My Writing Life--Updated

Every writer knows the importance of discipline and routine to creativity. Even if we're really lousy at maintaining those things, they are something we strive for, or imagine we'll get the knack of eventually, at least. But there are times when life--real everyday life--shoves its way to the front and the writing life is out of necessity placed on hold. The past several months have been one of those times, which you know if you've been following here.

But as my real life begins to assume some sort of order out of chaos, I'm finding a place, if a somewhat modified one, for my writing life again. As much as I'm a wife, a mother, and a person, I'm also a writer, which means I need to write. Another fact of this new life is that I still need to earn a living. The pennies I earn from my writing are more important than ever now.

So, I'm pulling on my big girl writer panties and picking up the fallen strings of my writer's life with a renewed sense of purpose. Finding time--or making time--in each day to write, to promote, to put my writer self out there, may be more difficult than it was before, but it also feels really good! There were already a number of projects in the works, so I had a good place to begin. More on those as they progress, so stay tuned!

For now, there are a couple of promotions coming up this week I want to share here.

First--

Christmas at Valley Rise (Miracle at Valley Rise) - Kindle edition by Karen Welch. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com. 

Then--

Hearts Unfold (Miracle at Valley Rise Book 1) - Kindle edition by Karen Welch. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com. 

And of course--every Friday right here on the blog a new installment of --

And finally--drum roll, please!

Coming in August (or September)

The Audiobook!

 

 

Life Goes On, Yeah!

We've been home a week. Seven days so full I can't tell you exactly how each one was spent. We now have more visitors coming and going daily than we've had in the entire 15 years we've lived in this house. Home health nurses, aids, and therapists call and then arrive to do their jobs at varying times, so a schedule is not something we have the luxury of keeping. My husband is a creature of habit, meal times, nap time, television viewing were all previously predictable down to the half-hour. I myself kept to a fairly routine schedule, too, calling it "discipline." That's all behind us now. We're adapting, learning to take things as they come, learning to let go of what was once comfortable and discovering the comfort in what we have now.


The biggest thing we learned this week was that everything previously "routine" now takes much longer. There are extra steps in every move from room to room, from bed to walker to wheelchair to recliner, from recliner to walker to wheelchair for meals, from wheelchair to walker back to recliner or to bed. Next time you walk from one room to the other in your home, add ten minutes to the process. That's our routine now. After a week, we're getting better at it, but I often wish for the wide corridors and open spaces of the rehab center. Our old house is not nearly so accommodating. No matter how much space, we always seem to need another inch or two to make that turn or clear that doorway.

One of my biggest concerns was resolved when our ramp was built in one miraculous day on Monday, right before the rain moved in. It was an awe-inspiring experience to watch two men  who said they were both older than I am--though I found that hard to believe--construct something so large and complex in such a short time. It was clear they knew their way around lumber and power tools, and even clearer they were committed to getting the job done ahead of the weather forecast. Words can't begin to express how grateful we are to them. That ramp is the difference between Possible and Impossible. Imagine being confined to your home, barred from your previous activities, not only by an injury, but by the stairs that lead from your front door. Then imagine someone providing, as a gift of their time and labor and expertise, the freedom to come and go as needed. "Thank you," which I said many, many times on Monday, seemed a poor acknowledgment of that kind of generosity, yet they replied each time that they were just happy to be able to do it for us. I sincerely hope I have the opportunity to pay forward their example of working with a joyful heart at some point in the future.

On Thursday, we put the ramp to use for the first time when we left at 7:00 am for the three hour trip to Kansas City, where we saw the surgeon for John's first follow-up. While the trip was long, it was uneventful. With a lot of help from our daughter, we were able to make all the necessary transfers, find the right office, eat lunch, and return home without doing anyone any further damage. The visit with the doctor was routine--X-rays, dressing change, and much to our relief, a new and less constricting brace. There is no sign of healing yet, and while the doctor said it was probably too early, he also repeated his initial caution that the bones may not heal. They are currently held together with an impressive hardware collection. Only time will tell if there is sufficient blood flow to promote healing. Meanwhile, that metal plate and those nine screws should keep everything securely in place.

