Role Reversal

I often think of my Mom this time of year.  Specifically, she comes to mind in connection with Easter, because of the year she was in the hospital at Easter time.  She had had a heart attack with symptoms beginning on Palm Sunday, and so, as Easter approached she was in a Progressive Care Unit.  Most of my family is musically inclined, so on the evening before Easter we gathered in her room to “Easter Carol.”  It was like Christmas caroling, but with Easter hymns.  After we had sung several songs to her with various family members harmonizing and sounding very like a choir, a nurse came in and asked us if we would consider singing for another patient on the unit who would appreciate a concert….so we did.  This is one of the more pleasant memories I have of times my Mom was hospitalized.

This morning I was also thinking of some of the other times.

When I was twenty and came home from college for Christmas vacation, my mother was in the hospital having had a pulmonary embolism.  She survived, but she was very ill.  This was the first occasion when my mother’s needs and concerns took precedence over mine in our conversations.  Growing up, I had gotten used to my Mom asking questions and being interesting in my life.  This time, she didn’t ask much about my life and concerns and talked in detail about what had happened to her.  It wasn’t inappropriate for her to do so, but it was a wake-up call to me.  My mother was going to age, and someday I might end up as her care-taker.

Decades later, this became a reality.  In her seventies, she fell and broke her arm in four places.  She was terribly uncomfortable in the ER.  No position seemed to give her any ease.  Finally, I stood next to the ER stretcher and said, “Mom, lean against me.”  I supported her against my chest and shoulder.

She said, “You don’t want to have to stand here for hours holding me.”

I replied with a sassy smile, “Don’t tell me what I want to do!”

I thought to myself about all the nights she had probably held me as a child when I was sick.  I thought of how I had held my own children all night long, if they were ill, and it was the only way they could sleep.  I imagined she had done the same for me.  If I had to stand there supporting her for hours, I was going to do it.  Payback….I thought.

A few years later, she had a massive stroke and could do nothing for herself.  We moved her into our home for the last five months of her life.  This necessitated round the clock care.  We did eventually hire someone to come in at night, but near the end, one person could not turn her by themselves, so a family member was always sleeping nearby ready to be awakened when needed.  She could not be left alone, so even running out to get groceries had to be planned ahead.  She had to be fed soft foods.  I even bought some baby foods to give her in addition to yogurt and meals I put in the blender.  I had to do everything for her….as she had once done for me.

No parent wants his or her child to experience this role reversal.  We all wish to be independent.  Most of us would wish not to be any “trouble” to anyone else.  I knew that my Mom felt that way.  Her ability to communicate was greatly compromised in those last few months, but she tried to express her concern for me and our family.  She repeatedly begged my Dad to take her home…. “We can manage,” she would tell him, but he knew they couldn’t.

For my Mom’s sake, I would wish those last five months had not happened.  Sometimes people say that offering such care is a “privilege.”  I hesitate to use that word, because I wish my Mom had been spared that time.  However, from my perspective, there is no resentment or regret.

I owed her every minute of that care…..every backrub, every spoon of tomato soup, every linen change, every minute of lost sleep, the “tennis elbow” I got from lifting her, the restrictions on my comings and goings….I owed her every bit of it.

Perhaps these thoughts are more appropriate for Mother’s Day, but they are happening today.

The Rock

One of my daughters is taking a college course and had to write a paper on “The Stranger” by Camus.  I have been discussing it with her.  The main premise of the book is the meaninglessness of life.  This is tied to the main character’s atheism.  Whether or not one can find meaning in life without God is a topic that appears in many books on both atheism and theism.  As a teenager, I might well have committed suicide out of intellectual despair, if I had not believed that there was a God who had a plan for my life.  If there is no God and no plan, then why bother?  In any event, it reminded me of a poem I wrote nearly 40 years ago.

Sifting, drifting, so elusive,

Time runs through my hands.

Ever-changing, mist and cloudlike,

All my grandest plans.

Let me catch you, flitting, floating,

Butterfly of dreams.

Grasping, clasping, cannot hold you.

Life is only sunbeams.

Panting, puffing, running after,

Cannot catch my youth.

Puzzle, ponder and still wonder,

Where and what is truth?

Is there meaning?  Are there answers?

A key to fit the lock?

Tell me, is there something solid?

Is God Himself the Rock?

