’t stand his crankiness one more minute.

As the years went by, he became very self-conscious about smoking. It had not been socially acceptable for many years, the era of the rugged Marlboro man long gone, replaced with the trappings of poverty and weakness. It became a very heavy burden; always looking for a place to smoke when out in public, remembering a lighter, trying to cover up the smell, not to mention the cost! He started to despise it so much, that he always tried to hide it from our granddaughter, and he obsessively washed his hands after he’d been outside (he hadn’t smoked in our house since 1990), and he was constantly asking me to wash his jacket because he didn’t like the smell.

Enter our granddaughter Bean. She and I have prayed for him to quit smoking for at least half of her six years. I’ve talked about the power of Bean’s prayers before; the red balloon, the boyfriend…but this request put our faith to the test. Half of your life, is a long time to pray for something, but she didn’t give up. The night he stopped, was no different. I had picked Bean up from school, taken her to dance class, and I was putting her to bed, while waiting for her mom to come home from work. Bean started with “Dear Lord,” then added in her little girl concerns and ended with…”and please help my Papa quit smoking! Amen!” I said the same, tucked her in, kissed her, said goodnight, and shutting her door went downstairs, picked up my phone and found this…5206D3DC-F38B-4991-9C39-1A6B69F29568

Now, don’t get me wrong…I absolutely believe in prayer, I believe that God answers all of our prayers, and that he wants the best for us, but this seemed too good to be true! I’d heard testimonies in church of people being “delivered,” but to have this addiction taken from him so effortlessly seemed too much to hope for. We were both a little afraid that talking about it would “jinx” it, so we moved on to other topics from there. I also didn’t want to pressure him, and make him feel badly if another attempt was unsuccessful, because every effort he’d made didn’t work, and every time he’d tried, he’d limped back to that controlling old lover with his tail between bis legs.

We didn’t say too much about it when I got home that night either, but the next day, I was dying to know what happened in the morning, as this was the time of day he needed to smoke the most. So, I waited awhile, but at break time at work, I could stand the suspense no longer and texted this…03CA8FBC-E108-4450-826A-79C13EDB2F5F

“It can’t be this easy,” he said, but it was. He was not irritable, he didn’t have to chew the terrible tasting gum, wear the patches that gave him panic attacks, or distract himself from nicotine cravings with candy. It was as if he’d never smoked at all…No cough as the previously paralyzed cilia in his lungs woke up and started to sweep out the debris, and his sense of smell, something he didn’t know was crippled, returned. The concerns he’d had initially about filling his time, dissipated. It was all so easy because God did it.

Reader, you might scoff at this, you certainly have the right to believe whatever you want. You might have been praying for things to change in your life, and it seems as if he does not hear you. But, let me tell you, He does. My husband was addicted to cigarettes for 42 years; it controlled his life and mine. He tried so many times to quit, but he could not do it on his own, at least not without an immense amount of suffering on his part, and on mine! It took some time; Bean and I prayed about this for years, and I know he’d also been praying about it for a long time, but if it had happened sooner, it would not have seemed like the miracle that it truly is.

I want you to know that my husband and I are rational, normal people. We are nothing special, just a regular American couple. We have two children and a granddaughter, we work, go to church occasionally, read our bible way less than we should, and tithe when it is convenient. We swear sometimes, go to bed angry sometimes, and are not always a good example of God’s love. We are Christians, but not what I would consider to be “good Christians,” if there is even such a thing. But, let me tell you something that I know, that I know, that I know…and that is this. It doesn’t matter if we are good; God is good. It is not about our faithfulness; He is faithful. It is not how much we love; He is love, and He loves us. We try our best, and he does the rest. It is just that easy, and it is just that simple…and that is the real miracle.

 

 

Posted in Uncategorized

Sick Bean

Tines and I were both off yesterday, and had planned to visit my father. He is in a local hospital and very sick with a blood infection. We had our coats on, and were ready to go, when our daughter called from work. “Bean’s school just called. she has a temp of 103. Can you get her?” Can we? This is what grandparents are for! Responding to a distress call and swooping in to save the day is what we do best!

Our plans now completely changed, we drove the 22 miles to her school, where we were met with a flushed face, glassy-eyed girl and a relieved smile. She struggled into her coat as I asked if she wanted Papa to carry her to the car. “Nooo Noni!” she said. Even in sickness, five-year old Bean didn’t want to be seen as a baby being carried out of the school.

We drove home, Bean falling asleep within minutes, and Papa carried her in (no complaints now). Taking off her coat, she vomited twice, all over herself, and the couch. Nurse Noni sprung into action; soothing, wiping, tucking in, cleaning up, taking temperatures, offering cool drinks and warm blankets. And so, the morning and afternoon passed, Bean listless and quiet on the couch, Papa concerned and helpful, Noni in her glory.

That sounds weird, I know, even to my own ears. Why would a grandmother enjoy seeing a child so sick? Well, maybe because, thank God, I’ve never had a critically ill child, which would be a very, very different story. In fact, a co-worker has a child who is fighting for her life as I write this. A vibrant and healthy three-year old, little Brylee was struck down by the adenovirus, the same bug that made her three siblings ill, but for whatever reason, has left her fighting for her life for the past seven weeks, even in the hands of one the world’s best children’s’ hospitals. That is obviously different from fluffing and puffing a little one at home for 24-48 hours.

