Category: Faith

Pop-Top

~ Linda Wright

“You really need to get a port,” the hematologist said. He kept up this mantra for more than twenty years.

My veins have always been small, the best ones seem to automatically retract or dodge away from an oncoming needle. By the time I was twelve years old I had three scars where a doctor had cut the skin to get an IV line started. Some times it took a few tries but they always succeeded eventually.

By the time I was an adult the IV nurses who knew me best wouldn’t come near me until I had soaked both arms in hot moist towels to plump up the veins. The nurse would choose a child-sized butterfly needle and take a deep breath. I tried all the tricks I knew for my part of this drama. I drank several glasses of water to hydrate. I meditated and relaxed. I wouldn’t let them try to stick me until the blood products were hung beside me, just in case it took several tries. I didn’t want too many pinholes oozing all at once if the first few attempts to start the IV failed.

When I had a hemorrhagic stroke in 2002, I awoke to find that they had inserted a line into my femoral vein. The doctor increased his nagging, “You need a port.”

“Not yet,” I said, “Not yet.”

I couldn’t quite explain why I kept putting it off. I knew there was a risk of infection, ports could get clogged and have to be replaced on a regular basis. I new it was surgery and my automatic response to surgery had always been, no. I knew once I made the decision, there would be no going back. Unlike people who have a port for chemotherapy, I would have one for the rest of my life.

Nurses said, “You’ll love it.”

“Doubtful,” I thought. I guessed that the nurse might love it, but I couldn’t imagine that I would.

“You’ll wonder why you didn’t do it earlier.”

“Probably, I won’t,” I said.

I held them off until I was 64. By that time the only veins that could be felt or seen were on my hands and they were dotted with scars from previous use.

“Ok,” I said after one day there were four failed attempts and the one that succeeded was on the base of my thumb. “Ok, I’ll have a port put in.”

I almost reconsidered when the surgeon explained that he was going to cut my jugular vein and run the plastic tubing to just above my breast where the port would be implanted. Then the line would continue downward just above my lung.

It took a few weeks for the scars to heal, but once it was in they could easily test my clotting levels and give me additional fibrinogen.

Now there is a round bulge about the size of a quarter just under the surface of my skin. I can also feel the plastic tubing that runs from my neck to the port. It is a foreign object and I do not love it. Nor do I wish I had done it earlier. The nurses don’t shudder when they see me walk in the door. But, it only takes one skin stab to start the infusion or draw a blood sample and I have to admit there are some benefits to having a pop-top.

Patriots Day

~ Linda Wright

In the 1970’s on Patriots Day, I would stand at the crest of Heartbreak Hill in Newton, Massachusetts cheering and clapping for those who had made it to the sign-less landmark in the Boston Marathon. I didn’t always get a spot to stand until the winners had passed, but I tried not to leave until the last straggler made it past me. To call it a hill is an exaggeration.

The slow incline that goes up for almost half a mile begins about twenty miles into the race. Most of the runners who made it to the top of the hill looked like it had taken every bit of endurance to keep moving forward. Their heads drooped; their eyes had lost focus and their fatigue was palpable. But when they heard the applause from the crowd, they raised their heads up and pushed out a smile, regaining some energy. They grabbed at cups of water held out to them, drinking on the run. If the day wasn’t cloudy or rainy, some poured the cup of water over their heads before tossing the paper cup to the tree belt. The supporters at the top of Heartbreak Hill weren’t as numerous as the crowd the runners had seen at the start or the people who would be waiting for those that made it to the finish line. I wanted to applaud the many who would win a personal victory through their endurance.

This year two bombs were detonated near the finish line, killing three and injuring more than 170. Many hearts were broken. The city and surrounding towns were in a lock-down, no public transportation ran, no businesses were allowed to open, everyone was told to stay home with their doors secured. People were constrained into seclusion between the time law enforcement teams killed one of the suspects in a street battle and the time when the second suspect was captured the following day. Parent’s had to find the words to explain to their children why they were quarantined on a beautiful sunny spring day.

Instead of the alarm of Paul Revere, “The British are coming!” people were more inclined to think it was now the terrorists who were attacking. Now it is the city and the marathon that will have to make it up a hill of pain and trauma before they triumph.

Going on a library hunt

~ Linda Wright ~ 2 Comments

During the summer months, my friends and I walked to the Liberty Branch Library. Each child carried a few books we had read under the shade of a tree or illuminated by a flashlight. We turned the pages faster as our reading improved with practice. “Just one more chapter, please!”  we begged if our parents called us.

Our short legs walked at a meandering pace and it took us at least half an hour to get to our destination. We passed by the elementary school and skirted a side of the city park. There was only one busy street for us to cross at a traffic light.  We dropped our books at the check-in counter.

Mrs. Walker, the children’s librarian, never seemed to tire of questions. Instead she took an immediate interest in whatever we found curious. We knew we could count on her to find out which bird built that nest in our maple tree or what makes lightening flash and thunder boom. She would glide her finger across the rows of books on a shelf and, like magic, pull out the very one that held the answer.

When we heard the bell ring we would gather in front of the basement door and wait until Mrs. Walker led the row of assembled children down the stairs and into the story telling room. We took our places in the metal folding chairs eager for the stories and songs. Some of the stories we repeated almost every time. My favorite was the Bear Hunt. We would slap our hands, alternating left hand then right, to our thighs making pat, pat noises that were supposed to sound like foot steps. Each line of the story that Mrs. Walker told, we echoed.

“Let’s go on a bear hunt!” Mrs. Walker would begin.

