Does God Shout at You?

Do you have those moments in your life when it feels like God is shouting at you?  So often, I am desperate to hear from God.  I want to know if I'm doing the right thing, on the right path, making the right choices.  I want to be affirmed.  Most of the time, I can only see God's affirmation of my path in hindsight.  I will look back at certain events and see where God was talking to me, and usually I wasn't listening.  Recently I had one of those moments where God was clearly talking to me and I really really really wanted to ignore it. 

I've written about my dad's fall and extended time in the hospital.  When he first went to the Rehabilitation Hospital, we got a terrible prognosis.  The staff of the rehab hospital has weekly meetings where they evaluate the patients to see how they are healing and make estimates of how long they will need to be there.  After the first meeting we expected to get a date very far away.  We knew that Dad was not well and would need a lot of time to get better.  The doctor, the case worker and a social worker met with my mother, my sister, and me.  (The social worker being there should have tipped me off)  The doctor told us what he thought was my dad's underlying health condition, and that we should find a skilled facility (translation-nursing home) for Dad, get him settled and let him start his new life there and we could "enjoy him there."  Oh, and he didn't think Dad would ever walk again.
  
Have you ever had the sensation that the ground was falling away beneath you?  That's how I felt in that moment.  I gripped the table because it felt so bizarre.  I looked at my mom and my sister and they were stone faced(don't play them in poker!)  I know that for a lot of families, that is the news they get and it IS the very best advice for them.  It just didn't feel right.  Way down deep in my bones, I knew that they had it all wrong.  Well, not all wrong.  They were taking good care of Dad.  When I walked out of that room I was not only determined that we were going to prove them wrong, I was angry.  I was so angry with that doctor.  I knew I couldn't say anything obnoxious because we wanted Dad to stay there as long as possible, but I had several choice things I wanted to say to that doctor. 

  Dad started to improve.  He had an amazing physical therapist who believed that Dad could do more than anyone was thinking.  He pushed Dad and made sure that the doctor saw the progress and improvements that were happening.  The doctor was encouraging with Dad.  I called it sucking up because I was still angry.  Over the next couple of weeks I had several conversations with this doctor, but every time I still walked away angry.  I couldn't let it go.  No, I didn't want to let it go.  Being angry was preferable to the other emotion that was lurking in my heart, fear. 

We were fortunate to have a caregiver who came and stayed most nights with my dad in the hospital.  Sunday was the only night she couldn't stay so I stayed with him those nights.  He fortunately was sleeping better, but I still didn't sleep at the hospital.  I spent my hospital nights reading or on my computer.  Ok, on my computer.  I played on twitter until the wee hours of the night when even the west-coasters went to sleep.  Then I started googling everyone that I came in contact with.  (the amount of information I found was a little frightening)  I happened to google the name of the doctor. 

On the bottom of the first page of google results was the memorial page of a good friend, Ted.  I couldn't believe my eyes.  I had been thinking about Ted and his wonderful family because it had been almost two years exactly since he had passed away.  I could not reconcile this doctor being a friend of Ted's.  I convinced myself that the doctor's sons must be around the same age as Ted's kids.  Maybe the doctor and his son shared a name and it was the son that commented on the memorial.  Had to be.  I thought about it each time I saw the doctor and contemplated asking him.  Nope.  Much easier to stay mad.  Even though he had been nothing but nice and encouraging with Dad.  Much easier to be mad. 

And then I asked.  I almost couldn't believe it when it came out of my mouth.  I asked if he knew Ted and his wife.  Holy Geez the floodgates opened.  He had known Ted.  Their sons were on the same traveling soccer team.  He and Ted had driven to many out of town soccer games together.  We agreed about what a tragic loss it had been because Ted was truly one of the good guys.  The doctor talked about Ted and how inspiring he had been.  It was clear that he knew Ted's heart.  Damn it.  As the doctor talked about Ted the last of the anger just floated away.  After he went back to his office I allowed myself one heavenward glance, "Fine."  Okay, God.  Okay, Ted.  I get it.  It was as if God had been nudging me and that didn't work so shouting was the next step.  Misplaced anger.  This doctor was not a bad guy at all.  (no way would Ted have driven out of town more than once with someone who was insufferable~ Ted wouldn't have said they were insufferable, he just would have found a way out!)

