A Sundog Moment Read online

  Because of the illness I learned selfishness; because of my children I am learning to be selfless.

  The many physical catastrophes that have no known explanation have allowed me to learn the pricelessness of living in this moment. I don’t—can’t—take anything for granted. Memories are created and then hoarded to a safe place because I know too well how quickly they can start to dissolve and fade into a mere glimmer of what used to be.

  Elizabeth grimaced. God, she knew about that; never in a million years would she have ever thought she’d be in this place. And in these shoes, she thought without humor, staring at her feet encased in top-of-the-line tennis shoes that she would always find ugly.

  She picked up the thread of this story again.

  It is through the losses I have learned substance. Because of the hurts a rocky faith has solidified. I don’t like the slotted niches of theology, so I simply describe myself as a Christian, but it’s not enough.

  The word sounds old and worn, used too easily by those who have no idea of the power hovering just beyond their reach. I almost use it reluctantly because I have so little in common with those who fix their boundaries that divide and define their rules as truth.

  It is also too small a word for its meaning, but because of it, the faith I have discovered (or perhaps it discovered me) is sure and remains dynamic and growing. Far from being static, it hums with the energy of a new day.

  And I have been warmed by many emerging lights that have crossed my path during these years of trying to reconcile the insanity of illness with the hope of restoration.

  These are the bright memories of people I began seeking soon after the doctors, who at first could offer no diagnosis, started hinting at what my future might hold.

  I didn’t believe them.

  Yet it was hard to ignore completely the physical changes that were already taking place, although only noticeable to me.

  I was a newspaper reporter who became fascinated by people who were facing extraordinary circumstances through no fault of their own, yet somehow were not only surviving, but thriving. I wrote many of their stories, hoping to figure out the why as well as the secrets as I fumbled toward my own uncertain future.

  Elizabeth paused again, thinking of her own life. She had gotten a degree in painting, but her only real career had been Kellan. And now her daughter was, for the most part, gone, stretching her own wings and learning about what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. Michael had never wanted her to work full-time. In those early days after Kellan was born, when his business required flexibility, he enjoyed having his family with him when he had to fly all over the country. She enjoyed it, had loved it, actually, but now she wondered in hindsight, How much had she really given up? She pulled the pages toward her again.

  It has been the knowledge of their strength and quiet courage that has sustained me more than once when fears and darkness started descending, when the danger was in not only becoming physically crippled but emotionally crippled as well.

  But what they couldn’t prepare me for were the people who have all the answers and others who have all the cures. Invariably, they are the ones without the tragedies or the illnesses.

  I have yet to meet anyone whose health surges and wanes like waves on the ocean’s shoreline who hasn’t encountered these attitudes.

  One judgment, based in part on fragments of a holy book, is that the fault is completely and all mine.

  Sure.

  Another is to deny everything until it goes away. That way, their God can be praised for a miraculous healing, and they can pat themselves on the back for being the conduit. What they ask for are lies. (Isn’t that supposed to be wrong somewhere in that holy book?)

  My legs are obviously not listening. Neither are my eyes. The hands continue to feel like they’re wrapped in gloves. The weight of fatigue suffocates as intensely as ever. But again, the fault is strictly mine.

  Right.

  There are other varieties, including the cures that are mine for the taking if only I would listen. How many times have I commiserated with others who are as incredulous as I over the outrageous things other people will say to us with certainty in their voices and haughty reproof of our inaction.

  Sometimes I struggle over whether to laugh or cry, but I also realize how grateful I am; all these people have caused me to search and discern what is real and what I believe. The truth isn’t about religion, it is simply about God; that’s not necessarily the same thing.

  I’m also sad for them, those who claim to believe as I do and yet pick and choose words from a holy book to fit their precepts, simply ignoring the rest. They don’t have a clue.

  It’s too simple. By struggling to find the way to real peace, you begin to understand the fallacies and presuppositions can only wither away when placed under the light of plain truth. But to know its fullness takes courage. My children and husband are among the many reasons I survive, but it’s more than just existing. Regardless of how I feel now, my deep-down, gut-level bottom line is one of immense joy. All the darker emotions that flutter across, like anger and depression, merely skim this surface. All of this has happened despite—or because of—the changes in my life.

  Throughout these years I have been confused, comforted, broken and made better, stretched and reborn, by a God—a Spirit I used to think would be so easy to tame. Now that I’m listening through a broken heart, I hear what has always been playing.

  Each time, from that dark abyss of illness I keep falling into (a place well known to anyone whose health is always on the edge), I try to reach for that greater prize: understanding myself and those around me through eyes filled with a love that has no conditions, no boundaries . . .

  I may not like where I’ve been, and there are recollections that remain safely locked away except on strong, good days, but the joy of hope, the hope that is faith, wraps tangible arms around my life, extends to the ones I love, and even more so than this illness, won’t ever let go.

  I’m still reaching.

  There it was again: faith. Elizabeth sat back, and her thoughts tripped and somersaulted as she tried to sort through and make sense of them. She looked out the window to a clear, uncomplicated sky and saw nothing.

