From New Year to New Life

John and I at our grandson, Adam's baptism, January, 2012

Back in January, 2011, I couldn’t possibly foresee the events of the next two and a half years.   I had retired from my job a registered nurse on the mental health unit at Natividad Medical Center, in 2010, due to bad knees and I busied myself making small, throw quilts for women with cancer and other illnesses.  As my husband, John’s health began to deteriorate due to Parkinson’s, and he was forced to retire, we put our lovely home in Salinas, California on the market and made plans to relocate in Utah.  In spite of the talents of a professional house stager and our efforts to keep our house immaculate, our house didn’t sell.

Two weeks before Christmas, John became very ill. We made a trip to the emergency room and even though he was in a great deal of pain, his vital signs were normal. After three hours of not being seen, John felt the pain was due to a kidney stone, and we went home. BIG mistake! We followed up with John's urologist, who took ex rays and yep, sure enough there was a kidney stone. This kidney stone however had been there for ten years. The urologist didn't see a great need for urgency and recommended that we come back in a week, perhaps it would resolve on its own.

Nearly a week later, John woke one morning drenched in sweat. He was shaking, which was not unusual, still the thing that raised my alarm was his breathing. His respirations were somewhere between thirty to forty breaths per minute. I thought perhaps he had low blood sugar and I had him drink a meal replacement drink. He denied any pain. I told him I was taking him to the hospital, and he replied, "No. Let's go to the beach."

Once again at the emergency room, John's vital signs were normal, yet he didn't Look normal. Blood sugars came back within normal limits, white blood cell counts were elevated, but not to a degree that would raise concern. When a CT scan was done of his abdomen, a mass was found. Another CT scan confirmed it was an infection rather than a tumor. He was scheduled for emergency surgery. The surgeon talked to me after the surgery and said John was gravely ill. The infection was the worst she'd seen in twenty years. She said his odds of recovery were a little better than fifty/fifty.

Our children rallied around us for support. Paul, who lived in Fresno, was the first to arrive. Michael, who lived in Utah, said he would leave the next morning. Sherilyn, who lived in Arizona, had some arrangements to make and planned to arrive on the weekend. Together we discussed our options and decided to move to Utah as soon as possible. Miraculously family friends agreed to buy our home for the price we were looking for and John recovered enough for the surgeon to approve a flight to Utah, January 21, 2012.


John had a second surgery to "take down" his illeostomy in April, 2012 and we built a custom home with a handicap accessible suite on the main level, with our son, Michael. While John's health improved, my knees, especially my right knee got worse and I had knee surgery, that October, still I felt well enough to go to Arizona in the winter to spend some time with Sherilyn and her family. With all the hubbub we've been through, I'm not sure where home is. We've been away from family for so long and establishing traditions and routines takes time. Making lifelong friends takes time. There are some days John and I wish we could just go to the beach and watch the waves come in.

Happy New Year!

It's facinating to see myself becoming my grandmother. As I approach the age I most remember her being, I find myself experiencing life through her eyes. My sisters and I were deeply blessed to have Grandma Barlow living so close to us during the pivotal teenage years. We took week-long turns sleeping with Grandma in her trailer. I remember watching "Secret Agent Man" together before going to bed. In the morning she made the most wonderful hash browns with eggs over easy, or we could decide to have hot oatmeal with vanilla ice milk on top! Heaven!

We were always welcome at Grandma Barlow's trailer. We would raid her refrigerator, talk about boyfriends or better said, lack of boyfriends, and anything that happened to cross our mind. She always had a quiet acceptance that made me feel loved.

One of my fondest memories is of pinning her hair up in pin curls. I think that's why I love white hair. Grandma had the most beautiful white hair and when I expressed my doubt that I (I may have been only 11 or 12 years old) could do the task, she quickly assured me that I would do fine. Even now I have such tender memories that I find myself wanting to share that experience with my own granddaughters.

This promises to be a wonderful new year, with new and different if not more important goals. This will be my first year fully retired. I will no longer have sleep deprivation as an excuse for not getting the things on my lost "to do" list done.  Now with all the time in the world, it's amazing how convenient sleep deprivation was.

 My husband, John is still working, so my job is to prepare us and our home for a new phase of life. The older I get, the more I realize, we are not meant to live life alone. Not only do I need my husband, I need my children and grandchildren, my brothers and sisters, my cousins, aunts and uncles.  So one of my important goals is to build more connections with family and strengthen the connections I already have.

