A Friend on the Radio

When I was driving the kids down to Rochester last week for the Open Heart vacation I heard a friend, Virgil Wiebe, being interviewed on the radio. Our families spent last Fourth of July together in the local park, three legged races and all. Virgil and his wife Susan took a similar route as we did. NYC to Baltimore, as Susan took the same relocation package I did. She with Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Service. Me with LWR. We moved on to St. Paul. A year later so did they for all different reasons.

ANYWHO -- So a couple years ago in a late night channel surf, Bob and I came across Virgil. Turns out he's a munitions expert, especially regarding such little lovelies as cluster bombs. Virgil describes them as like the plastic Easter eggs. Thousands of millions of Easter eggs that open up with thousands and millions of bomblets inside. They may detonate immediately. Or they may detonate days, years, or decades later.

Go Virgil! In all my doom and gloom of late, just wanted to make mention of someone who is doing some fantastic work.

With love, T

P.S. Latest ipod download: Killing Me Softly by Roberta Flack

Medium

Warning: This dispatch may be too weird for normal human beings. Permission is granted to exit outta here immediately and come back tomorrow. And we missed church today, a day when I probably needed it most.

4 a.m. this morning and it was another liver. Friends, I now think I am channeling another liver. Not Bob's this time. Let's just call him, say, Louie. I got up and started reading his caring bridge site. And I got sick and couldn't even finish it until this morning. Maybe it was the heat in our apartment. The ammonia build up on the brain. The corpse. The MELD score, which we didn't even get to. But here's the weird part. I've been thinking that I want to figure out Bob's MELD score. What it was last December. That's how they rank transplant recipients, based on a whole bunch of tests and vital signs, I suppose. Too many bad livers and not enough good liver donors make MELD scores super important. Competitive. Life giving or not.

So, let's say Bob's liver decided not to regenerate. I always wonder where he would have been ranked on the MELD score. High, low, long wait, short wait. Where would we have been? To console myself I have always believed that he would've ranked high and would've been granted a new liver immediately. But you know, people do die waiting for new organs. It doesn't always work out.

And why is this important to me? I don't know, but I think somehow Louie's new liver is bringing some resolution to that. Like, Bob's liver gave us a great big tease and won out in the end, still having some kind of hold over me at least. Louie beat his liver.

I just want Bob's liver to know that we *were* willing to give it up. We were not going to just let it run all over us forever. It can't rule us.

Don't get me wrong. An original liver is always the best. Of course. Of course. We give thanks all the time that Bob's liver regenerated. And we pray for Louie's new liver. This is just a weird psychological battle of the organic bile binders. Me vs. Bob's Liver, which was my commander in chief for six months. How can a liver be so powerful? And did I really have to submit? I'm just still processing.

Louie's new liver is from a 35 year old in Washington. I wonder about that person too. And that person's family. What a fantastic liver. A nice one. Beautiful. Cooperative.

There's also something about the idea of transplant. The miracle of it all. Almost like a repentance of the body. A new chance. Our new pastor talked about a version of demon possession that could be something like the evil that comes from systems that oppress people. Apartheid. The Nazis. (Those are the easy ones because we mostly agree on them.) He talked about a particularly violent Apartheid leader who eventually converted. He repented. Pastor Ron suggested that this is another way to think about casting out demons. The lesson that day told the story of when Jesus put all the demons from this guy into a heard of pigs which then run over a cliff. It didn't mention what the pig farmer did with all his capital lost, which is what I was wondering.

I want Bob's liver to repent for what it did to us. Although the demons are caste out, it was by force not repentance.

And now that I have revealed my true inner fruitcake, I am going to figure out a way to get a hold of the lessons for today. Channel all this spirit into something holy. Thanks everyone for coming over. I really appreciate it. Thanks for your love and support.

With love, T

The Flemings are Back

Hello everyone and thanks so much for your kind comments. Today, in honor of the Fleming's return from internship, and another U-Haul in the parking lot, I wanted to repost something from the liver vigil aka the care page.

*January 14, 2007 at 11:50 AM CST*
The Missionary Smile Goes to Colorado.

For the past five years, James and Hannah's family lived next to us, as the building angles from the outside, our apartments both tuck into a corner. Bedroom windows literally inches apart, separated by 90 degrees of space. Sometimes at night the kids would talk to each other through
the screens. "Hey are you awake?" Weird wolf noises back and forth. Amanda would complain, "Maaa-aam, the boys are howling." And sure enough, there's Aidan in his pajamas, mouth right up to the dark of the window. All the moms would order it to stop immediately and get back to bed.

When Hannah had her baby -- who by the way is now running with the pack of kids out in the hall -- her mother came from Liberia. A cute little woman with a wrinkled face who doesn't speak a lick of English. The best time to call West Africa is when I go to bed and that's when Hannah's mother would stand at the window and phone home. Her sharp Liberian tongue, as forceful as can be, would transmit like a megaphone directly into my ear. Aahh, Sandgren Hall. Like a loud lullaby, it would make me smile to imagine this mother, so far from home, asserting her love and influence, albeit in secret code to me.

