Footprints in the Sand

        I was becoming moody.  Three months had passed since our collision.  Having decreased my narcotic dose, I was more lucid, which allowed me to remember more of my daily pain.  Misery was normal.  Moodiness came from lowering my narcotic consumption and frustration of not being able to accomplish what  I want to do each day. 

      I had never sat this much in my life.  My mind would not let me focus to read, I stared at the tv without hearing it.  I was exhausted from healing, I was bored, I couldn't drive, I couldn't leave my house on my own, I couldn't do much at all without help.  

     I was pissed about it. 

      Dependency is not my personality.  Greg sat with me and explained this is the third time I had gone through this phase of frustration.  Remembering this time only, I was stunned by his confession.  

     I did not go around the house screaming or throwing things, but my family could sense how irritable I was.  I did not want to talk, I did not want to be alone, but I did not want to be around anyone at the same time.   I just wanted to stand up! 

     Limbo, is where I was swinging right then.  We did not know if I would walk well or when.  We did not know if my ankles would hold me or how long.  We did not know how long the actual healing was going to take.  We did not know much, except that I was surviving. 

      Reminding myself of this often helped me work through my days.  I am grateful that I am alive.  I do not want to give up the life God granted.  Somehow I had to work through this and learn patience.  Please God, grant me the patience.  

     Greg and I spoke at length about how I could find peace with dependency until I could do things on my own.  I could see it was wearing on him.  He'd gotten upset only once, at least that's all that I can remember and I believe I am the one that pushed him.  

     Knowing that I do not know what I am saying most of the time requires great understanding from him.  He is my living angel.  He has patience, understanding, a thick skin and a love for me that carries us all.  I hold onto his strength so tightly that I hope that I do not drain it from him completely.  

     Thoughts of how well I was going to recover were constantly boring their way into my mind.  I desperately wanted Greg to understand my thoughts, feelings, all of these emotions swirling their way around inside of me.  He is unbelievably compassionate, but I see in his deep, brown eyes, a lack of full comprehension.  

     He's cannot fully understand because he experienced a different side of this tragedy.  It is not fair of me to get upset by this.  I felt I was at my lowest, saddest point in recovery. If it hurt this terribly to sit, it was going to be more excruciating to stand.  Maybe it would be better to stay in the wheelchair.....  Maybe it would be better to remove my right lower leg.....  Anything had to be better than what I was going through at that time. 

      Explaining to him that I felt like I was going through this part alone, he softly says that while we were in the hospital he read a phrase in the hospital gift shop and would like to recite it to me. 

      Holding my hands loosely in his, he looks tenderly at me, "Carey, you are asking me why you feel alone during your weakest moments and I think this is your answer.  The quote said,  

"Why, during my hardest times was there only one set of footprints in the sand?"  God answered, "You were not alone.  That is when I was carrying you, when you were not strong enough to carry yourself." 

  I stared, awestruck at him, lips parted, eyes wide with understanding.  I could not believe how true those words rang.  Greg's timing with that phrase was impeccable.  I could only sit there and allow that to sink in as my admiration for my husband grew.   

     He kneels on the floor beside my wheelchair and caresses my hand.  He says softly, sympathetically, "I can't fix this part for you Carey.  You cannot take the idea of being vulnerable and depending on others to take care of your needs, I can sense this."  

     "You feel guilty and it's causing a great deal of frustration.  Let us take care of you and make yourself a priority for once in your life.  I don't just love you Carey, I adore you." 

      I'm sobbing at his words, he is spot on.  "Carey, you haven't cried about what has happened, not once.  Just cry and let it all out," he begs.  I sobbed on his shoulder until I could sob no more.  

I Don't Like Everyone I Meet

      Eh Hum.   Well that's kind of rude.

   
     There are always those that no matter how grand life is, they will always find something wrong with it.  No matter if you performed your activity with pure perfection, they will always find something you could do better.  They can take a simple conversation about how wonderful the sun feels and turn it into a full blown negative conversation about how it is shining too much or not enough. 

     We walk away from that negative conversation with our own shoulders slumped, our spirit stomped on  and no smile on our faces. 

     It is not fair of me to say that I don't like everyone I meet, it is more correct to state that I just do not enjoy everyone's company that I meet. 