My Favorite Time of Year

Fall has always been my favorite time of year. First of all it was the beginning of a new school year. It really didn’t matter what happened last year, this was a new teacher and a new start. A new school year meant new pencils, new crayons, and if I was lucky, new clothes.

Next was Halloween. My mother refused to let us use pillowcases for trick-or-treating because she said we would ruin them. Still we took large shopping bags and ran with our friends up and down Main Street. We each came home with a shopping bag more than two thirds full and dumped it on the living room floor to sort through it. If I was careful I could make my candy last almost to Thanksgiving. The all-day suckers were the last to go.

Every Thanksgiving my Grandma Warner made a huge turkey and brought it to our house. We made little turkeys out of gum drops and raisins, and placed them by each plate. Then aunts and uncles would come with their families, each bringing favorite dishes to share. There was so much good food; I could eat and eat until my stomach couldn’t hold any more. Later that evening we would finally have room for pie; pumpkin pie with whipped cream, apple pie, cherry pie, and mincemeat pie. If I wanted I could eat some of all of them.

As much as I looked forward to the gathering of all the family and the good food, I looked forward to getting my birthday present from my Grandma Warner more. Since I was born on Thanksgiving Day, it didn’t matter what day of the week my birthday was, to my grandmother, Thanksgiving was my birthday. She always gave me the same present, a birthday card with some money in it.

It didn’t take me long to realize that if this was Thanksgiving, Christmas, the most magical of all holidays, would soon be here. Catalogs with pages of clothes, toys, games, and candy arrived in the mail. My brother and sisters and I would sit for hours, looking at the endless treasures, wishing we could reach in our hands and grab them. Santa, that mysterious Grandpa, dressed in white, assured us if we were good, he would bring us our hearts desire.

I knew what being good meant. It meant listening to my mother and helping her as much as I could. It meant sharing with my brother and sisters and when we played a game, trying to make sure everyone got a chance to win, at least once. Being good meant treating others the way I wanted to be treated and helping everyone who needed help. I listened to all the stories of Christmas; the stories of little children being blessed by kind strangers and tragic stories of those who were ignored.

I wanted to be good. So every year I used my birthday money, to buy Christmas presents for my family. It didn’t take long for me to realize that Santa needed my help. Grandma’s birthday present was a start, and I added money I earned babysitting. I tried to get something for everyone, or sometimes I bought a game we could all play together. Christmas was a happy time for me. I was happy when I hid my presents in my drawer, or wrapped them in brightly colored paper, or placed them under the tree when no one was watching.

I often thought how blessed I was to have a birthday in November. How blessed I was to have a Grandmother who gave me money for my birthday. Because of her I learned that Christmas is an opportunity to celebrate the life of the Savior. It’s a season dedicated to making a difference in the lives of our family and friends and all mankind. I’m old enough to know that money isn’t necessary to be kind or helpful and there are many gifts that can be given that don’t cost anything, yet finding those who have very little and using a little money to bless their lives is a wonderful thing. Indeed it’s more blessed to give than to receive.

On Saturday, September 11, we had an open house to celebrate John's 60th birthday.  Family, ward members, co-workers and neighbors joined us in our backyard for a juice bar and appetisers.  All of our children were there as well as eight of our twelve grandchildren.  This picture was taken while the musicians played, "There Are Places I Remember" by the Beatles.  The weather was perfect, the music was wonderful, and the food was great!  One woman commented on our next to youngest grandson, Justin running endlessly back and forth across our deck.  Everyone seemed to have a good time.  As I visited with the wife of some one from John's work, our grandson, Christian, came up to us and held out his hand to the woman I chatted with and said, "My name is Christian."

"Who are your parents?" the woman asked.  We both waited and waited as Christian struggled to answer.

"Dan and Sherilyn." he finally said, then ran off as abruptly as he arrived.  I felt like I had witnessed a tiny miracle.  A miracle that I would get to see Christian, who struggles with Autism, walk up to a complete stranger and initiate a conversation.  I suppose some one could say he was only copying the behavior he saw modeled by those around him, yet isn't that how we all learn?  We copy those who came before us.