  Certainly this was a very moving essay; Lynne Howard was a talented writer, yet the content made her want to—what? She wanted to do much more than understand, she wanted to absorb it . . . but how? It was like reaching for the past as memories kept dimming.

  Did Lynne know how lucky she was? Did she have any idea? She and Michael had formed a silent truce since the shoe incident, but she could feel his deep concern. She knew he was edgier around her, as if coiled, ready to spring into action if she needed help. He was anticipating the worst and she hated it. He never said anything, but she knew how his mind worked.

  Michael, on the other hand, tried hard not to let his concern show and thought he was being successful. They were easing along like two polite strangers, although they were still intimate. There was a wall, protective or otherwise, neither of them was willing or able to scale. Elizabeth jumped as she heard the back door open and Michael came in, suitcase in hand, a smile growing when he saw her.

  She hadn’t thought it was that late but now saw the oven clock and realized it was much, much later. In some ways, she thought, it was too late.

  In typical fashion, Virginia Mae had waited a whole week after Elizabeth returned from the river before barging in early one morning. She had thrown herself dramatically into her daughter’s arms.

  “I’m sorry; I’m so sorry, Elizabeth. I was only trying to help. Please, you have to forgive me.” Her tone was insistent, determined, and Elizabeth, ready to acquiesce, suddenly saw the truth.

  Clearly, this had nothing to do with what she wanted, it had everything to do with what her mother wanted.

  Elizabeth sighed, patting her mother on the back. “Of course I forgive you.” There was little conviction in her voice, but it was the words that mattered,
not the sincerity, she noted, as Virginia Mae straightened and dabbed her eyes and nose with a handkerchief. She clutched Elizabeth’s hand with her free one and marched them both into the kitchen.

  “I’ll make coffee while you go and get dressed. I have all morning free, and I want very much to spend it with my daughter.”

  Elizabeth sadly thought of her desire to return to bed; she had planned to sleep in this morning but realized it wasn’t an option. Not when Virginia Mae had already decided her morning for her.

  Clad in jeans, tennis shoes, and a sweater, she wandered back into the kitchen, breathing in the percolating coffee. She saw that her mother had set the table nicely and had brought cake. “It’s cheese Danish, from that little shop on Grove Avenue you like so much.” Virginia Mae finished cutting a piece for each of them and then licked her finger. “Delicious.”

  Elizabeth admired her mother’s rose silk dress, high heels, and pearls and wondered if her mother had gotten so dressed up just to demand forgiveness. She commented on how nice she looked.

  “Oh, Julia and I are having lunch at the Jefferson with the executive committee of the state women’s club.”

  That would do it, Elizabeth thought.

  After her mother left, Elizabeth picked up the dishes and put them in the sink. She heard the mail slide through the door slot and went to get it.

  She had gotten a response! She had written Lynn Sears Howard after reading the essay and was thankful for the quick response. After reading the letter, Elizabeth immediately went to her journal.

  Lynne Sears Howard wrote today. Her letter is as well written as her essay. Why do words fall into place so easily for some, while others like me fumble and stumble before fleshing out a thought that still doesn’t sing?

  She tells me not to be too hard on my husband, that the adjustments hit each person differently. “There is no right or wrong way to react. As long as you keep your hearts open to discussion, things will keep balancing. And that’s what it is, a balancing act,” Lynne wrote.

  “I will tell you, my husband was furious with me when I declined the doctor’s advice. All my sight had left during one horrible night that will remain infamous till the day I die . . . I already knew the more I used the steroid treatments, the less they would work. Why? My specialists can’t tell me, so I have to wonder if taking them changes something in our bodies so healing can’t take place each time.

  “I have questions; they don’t have answers—yet. Anyhow, my husband, Conrad, was livid, and I understood his fury came from his intense worry about me.

  “I didn’t realize it at the time, but intuitively I had lost control over so much, I wasn’t going to lose control over my choice of treatment!

  “Within ten days my sight started to come back, and by the end of six months my eyes were perfect. I knew I had done the right thing for me and, eventually, my husband agreed. After Conrad read everything I already knew, and after my vision began returning, he apologized. But he made me promise this would never happen to me again.

  “I can make such a promise because no one knows what will happen. So I’m free to decide for myself. And there is no one who can tell me differently. Follow your own instincts, Elizabeth! Learn everything you need to make the best decisions for yourself and then listen to your body.

  “Father Wells has told me how special you are. I’m praying for you.”

  Elizabeth closed the journal after placing the letter inside. Throughout the day she thought about portions of it. So Lynne and her husband had not always agreed? That made Elizabeth feel slightly better about Michael. Perhaps realizing change was inevitable—not expecting it, but not being blindsided when it happened, maybe that was the key, that was the way she and Michael could both deal with it.

  It might have worked had she ever thought to discuss it with him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Coffee hour following church was as inevitable as day following night. The staunch parishioners were always there, steady as the brick foundation anchoring the church, along with newer members, young and old.