So, no, the doctor wasn't right when he diagnosed Dad.  And even though no one can be right every single time,  I don't think this doctor is wrong very often.  And he really is a nice guy, a good guy.  How often do I hold on to the wrong opinion because it's easier?  How many times do I do that without God (and Ted) shouting at me?  What is God nudging me towards today that I'm not listening to?

And the most wonderful news is that Dad has taken his first steps.  He walked about ten feet and I cried like the girl I am!  He still has a long road to recovery, but taking steps is HUGE!

Home Sweet Home Indeed

One week ago, after forty-nine days in the hospital, Dad came home. I think we all held our breath for a couple of days but everything seems to be falling into place. My mom has great help coming every day. Rose (my mother's brother's wife's sister-not kidding) spends most nights, and Armeda is coming during the day. I don't think they will need help forever, but I think it is making this whole process easier.
Dad is generally in good spirits, but annoyed that he can't be helpful. I have told him a million times that his job is getting better. He faithfully does his exercises but he wants to do more. I can't blame him. We are trying to find things that he can do so that his brain is occupied. It's a fine line to have him do enough that he's distracted but not so much that he's exhausted.
Dad is still trying to wrap his mind around learning to walk again. It seems unreal that you would have to relearn how to do something you have been doing most of your life. I've tried to explain that he has all kinds of new hardware in his legs, so it's going to feel different when he tries to walk(and that's not mentioning his muscle problems). The physical therapist had him stand up with his walker today. He had to have help getting to a standing position but he was able to do it twice.
When I talked to him tonight, he had gotten in bed and his dog was in bed with him. Since Dad has been home, his dog, Pepper, gets in bed every time Dad does. She snuggles right against him and curls up. Yes, the walking is going to be difficult, and yes, the road is going to be long, but man oh man is it good to have him home.

Cabin Fever ~ Hospital Edition

Because we live near the beach and so rarely see snow, my family was delighted when a couple of inches fell Sunday night and Monday morning.  I had spent the night with my dad at the Rehabilitation Hospital and loved watching the snowflakes falling with him.  While we enjoyed the beauty, it led to THREE days of school closings.  Just those three days were enough to make me appreciate my friends who live in colder climates, (I'm looking at you Sarah!) Three days were enough for all of us to experience a little cabin fever which made me think about the way I feel at the hospital.

I am so grateful for all of the people who have been helping to care for my father in the hospital, but I do not like to go there.  For a while I had to go because Dad was too weak to even push the call button for the nurse.  Now he is SO much better, but I still go to make sure I know what's going on and help him pass the time.  Plus now that he will be coming home next week we all have to be trained to help him move from his wheelchair to the bed and bathroom.  I will be so glad for him to be home for so many reasons not the least of which is I am so over the hospital. Over.  Done.
I'm tired of his room even though they have done everything they can to make us all comfortable.  I'm tired of all the noise even though I know it distracts Dad.  I'm tired of eating out every day and not being able to cook for my family.  I'm tired of leaving in the morning when everyone is asleep so I can be there when the doctors come by.  (But thank you to Dr. Warshauer for that reassuring and only slightly disturbing pep talk this morning, Dad loved it) I'm tired of trying to make sure we have help when we come home (a huge thank you to Vance for subtly nagging my mother for me)  I'm tired of existing in this loop between Dad's room and the therapy room (shout-outs here for Allen and Patrick who have helped Dad improve EVERY day) I am just tired of the hospital.
Last night Dad started worrying that he was never going to get home.  As much as I know it's irrational, I also understand it.  He's tired of the hospital, too.  We are all ready to go home.