I guess we're settling in to this new version of life. The last two nights we've watched television together, something we've rarely had time for in the past few years. I've done a little writer's work in between all the other work. And I've taken on a new project. One of the things that's driving me a little bit crazy is the challenge of living in half the space we were used to. Moving to the first floor created its share of issues, not the least of them finding a place for everything that had to move down with us. Clutter is not a thing we need along with all the other new necessities, like medical supplies and equipment. I bit the bullet and ordered the two pantry cabinets I'd been dreaming of adding to our kitchen for some time. As soon as I get them stained and moved into place, I'm hoping to at least close the doors on some of the extra "stuff" of this new life.

So now we're on to week two. Our immediate goal is to get to church tomorrow morning. That involves more maneuvers than you'd ever dream a six block trip could include, not to mention a bit more muscle than I've built up so far to heft that wheelchair in and out of the trunk. But we'll never know whether we can do it until we try, right? Next week we make another road trip to yet another doctor, this one just an hour and a half away. With luck, in the next few days we'll have everything we need in place in the bathroom, and John will be strong enough to maneuver around all the obstacles, so that he can take a shower for the first time in over a month.

Milestones, each small step along the way back to comfortable living, seem to be those things we took for granted before but rejoice over now.  Little by little, all the new things we do feel more familiar, seem to require a little less thought and effort. With each day, we're letting go of what used to be and embracing what is. This may be temporary. We certainly hope so. But life is whatever you make it, wherever you find it. I learned that one a long time ago.

As the old Beatles song went, "Ooh blah dee, ooh blah dah, life goes on, yeah!" That may have sounded more like fun than a challenge back in the day, but it's still the truth!

At Long Last Home

I thought about posting many times during the past two weeks. I could have told you about John's move to the Intensive Inpatient Rehab wing of a hospital less than an hour from home. I could have told you about the massive and frustrating effort to get a wheelchair ramp built, the hard work and sweat that went into turning our home literally upside down to accommodate our new life, or the morning I dropped everything to rush to the hospital and deliver a stern lecture on the need to take the anti-depressant he'd refused, not realizing he had slipped into an uncharacteristic lethargy that could sideline his rehab. But frankly things were moving too fast or too slowly for me to find time to write anything meaningful.

John endured ten days of intensive rehab--four hours daily of therapy designed to teach the patient to be as independent as possible while protecting himself from further injury and those at home from burn-out or even injuring themselves. He learned to "walk" short distances using a walker, one leg and his arms. He learned to dress using a "grabber" and to wheel himself in a chair. He learned to lift his bad leg with his good one when getting on and off the bed, to "kick out" a leg using muscles that don't remember how to "kick." He did it patiently, even graciously, and in between he slept the sleep of the dead and watched Wimbledon on television. At seventy-eight, all that work took a toll, but in the end, he met the goals and was rewarded with a homecoming, rather than a transfer to a skilled nursing facility.

The house was ready for him, I was ready for him, and he was more than ready to come home. We still don't have a ramp, but thanks to some determined friends and volunteers, the work should begin this week. Fortunately, our son-in-law and grandson spend a lot of time working out, so they were able to "lift" him, wheelchair and all, up the steps and into the house. We watched breathlessly as he rolled himself through the rooms, checking out the changes and discovering the potential barriers during his first few minutes at home. (My daughter compared the sight to a pet returning from a visit to the boarding kennel, sniffing out his favorite places and investigating anything new.) Once he was satisfied, he headed straight for his recliner and kicked back for a much deserved rest. And I went back to work.

I thought it would be easier once we were home. I imagined having more time without the daily trips to the hospital; time to cook our favorite meals and watch television with my husband, time to work in the garden or even write. I was kidding myself. Slowly, at times painfully, we're learning what works and doesn't work in this new life. We're discovering the barriers and ways to circumnavigate them--narrow doorways, odd angles, unaccommodating furniture. I seem to walk miles of extra steps as I figure out better ways to organize all the new things added to our daily routine. It's only been two days. I'm sure this will get easier. But already near exhaustion from preparing for his homecoming, I've been pushed to the limit to make it as painless as possible for both of us.

Tomorrow, something else new will begin. Home health will visit three times a week. Nursing, Physical Therapy and Occupational Therapy will all claim their bits of our days. There are appointments to schedule with the surgeon three hours north in Kansas City and a spinal specialist two hours west in Wichita and the resulting road trips to look forward to. And of course, there will be the bills to look forward to as well.

