The Miracle Man

Last week I spent nearly every waking minute at Providence Hospital in Everett, watching a miracle unfold before my eyes.

John, a dear friend of ours, was at our house for my son’s birthday and that very night started vomiting, thinking he’d come down with the flu.  After two days, his wife, Dee, insisted he go to the doctor.  Unable to get him up, she called 911.  They too said it was probably “just the flu.”

An MRI was performed in the ER to look for problems with his stomach, and that’s when they discovered that the pericardium sac around his heart was full of blood.  He’d had a massive heart attack, which blew a hole right through his left ventricle.  This is not the kind of thing people survive.

When they tried to drain the blood, they got nothing, as it had been there long enough to coagulate.  John’s heart stopped and they put him on life support long enough to talk with the family.  I was with Dee when the doctor came in to ask if John had a Living Will because the situation was as dire as it could be. They’d have to open up his chest and take extraordinary measures to try and save him.  This was not an easy thing to hear, but this is where, when the storms of life happen, it’s good to have faith.  So we prayed.

We found out later, if John had any symptoms of a heart attack when he arrived at the ER, they would have put him on blood thinners, which would have killed him instantly because it would have dissolved the clot that had plugged the hole in his heart. It’s evident the hand of God was upon him from the get-go.

The doctor gave John a 50/50 chance of surviving the surgery, but the reality is, it was a zero percent chance because no one had ever survived John’s condition and most doctors wouldn’t have even tried.

John is an incredible man who mentors countless pre-teen boys and encourages them in a “mind/body/soul” kind of way – keeping their bodies strong, their mind’s sharp and their souls in touch with God.  He’s had a profound impact on many boys, including my own, for decades, as this is his gift to the world.  Even at my husband’s 70^th birthday party, he gave a $20 tip to each one of my son’s friends who helped as servers, but it was his words of praise they treasured most.  He told each of them what an excellent job they’d done and how proud he was of their service.  Never a negative word comes out of that man.

John is well connected with many folks who have connections to God Almighty.  He is doing well and his recovery can only be explained as miraculous.  After his head nurse read his medical record and in somewhat of a quandary asked his doctor how it is that he is still alive, his doctor could only say, “He has a lot of people praying for him.”  And as I well know, and have seen, prayer changes things.  ‘Tis the season of miracles.

Happy Birthday!

My boy turned 15 last Saturday.  Kaleb’s due date was November 25^th, so I did everything I could to induce labor weeks before that so he wouldn’t ever have his birthday between Thanksgiving and Christmas. That’s a busy time of year for me, but also for everyone else and I anticipated that birthday party scheduling would certainly be a challenge.  I should have known he would be a strong willed child when he didn’t obey my wishes from the get-go.

Plan B took center stage right from the start, as I then planned to celebrate his birth in the summer, on his HALF birthday, when more people could attend and it was more sensible to be outdoors.  These all day summer parties have been an event for entire families and a bit over-the-top by some standards.  In contrast, Kaleb’s actual birthday in December has always been a pretty low-key affair with just our wonderful neighbors and a few other adults joining us for lunch.

But the one thing we’ve done each year, since his second birthday, to make the actual day somewhat special, is fill his room with balloons the night before, so when he wakes up on his birthday, his room is transformed into a very fun place to be, even if he is all by himself.

Every year Kaleb tries to stay awake long enough to catch us in the act of bringing in the balloons, but we continue to rise to the challenge, even if it means we stay up later and later each year.  It takes hours to fill 350 balloons, even with an air compressor, and my fingers are numb from tying all those knots, but it’s so worth it in the end.  Kaleb can’t wait to wake up and jump off his bed into a sea of balloons that bounce around haphazardly as he moves about like a mole under the lawn.  He bats them around from one wall to the next and then disappears like a ninja as he holds still and calls for me, seeing if I can find him somewhere under the three plus feet of balloons.  It just never gets old. 

What does get old is retrieving balloons that have escaped from his room and picking up bits of exploded balloons for several months afterwards.  But considering we only have two more birthdays with him until he’s potentially off to college, and I’m pretty sure his roommate won’t appreciate our little tradition, I’ll just enjoy this part of his childhood as long as I can and try hard not to complain about the after affects.

The first time we did the balloons, I thought it was a one-time deal, but based on the pure joy that it brought him, we did it again the next year… and the next and the next.  It was never meant to be a tradition, but I guess that’s how traditions get started.  Something so good happens that it’s worth repeating. 

Homer Balls

I have discovered over the years, when I’m feeling a little down, I can raise my level of happiness in life, by simply giving what I need to get.  It’s a bit like the “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” way of thinking.  If love is needed, it’s best to give a little love and then the need for love gets met in the giving.  If friendships are lacking, then the old adage “to have a friend, be a friend” works very well.  Often when I want a little more romance in my life, doing romantic things for my husband satisfies my need for it in the process.  It’s simple.  But when it comes to gift giving, that same principle doesn’t really work out so well.

Years ago my friend, Dani, was seething when she told me about the new VCR she had gotten from her husband for Christmas.  Turns out she didn’t want it, nor did they need it, but her husband had his eye on it, so he bought it “for her” as a gift.  She called it a “Homer Ball.” I had to ask why she called it that and she went on to tell me about some episode of “The Simpsons” in which Homer bought his wife, Marge, a new bowling ball for her birthday.  Homer had his name engraved on it and it fit his fingers, not hers. It was the epitome of selfish gift giving.  This phrase has since become a mainstay in Dani’s marriage as her husband gives her “Homer Balls” all the time, and she rarely gets a thing she actually wants.

