Reflections on Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving has taken on a new complexion this year for those who live at our house. That would be Buddy, Charla, and me. To say that gratitude fills the air would be an understatement. While Charla is the go-to person for getting things done, I am the go-to person for pondering things. She tolerates and most times engages me around things that are deeply meaningful to us both.
At the top of the gratitude list would be Charla. Her "let's just get the job done" mentality has been more than evident for a long time. She drove Shoun and me from Denison, Texas, to Huntsville, AL with stops along the way to interview farmers. That was a lot of hours and a lot of miles. Then, from June 19 until now, she has been faithfully taking care of me. Lest that sound like something goofy, she has been the one who managed the doctor schedule, cleaned out ports, woke up with me during the night, and sat with me and grieved and wept, wondering when wellness would be amongst us again.
She, Buddy, me, and recovery have organized our lives since June 19 around illness. Long ago and far away, I would engage students, especially in the course, Special Topics in Family Therapy, or whatever it was called, in the notion of how illnesses become the organizing principle for families. They tell us what to do, when to do it, how to do it. So, five and a half months later, I am saying thank you to her for keeping me sane, for taking care of me when I could not take care of myself, and nurturing our relationship along the way. As we gently tell illness and surgeries to step back, that we can now handle things, I am simply overwhelmed with thankfulness for her.
On another note, I am thankful for my cancer diagnoses, cancer of the kidney and small cell lymphacytic lymphomena, because they remind me that nobody died and made me king of the universe. I find myself identifying with those who struggle with cancer and with those who are cancer survivors and those who do not know if nor when it will read its ugly head again. I am thankful to a God who heals and who is there with us in the healing. I am thankful to a God who loves, even when healing is not in the cards. I do not know how it is decided who gets well and who gets sick and transitions to the other life. All I know that God is present in the ER and the OR with all of us regardless of the outcome. I am thankful for the marvels of modern medicine. Without MRIs, CT scans, robotic surgical techniques, and those who make those things work, I would have less time on this earth than I actually have now.
No, I do not know how God and modern medicine dance. I am grateful for an attending Father, and I am grateful for attending physicians and their fellows.
In a few minutes five of our grandchildren will burst through the door. Two will travel an hour and a half to get here. Their parents and youngest brother will stay home and nurse their viruses. I am grateful for a son who knows that I do not need what they have. The youngest three will come through the front door. Buddy will greet them as he always does. The oldest grandson is already here. He came in last night and is asleep in the guest bedroom. I am thankful for all seven of them. I want to grow old and to watch them grow up.
I am grateful for an organization, its leaders, and its mission to make the world a better place for those who are farming while Black. BFAA invited Charla and me into its midst in 2005 and we have been there ever since. Gary Grant and his family invited us in and we have become family with them and they with us. I am grateful to be able to write, develop, and advocate for African American farmers. I am grateful for Shoun Hill as we have partnered and developed the documentary of those courageous 15 farmers who faced down the USDA and DOJ back in the late '90s. I am thankful for African American farmers and their families across this country who have trusted me with their stories. I recognize the fact that it's people who look like me who work in positions of power who have harmed them at times irreparably. They trusted me anyway. That trust will be evident when you see the documentary.
My heart weeps for those who died in this battle long before they saw justice arrive at their doorsteps. May God have mercy on their souls and may they rest in power. I am thankful for those hundreds of people who have contributed to the BFAA cause, focused on the documentary. Your support and friendship, frankly, blew me away.
I am thankful for my church, imperfect as it is, and its people who desire to serve the Lord in this region known as Texoma. I long for some things with my fellowship that may not happen in my lifetime.
I am thankful for friends who keep me honest, for other friends who join me in political, social, and justice-oriented things. That fellowship of head and heart keeps my mind moving, my agenda sharpened, and my faith strong.
And, finally, I am grateful for those follow me on Facebook and on this blog. Your encouragement in doing so moves my heart and inspires me to write more.

Needles, Phobias, and Stories

Long ago and far away I had a needle phobia, a serious needle phobia. It was real, complete with sweating, dreading, and pain far beyond what was really there in those nerve endings.  During my masters internships, I had the opportunity to sort through it. Apparently, there were some unconscious associations that were truly hidden deeply in my unconscious mind, and when those connections were made (that story is for another day), the phobia disappeared.

Now, after five months of two surgeries, multiple blood tests, a bone marrow aspiration, a partial nephrectomy, a gall bladder removal, and a diagnosis of small cell lymphacytic lymphoma, I feel all needled out, but tomorrow there will be at least one more, and there will be more down the road. 

Several people have made those penetrations and procedures bearable including, number one, hands down, is Charla.  She has been my number one supporter, cheerleader, and advocate. Of late we have discussed vicarious PTSD and the suffering of the caregiver. A distant second would be my medical team, those phlebotomists, technicians, nurses, nurse practitioners, and physicians, and the front line staff. 

Tomorrow I will show up for labs.  In that lab will be a large group of phlebotomists and some will recognize me and I will recognize them. I have my story of journeying to their place of work. They have their stories of journeying to their place of work from other countries. 

A goofy thing I do is to say to each person before she or he sticks the needle in my arm is the line, "I like to live in the pain-free zone. Can you help me live in that place?"  They usually say something after a chuckle like, "I don't know. You tell me." It lightens the moment and allows me to engage them and their stories. I will inevitably affirm their use of that needle. 

Tomorrow I hope to see Achal.  She is a very competent phlebotomist and is kind and gracious.  She immigrated to this country from South Sudan. She had wanted to go to college, if I remember her story correctly, and play volleyball. However, she chose to honor the request of her family, or the demands of her family, and thus she became a worker in the medical world.  She has lived in America several years.  When I asked her, "Has American been good to you," she replies with "there is no perfect place" and something about taking the good with the bad. 

I think America is not terribly welcoming these days to immigrants, especially those who are brown skinned. I do not know how much more difficult that it would be for people like her if they were trying to coming to American under the current administration. Check out a few things about the white nationalism that is lurking in the White House and is shaping policy.  It's all over the news these days.  

So, I'll be happy to see Achal or Amir or the guy from the Philippines whose name I cannot remember, the guy who put my blood in something like 17 vials a while back.

They have their stories of struggle and resilience.  Charla and I have our stories of struggle and resilience these last five months.  Our stories overlap and connect. That's what I like about hanging around with humans. We get to swap stories. 

Stories are our habituations.  We live in and through them. They give us meaning and purpose. 

As these good people do their jobs well, they are creating shalom, and some measure of justice, in making the world a better place, one procedure at a time.