What Do You Have to Offer Me?

I just had two handsome and polite young men come to my door.  They were Jehovah Witnesses and they are walking through the neighborhood inviting people to attend an event commemorating the death of Christ where the question, “Who Really Is Jesus Christ?” will be answered.

I am so sorry for these young men.  I know that Jehovah Witnesses believe that only 144,000 will be able to enter heaven.  I know from someone who explored this faith and attended a communion service, that when the elements are passed, only those who believe they are one of the 144,000 are supposed to partake.  She said that in the service she attended, the bread and wine symbolizing the body and blood of Christ offered for our redemption were not taken by anyone!

I told the young men that I was a born-again Christian and that since I had assurance of heaven, they had nothing to offer me.  They did not argue.  They thanked me for my time and left.

I know who Jesus Christ really is.  He was fully God and fully man.  God incarnated in human flesh.  Sinless, so that he could take on my sin and your sin.  He was the perfect sacrifice for sin.  He not only paid the price, but he rose again and conquered death itself.  Because of this, I can have eternal life and spend it in heaven enjoying his presence.

AND….I can do nothing to earn it.  My “good works” do not make up for my sin, do not atone for me.  Anything I do that can be construed as “good” is an act of love to him.  I do not earn heaven on my merits.  I accept it as a gift from his nail-pierced hand.  I take communion with that thought in my mind and heart.

Before they left, I told the young men that I have a list on my refrigerator of the Mormons and Jehovah Witnesses who come to my door, and I pray for them.  I actually do.  Over the years I have developed quite a collection:  Star, Kelly, Powell, Dodds, Cardona, Betts, Ball, McKinzie, Null, Shock, Orr, Rother, George, John, Tristan and Zach.  I pray that their eyes will be opened and that they will see Jesus as their Savior in a very personal and real way.  I pray I will see them in heaven.

They have nothing to offer me, but God is offering something amazing to them.

Breaking Faith

Last night I read Malachi 2 and was struck with the repeated theme of breaking faith.  The priests have violated their covenant with God and broken faith with him.  Men have broken faith with each other.  Divorce, breaking faith with the wife or one’s youth, is also specifically cited.

Those being addressed in this passage seem not to understand why their prayers are not answered.  They “weep and wail” flooding the Lord’s altar with their tears.  God declares he is not accepting their offerings, because he is acting as “the witness between you and the wife of your youth, because you have broken faith with her, though she is your partner, the wife of your marriage covenant.”

What does it mean to “break faith.”  The KJV translates this as “dealing treacherously.”  Dictionary definitions seem a bit less intentionally evil, as in, not keeping a promise.  But, God apparently takes this very seriously.

The United States has not entered into a formal covenant with God in the same way the children of Israel did, but I think we have nevertheless broken faith.  Liberals, secularists, humanists will tell you that we were never a “Christian nation.”  That our founding fathers didn’t really intend for us to rely on God and live within his mandates, but in practice, our nation was once far more Christian, than it is now.

There was a time when the Ten Commandments could be posted publicly, when school teachers read a portion of scripture each day before beginning academic instruction, when a prayer (although generic) was recited in school, when most people agreed that “In God We Trust” was a fine inscription for our coins and when Christianity was not openly mocked on talk shows.

I am afraid we have broken faith.

As to divorce, current statistics put the rate at 40% and falling, but of course, the rate of cohabitation without marriage has risen sharply in recent years.  It is quite possible that although these couples haven’t spoken any vows before an official, God has viewed them as “married” and their split ups as broken faith.  An agreement was entered into.  Parting ways implies broken promises.  Sometimes this even involves violence and treachery.

God really, really dislikes divorce.  Malachi 2:16:  “I hate divorce, says the Lord God…”

When we break faith with our fellow man whether in personal relationships or business dealings, we anger God.

“Have we not all one Father?  Did not one God create us?  Why do we profane the covenant of our fathers by breaking faith with one another?”  Malachi 2:10

Dealing treacherously while climbing one’s way to the top is shrugged off as the norm.  I know of someone who applied for a promotion.  In the interview, he was asked if he had made a verbal and handshake agreement with someone, and then later learned he could get the company a better deal, would he honor his prior agreement.  He said “yes,” and did not get the promotion.  Breaking a promise was expected.  Dealing treacherously/breaking faith is what is valued in much of our society.