Through it all, we'll be here together, God willing. For us, home has always been a haven. It is the space we share, filled with the things we treasure. It is humble and eccentric, an old house in which we've shaped a new home over the past fifteen years. After twenty-three days, coming home means we successfully passed the latest test to return to our life, modified though it may be. We still have a long way to go, healing and probably more surgery, and neither of us is fooling ourselves that all is well just yet. Still, coming home is the best possible end to this leg of the journey. Wherever it takes us next, if we start out from the sanctuary of home, I think we'll be ready.

Where to Now?

It's been a week since my last post. I wish I could tell you how things progressed day by day, but all I've retained is the sum of our progress. The details are lost in sleepless nights and drowsy days, somewhere between visits from doctors and therapists, ultrasounds and X-rays, trips to the cafeteria and at least a thousand games of Spider Solitaire. But the final tally confirms that a week after surgery, John is recovering. He's learned to transfer from bed to chair and back without putting any weight on his right leg. He's able to rest comfortably. He's starting to think about what comes next on this unexpected journey and eager to take on the next phase.

At this point in time, life beyond the confines of this hospital room looms before us as a Great Unknown. Each of us has endless questions, some I suspect we're unwilling to put into words. Will he be able to walk again? How many more surgeries? Will he be able to tolerate the therapy necessary to get him back on his feet? Where can we get the best therapy? What can we do to our old house to make it accessible and comfortable for him when he finally comes home? How will we ever pay for everything we need to move forward?

I spent one sleepless night moving furniture, measuring rooms, re-evaluating needs vs. wants, a completely fruitless endeavor. We've talked about what he'd like to have access to from his collection of books and music on the second floor, concluding that he wouldn't know what he wanted until he wanted it. Other than agreeing we need our queen-sized bed moved downstairs--after weeks fighting for space on a full-size, we have no doubt of this--we're still too overwhelmed by the number of obstacles to make any other decisions about the interior arrangement.

Outside the house, I'm worried our compact car is going to pose a problem. I'm pretty sure we'll have to have a ramp built, but I can't envision where best to put that kind of addition. How will ever I manage to get him in and out of the house on my own, even with a ramp?

Each question seems to have a dollar sign attached. Nothing is free. Our budget is always tight at best, and now our income has been reduced further, since I will no longer work at the hotel. The ends seem to be farther and farther apart with more needs arising every day. I don't believe in worrying about money. Life has taught me that needs are somehow met or revised. Still, I'm aware of the need for responsible stewardship. Whatever we have, no matter how limited, will have to go far enough. We don't need the stress of collection calls and those ugly red "Past Due" stamps on our bills. There will be arrangements and adjustments to make. That's always been my job, managing the budget. At the moment, I would like nothing better than to turn it over to someone wiser and less emotionally involved, so I could focus on John's recovery. I'll get over the cowardly wish to magically have it all go away, I'm sure. Some days you just have to pick your burdens, I guess. Right now, here in this hospital room, all my energy is required to be the encourager, the cheer leader, the comforter. Next week, once I'm home again, I'll tackle the revised state of our finances and all those other details that keep me awake right now.

The big question, for which we have to find an immediate answer, is where do we go from here. It was obvious from the beginning that John would need more therapy before he could come home than what's provided in the hospital. Inpatient rehab has several levels, we've learned. Which would work best for our situation has been a question with different answers, depending on who you ask. We've made and abandoned several plans so far. Age, diagnosis, prognosis, and cost all have to be weighed, and then just when you think you've found the solution, there's no bed available and you're back to the drawing board. We think we know where we're going Monday morning, but apparently nothing is written in stone.

So we wait two more days here. It's not a great hardship, although I'd give a lot for a change of clothes I haven't already worn twice. The staff has been wonderful, both in caring for John as a patient and caring for both of us as housebound guests. But no matter how pleasant the stay, every traveler eventually begins to long for home. Believe me, I'm longing. I'm sure John is too, but he's being very brave about going to rehab instead. He's ready, at least in mind and spirit, to get to work.
I've decided to look at this "lost" weekend as a chance to rest up and get focused, preparation for the weeks ahead. We're at the mercy of whatever powers determine our next step, but we can make the best of it. We have television, room service, and relative peace and quiet--things we may wish for once we're discharged to the real world.

I continue to be grateful for so many things. The injury is bad, that's true, but it could have been worse. The prognosis is not perfect, but there's room for hope. We've been extremely fortunate in the doctors, the hospital, and the staff. Our friends and family have provided unceasing support, despite the distance. Most of all, we have each other. We've always been blessed with the kind of bond that endures and even strengthens under pressure. In times like these both of us lean heavily on the calming comfort of our faith, knowing that in a Christian marriage there are three partners. No matter where we go from here, we go together.