I've seen both sides, and the mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationship is one of the most difficult human relationships.  I remember the first time I met my future mother-in-law Lorna, she asked me a very deep, personal question.  I was surprised by her question and yet I realized she was trying to get an idea of what kind of woman her son was about to marry.  Even after we married I still felt awkward, like an outsider.  I didn't know where the dishes were kept or how the towels were folded.  I watched jealously as she and her daughter Carol, worked effortlessly as they prepared holiday meals.  Very few words needed to be spoken.  It was as if they could read each others minds.

Another dilemma I had was what to call this new woman in my life.  Of course to third parties she was and still is John's mother, but I struggled with my personal name for her.  To call her by her given name, Lorna seemed disrespectful, Mrs Van Komen was too impersonal, and yet to call her Mother, Mom, or Mama felt disrespectful to my own mother.  So when I called her on the phone, or rare occasions when we were face to face, I just started talking thereby avoiding the necessity to call her anything.  Because of the geographical distance between us, this worked for many years.

As years passed and I began to fall more deeply in love with my husband, I began to have more tender and grateful feelings for the woman who gave him life.  I started to appreciate the wonderful gift she had given me.  I knew as a young woman her life wasn't easy, and the actual delivery of John into the world was a nightmare, but she did it.  Because of her sacrifice I have a loving husband, five wonderful children and eleven beautiful grandchildren.  If she did nothing else she deserves the honor of being called Mother.

More time passed and since my children had grown and many of them left the nest I had less responsibility at home.  One day while thinking about Mother Van Komen's birthday, I had a brilliant idea.  I called her up and told her I would come spend a weekend with her for her birthday.  I had no agenda.  We would do whatever we felt like doing.  The fact is we didn't really do much.  We watched old movies and mostly we talked.  I remember talking about the great male vocalists, and when I said I didn't care much for Frank Sinatra, but liked Mel Torme and Mario Lanza much better, I found out we were kindred spirits.  I only hope that birthday weekend was as important to her as it was for me.

I love you Mother, you have given me more than you could possibly imagine.  Happy 80th birthday!

This is my thought pattern as I was waking up this morning:
So much to do
How many carrot cakes do I need frosting for
I need to buy a ham
I wonder if John has figured out what he needs for Christmas Hash
John's talking about golfing Christmas morning with Paul and Randall
Will he have enough energy to do the Christmas Hash?
Too bad there aren't carts cause grandpas need carts sometimes to get around the course
Patriarch Ririe was in a cart with his grandson.  His grandson asked if he could drive the cart.  While Patriarch Ririe was walking behind the cart, his grandson accidently backed over him, causing permanent injuries.
It's hard to tell grandchildren no
Sometimes children do things or take things without asking because the are afraid they will be told No.
Patriarch Ririe had a feeling he shouldn't let his grandson drive the golf cart
Those feelings can be called spiritual promptings
I had a spiritual prompting that a twenty dollar bill would be flushed down the toilet
When I was roughhousing with my little brother and sisters, I had a spiritual prompting someone would get hurt if we didn't stop.
What if I could teach my grandchildren about spiritual promptings and they could feel a no from the inside; they wouldn't need a grandparent to say it.

As some of you know I'm digitally challenged.  I'm refering to the digits attached to the metacarpals.  I think and talk much faster than I type.  When you add in the fact that I don't know what I'm doing when it comes social networking on the computer, you have chaos.  Many of my family members and some of my friends are busy sending entrees and farm animals to one another and I'm finally figuring out how to update my profile.

Last Saturday morning I was trying to catch up on the Facebook accounts, and I noticed a small box in the lower righthand corner.  It was a friend wanting to chat.  I noticed the line at the bottom with a space below, and figured that was where I was supposed to write my reply.  I took a couple of minutes to type a short message.  Then I was stumped.  How do you send the message?  There was no send button!  I clicked on my friend's name hoping that might signal back to you and it erased all my hard work composing a message.  I had to start all over.  Not having a clue what to do I decided to ignor the chat box and diminished it.  Within a short period of time there was another chat box popping up.  This time it was my sister-in-law.  "How r u guys"  I called her up on my cell phone and told her my sad story.  She patiently talked me through the chat steps, and I told her I understood everything except how to actually send the message since there's no send button to click on.  "Oh, you push enter."

No kidding, you press enter.