     We all encounter those individuals that when you see them from afar, you stop, assess the situation and look for an alternate route around them.  We know the conversation will be pessimistic before we even start and we are not always in the mood to deal with the unfavorable effects that the exchange could have on us.

     Let me tell you of this story.

     The Spring after I began writing my blog I encountered one such woman.  It's not like I could avoid her each and every time we met, since we attended many of the same events.  One such day I turned and observed her making a bee line straight for me.   My muscles tensed, my teeth gritted against each other and I thought, " Oh SNAP!"  Too late.  Eye contact.  Fudge.

     Walking back to our vehicles slowly we began the usual exchange.  I could have given her a pot of gold and it would not have changed her attitude.  I finally had to tell her that her outlook about everything  sucked.  In a polite, but straight forward fashion that is.  

     She stopped us on the pathway and told me how much it meant to her that I was honest and that she faithfully reads my blog.  That she looks forward to each week.  

     I nodded, smiled and said thank you and turned to leave because I did not wholeheartedly believe her.  She then put her hands on my shoulders so that I would pay better attention and said, " No Carey, you don't understand.  My shoulders are so heavy.  I have a hard time handling my life and keeping a positive attitude.  When I read your blog  it brings me some peace and perspective."

     Oh.

     Standing there in shock, trying to quickly comprehend what just erupted out of this woman's mouth, I learned a lesson about myself.   I judged her quickly because of the exterior that she portrayed.  I did not once attempt to look past it at the depressed spirit she was carrying around.   I didn't want to.  It was not pleasant to be around her.  Her body slumped and her eyes, for the first time, were not hard with resentment.

     I sighed.  At the same time I was recovering from her confession, I rolled my eyes toward God for pushing me to do the right thing and silently sent him a message.  " You had better make it worth it when I get up there!"  I envision that His lips formed a slight smirk and I believe He even added a sarcastic wink.  He has a sense of humor, that God.

     We have no idea who will need us and when.  We have no

idea how our words or actions can affect someone.  Had she not put her hands on my shoulders, I would have quickly ended our conversation for fear of how it would spiral down.  I did not offer advice, I listened and fervently attempted to steer her down a more positive path. ( for everyone's sake!)

     Since that time we have developed a better relationship and even spoke of that exact moment as I am describing it to you.  As it turns out, she assumed I was a bit of a snoot because of my quiet personality and tendency to be introverted.  I snickered at our scene.  Here we both made assumptions without knowing the true reality of each other.  

     God puts us in positions that are not always desirable to us.  The position that He puts us in may be a lesson for our own learning or it could be that He is using us because that spirit He created will not listen to Him.  In this instance, I learned something as well as helped one of His children at the same time. 

 That, friends, is an incredible 

feeling.

 

Why Can't Catholics Just Sit Down During Mass?

     How many of you Catholics have been asked this question?

      Why do Catholics sit down, stand up AND kneel?  I have been asked this a few times in my youth and some in adulthood.  Unable to recall what my answers have been, I have not thought about this much.  Always being a member of the Catholic faith, I did not care. We have always practiced Mass this way and as a child I thought this was how  everyone participated in church.  Until I was twelve years of age, when I attended a different denomination with a friends family, I was like, "Hey, they get to sit the entire time?"

     Still unable to remember anything specific about why our faith practices this way, I did not think about this again until my third year of recovery after my collision.  At the point where I could begin participating at a slow rate, I was between the stages of "not quite, but almost".  I could not kneel and could not stand but for a few minutes at a time.  Then the congregation would sit and repeat.  Sometime during Mass I asked, "Who... in this world made the rule that Catholics cannot just sit through Mass and listen?  Was it God or some human being that decided on their own and none of us challenged that decision?"  That Sunday morning was quite annoying to myself and I thought it simply silly.  

     Hanging my head, I, of course, knew I was more irritated that I could not perform these actions to what I thought should be in my

capability than at the rules themselves.  There must be significance to all of this otherwise we would not do it.  Giving the thought some quality time, I feel as if I could make a good assumption.  Still I did not research on the reasoning behind this.  I now gauge my recovery progress on how well I can perform them each week.  Participating through the entire Mass is attainable now, I just fidget with how comfortable it is.  Instead of having to genuflect before entering the pew, I am able to kneel and make the sign of the cross.  Almost, I cannot quite get that knee all the way to the ground for fear of making a scene upon returning to full height, but I have that sign of the cross down pat.