Just When You Think. . .

You can finish that sentence any way you like. For me, it goes something like "Just when you think your day's going pretty good, the love of your life hits the floor and your plans for the rest of the year go out the window."

Yep. That was Wednesday. Four o'clock. John on the floor, writhing in pain. One look at his leg and its gruesome new contours, and I calmly dialed 911. I do know our limits and this far exceeds them.

Hours later, after a 30 mile ambulance ride and some excruciatingly painful X-rays, he was admitted to the hospital where he had his original knee replacement done and we anticipated surgery there the next morning. Come morning, however, his surgeon, Dr. M, decided more expertise would be required to handle this and placed a call to KU Medical to a specialist. When I met with Dr. M, a caring, truly involved physician who like so many in smaller rural hospitals is overworked and often frustrated by the lack of resources, he commented that he'd been awake most of the night trying to figure out what to do. I could have told him I'd done the same, but I'm pretty sure he already knew that. He showed me the X-rays and we both shuddered at the same moment. It's ugly, to put it mildly--two fractures so close to the prosthesis it's hard to imagine those bones ever supporting weight again. He explained there's a doctor in Kansas City who actually fixes this kind of thing, after which his partner puts in a revised prosthesis. Nice to know we're not the first, anyway.

So here we are, three hours from home, taking up residence in a hospital room for not sure how long. The surgery this afternoon went well. Now we hope to say the same for the healing. The surgeon described the metal plate and the special screws in some detail, but I kind of let that go right over my head. I asked the usual questions about recovery--how long, how difficult--refraining from describing the challenges of living in a 19th century house on a limited budget, not to mention the limits to my nursing skills and physical strength. Those are things for the discharge planner to help with, anyway. 

Tonight, he's sleeping peacefully. He was a little weird coming out of the anesthesia and I think the staff in the recovery room--who all looked about old enough to graduate from high school--suspected he had some form of dementia. I explained to them he was just drunk, not a condition he's ever really been in, but I felt sure it was something that would wear off. It has. Thank God! My prayers have been first and foremost that no matter what happens with his leg, he'll come out of this the same John I've loved all these years. I wasn't at all amused by his drunken ramblings, I can assure you!

So now we enter the wait and watch. Even the doctor admits he doesn't know what to expect, only what to hope for. We've spent the first half of this year getting to this low point. Now the uphill journey begins.

There will be adjustments, not the least of which being I will no longer hold down a job outside of caring for my husband. I'll miss the paycheck, but we'll figure out how to manage on less. We've done it before. I'm already trying to think of ways to rearrange the first floor to better accommodate our needs now. Just thinking about it makes me tired, but I won't have to do it alone. One nice thing about children and grandchildren is the extra pairs of hands and feet available. And everyone seems motivated by this latest crisis. "Papa" didn't realize how valued he was until now, I'm sure.

When I posted last, I had in mind one kind of battle. Now the stakes are even higher. Many of our questions are the same, such as what caused these falls in the first place. They'll do some tests while he's here to look for that. But more than anything, the question of how well those bones will knit, and how strong his leg can become again, looms foremost. For that answer, we just have to be hopeful and patient in the weeks ahead.

I have to make one final note about the past few days. Say what you will for social media, the community of "friends," from readers to fellow writers to longtime friends and family, have stepped up to offer overwhelming support to us. Many are perfect strangers we'll never meet face to face, but the love and prayers they've sent our way feels very personal--as warm and comforting as real hugs, I assure you. I often feel alone here, but this week, I learned I should never feel that way given the outpouring of good wishes and positive energy coming our way. I'm grateful to have lived to see the world grow so small.

More to come here as we go forward. Meanwhile, hug your loved ones and say thank you to whatever power you believe in for the gift of every "ordinary" day you spend together. Just when you think this is all there is to life, there will be more. 

That Unanticipated Bend in the Road

I hate apologies. Especially for things completely out of my control. But I feel I  must apologize now, to anyone who happens to stop in here occasionally, and to myself. The past several months--yes, it's been that long--might have provided material for any number of posts. I might have shared something meaningful to someone out there, or at least vented a few of the vast assortment of emotions in here. Instead, I've been doing what I seem to do whenever the going gets tough--I've been trying to go it alone. I've decided it's time to take a different tack. I'm going to include you, those who have read my stories and shared my posts here, in this new leg of the journey. Frankly, I could use some company.

