Seventeenth Anniversary

Saturday is my 17th wedding anniversary. It is predicted to be a beautiful day, just like it was on the day we were married. I actually drove by the church in which we married today, upon leaving a patient’s home, and it made me a touch nostalgic.

Seventeen years is a long time. Our marriage could drive in New Jersey. I looked up the traditional gift for the seventeenth wedding anniversary and it is furniture.

Furniture. That’s perfect.

I think when “they” chose the traditional gifts, even “they” knew that marriage year 17 was so lackluster that a new kitchen table, or La-Z-boy, was the only thing that could make anyone give a crap at all.  And that is best case scenario.

Gentle reader, I am not going to lie to you. No one is going to make an animated fairy tale movie about our marriage from this past year. Without getting too personal or uncomfortable, dull intermixed with crap is probably the best description of this most recent rotation around the sun.

To be clear, the love isn’t gone. Not at all. In fact, if it were, the story might take new twists and turns for greater reader interest. But. To be clear, the love isn’t gone.

Seventeen years of battling the underside of vows can take a toll. The sickness. The poorer. The worse. For all the days of our life. We’ve had multiple blessings, to be sure. Ryan and Sean being the brightest among them and it would be inaccurate to deny our gratitude.

However, with the imminent arrival of our wedding anniversary on the calendar, one can’t help but to take an inventory. And if one is honest, one isn’t always wholly satisfied with the picture, as unrealistic as it might have been.

With recognition that no piece of furniture is going to be part of our anniversary celebration, Kevin and I have talked extensively about our plans for September 30. Atlanta is a hot town with a super cool night life that we were ready to take on.

Except, I’m trying to lose weight. And one glass of wine will make me want to go to bed and not in the good way. Aoli oil, infused in the sexiest of dishes, upsets my stomach quickly and Ryan and Sean have sunday school early the next morning.

Year 17 does deserve furniture. A bed or an elevated toilet seat.

Tonight, Kevin and I came home from work - exhausted- to the boys - exhausted- and no dinner was to be found or made from what existed in the fridge. We needed to go out or order in. Ryan, feebly, suggested Tokyo Boat and we all agreed.

Tokyo Boat, for my non local friends, is a hibachi, Benihana, kind of restaurant. Yes it is a little expensive and yes my clothes smell like the food when we leave, but I can count on Tokyo Boat for filling my sons with a good week’s worth of calories, as they love the food so much.

So tonight, my tired, uninspired, screen fixated family headed out to the the Tokyo Boat for an impromptu mid week dinner out..

And I got something so much better than furniture.

After a few (ok, a lot) of “put your phone down”s, our hibachi chef arrived to prepare our fried rice feast. The typical antics of fire, utensil juggling, and food tossing ensued… and my family engaged. We were the only four in the restaurant and the hibachi chef didn’t hold back from the full routine.

The combination of meal preparation fun and good stick to the ribs food changed the family mood entirely. We were talking, and laughing, and planning, and more talking.

It isn’t that we NEVER talk and laugh at dinner, but it isn’t always easy to come by. The transformation beside this hibachi grill on this night was so great it did make me smile.

It made me smile for this reason: Kevin and I had been trying to plan a special anniversary celebration to affirm for each other that we’ve “endured” a worthy 17 years and produced a beautiful product. I, at least, wanted to think that dressing up on Saturday night would bring back those "I absolutely have no doubt about these vows" feelings and that I wouldn’t be sad to find an ottoman with a bow on it when we got home.

The 17 year you should get furniture people have it all wrong. The longer I stay married the less I think I know, but tonight I am sure I know this: for friends and family celebrating an anniversary in the mid late teens, I suggest you wish them a "Tokyo Boat, catch food in your mouth, fill your belly with rice, remember why you love your family" impromptu mid week outing. It may be small but I promise you it is mighty.

It is the best thing you could wish for them, because I am here to tell you that it is a wish/ gift that keeps the light on. Watching your kid catch a shrimp in his mouth at Tokyo Boat and forgetting about the school standardized testing is the better to the worse, the richer to the poorer and the health to the sickness.

No, it isn’t sexy. It isn’t even furniture. But enough Tokyo Boats packed together may absolutely be the string from 17 to 18, and that is the biggest gift of all.

Eclipse Lessons

Hello, Hopespotters! It certainly has been a while. My brain, and the creative juices in it, has been much like today’s sky, a brightness encroached upon and ultimately obstructed with a naturally driven darkness. I’ve had a summer full of lots to say and yet nothing to say about it. Through the summer heat, a lot has transpired that’s left me both contemplative and speechless. Today’s Solar Eclipse, the first in the US in thirty-eight years, gave me a bit of inspiration.