     Over the past few months, I have piqued my own interest enough to really research this and discover for my own curiosity, why.  It is my faith and something I practice each week, so it is really a simple fact that I should know and be able to pass on to others as they question me, especially my children.

     Standing and kneeling have significance during our presentation of faith.  If we did not sit, these two actions would not have the significance that it does, so sitting is a kind of "base worship."  

     Standing is required when the priest proceeds to the alter.  The Gospel book and cross are also brought to the front of the church.  This shows the amount of respect we have for those three things as well as when the Gospel is read.  The Gospel is the words and actions of Jesus Christ.  All important things I would say.

     Kneeling is the ultimate gesture of showing our humility as humans.  We are not on the same level as God, we are his servants to help spread his kindness.  This also shows our obedience and commitment to Him and his visions for us here on earth.  

     Now ultimately all of this is up to the parishioner.  Each one of us has the right to sit the entire Mass.  Those with injuries, disabilities or old age are not required either.  I suppose at some juncture if a healthy individual attended Mass on a regular basis, but did not participate in standing or kneeling, curiosity as to "why" would get the better of us.  As far as I know, God just wants our attention any way He can get it and He does not care if you are lying on the ground looking at the sky or kneeling in church.

     Catholics are still extremely traditional.  A few things have been challenged and updated,but for the most part the faith still remains as it did when in its original venture.  This does not bother me so much.  I am somewhat of a feminist and do have disagreements about some parishes not allowing female servants near the alter, forms of birth control and female priests.  I alone will not change any of that.  Continuing to believe in Gods vision for us and myself, grasping the meaning of His words and genuinely doing my part is what I am more concerned about.  

     I will say that He is the only One I would ever kneel before, which show how much respect and belief I have in Him.

      

Four Years in the Making

     Never has four years moved so slow and so fast at the same time.  Turning around to look back at my life during those years, it has sped by.  How can four years have passed so quickly?  Breaking the years down into each of eleven surgeries, those days passed at a crawl.

      Reflecting often during my days working on the farm, I ask myself, " Now that you are at the end of your recovery, what would you change regarding your experience?"  This is not a quick answer to be spat out, it requires digging deep within, to a place usually reserved for those few times in our lives when something rocks us to our core.  So I sit and get real with myself.  

     Would I change anything?   Of course I wish the collision would not have happened, but that was not in my control.  I am well educated in pain, but it keeps me humble.  The journey was long and hard, but look at the life lessons I have reaped.   My family has endured this time with me as I healed my broken body, but they have learned how to pull together when times are tough.  This one single event has caused incredible amounts of pain for many, but for myself,  it has given me a better home in life.  

      Physically I am handicapped, but emotionally and spiritually, I am in a area that I have never been before.  God is not one to pass up opportunity.  He has given us freedom to choose so he could not stop the collision, but he took the time to present to me an opportunity to work on myself, my relationship with others and my relationship with Him.  Again, it was my choice to accept this convenience, but I know He tugged at me diligently to walk in His direction.  

     The year has closed and a new year has just begun.  I have no idea how I will write this next segment of my life and for once I am not going to plan it out.  I will live and learn as I go.  I will appreciate the gift of my own life and I will believe in myself.  Not having an outline will be a contrast for me as I am letting Him lead me, but I do feel a bit of excitement at the unknown.  With Him as my escort, I am no longer afraid.  I guess my answer is, no.  Even I shake my head at that conclusion, but this is what I feel.

      Although I have never asked the question, "Why?" this happened to me, while recovering I did not understand why the path had to be so difficult.  Until now.   

We would never listen unless it was.

Touched by Angels

    

    
      Each week as I ready for blog writing, I let my topic come to me as I go through my every day activities.  Not knowing until I was in church this morning, sitting, listening to the homily, I had  to look down for my eyes were whelming with grateful tears as I remember my first church visit four months after our collision.  Yes, this is what I should share today as the holiday season is among us, as we sit, look back at all we are grateful for and bask in all that we are given.  At the suggestion of a wonderful high school classmate of mine, I want to bring up how each one of us can be someone's angel, right here on this earth we live on. 