“Let’s go on a bear hunt,” repeated the children’s voices.

On cue, we all made the appropriate hand movements and sounds for walking through the tall grass in the field, crossing the bridge, walking through the fallen leaves in the forest, swimming across the river, and squishing through the mud. Finally when Mrs. Walker announced we had reached the deep dark cave we would reach out our hands in front of us and pretend to feel around.

“I feel a wet nose.”

“I feel a wet nose,” as if we all felt it too.

“I feel furry ears.” Mrs. Walker said with concern in her voice.

“I feel furry ears.” we repeated in unison.

“It’s a bear!” Mrs. Walker shouted, “let’s get out of here!”

“It’s a bear!” we shouted, “let’s get out of here!”

This was the signal to reverse our previous steps rapidly, making squishing noises through the mud, swimming strokes crossing the river, crackling through the forest, parting the tall grass and finally opening the door to home. We heaved a sigh of relief and collapsed as if the race had been run on our legs, not our imaginations  and hands.

After story time we would pick out more books before reversing our steps home. Past the Italian bakery that smelled of warm bread, stopping at the traffic light to cross the street, feeling the cool breeze coming from the park and past the school yard. By the time we got home we would be ready to sit and begin one of the books before we were called to supper.

The Power of Positive Choices

~ Linda Wright

Recently I saw a quote from Norman Vincent Peale posted on Facebook. “Live your life and forget your age.” I felt as if I had been hit with a jolt of indignation. Forget my age? I like my age! I can’t really take credit for it, but it came as an unexpected surprise when I celebrated my 62nd birthday. That’s not something I want to forget because, with a bleeding disorder there were lots of medical professionals along the way who predicted a substantially shorter life span for me. When I was twelve years old and too big to crawl under the desk, I did not morn that my body had grown. Why now would I want to feel sorry that at the age of 62 there are things I cannot do that were easy when I was younger?

However, that wasn’t the only reason why the quote set off a spark of anger.

When I was a child, one of my cousins would send me a subscription to Guide Posts each year. The magazine in the 1950’s was filled with anecdotes about the power of positive thinking. They offered an easy fix for all ills. Just pretend that there is nothing wrong and it will go away. My cousin hinted that the magazine was what a little girl with a severe bleeding disorder needed to be healed.

Now I like chocolate, it makes me forget my troubles, but I know it doesn’t make them go away. I also know that the only thing I can change is my attitude. Most of the time I am an optimist, but when I have negative thoughts I don’t want to sit in judgment by someone who thinks I am undermining my health.

What is healthy is to acknowledge that my bleeding disorder (like my age, my eye color, the gap between my two front teeth) is a part of me.

If my cousin thought that I lacked positive thinking, then he really didn’t know me. Yet, even as a child, I understood that positive thinking was not enough to make my body suddenly produce fibrinogen.

What angered me was that the underlying message seemed to be that if you were sick you didn’t have enough faith. I didn’t believe that having a bleeding disorder was my fault. It was not only foolish to pretend that having a bleeding disorder had no effect on my life; it was dangerous, both physically and emotionally.

After church one Sunday I saw a friend of mine who had undergone chemotherapy treatment for cancer and was now in remission.

I said, It’s wonderful to see you looking so well!

Her husband beamed and said with pride, “Yes, if you have the right attitude you can beat cancer.”

Without thinking, I responded, “Sounds like blaming the victim to me.

My friend’s face relaxed into a warm smile and nodded as her husband looked confused.

I believe she understood that if her positive thoughts could cure the cancer, then her negative thoughts might have caused it to occur in the first place.

So excuse me if when I look in the mirror I see a 62 year-old woman. Some days I like the way I look, some days I don’t, but I believe I would be foolish to wish that I wasn’t my age.

Mercury in Retrograde

~ Linda Wright ~ 1 Comment

It started slowly, as usual. The airplane I was supposed to board was taken out of service for repairs and it took several hours before a replacement was put into service. By then, the connecting flights had to be rescheduled. I arrived at my destination, not at noontime, but during rush hour traffic on Friday evening. Tired, stiff, and cranky from sitting in airports most of my day, I had just enough time to drop my suitcase at the hotel before leaving for the scheduled dinner meeting.

The return flight on Monday was delayed by weather conditions. Arriving home I discovered that the cable television was out of order, the Internet connections were sporadic and my car had a strange rattling sound coming from somewhere behind the front tires. One night the refrigerator spontaneously began a loud grinding sound. The dog began to whimper and limp.  The vet could determine no visible reason and prescribed a pain killer. The cat intensified her compulsive tail-nibbling disorder (We call it CT-BD.) A spider bite on my leg became infected. The prescribed antibiotics left me fatigued and more irritable than I was already. Spending hours day after day with the network technical support personnel did not help my mood.

Was it Murphy’s Law or Mercury in retrograde? Or are those just two ways that we humans use to make sense out of these reversals. It’s now been four weeks and I believe that the minor catastrophes have begun to abate… for now.

It is a little early to tell. As of this moment, I have grown accustomed to the car rattling and the television not working. When life begins to spin backwards, I find it an opportunity to re-evaluate my priorities. Have I once again become too comfortable with things moving in a forward direction?\The cat and the dog, like me, are experiencing aches and pains of aging. Their symptoms remind me of their mortality and of my own. Mercury, I have been told, is only visible at sunset I believe there is a personal retrograde that comes with age. I am reminded that the best advice is to use back-up systems, find alternative solutions, and pay more attention to the details. At times that is difficult enough