So….we can weep and wail and flood the Lord’s altar with our tears when terrible things happen, but what do we expect? 

Malachi 2:17  “You have wearied the Lord with your words. ‘How have we wearied him?’ you ask.  By saying, ‘All who do evil are good in the eyes of the Lord, and he is pleased with them’ or ‘Where is the God of justice?’”

Are not these two things what we are as a society saying?

Things God has declared are evil are actually just fine….we need to be tolerant.

And when bad things happen, where is God?

Irritable People

Yesterday I had a chance to observe two situations where the best of human nature wasn’t on display.

We went on a guided tour of the Colosseum which turned out to be well worth the money.  While waiting in the agency for the tour in English to begin, I noticed a woman who seemed to be complaining to her husband about all sorts of things.  I couldn’t hear it all, but I could see her facial expressions and his reactions.  He kept trying to calm her down.

Eventually the tour in Spanish was announced.  I knew the English tour was to leave at the same time.  People started to get in line, including the irritable lady, her husband and a child who was with them.  At one point, someone stepped in front of her in line.  Her reaction was immediate and aggressive, “Excuse me!  Why would you push in ahead of me in a que?”  The person responded that they were just trying to stay with their group.

When the cranky lady, who I think was Australian, got up to the desk and was told that a security deposit was required for the radio and headset that would allow her to hear the tour guide, she refused.  The deposit was either 20 Euros or the driver’s license of someone in the group.   Although it was clear that anyone without one would have difficulty hearing the guide, she refused for herself and her husband and child.

Her nagging complaints continued throughout the tour, and they eventually left the tour early.  I’m not sure how her husband tolerates her.

The second situation involved an Asian couple who came into the restaurant in which we ate last evening.  It was not a fancy place, but it was clean, and the waitress was pleasant.  She spoke minimal English, and we speak no Italian, but we worked through the ordering process and enjoyed our meal.  The couple, who were seated where Bill and I could both see them, apparently had more difficulty.  They ordered soup, but wanted to split it between them, and had difficulty expressing that they wanted a second bowl, so they could share.  They did eventually get the second bowl.  They ordered wine and the waitress had a problem opening the bottle.  She set the bottle aside….I assumed for someone else to open….but didn’t get back to them immediately.

When we entered the restaurant it had been empty, but it had rapidly filled up and she was busy.  We had to wait a bit to order gelato and receive our check, but it wasn’t a terrible wait.  I guess the wait was longer than the couple could tolerate, as they got up with angry expressions and left.  On the table was the uneaten pizza and soup for which they didn’t pay.

Bill commented, “Why would you go into a foreign country, where you don’t speak the language, and expect not to have any difficulties?” 

We have run into a couple of people who have seemed annoyed that we don’t know Italian, but most have been gracious and done their best to be accommodating.

Now for the confession as to my own irritability!  When we went through the security check in New Delhi, we had already been through security in Watertown, Philadelphia, London, and Rome.  No one had said a word about anything in my purse that was banned.  But this time, my purse got pulled aside, and I was informed that I had a scissors in my purse.  Well, yes….I knew I had a scissors….a child’s rounded-end scissors that I brought along to cut the cotton yarn on my crochet project that was to help me pass the time on flights.  It was NOT sharp.  I couldn’t see how it could be used as a weapon and had been through security checks 4 times without a problem.  I protested.  The guard just shrugged and said, “No scissors, the rule.”  I surrendered them unhappily.  Bill said he was afraid I was going to “lose it” and he didn’t mean the scissors.  I was at that point totally exhausted from the travel, and it seemed so unreasonable.  Yes…I was the irritable one.  Whether I was sufficiently irritable for anyone to notice and mention on a blog, I don’t know.

I did do better when security at the Taj Mahal took my diary away.  I had one of those blank books in my purse and had been writing in it about our travels.  Security at the Taj Mahal informed me I couldn’t take it inside.  No explanation.  Even our tour guide was mystified.  Bill actually got annoyed about that and protested, because he was afraid I wouldn’t get it back. 

We all have our moments.

Adventures in Foreign Healthcare

One thing I was really hoping not to do while traveling was look for medical help.  Turns out, it is all part of the adventure.