    Easter was late that year, April 24th.  Our priest suggested that I wait to come to church until my pain lessened and I became more mobile.   Unable to drive or attend many of my families activities,  unable to stand being cooped up any longer, I asked my husband to take me to mass.  Rolling me into church, I could feel warm eyes on me, although welcome, I felt small in that wheelchair, stripped of my independence.    Dragging my bottom from the chair to the hard, wood bench, I cringed.  I had forgotten to bring a seat cushion.  Weighing around 110 lbs, there was not much padding for my sore tailbone that I had been sitting on, without relent, for many months.  One of our daughters finally gave me their coat to ease my discomfort and stop the grinding sound that came from my constant fidgeting.  

     With that taken care of my ankles started talking to me, before long they were barking and by communion, howling.  Since they are elevated most of the day to relieve the pressure of my injuries, an hour of hanging down has caused deep aches and a pounding each time my heart beat.  We all know that Easter mass is a tad longer than a normal Sunday devotion.  Admitting silently that this was not one of my best ideas, communion commenced, meaning we were close to ending.

     I sat on the right side of church, in the front row, at the end of the pew, farthest from the aisle.  I had not heard or absorbed a single word of mass since entering the church.  Concentrating solely on increasing my comfort and berating myself for being impatient with my progress, I had lost the purpose of even attending with my family. 

      Keeping my head down as parishioners received the Eucharist, I felt the first soft touch on my right shoulder.  Gently smiling, I

covered this man's hand and nodded thank you.  Lacing my fingers together, I laid my clasped hands in my lap as another hand gingerly touched my shoulder as they passed by me, another patting, another squeezing, another caressing, another and another and another. 

      Each one of these wonderful angels spoke volumes to me as they moved past.  No words, just touch.  Soft, compassionate, reassuring shoulder embraces.  This was not sorrow or pity from what had happened to me.  This was normal people being sent as angels to comfort.  One hot tear fell from the corner of my right eye and then one more.  As more parishioners moved past me, more tears fell.  I could not lift my eyes for fear of completely collapsing emotionally.  So many hands that I could not count touched my heart.  

     With nothing to wipe my eyes, I sat there, slightly bent, watching the tears fall from the contours of my face to the fabric of my pants as the line moved forward.  My face was hot from the cascade of emotion sliding down my cheeks.  Silent sobs racked my chest in even increments as I earnestly kept them from escaping.   Unable to hide what was transpiring within me, my soaked eyelashes laid on my cheeks for the remainder of the hour.  

     Incapable of succeeding exclusively on my own, I accepted the help of others for the first time that I can cite.  Beholden with gratitude at what God asked these individuals to do that day and their willingness to accept has been the foundation of my successful rehabilitation.  Never knowing when we will be called upon, we should live gratefully and selflessly all year long instead of growing a soft heart only near the holidays or when tragedy beats on our door.  It did not matter that I heard no words recited from scripture this day, He said everything I needed to hear transmitted through your touch.  

   

  It is said that if angels exist, they have wings and halos above their head.  That they only show themselves when we reach so deep within ourselves that we touch a place we never knew we even had.  

But I see angels every day and they look just like you.

He Helped me Answer my Own Question

     I wrote about this day many months ago waiting for one of my children to be released from practice.  I stored it in a notebook I carried with me to write down my random thoughts.  Several months ago, I tore it out of my notebook and discarded it, knowing I would not share this experience for fear of what others would think.  Fear of others rejecting the brilliant hour that turned my torture into something else.  Something that changed my perspective and eased the hurt from that deep bruise that was imprinted into my heart since December 29th. 

     Three months I had been lying in a hospital bed in my living room with the same question running into and invading every thought I had.   It wasn't even a conscious question at this point, I couldn't control its interference in my life.  I visioned it as someone terribly annoying poking me in the shoulder every half second, not stopping when asked.  " Am I going to be okay?" it vibrated fiercely . 

      Each day for three months I spent my days with this question alternating with my body begging me to stop the pain.  "AM I going to be okay?" *PAIN!* "Am I GOING to be okay?" *PAIN!* "AM I GOING TO BE OKAY?!" ***PAAAAINN!***  No rest, no reprieve. It was maddening!

     A weekday afternoon as I lie in that bed, I grew weary of watching tv.  I cannot focus enough to read, it is painful to write, I tire of my own thoughts.  Closing my eyes, I drift to some meditative state.  Still hearing voices from the television, still knowing my surroundings, that blasted question even intrudes my thoughts here.  For Gods sake, just leave me alone for a bit. 