  Elizabeth stood near the wall. This was the second Sunday she had attended with cane in hand, the only outward sign that something was wrong—or different. The necessity of the brace had caused her for the first time ever to start wearing pants to church. What else could she do? There were no decent dress shoes available to accommodate the hated brace. She smiled and nodded to people she knew, thankful no one came up to talk; it was just like last Sunday. Elizabeth was still very self-conscious about the cane, so it didn’t bother her that no one came up to speak. She did find herself wishing Carol was here today, but Carol’s mother had declared it was time to visit friends in Florida.

  She kept taking small sips of her coffee and tried not to blush; would she ever get over feeling this conspicuous?

  Michael was talking to Gordon and some other contemporaries but kept a surreptitious eye on his wife, who looked beautiful, he thought. He was also glad he’d talked her into letting him invest in that sturdy, ergonomically correct cane. Of course, she had insisted that the handle also had to look good.

  He stared as a man he’d never seen before walked over to Elizabeth and started talking. Tall and well built, the stranger had white close-cropped hair that would indicate military. Michael wondered who he was.

  “I couldn’t help noticing your beautiful cane. I wanted to come over and ask, what did you do to your leg?” The question was posed in a very charming, confident tone. Elizabeth looked at him blankly.

  “What did I do?” she repeated, the question not making any sense. He nodded expectantly, and it was his turn to look surprised when she said in an incredulous voice, “Nothing.” The simple, God’s honest truth was she had done nothing to need to use a cane, and that was the real bite.

  He was startled for a moment, but then something clicked. His eyes cleared and his mouth lifted up as he realized his mistake. “Oh, I see. I’m sorry. You’re making a fashion statement. Well done.”

  He nodded amiably and left Elizabeth standing perfectly still, too shocked to speak. Fashion statement? He thought she was making a fashion statement? How dare he!

  By the time Michael walked over, she was almost trembling from this new injustice. How dare that man accuse her of using a cane for no useful purpose. All somebody had to do was look at her to see she needed it. How could he say such a thing to her?

  Michael listened to her whispered rage and then fed that anger by pointing out in a reasonable voice, “But you told him you didn’t do anything, what else was he supposed to think?”

  She glared at him and he held up his hands. “Hey, look, point him out to me. I’ll go beat him up, okay?”

  Her reluctant smile broke into a giggle. She shushed him. “Don’t be silly. But it was ridiculous for him to assume such a stupid thing. All you have to do is look at me to see I need it.”

  Michael surprised her. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “You don’t look like you need it. With this little stick, you move more gracefully than any of the other women here today.” His smile was full of admiration, something she hadn’t seen or noticed in a long time.

  “Really?” She had no idea he felt that way.

  “Really. Absolutely. Positively. Now, do you still want me to go after that guy?” His grin embraced and lifted her.

  “Well, not this Sunday,” she said, taking his arm.

  The atmosphere at home that afternoon was a little easier, a little friendlier. They talked and laughed, and Elizabeth actually felt relaxed by the time the day was over. She made note of it in her journal the next day because it had been such a long time since that had happened.

  “Have you thought about herbs?” Carol wanted to know.

  They were inside the Whittaker family room. Elizabeth was resting on the couch, her legs tucked up beneath her; Carol was on the opposite settee, rummaging through a large tote bag she had brought with her this morning. Wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, she looked like a
college kid.

  “Herbs?” Elizabeth repeated without interest.

  “Yeah, herbs. Look, I got this book from the store. It has diseases broken down in the index and tells which herbs can help with each disease.” She handed the large and colorful book to Elizabeth, who dutifully reached for it and then nearly dropped it, it was so heavy.

  “They say it can really help. Why, some people have been almost totally cured. It says it all in there.” Carol, pleased with her findings, looked expectantly at Elizabeth.

  “‘They’ say it helps?” Elizabeth put a little extra emphasis on the word they.

  “Yes. It’s very interesting. Oh, and I also got you a book about a low-fat diet. It’s definitely supposed to help people like you.”

  “Marvelous!” Elizabeth murmured. “But I’ve always eaten low-fat; you know that.”

  “Yes, but this is very, very low-fat. See, it has specific recipes and everything. They say it has really helped people with your disease. Some people have had this thing thirty years and more and they’ve remained very stable. They haven’t gotten, you know, worse.”

  “‘They’ again,” Elizabeth repeated and sat up a little straighter, as if to give herself a little boot of energy. “You know, I have to say, I have never met the euphemistic ‘they’ you keep talking about. I suppose it’s a wonderful, useful word that encompasses so much . . . but says so little.” She looked at Carol’s confused face and smiled.

  “Oh, I’ll look at everything, I will. Do you know I’ve been reading about bee venom therapy, too? And instead of ‘they,’ there are actual people who are willing to put their names out as being helped by this. What do you think of that?”

  She saw Carol’s eyes roll. “I think you could kill yourself with that. Have you ever heard of anaphylactic shock?”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “Other people manage to work it out.”

  Carol couldn’t imagine. Since the shoe episode, Elizabeth’s attitude toward life had become hard to figure. There were shutters that hadn’t been there before. Her cousin had always been easy to read; you knew where you stood with Elizabeth because she would tell you. No surprises. Carol wasn’t sure if Elizabeth was serious about this bee thing or just throwing that out to deflect what she was trying to do, which was only to help.