I think there are two reasons that I enjoy taking care of sick kids. The first is, because my own two children never, ever stopped moving from the time they could walk, and the only time that they would let me love on them, and fuss over them was when they were sick. From the time their little eyes opened in the morning, they were off like a shot, never lighting for anywhere for more than a few minutes. So, I hardly ever sat either, as there was always some near catastrophe to prevent. I could never touch them enough when they were well, they moved so fast, and they never let me cuddle with them on the couch. But, a child with a fever, loves to snuggle, nestle, be rocked and they want your presence as they never seem to care about when they are well.

Now, a fever is a matter of debate and at times, contention between Tiny and me, and has been since our daughter was born 26 years ago. You see, I believe that a fever is a good thing, intended by God to force the patient to rest and to promote healing, There is a science behind it too, involving pyrogens, which produce heat and stimulate the immune system, making it harder for microorganisms to flourish and to help shuttle iron to the liver, so that it’s not as available to fuel the growth of invading bacteria (note: end of the Susie Science lecture). However, when you compare a listless and feverish child, to one who is now playing, its hard to argue when a fever reducer makes them “seem” better. The medical community too, is quick to bring down a fever. Nurses and doctors alike, seem to want to see quick results by rushing in to reduce fever. As a nurse, I struggle with this concept, but ultimately go along with it because it is my job. However, at home, I only treat a fever if it’s dangerously high, and also before bed to help the child rest more comfortably. This is one of the many subjects “the Bickersons” butt heads over. Bean’s fever of 103.7, coupled with her malaise made the choice clear though.

The second reason I enjoy a cuddling a sick child, is because I have seen many of them in the hospital, at times with parents who are not even physically present. I remember one time, when I was still a CNA, my daughter, around two, was sick. I didn’t feel like I could miss work, because it was the weekend and her father was home. She cried when I left because she wanted me, but I left anyway and I cried myself, as I drove in to work. Strangely, my assignment that day was to be “1:1” with a very sick infant, whose parents had decided not to stay with him. I rocked him, and cuddled him all day, but the irony was not lost on me. Here I was, comforting this baby, whose parents did not care that a stranger took care of him, even when he was very sick, while I fought back tears as I rocked him because I wanted to rock my own sick baby, even though she was with her father. I think this experience has taught me that it is a blessing to be able to comfort another human being, especially a little one, and even more so, your own.

At the end of the day, Bean’s fever started to rise again, despite the Ibuprofen we had given her a few hours before. She shivered as I put her boots and coat on while Papa brought her things out to the warmed up car then returned to carry her out. The plan was for him to meet her mother at work, when she got out at 8pm. I buckled her in, and tucked a fleece blanket under her chin. “Noni! Can you come?!?” she asked desperately as her teeth chattered and she looked at me with tears in her eyes. “Yes” I said as I grabbed my coat and jumped in the back seat with her.

We met her mother as planned, and our duty as grandparents ended for the day but my duty as mother took over, as I received reports via text from my daughter that Bean had vomited once again and her temperature had climbed to 104.5. I offered my advice and prayed for them both. At the same time, I was perusing Facebook and saw a photo of little Brylee, well at the time, with her little hands clenched as if in prayer. Her mother had posted this sweet photo, and was begging for prayers from anyone and everyone as her condition was, and remains quite grave. If you have read this far, please take a minute to pray for Brylee and her family. I’m so thankful to have had a day comforting Bean. I know that she will soon be well, and moving too fast to kiss and love on, and I’m praying that Brylee will too.

Posted in Uncategorized

God, Bean, and The Red Balloon

The other day at Hannaford, a local supermarket, a cashier asked Bean if she wanted a balloon. She was as ecstatic as only a three-year old can be when offered a helium balloon. I was a little surprised, as in all my years of shopping there, I have never seen them hand out balloons. The cashier spoke to the bagger, who left and came back with a red balloon. Bean was so excited, she literally jumped up and down and shouted, “I’ve been praying for a red balloon!!!!” The other shoppers couldn’t help but smile at her, and at each other, as most people do when witnessing a display of pure joy and thankfulness. They returned to their tasks, a smile still on their faces.

I knew Bean and her mother said prayers every night, as I did with her mother when she was a little girl, but I didn’t realize that they were so specific. I thought that they were more of the “bless Mama. and the kitties…” garden variety prayers. So yesterday, when Bean was visiting and we were shopping again, she told me sadly, as we entered Reny’s, that the kitty had popped the balloon and she was praying for another one. Reny’s always has balloons so it wasn’t a huge surprise, at least to me when her prayers were once again answered. Bean, however was as excited as the first time and these shoppers were just as enamored with her response as the others were at the supermarket. It made me stop and think of  how much joy it must have given God to answer yes to such a simple request. I know that He answers all of our prayers but sometimes the answer is no, just as sometimes we must say no to our children when they ask for things that would not be good for them. But, imagine how it felt for Him to see her joy, not only for the balloon itself, but also for the realization that He heard and answered her prayers.

This morning, her mother told me that Bean has decided that she wants her to have a boyfriend. She said that she would pray for one until her mother found one. This is going to be interesting,,,

Update: I wrote this and posted it on Facebook two years ago. Bean is now five, and a big girl in Kindergarten. Sadly, I don’t know if she prays with her mother every night anymore, I hope she does. But, oh yes, maybe thanks in part to Bean’s prayers, her mother “found” a boyfriend over a year ago. A boyfriend who just last night ordered pizza for them to have together while her mother was at work, and who has a son Bean thinks of as an older brother. A brother who reads to her and rides bikes with her, and although a bit reserved himself, tolerates her boundless affection. I’m thankful for the faith of a child and I’m thankful for the answers. For yes, and even for no. I think I’m going to ask Bean to pray for Papa to quit smoking, Any other prayer requests out there?