     Sensations.  Odd sensations come over me.  I am smiling.  With my eyes still closed, a big easy smile spreads across my face.  I don't understand it but I love it, I want more.  A feeling slowly washes over by body. I had been cloaked with a calmness and it swaddled me as a mother swaddles her infant.  

     Peace.  It was splendid peace, warming my body, mind and spirit.  With a trust so unbelievably complete, I knew the answer to my unending inquiry.  Yes.  Even if I do not walk well or ever again,  I will be just fine.  If that means living life in a wheelchair, I will be just fine.  Our girls and I had survived and that is all that I cared about.  Vivid, clear thoughts were mine.  Heaviness lifted its weight from my heart and it began beating again in earnest.

     My world inside of our home stopped as if Mother Nature had stopped time, except for myself.  I was in a whirl wind, everything around me was blurring as my mind whipped with comprehension, with awe, with disbelief.  He wasn't here with me, I did not hear him say the words, but he let me feel my answer.  He was allowed to let me know I was going to be okay.  He was allowed to let me feel peace.  It was him, the man who hit me. 

     I sat up in bed, overcome with emotion and exploded into tears, heart wrenching tears as I held my head in my hands.  I sobbed submissively, "I'm so sorry." "I'm so sorry you died."  " I'm sorry you died and I did not, I don't know why, I'm sorry."   I could not picture his face because I did not know what he looked like.  I did not know his life or personality, but I felt his heart this day.  It felt like this was a way that God let him help the person he caused so much pain for.  He was sorry.   

     He was finally at peace.  I don't know what that meant, but I knew it as well as I knew my own name. 

     It was the first time I had addressed him.  Acknowledged that he had changed my life.  Now he had changed it twice in a matter of three short months.  I know the reality. I know the explanations and excuses of everything else that this can be.  I was dreaming, it was effects of the pain medications I was ingesting, it was my own mind wanting something so badly that I imagined it.  

     But what does it really matter?  I had found what I had been searching for.  My spirit was at ease.  That question no longer haunted me.  I don't care what it was, I loved what it did for me.  I choose to believe because it grants me peace, courage and composure.  I choose to believe.

     I do not wish this pain or these struggles to be in my life.  I wish I could learn these lessons in a less tragic way, but this is my path now.  My journey.  God does not leave you on Earth without a reason.  I have asked him a few thousand times what am I supposed to do for him, what is my reason for being saved because when I look at my car, at the scene, it does not look as if anyone should have survived that.  

     I have heard his silent wishes and this past week, in a room full of three hundred plus people, I finally accepted.  I smirked as I said, "Well you ornery son of a gun." HE says, " Do the thing that you have been most afraid of your entire life." 

 Speak. Up. 

There were Angels all Around Us

     I can only speak from my perspective when I relay the delicate details of my memories, but in conversing with our children, they feel as strongly as I do about how each one of you who helped in any way has been an Angel sent to us.  

     There are few memories from my extrication and transport, but those few seem like such large remembrances.   There were people surrounding our car, helping keep the girls and I calm while waiting for the emergency crew to come to our aid.   Per my husband's communication, he arrived in record time and he skidded our truck to a halt in front of our scene. There was only a fire truck and a few cars on the highway.  Jumping out of the truck as his vision was tunneled only to see our white car, he regarded that the air bags blocked his vision of us as he hurried towards the passenger side.  Speaking with our girls he calmed and reassured them as the ambulance crew started to assess the situation.   Looking at the passenger side of the car, he thought, "Okay, this might not be too bad", then as he rounded the back of the car toward my side, he was shocked by the devastation staring back at him.

    Kneeling beside my window in the frozen grass, he lifted the airbag and asked, "Carey...... are you doing okay?"   At the sound of my husband's voice I felt my resolve shatter.  I was trying to stay so strong for our girls.   " It hurts so bad" I whimpered softly, but no tears could come with this cry as I was in shock.  I could only see an outline of him, but every part of me felt his presence.  He filled me with words of confidence and affection and moved back to the passenger side as the paramedics began to remove the girls from our demolished car.  I floated in and out of consciousness for the remainder of the extraction. 


     Feeling fairly calm this entire time,  I knew that my husband was able to comfort the girls so I had given into the darkness waiting to claim me.  Firemen and paramedics continuously woke me and I was able to give yes and no answers.  My personality is usually mellow and that seemed to stay true with me during this traumatic occurrence.  I'm sure if I could have formed the thought, I would have surmised that acting like a raving lunatic would have gotten me no where except being told to quiet down so the firemen could get me out more quickly.   
 