“Solar Eclipse 2017” and the hype leading up to it has actually annoyed me. (Sorry, not sorry) I don’t have a reservoir of enthusiasm for most things related to “space”. I have always believed there are a lot of things going on right here on planet Earth, right in our own neighborhoods, that are more deserving of our attention, our research, our funds. I understand the solar eclipse is a naturally occurring phenomenon and a rare one at that. I am just generally drowning in media, as I think most of us are, and I had become sick to death of the mania. The ENDLESS messages about “NASA approved” eclipse glasses, the memes, the rearranging of schedules left me unreasonably irritated.  And then we were going to dig out poor Bonnie Tyler, who’s voice was already going in 1985, to croak out “Total Eclipse of the Heart” because, why not? I just couldn't.

But eclipse day arrived and as a Mom of two boys, I thought it was important to shelf some of my disinterest. To do so, I found a way to look at the eclipse and share it with Ryan and Sean in my terms, ways that resonated with me. I would leave the photography cueing and circadian rhythm observations to the experts, and I would observe, and ultimately respect this event, in a way that I found I actually needed. I’m sure I’m not the first to have these thoughts or reflections, but I’m still going to take a stab at articulating them my way.

First lesson: This Solar Eclipse was coming whether I liked it or not. Whether my annoyance was reasonable or not, I have had/ seen/ born witness to a lot of sadness lately. Good people losing battles to disease, relationships being tested, parents bringing first borns to college. These “naturally occurring” passages are hard and can leave us feeling dark.  Too often, through no fault of our own, life happens and dark cold shadows are cast on our normally bright existences. No amount of avoidance will work and no amount of annoyance will lighten the darkness. The naturally occurring eclipses come- and can be pretty damn scary.

Second lesson: To look at the Sun or not? One of the most debated eclipse topics seemed to be whether or not one could look at the sun pre and post totality. The authoritative warnings and desperate searches for safe glasses seemed to suggest one’s face might melt like the Nazi’s in “Raiders of the Lost Ark” if one simply looked to the sky. The truth is it is never safe to stare at the sun- the warnings exist because it is only during an event like an eclipse that people might take the time to really look, for extended periods of time, at the landscape of sky. Isn’t this really a lost metaphor? Why do we seem to only look at or pay attention to the “Light” when the darkness looms? Why do we only give credence to the power of the Sun (or Son-see what I did there?) when its presence and power is threatened to be obscured? You know that friend with whom you reconnected following your spouse’s cancer diagnosis who had lots of resources for you? Or when your child, who struggles academically or socially, gets assigned that teacher that totally gets him? How about the perfectly timed “I love you” text that comes when your heart is heavy? You see, you don’t have to look to know the Light is always present and powerful and you don’t need to only remember that on a day marked by darkness.

Third lesson: The best way to sit in the dark is together. As the path of “totality” neared Roswell, Georgia, Kevin, Ryan, Sean and I went outside in the backyard, with two pairs of glasses among us. Not knowing what to expect, we sat passing the glasses back and forth and watching the clock for the magic 2:36PM. In anticipation, we became quiet (a Buckley rarity). We noticed the temperature drop and we listened to the crickets begin to chirp.  We observed the many crescent shadows around us and then we did the most unusual thing. Together, in quiet, and without question, we let the dark pass over us. We surrendered to the power of nature and we simply sat. Together. On the little grass hill in the backyard. And sooner than we would have imagined, the light came back.

Fourth lesson: The light came back. Even in my presently grumpy, eclipse cynical heart, the resurrection of the Sun could not be lost on me. The Light always comes back. Post totality, the light was dim at first, but my very favorite part of the viewing came at the moment when the birds, who sing their morning song, began to sing in the mid afternoon. With momentum, the Earth got brighter and just like a stone that was rolled away to allow the Light out, the Moon moved on knowing it is a poor match for the almighty power of the sun. Nature put on a show for us today for pure reinforcement of a primal message: This too shall pass. The Sun will Rise tomorrow. The Light never really went away. There is healing. There is forgiveness. There can be growth because the light never really goes away.

Final lesson: Don’t mourn the miracle. If I wasn’t feeling so enlightened, I could say a thing or two about some of the “watchers” I saw interviewed today on the news. Suffice to say, there were some colorful characters. By and large, each observer shared feelings of being awestruck, amazed, gleeful for the opportunity for having a clear day to watch the celestial magic. For these people, I worry there might be an eclipse hangover- a sadness that they’ve seen the most special thing they’ll see until our next solar eclipse in 2024. Take heart, Eclipsians- the same power that orchestrated the majestic miracle of today's show in the sky- does some really amazing things every day. Set your alarm clock and watch the sunrise. Or go to the beach and watch the tide come in. Find a baby learning to walk. Visit a rehab hospital and watch people re-learning to walk. Miracles are EVERYWHERE and they happen EVERYDAY. And you don’t even have to buy expensive but flimsy glasses off of Amazon to see them.