I've decided, after six decades, that much of life is journeying through the unfamiliar toward we're never certain exactly where. It's the anticipation of eventual arrival, the company along the way, and the satisfaction of the miles we've covered at the end of each day that brings joy to the life of the travelers. But every traveler rounds an unanticipated bend at times and finds himself lost, without a clue how it happened or how to get back on track. In a sense, that's where I've been these last few months, in a shadowed valley trying to find the road up and out. No map, no roadsigns, and no one to assure me I'll eventually find myself on the sunny high road again.

I don't mean to sound hopeless or despondent. I'm not really alone here. I'm stranded with the love of my life at my side, and this place is inhabited with plenty of other souls similarly waylaid. We commiserate about our circumstances, but each of us is so occupied with our individual burdens, we have little time to do more than offer an encouraging word.

What the heck is she going on about, you may be asking if you've made it this far. It's a pretty simple story, really. Last October, on a routine walk in our neighborhood, my husband stubbed his toe and fell. No major injuries, other than a possible broken toe. A few days later, he fell again, momentarily dislocating his shoulder, but escaping anything more serious. Several years ago, he had a successful knee replacement, and we were thanking our lucky stars he hadn't done any damage to that right knee. Two weeks later, his right leg began to hurt, enough so that even a stoic such as he decided to see a doctor. We were referred back to the orthopedic surgeon at that point. No visible damage to the joint, but still plenty of pain. We got through the holidays fully anticipating improvement. On January 14, our daughter's birthday, we were getting in the car when he somehow fell backwards and ended up on the ground with his legs bent beneath the car. He hasn't been able to bear weight on his right leg since. At that point, we had to acknowledge life had changed.

He's had months of physical therapy, three epidurals, and more falls. Now we're told he needs to see a spine specialist. In the meantime, he's confined to the first floor of our house. This may not sound so bad, but his books and music--a lifetime of study--are on the second floor in a room designed especially for his enjoyment. For the first time in his nearly eight decades of life, he's learning to cope with constant pain and inactivity. One by one, he's reluctantly let go of much anticipated commitments to sing and preach. It's impossible for him to leave the house without someone stronger than myself to help him. Just going from one room to the other can be an adventure of the kind no one wants. Even with a walker, when that leg gives way, or won't move, he's likely to go down. Getting up requires calling that stronger someone to come to the rescue.

My husband is not easily discouraged. He may not be the fastest moving man, but he's always kept moving, independently doing the necessary along with the things he most enjoyed at a steady, determined pace. In the past six months, life for him, and therefore for me, has rounded that unanticipated bend. We're trying to navigate this valley with patience and grace, but I'm willing to admit we'd both prefer to see that high road again very soon.

Now you may be saying this is just the natural order of things. We get older, life changes. I'm willing to accept that, but I'm not willing to let go of all expectation for improvement. I'm not willing to see my husband give up things he loves, even excels at, without fighting for a solution to the problem. I'm not willing to do that myself, either, if it comes right down to it. We're not ready to stop contributing. We're not ready to sit down or step aside. Quality of life should not be determined by the quantity already lived.

Years ago, I worked in a nursing home. My job included advocating for the highest quality of life a resident could achieve. I found myself harassing doctors, encouraging family members, banging on closed doors, and feeling generally disillusioned with society at times. Damned if right now I don't find myself in that same position, but this time the fight is personal.

Time, in the best of times, moves too rapidly. Time spent waiting and watching, hoping and praying for something good, or at least for nothing worse, still seems to pass too quickly, but the days are far less satisfying. Our focus has narrowed from looking forward to simply getting through each day, one at a time. Small things, meals, errands, getting dressed in the morning and preparing for bed, what to watch on TV, consume the hours with an importance we never gave them before. While we both acknowledge there are many in far worse straits, we're not willing to let this become our new normal.

I'll try to keep posting on what I fully expect to be our progress. We've always prided ourselves on being adaptable, and we have found some things to help us cope--some quite unexpected. More on that next time.

Heart of My Own Heart--A Journey of Love

FREE for Kindle This Week! 

Their honeymoon may be a European concert tour, their first home a series of hotel suites, but for Emily and Stani, the happy-ever-after has begun.  

 

 Heart of My Own Heart