     As customary, I sat quietly and answered when spoken to.  I remember very little of this process.  I do remember once looking out my window and my gaze landed on my husband and my Dad, standing by the railroad tracks.  My vision had been only in black and white when I initially awoke, now my vision was again in color.  They both had their hands in their pockets and were staring at me with solemn faces.   Anguish for them consumed me.  I reassured them I was fine and not to worry, but that I was grateful they were both there.   

     They didn't respond, I discerned after a few moments that I hadn't actually spoken the words.  I was speaking novels in my head but the words were not emerging from my mouth.  I tried to show emotion through my eyes but by this point I was incapable of accomplishing much on my own.  I knew because I was in shock that I had that hollow stare and hated that they had to witness this from someone they loved.  I allowed my eyelids to fall shut. 

I believe the 'health care' training I've received helped me

understand the phases I was going through and how I needed to respond.  I also was consoled at the thought that at least one person out of all of the emergency crew would have to know me personally.  I didn't recognize any voices, but they were fantastic in how they handled me.  They were firm and direct when asking me questions or disclosing what action they were taking next, yet extremely consoling and supportive.  Never once do I remember any derogatory words, yelling or anything that would make me panic.  They were professional and compassionate in their work.  I will forever be grateful for their demeanor as a team.

     In the midst of cutting the car apart, one of the firemen advised me that they would have to remove the roof off the car.  "Okay" I acknowledged.  The next thought that entered my mind was sarcastic and I chuckled as I reflected to myself, 
"Well Greg's sure gonna like that!"  Like it really mattered, right?   It is amazingly odd how our minds work. 

      During the extraction, there was always someone to the right of me in the car, soothing me, quieting any fears I had.  Having this person there since my husband was unable to be near me as this transpired was essential.  After the roof was removed my husband leaned over the hood of the car and told me the ambulance was leaving and transporting the girls to the hospital in Rolla.  

     He asked me what I wanted him to do.  The girls couldn't be alone!  I told him to follow and take care of them and I assumed I would be following them shortly in my own ambulance.  I'm sure he had already come to this conclusion.  He translated that my Dad was going to stay with me so I wouldn't be alone and that Dad would give him regular updates of my progress.  I was comforted at the thought that he was still going to be there with me.  My husband's position was appalling .  

     He watched his family being separated from each other.  I did not follow them to Rolla.  We were taken to two hospitals in totally different directions.  He was being forced to make a decision to leave me, not knowing how severe my injuries actually were.  His strength is admirable, but his situation is not envied.

     I remember very little until I was pushed into the ambulance. 

Immediately paramedics cut off my clothes and when the woman had to lift my right leg I couldn't help but to moan out in pain.   I vaguely remember the Emergency Room sign as I was being wheeled into the hospital in Sullivan.  They performed CT's and many xrays and I remember nothing.  Having been conscious at some point when my Dad arrived at my bedside, I relayed in a childlike voice, " Daddy, I broke both of my legs".   Funny how tragedy makes you revert to childhood endearments.   

     As I was being pushed back into the ambulance the woman paramedic was overly apologetic to me.  She delivered the news,stating, " We can't fly you out because it is too foggy.  I'm so sorry, but we have to drive to Barnes Hospital and it's going to be a long, rough ride."   Moaning my disapproval I begged, "I don't care, just give me some medicine so I can go to sleep."  I believe that is just what happened next.  There is not even a vague recollection of that ride to St. Louis.

    By this time Dad has given my husband the news that I miraculously did not have brain damage or organ injuries.   My bone damage was severe, but I would survive.  

     There are angels all around, wrapping their beautiful wings around us in our time of need, disguised as ordinary people, living ordinary lives.  Most of us believe in angels, but have you ever thought of that angel as You?

Facebook
Twitter

Acceptance is the Key to my Happiness

I Can't?