The moon is now in the sky doing its “normal” thing in its “normal” place. Solar Eclipse 2017 has been officially put to bed. It is my humble hope that some of today’s lessons stay wide awake in your hearts.

“Nations, like stars, are entitled to eclipse. All is well, provided the light returns and the eclipse does not become endless night. Dawn and resurrection are synonymous. The reappearance of the light is the same as the survival of the soul.” - Victor Hugo

Roll Back the Stone

I’ve often wondered how preachers, ministers, priests or rabbis inspire themselves to write and preach something unique each year at the same holiday that holds the same message. It must be enormously difficult and probably why they are specially ordained to perform their task.

I’m not a preacher or theologian of any kind, but Easter compels me to write and share. Its message makes it my favorite holiday. I, too, have the same question about how to deliver a unique and yet meaningful message to my flock, my HOPEspotters.

Last year on Holy Saturday, I posted a blog about the sanctity of this day. In Holy Week, Holy Saturday is, for me, the unsung hero. Maundy Thursday celebrates the Last Supper. Good Friday is the clear message of John 3:16:

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

Yup. Pretty Huge.

Then we leap to Easter Sunday. The Resurrection. If you’re like me, you can still get chill bumps hearing the trumpets blare during, “Jesus Christ is Risen Today” and I’d be willing to bet you are silently singing “All-le-lu-ia!”

But Holy Saturday isn’t celebrated. I believe, that is a shame. Because, as I’ve said before, Holy Saturday, is where most of us live, a lot of the time.

As a hospice nurse evaluator, my primary job is to meet with patients and families who’ve been given a terminal diagnosis and talk to them about the option of hospice. It’s like I walk in on Good Friday and try so very hard to explain Easter Sunday. Yes, there will still be a death, but there can be hope and purpose and continuous expression of love.

But just like the disciples, Easter Sunday is almost impossible to see on Good Friday.

Holy Saturday, I’ve come to believe, should be the national holiday celebrating the gift of showing up. Because Holy Saturday for the disciples was the day their faith was most supremely tested. The Messiah was in a tomb, behind a stone. All of their hope and belief lay with him in that tomb. How could they survive that day, especially given the brutality of Good Friday?

Too much. Too hard. Too sad.

And yet, they stayed together. They circled the wagons as we say now. They showed up for each other on that day for all the feelings they felt. Undoubtedly, they grieved.

I have a family member I love dearly. Very recently, one of his closest friends suffered an inconceivable loss. His youngest brother, after years of battling depression, commit suicide. My beloved, very private, family member acted in what can only be described as Holy Saturday godliness. He knew there was nothing to say. His actions were simple and pure: he went to his friend’s house. He helped his wife take care of their young babies. He washed the dinner dishes. He drank beers on the deck with his buddy and listened without judgment. There was sadness and hurt and laughs and confessions. There was Holy Saturday.

The courage to show up on Holy Saturday is what made the disciples godly as it does those among us who are willing to do so. Are you the friend who appears after the cancer diagnosis before the established treatment plan? Are you the person who listens to the heartbreak without offering solution but only pure empathy? Can you look hideous inconceivable, totally unfair loss and fear and stay present? Well, then you are a patron saint of Holy Saturday.

But unlike last year, where I tried to highlight the sanctity of Holy Saturday, this year I have a call to action. Showing up and being present is purposeful and holy action, never to be minimized.

Yet, when possible, roll back the stone.

I’ve said before, I don’t consider myself seriously religious and I am admittedly lackadaisical in practice. But I was raised in an amazing church community with exposure to and love from some of the very best clergy and for this I am eternally grateful.

With this background and faith I go into every patient and family conversation understanding I am walking in to their Good Friday. Regardless of their religious belief, in my head, I know that when I show up they are walking to Calvary. Hopeless. My challenge is to meet them there and be present with them through the uncertainty and fear of Holy Saturday. I refuse to lose that sensitivity, no matter how long I do this.

What I haven’t figured out is how to post on LInkedIN as a skill - what I’ve realized is my actual job. I, with my entire team behind me, have to roll back the stone. I have to/ I GET to demonstrate that there is HOPE beyond their Good Friday:  there is love and there is community.

And to be clear, even the Easter holiday can’t turn me into a Polly-Anna. There are some cases I encounter, professionally and personally, that are so grievously sad, that the thought of rolling back the stone seems flippant and likely impossible.

For example, a boy died in our elementary school this year in a freak accident. He was 11. How do you move that stone? A 35 year old Mom, with a freak cancer,died in our hospice program, leaving behind two elementary school kids. For them, that tomb must seem sealed.

And yet, albeit impossibly, it isn’t. The wings of HOPE have been consistently, demonstrably strong and wide.