Hannah had a thing about smiles. About 'missionary smiles' as she would call them. She hated them because they were fake, she said. And then she would plaster a great big toothy grin on her face in mockery. It could be intimidating. Exactly how, then, is one supposed to greet Hannah?

One day Bob passed by Hannah on campus and just looked straight ahead with a stone face. "Bob, aren't you going to say hello?" Is what she said in the Hannah command tone.

"Would you like a missionary hello or just a regular hello," Bob responded. Hannah busted out laughing and from then on they were bonded. They even chaperoned kids together at the ELCA National Youth Gathering last summer, where Bob found all sorts of ways to push Hannah's buttons. "Baaa-aab, you stop that!" Hannah would say, smiling and laughing, authentic and contagious.

James is doing his parish internship in Colorado, and so they are not here this year. But last week they were back for a wedding and heard that Bob was sick. In what seems to be the African way, they knocked on our door, walked right in, and saw Bob as he was before September. They seemed not to notice that he was as emaciated and yellow as can be. James all pastoral and Hannah all glamorous, we held hands in a circle and prayed.

Three a.m. last night when Bob's itching medicine was wearing off we decided to do imagery. Let's go to Colorado. The snow and the mountains seem so soothing against the burning of Bob's skin. We'll rent a car with a DVD player and let the kids go haywire in the back seat with
movies. And we'll drive around to all the tourist spots, breathing in that fresh, cool air. Take in the rugged, rocky white scenery. Stop at a trail head and hike. Amanda will take pictures. On Sunday morning we would go to that one church with the Liberian pastor and his queen-like wife, missionaries to the snow people.

Bob went back to sleep. I smiled and did likewise.

With much love to all of you, T

Welcome to my Wrestling Tourney

The slow moving lady in the walker was in my way, so I couldn't speed up to see Dr. Sanan, my Turkish Surgeon. He was walking into the clinic as I was pulling up to drop Bob off. Wait! Wait! Wait!

It was a good thing I saw Dr. Sanan because it was getting pretty ridiculous otherwise. I was planning my arm wrestling tournament. Me vs. Anyone involved in producing ordination barriers. Me. vs. Candidacy Committees. Me vs. Psychological Testers. Me vs. Bishops. Me vs. Bishop's Assistants. Me. vs. Seminary Advisers. Me vs. the System. Me vs. Debt. Me vs. the Liver. Me vs. Recovery. Me vs. the Disapproval Committee of This or That Irrelevancy. And I would be victorious over all of them because I am a yogi, one who practises yoga. Alert to all ordination barriers -- be afraid. I dare you to come over and arm wrestle me. I will take down all of you who deter good decent people from their pastoral call.

And like an eagle, a sign saving me from myself, my wonderful surgeon appeared. And it all went away.

T

Contrary to This

Why am I writing this at 4 a.m.? Because I can't sleep. It's like the open heart surgery is done and so now can we just get on with it. I think Bob is being contrary. He says he's not being contrary. Maybe it's the medicines. Or that I thought we could just skip the recovery stage and move on to what's next. And what's next? If you could just write that down and pass it over to me. This is where I wish the divine would take some initative here. I am contrary. I am contrary to spending 30 years in service to the church, 5 years in seminary training, and 1 year in the Ph.D. of Sickness experiential education program -- I am contrary to all that for no good reason. I mean, c'mon, we got kids here. We need a permanent address. I need long term office space. A phone number that won't change. A place to unpack the boxes. When our kids show up at their same school AGAIN this fall the secretaries are going to ask, "So, what church denomination do you belong to? And why does it take so long?" Everyone asks me that. I started prepping people two years ago that we were moving. Now I don't say anything. Kids and seminary don't go together. Seminary training is not for families. The call process is not sanity-friendly. The purpose of seminary training is. . .could someone please fill in this blank. Oh no, you can't go outside the official call process, that would be breaking the rules. No breaking the rules allowed. We are the church. And how the church did not long, Long, LONG ago recognize Bob's pastoral skills, abilities, experiences and everything else and immediately put him to work is beyond me. We don't want too many inner-city teenagers and their families getting all connected up. OMG then the church would be doing its job. Ouch. We need good urban pastors, they keep saying. No one wants to do urban ministry, they say. Boo hoo cry me a river. Whatever. It is all contrary to anything that makes sense. God forbid that this would make sense. We'll just watch TV in our seminary apartment for the rest of our lives. Hello, is anyone out there?

Thanks for letting me ventilate. Not that there was a choice. T

The Recliners

There's something about Aaron, our scappy little neighbor boy. He's a rascal, yes, like all the other kids around here. But there's more. He channels us, especially Bob.

"Am I sick like Bob?" Is what he asked his parents when he got the all over itchies last winter. The pediatrician suggested that awful Sarna lotion, which is also what Bob was using when his bile was trying to escape through each and every pore of his body.