While we were in India, we were keeping a frightful pace.  Some of the young couples in the group were marveling at our ability to keep up.  Apparently, this was a case of the spirit being willing, but the flesh being weak.  We were determined to go on all the excursions and fully participate, but we have both been hit at our weak link.

After several pre-wedding events which resulted in nights of minimal sleep on top of jet lag, Bill did one of his “crash and burn” routines.  We were at the gathering just before the actual wedding ceremony.  He had received his turban.  He started to feel dizzy and nauseated and his color was awful.  I had him sit down, but I became worried.  I mentioned my concern to one of our group, who mentioned it to a Jain employee, who mentioned it to one of the Jain family.  Next thing we knew, we were being whisked away by a driver to go to see a doctor who is a personal friend of one of the Jains.  His clinic is in one of those little hole-in-the-wall places which are so common in India.  His equipment is probably 50 years old, but he was kind and thorough.  His English was a bit shaky, but we managed to communicate.  He prescribed 3 medications and a 4^th to be taken in the event Bill actually vomited….which thankfully he never did.

The next step was getting the medication from a pharmacy.  The driver took us to a typical Indian street with small shops.   The first pharmacy did not have the medications we needed, so I walked with the driver about 3 blocks through the trash littered street to another pharmacy.  Bill sat in the car with his eyes closed.  I was dressed in go-to-the-wedding finery, and I was walking through filth.  Happily, the second pharmacy had the medication.  I didn't have enough rupees to pay for it, and the man shook his head 'no' to the first credit card I offered, so I pulled all of them out, spread them on the counter, and asked him to pick one.

We went back to the wedding and Bill felt OK for an hour or two….the ceremony itself was 4-5 hours long….lots of ritual.  Eventually, we had to leave, because he started to feel unwell again.  We missed the reception and ordered room service at the hotel.  That was interesting….try explaining to someone who doesn’t understand English very well, that your husband wants Rice Krispies for supper.  Bill knew they had them, because he had seen them at breakfast, but they were not, of course, on the room service menu.  I talked to 3 different people and had no confidence he would get his Rice Krispies, until someone called our room and asked in pretty decent English, what kind of milk he would like on them.

Today, it was my turn to test the medical system in Italy.  We are now in Rome.  I have been feeling discomfort in my lower abdomen and was afraid I might be getting a bladder infection.  This has happened to me previously at times I have pushed myself to the max.  This morning I got up and realized I had blood in my urine, and I was in quite a bit of discomfort.  So…what to do?

I asked the man at the hotel desk about a doctor.  He thought I was saying “adapter,” and pulled a couple of electrical adapters out of a drawer.  Eventually he got the picture and told me where to find what he believed was an Urgent Care.  It was in the train station which is a short block away and which is full of shops, restaurants, etc.  The sign at the clinic said what I assumed to be “urgent care” in Italian, but they refused to see me as a walk-in.   Only one person there spoke some fractured English.  She directed me to tourist information near the train platforms.  They directed me to a pharmacy on the lower level.

The pharmacist was very kind and spoke decent English, but when he saw my list of allergies, he was afraid to give me anything without me seeing a doctor.  Apparently things are looser here, as he would have given me an antibiotic without a prescription.  He told me to go to a hospital.

So….we had coffee and a donut because we were famished by this time, and headed back to the hotel.  The desk clerk called a cab which took us to a hospital and dropped us at the emergency room.  We were pushed aside before we got in the door, as an ambulance arrived with someone who was being bag-breathed and looked like he was more dead than alive.

While we stood to the side, we saw a sign and arrow which seemed to say in Italian that minor emergencies should go that way.  We followed the arrows and ended up in the right spot, but it turns out we were supposed to go through the ER to have the paper work generated.  A lady who spoke impeccable English took us under her wing and directed someone to do the paperwork without sending us back through the ER.  This evidently saved us an enormous amount of time.  The doctor was not fluent in English, but we managed to communicate.  I had written out the antibiotics to which I am allergic.  I got my prescription order and discovered there was no charge for the doctor’s services.  I guess all medical care is free here.