The stone gets rolled back. In the Bible. In your home. In your heart. I’ve seen it. You’ve seen it. We’ve all, from time to time, even been part of helping it to roll back.

If I were a preacher, or a scientist trying to prove a hypothesis, my experience based message is this: yes, we all live in Holy Saturday, the in between of hope lost and hope restored. Especially at the most dramatic parts of our lives. BUT. What I’ve found is this: last year I preached the sanctity of Holy Saturday. This year, I extol its purpose.

What I mean is, perhaps Easter Sunday couldn’t happen without Holy Saturday because perhaps only when we genuinely. show up TOGETHER do we have the power to roll back the stone- or at least begin to try.

Hopespotters, on this my favorite day- Happy Easter. May all the stones in your heart be rolled back by the true disciples in your life.

What do I say?

Today I heard from my oldest and dearest friend. We’ve been sisters from other misters since kindergarten. Friends like us have NO secrets. Friends like us have a history that allows a conversation to pick up midstream that may have been paused three months ago. When she calls, I am delighted to talk to her and always relieved that there are no evident gaps in the time lapsed. And as is often the case, friendships like these continue to teach life lessons.

When she called today, she had a specific question. “Jen, I’m having lunch tomorrow with ‘X’. I haven’t seen her in awhile and I need advice about what to say. You do this all the time and I need your advice.”

Oomph.

Sometimes I say Oy. Sometimes I say ugh. This one was an Oomph. A gut punch.

I’ve met friend ‘X’. I love friend ‘X’. She’s awesome, hilarious, in fact. We were in the same sorority at different schools. Friend ‘X’ has two high school daughters. Friend ‘X’ has no sordid past on which we can blame her stage IV disease. Friend ‘X’ was six months late on her mammogram because she was busy dealing with some health issues of her husband.  Friend ‘X’ now, after double mastectomy, has disease in her brain and liver.

Friend ‘X’ is going to die too young.

Oomph.

But I am focused on my  friend’s request for advice. What do I say? I am always humbled when asked for advice because most people that know me intimately barely trust me to pour coffee. This is a big ask and I want to deliver with a quality answer.

I have spent the better part of the last 17 years dealing with hospice patients and families. It is not entirely clear to me how, yet I feel blessed that it is true, my role has been one of first responder. Doctors, hospitals, families call me and say, “It may be time…” “I’m afraid we need..” “Could you please come describe…”  I can honestly say for all the years I have done this, I have yet to lose my sensitivity for the gravity of that call and the importance of its response.

So you’d think, with all these years of experience, I’d be ready to call my dear friend back with explicit instructions for her conversation with friend ‘X’.

But do you want to know what I did when I got her message, asking me this question? I cried. Yup. Punched my steering wheel and cursed LOUDLY that we are still having these conversations with young Moms. I cried -a little sad and A LOT pissed.

Then I called my girl back, because if anything, I will never leave anyone hanging. And I share this because a lot of friends ask me this question and I want to be honest and public about my answer.

I don’t know what to say.
 

Brene Brown has suggested in a presentation about empathy that the best response to any declaration of pain is, “I don’t know what to say, I am just so glad you told me.” And who am I to argue with the brilliant Dr. Brown?

I can’t tell you how many times I have walked into a home or hospital room and met a family whose faces stare back at me with a shock and confusion and sadness that say more than words possibly could. I am quick to acknowledge that it isn’t anyone’s best day when I, “the hospice girl”, shows up.

What I want to share with you, the reader, just as I did with my oldest and dearest friend, is, if the benefit of my experience has taught me anything, the desire to say the right thing is overrated. Sick and scared people don’t want our preaching, our advice, or a list of things we are going to do to help them.

I remember with privilege visiting a young woman with breast cancer who was also a dear friend. My only question to her was, “Why am I here today, my friend?” And she was more than ready to detail everything she wanted. It was a powerful, direct, and very clear conversation that was hugely helpful for her family in decision making.

From what I have observed, the very best thing, when talking to, or better listening to, the seriously ill is:

I don’t know what to say

I will listen to anything you want to say

We can “be” any way you want to be-- and that can change based on how you feel.  

These “I don’t know what to say” conversations are happening, or SHOULD be happening all over the country, every day. It breaks my heart to see friends and families, with hearts full of love, afraid and intimidated to address the elephant in the room. And I know there’s volumes of research about these talks and I am not going to proclaim I am an expert, I am just sharing what I have observed.

Like the old man walking the beach, throwing the starfish back in the sea, I believe that my beautiful friend will have a purposeful and hopeful conversation tomorrow with friend ‘X’. That singular conversation makes a difference. And if I can continue to promote more conversations like this, with people that need empathy and solutions, I will believe in the good that can come from listening before talking. And that makes a difference.