"Am I having surgery?" Is what he said to his mother when she took him to the ears, nose, and throat doc to try to figure out why his breathing would be disrupted to the extent that the school nurse called in the paramedics. His throat hurt, Aaron said. This happened around the time my thyroid was removed.

"I want my recliner." Is what he meant when he cried, pouted, and skulked about because the family recliner was put into storage. Do you know of anyone else attached to their chair? Oh yes, my Husband. Well it's a good thing, because now when Aaron comes over to play and Aidan is not home, he pokes his head into the door to see if Bob's brown chair is available. Do you want to sit in Bob's chair? I ask.

"Sure!" All happy faced, he plops onto Bob's recliner and we realize how much fun it is to spoil someone else's kid. Disney Channel. Cookies. Milk. Bob doesn't even mind sitting on another chair for a while. He understands Aaron.

When Bob's liver came back and we started letting kids in the apartment again after a 4-5 month hiatus, Aaron seemed especially glad. He just pulled up to the kitchen table like one of us, except with extraordinary manners. What would you like to eat? I ask.

"Whatever you have would be fine, thank you." Is what he said in a serious tone.

This is what happens here at Sandgren Hall. Families blend together. And it's not because we are somehow special. It just happens. I suppose the times are special. We all know it's temporary. Aidan eats only mac-n-cheese at our house. At the Mungures he eats East African rice, goat stew, and plantains. If he didn't stick out like a twinkie, you would think he's one of them. Once I happen to notice him, Sam, and Mark from Kenya looking at themselves in the kitchen mirror. "Hey, we're like chocolate," Sam said. "Dark, milk, and white." The Mungures are gone as of today.

I didn't know how to prepare Aaron for Bob's open heart surgery, lest he go into atrial fibrillation's. I suggested that we avoid the topic altogether. Shhhhh, whenever it came up. But his parents must have said something to him because upon return from St. Mary's Hospital Aaron came over and asked Bob about his arteries and valves.

With post-surgical aches and pains the brown chair is no longer comfortable to Bob. Good thing Aaron has an extra recliner in storage. His father brought it up to our apartment last night and it suits Bob and his healing sternum just fine.

With love, T

Aaron, Monet, Elaine, Jean, Terri, Aleena, Rolf

Good morning everyone. So here's a listing of blogs/care pages/caring bridge sites we monitor. If I better understood the etiquette of such sites, I would go ahead and just give out the addresses, but playing privacy safe for now.

Bob's professor, Rolf -- recovering from lung surgery, removed a cancer tumor, recurrence of childhood cancer which already took his legs, says his body now is "thawing" from the numbness of surgery to aches and pains; that's what's happening to Bob too

Amanda's classmate, Aleena -- on year, oh, I don't know 5 of brain cancer. Since kindergarten or so. Her parents are very upbeat, but last night there was despair in her mother's dispatch. Found 5 more cancer spots in her brain and spine.

Another Terri, my editor -- (isn't that cool that I can say 'my editor'?) Colon cancer. She was diagnosed a few months ago. Surgery and chemo. She's a city woman with a "cowgirl attitude."

Our family friend from NYC, Jean, who writes in here -- breast cancer. Recently diagnosed. Jean has young kids. Surgery. Chemo. Scary. Jean's strong, but still, if breast cancer can find Jean, it can also find. . .

Bob's cousin, Elaine -- breast cancer. Surgery. Chemo. Another strong lady. She's a church secretary in So. California and always gives Bob's name a place on their prayer list.

Monet, my dear friend Martha's niece, Dr R's granddaughter (remember Dr. R, one of those people who saved Bob's life?) -- Two years old, born with, oh boy, I don’t even know how to describe it. 24-7 care. Parents figuring out what is family normal. Her mother writes in here too.

Aaron, my VP’s husband – Lymphoma. Numerous surgeries. Chemo. Diagnosed just this past March. In lot’s of pain. Lisa and Aaron were a mainstay of support during our liver adventure and so, well, this is just so unfair at any rate.

Did I miss anyone?

Bob and I are trying to figure out if we’re just getting old and know more people with health issues? Or if something’s going on? And, well, you know, what are we going to do about the health care system? We already have a stack of bills from the insurance company that we will need to fight back on. And what about those who don’t have insurance? Or who pay arm and nose for insurance? Or who’s insurance refuse payment? Or whose spouse can’t work because of the round the clock care needed. Not everyone has a great employer like I do who will work with that.

I haven’t seen it yet, but Professor Mary Hess from Luther Sem, is recommending the Michael Moore movie ‘Sicko’ about the health care system. When you live in the richest country in the world all this doesn’t make sense. (Mary's brother-in-law just had a liver transplant at Mayo in Florida. They discharged him after one week. He's back in.)

If you live in a developing country, then there are other issues and plenty of them. Friends, we do not live in a developing country, so what gives? I think we have to ask that question.

In the meantime, we send prayers and love and energy to all the families listed above. And we thank you all for your support.

With love, T