This time, last year, the anticipated procedure to drain the pancreatic pseudocysts was postponed: Bob had had the procedure explained to him, and had been prepped by surgery at 7 PM ... when the procedure was halted at the last minute because of heart beat concerns.
(https://jeastofeden.blogspot.com/2019/11/love-grief-hand-in-hand.html)
(https://jeastofeden.blogspot.com/2019/11/love-grief-hand-in-hand.html)
Nine hours in the ER/ICU room did not alleviate the condition, & a blood transfusion was suggested: Bob agreed to the transfusion.
The situation was beyond frustrating. We had been at OHSU, since Sunday afternoon … it was then Friday … and there had been no ground gained at all.
The dusking shadows of the Valley of the Shadow of Death was closing in on us. And those shadows were murking up everything.
Bob in the ER/ICU Room at OHSU.
I sat and slept in a very uncomfortable and unforgiving plastic seated/backed folding chair off to the left corner of the small room only big enough to house Bob’s bed and the machinery he was hooked up to – my coat was my blanket and the duffel bag was my foot rest; that duffel bag kept my legs elevated enough that I avoided serious back kink/pain: I was eventually given 2 pillows in the following days, which helped tremendously. There was a bathroom on one side of the room that was crowded with sponge bathing and portable toilet things; and barely enough room to walk around the bed and medical machinery. There was a large picture window that I gazed out of occasionally; I watched traffic that was far below, and I watched people walking through the breezeway that connected OHSU with the Veteran’s Hospital across the way.
Skywalk and OHSU Parking Garage outside ICU window. Vet Hospital in background across the way
And I could see, too, the Penthouse Room where we had been just a couple hours ago … and, in that moment, as I viewed it from the ER/ICU room … it seemed like a lifetime ago.
View of upper floor Penthouse Room from ICU window.
But mostly I watched Bob’s breathing, and I watched the Heart Monitoring Screen’s sketchy color-coded etchings; my heart beating as wildly as my husband’s heart.
Bob has a wonderful nurse, named Barb, who was simply awesome – very friendly, very patient, very attentive, and very compassionate. She loved on Bob, and I really appreciated her tender administrations. She sponged his body very carefully because his skin, by this time, was extremely fragile.
When Bob was awake, they conversed and joked back and forth – but there was always an underlying sadness in the air; all of us knew Bob’s situation was very critical. His heart rate needed to settle down – and he wasn’t feeling what was concerning everyone else: he truly was not feeling the painful heart seizures.
Barb is the nurse in the forefront.
When Bob was awake, they conversed and joked back and forth – but there was always an underlying sadness in the air; all of us knew Bob’s situation was very critical. His heart rate needed to settle down – and he wasn’t feeling what was concerning everyone else: he truly was not feeling the painful heart seizures.
Bob was able to sit up for 2 hours - it helped;
he was also allowed 4 little ice cubes to suck on. He was so thirsty! But, he
was only allowed 4 - and those were monitored very carefully.
That was scaring me. And I was trying to rise above fear – for my sake, as well as my husband’s. Being strong for both of us was beginning to take its toll on me. ICU is a lonely place where we come face to face with the menacing presence of the Grim Reaper in the shadows of the gathering twilight of life. All of my life, Elohei has been my strength; and for 44 years, Bob by my side was my courage. ICU was hard. Very hard. On all of us (Barb was included). As the daylight faded, and dusking shadows began to darken the windows, I needed the soothing peace of Shabbat rest that Shabbat – the evening of November 30th, 2018; this time, last year.
An orthodox rabbi Chaplain stopped by our ER/ICU room, and was quite friendly until I mentioned that though I am a Jew, we (Bob & I) were Messianic Christians; his demeanor cooled significantly, though he remained cordial. I didn’t mind the coolness because I understood the change in attitude; all I cared about was that he was there, giving us some kind of comfort in our valley of the shadow of death. He will have to answer to Elohim, just like Bob & I; and I asked Elohim to bless him for stopping by.
Our own spiritual leadership never did show up to comfort us though we had sent word to him SIX TIMES to come visit Bob in both hospitals. He never responded. At all. I haven't been back to fellowship since. Any excuse he plans on giving won't fly with Yeshua either on that Day we all have to give account for what we do; and why we did it ... or in this case, didn't do it.
Our own spiritual leadership never did show up to comfort us though we had sent word to him SIX TIMES to come visit Bob in both hospitals. He never responded. At all. I haven't been back to fellowship since. Any excuse he plans on giving won't fly with Yeshua either on that Day we all have to give account for what we do; and why we did it ... or in this case, didn't do it.
David Sumner, {pastor} of Rehoboth, Vancouver, WA
Looking back on that time, last year, this year, and learning the language of grief, I realize that some people are still uncomfortable when this time/last year is brought up this year. They are most uncomfortable when tears enter into the conversation – happy tears, sad tears … tears for any reason at all; or tears for no particular or apparent reason at all. Tears throw people, and they get flustered and say, “Oh, honey; let’s change the topic to a happier subject.”
Hmmm …
Happy subject? BOB IS my {happy} subject – sometimes I cry because I have SO MUCH LOVE still in my heart for my husband; and it has no where to go. Talking about Bob makes me happy: sometimes my tears are happy tears … remembrance tears for the good man who gave me good loving which leaves me with good memories. All tears are not born of sadness. And though all my tears now are tinged with sorrow, sometimes they are born of happy thoughts. And sometimes, I really – really miss him – I will always miss Bob; but most days now, I really am content and busily building my new laid-back life. I am starting to see life in color again … muted color … but, color, nonetheless. The deepening color creeping back into the barren landscape of my new life is beautiful as it grows, but it doesn’t erase the pain. It never can. The pain may eventually dull, but I will always have a deep and lasting scar on my amputated heart where the missingness of Bob will always be felt.
This time, this year, the Father of Lights is strengthening my spirit, piercing the darkness, and holding back last year's dusking shadows that cast a heavy pall on our life this time, last year.