I hadn’t realized, before Dani pointed this out to me, that I sometimes do the same thing.  When our son was little, I really wanted his portrait taken.  I had a spot on the wall picked out where a very large copy of that portrait could go, but it was hard for me to justify the expense of something like that just to satisfy my own selfish desires.  I felt very clever in wrapping it up and putting it under the Christmas tree as a gift for my husband.  While he enjoyed the portrait, too, he knew right away who it was really for.  Busted. 

This “Homer Ball” phrase is now listed in the “Urban Dictionary” as a commonly used phrase in today’s world, and sadly, occasionally used in our household, as well, as we are quick to point out when a gift seems to have ulterior motives.

A few times, on Christmas morning, Kaleb has opened a gift then gives me that look as he says, “This is a Homer Ball, isn’t it?”  I’ve explained that just because I’ll enjoy using something he got for Christmas, doesn’t make it any less his gift.  So he’s trumped the whole process by charging me rent when I do.  So I’m thinking this year what I really need to ask for is something on Kaleb’s wish list.

Birthday Boy

My husband, Kory, turned 70 last Sunday.  It’s a daunting number from where I sit, years away from even turning 60.

At any age, each day is such a gift, but I felt it was worth celebrating the fact Kory’s now lived more than 25,550 of them.  So I threw a party – a real Norwegian formal birthday party. I violated a few basic rules, however, with the biggest one being the number of guests in attendance.  Norwegians would only have about 20-30, and our Americanism showed through with nearly 150 showing up.  I had to rent Maple Hall just to have space for them all.

I made appetizers that were in line with what Norwegians eat when they invite folks over for coffee.  Open faced sandwiches with imported goat cheese, or white cheese with red peppers or cucumbers on top.  I made just one platter of sliced eggs topped with caviar, thinking no one would be brave enough to try such a thing, yet that was the first platter to be emptied.  There were a few more Norwegians in attendance than I expected.  Of course there was also pickled herring and dried fish, but I had to set the bowl of dried fish outside the entrance because it was stinking up the place.  I was hoping the seagulls would discover it before I had to pack up any leftovers.

Dinner was a catered affair and far from the fat free vegan food Kory’s been eating for the last two years due to his heart disease.  For his birthday he broke all the rules and fully enjoyed the food in front of him.  I jokingly told him if the fat in the food killed him, at least he had one last visit with all his friends before he went.

I notified everyone that the Norwegian birthday tradition is that people write speeches, often in poetic form, or re-write the words to familiar songs, to sing to the birthday boy.  A good portion of the party time was listening to these speeches and singing along with the songs, which added a great deal to the merriment of the day.

The dessert table was a big hit as Norwegian custom dictates everyone brings a cake so the tables were lined up from one end of the hall to the other and there still wasn’t room for everything. 

The bulk of the people in attendance were from the church crowd Kory hung with in the 1960s.  It’s incredible that so many people maintained these friendships their entire lives.  To refer to them as “old” friends is no joke.  A few didn’t attend because they forgot which day it was or they were in too poor of health. At least my man is still standing. 

Kory was bragging that his fat free vegan diet is supposed to help him live longer, but someone told him it really doesn’t – it just makes it seem like it.  Either way, it was one out of 25,550 days he’ll never forget.  At least, I sure hope he doesn’t.

Ownership

When my son, Kaleb, was twelve months old, he loved to climb up on our dining room table.  This was not a sight for the weak of heart, since hardwood floors would greet his skull, should he ever fall off.  Over and over again, I lifted him off the table, told him not to do that, and he’d climb right back up there.  It made me crazy.  Finally, I decided to give him a choice.  The next time he did it, rather than tell him to get down, I just asked him what he wanted me to do when he fell off.  Should I take him to the doctor? Kiss his owie?  What?

Of course, he wasn’t able to verbalize an answer, but he fully understood the question.  He looked at me, thought about it, and climbed down off the table himself and never went back up there again.

This sense of ownership, I discovered, is also important in the workplace.  Years ago I attended a management class where we were told of a true story about two brand new fire trucks.  In one city, the fire chief had gathered all the materials available to study what vehicles were available and he bought the fire truck that he felt would work best for his men.  The other city, which I remember was Portland, Oregon, the fire chief gathered the information and gave it to his firemen to decide for themselves which fire truck they wanted. 

At a conference soon thereafter, the two chiefs were talking about their new trucks.   The chief from Portland was raving about his truck and how much his men loved it, how protective they were of it, and that they polished it every chance they got.  The other chief said he’d had the opposite experience.  His men were complaining about every detail of it and didn’t embrace it at all.  Turns out, they both had purchased the exact same truck.  The only difference was, the Portland chief let those using it make the decision; the other hadn’t.

For years I’ve been fighting a losing battle with my son over the condition of his bedroom.  His floor has been “missing in action,” as the piles of papers, clothes and miscellaneous entertainment paraphernalia cover it from one end to the other. 

A couple months ago we happened upon Ikea and as we walked through the store, Kaleb started eyeing shelving units and bedroom furniture he thought would be nice to have in his room.  It was worth a shot, I thought, as I remembered the story of the fire trucks.  A few hundred dollars later, he now has a place for everything, and surprisingly, everything stays in place. 

His room as well as his attitude have been transformed.   I’ve even heard him say the words, “I really need to clean my room,” and I honestly don’t know what he’s referring to, since to me, nothing seems to be amiss.  Ownership, apparently, was the key.