The guard at the ER kindly told an EMT standing nearby to use his cell phone and call a taxi for us.  When we got back to the hotel, we asked about pharmacies and went to the nearest one.  There we learned that no one carries the antibiotic the doctor prescribed which is the only one I know I can safely take.  The pharmacist or maybe it was a pharmacy tech pulled something else off the shelf saying it wasn’t an antibiotic.  It was an anti-bacterial.  I thought maybe it was a urinary tract antiseptic which I have taken before.  I accepted it and went back to the hotel to check it out on the internet.  Uh-oh….it is an antibiotic.  Some research on the internet seems to indicate it is in the same family as the one I know has been safe for me in the past, so I have downed the first dose with prayer and hope that I can tolerate it.  I made sure we had some Benadryl handy before I took it.

We had planned to go to the Colosseum today.  It is only a kilometer from our hotel and there appear to be some interesting sights between here and there.  It should be an easy walk for us…BUT…..at the moment, it looks like this needs to be a day to rest and recuperate from the long Delhi to Rome flight yesterday.  After today, we have two entire days before we get on the cruise ship, so we can go on some adventures tomorrow and Wednesday.

I guess we planned this trip for our mental age not realizing our bodies aren’t quite in sync with that.

From Jaipur to Agra

Today has been a long day and it isn’t over yet.  I am sitting on the bus at 8 pm while some of our group go shopping.  We have not yet checked into the hotel or had dinner.  Shopping just isn’t that important to me.  Besides which, my suitcase is already overweight, and I am only a week into a month long trip.

I keep looking for what would seem to be normal middle-class housing to indicate that there is a middle class here.  I am told there is, but I haven’t seen much indication.  There are very wealthy people, and there are the terribly poor.  I am grieved by the hovels in which people live.  The shops are little hole-in-the-wall places that can’t possibly generate much income.  At every tourist attraction there are hawkers and beggars and some are very aggressive and children.

Then there is the trash…there is litter everywhere.  Apparently, Indians see no reason to put drink containers and other debris into a receptacle.  It just lands wherever they finish with it.  The streets are strewn with junk of every description.  I want to shout “Let me off this bus and give me a rake and some trash bags!  Someone needs to start to clean this place up!”  I don’t know what animals could possibly find that is nourishing in all of this clutter, but I have seen dogs, goats, pigs and even cows rooting around in it.

Today we visited the palace of the third king in the Mughul dynasty, Akbar.  He had three wives:  a Muslim, a Hindu and a Christian.  They each had their own palace within his compound.  It was an interesting place, but the hawkers were unbelievably aggressive.  They pushed their way into our group.  Children begged for chocolate.  Sellers put their wares in our faces, and there were scores of them.  Even in the area of the mosque that is part of the complex.  They followed us to the bus and tried to open the windows.  As we left without buying from her, a little girl stuck out her tongue at us.

 

Bill wasn’t interested in the mosque itself, so he stayed outside the wall that surrounded it.  I guess it didn’t occur to us that me being alone would make me even more vulnerable.  A young man repeatedly approached me and said that he worked there and would guide me.  I tried to ignore him.  As I approached the entrance of the mosque, he commented that I was in luck that I was wearing a hat…my head was covered, and I could go in.  As I got up to the door, he said, “this way, this way” and directed me to the left…most of the people entering were going to the right.  I assumed that he was directing me that way because I was a woman.  After we got around the first corner of the corridor, I realized he and I were the only people in the corridor and it was a dead end.  I immediately said that I was turning around and finding my group.  “Don’t be afraid,” he said.  “I will be your guide.”  Huh?  I don’t think he meant to do me harm, but I think he was going to pressure me to pay him for being my guide. 

I caught up with some in my group.  As we left the mosque, a “holy man” was sitting there asking for donations.  He had a small broom-like thing in his hand with which he was tapping the donation box to draw attention to it.  When I walked past without putting any money in his box, he hit me on the top of the head with the broom.  I was glad to get out of there!  Later someone told me that the rap on the head may have been a blessing.  I have no idea if he tried to bless or curse me.

On the positive side, during the long bus ride today, I did see more fertile well-watered farmland than I had previously seen.  I also noticed numerous bee hives.  We passed through an area with many places selling carved stone….some interesting pieces.  Also, many places where bricks were being manufactured.  The kilns were like towers in the middle of fields, and there were bricks stacked everywhere.  Most of the small dwellings in that area were made of brick, but they were just stacked and didn’t appear to be mortared together.

Another positive I have noticed, in the midst of the squalor, is that Indians seem to have friends.  I have seen groups of women working together or just enjoying each others company and the same for groups of men.  I suspect some people in palaces don’t have that!