     The absurdity of the words, "I can't walk", emanating from myself felt foreign.  Rarely have I ever spoken words of that nature.  Not being able to stomach that phrase, it soon became,

 "I can't yet"

  

   Teaming with two surgeons, I began a quest of moving forward with a philosophy of "Let's see how much of my life I can get back."  It has been a long road to my best recovery from that car collision. We are just a month shy of four years since our world has been rocked.  Four years of frustration, tears, lost memories, living in slow motion and sheer joy at the most trivial advancements. That brings us to the splitting of tracks.  I have envisioned myself the small but mighty engine that may not be able to pull the largest of loads anymore, I may have to be more creative about which route I must take, but I am persistent and always make it to my next station.  

     My upcoming visit with my surgeon in December should be my release into the real world.  Providing all goes well, I am free of surgeries and free to live as I want to live until the day arrives that "I can't" anymore.  Enthusiasm envelops me at the thought that no one but myself has authority to tell me what I can and cannot physically do.  The other side of the sword is that this truly means I am at my peak.  There is no getting better anymore and that is all that it has been for four years.  This is as good as it gets.  I have worked hard and my family and I have practiced extreme patience with my trials and I believe we are all proud to have this moment upon us.  But this means, I must now accept that this is where I will stay.  So I must swallow those bitter words of "I can't" and accept that there are some physical activities that I just will not be able to achieve.  

     Entering into a small shop I chose a gift for my daughter.  Walking into a back room, the owner wrapped that gift with care as she asked, "Carey, how do you do it?"  "What is that exactly?" I inquired.  "When you have tried everything you know how to do and you know you will not get any better", she spoke.  Thankful that her glance was cast down as my eyes darted to her face, I felt my lips part in astonishment.  Did she know?  How could she know?  Tears sting my eyes as I perceive that it was a honest inquiry and that she has no idea that question has been slowing invading my thoughts as I near the end of my own recovery.  She was speaking of her own trials. 

      As my emotions released their hold on the lump they had placed in my throat, I admonished,   "When I know that I have done all that I can do, that I have put one hundred percent into the effort and feel proud of that effort, then I accept.  Actually, acceptance is the key to my happiness." 

     Hearing my own words, I softly smiled.  I also smirked at God because He knows I now listen.  He has a way of working through people.  This shop owner helped me take my own advice that day and maybe my words helped her through the next step of her own journey.  She does not know how that short visit affected me or that it nudged me out of that rut of vulnerability.  

     Recovery is as much mental as it is a physical.   My husband has cited a pledge to me many times over our almost ten year liaison, especially this last four.  A great friend passed it to him, he has passed it to me and I will pass it to you.  I altered it a bit to tailor to my situation, but in the end we receive the same message. 

Acceptance is the key to my happiness.  When I am disturbed, it is because I find -- some fact of my life -- unacceptable to me, and I can find no happiness until I accept that situation as being 

exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment.

Nothing, absolutely nothing happens in God's world by mistake.  

 I must accept life completely on life's terms or I cannot be happy. I need to concentrate not so much on what needs to be changed in the world as on what needs to be changed in 

me and in my attitudes.

   My happiness does not hinge on what was thrust upon me.  My happiness does not hinge on my ability to walk.  My happiness clings onto my attitude, that if I cannot change my circumstances then, I make peace with it by accepting that this is how life is supposed to be a this moment.

Twitter
LinkedIn

Saying Thank You to All of YOU!

Thankfulness     
Acknowledgement
Recognition
Appreciative
Gratitude
Honor
Indebtedness

     These are just a scattering of terms that I owe to all of you. 

     Four years is a long time to recover.   Four years is a long time for your continued support, but you have never given up on me, which in turn, causes me to not give up on myself.   We have been granted a gift of  86,400 seconds in a day, it only takes the use of one of those seconds to say, "Thank You" but I am going to use quite a few more than that today.

Silent gratitude is not much use to anyone, so

THANK YOU!!!

      It amazes me that the effects of this collision have spread so far.  Society may not know my name, but I hear, " Ohhhh, you're the one, " quite often.  I receive hugs from citizens that I do not know because they said a prayer for my family and I in church.  The same goes for cards, texts and private messages.  They start by explaining who they are and that they have a friend who knows us personally and felt compelled to write us.   Then............there is you.   Still receiving random, "how are you doing?" messages or cards.   I receive the best hugs when I venture into town.   Smiles are everywhere and if one of those smiles are a little droopy, then I hug you and you have no choice but to hug me back, because that would just be bad manners.  

     I rarely shake hands anymore unless the occasion truly calls for it, I encompass my acquaintance in my skinny, woman arms and hope they feel every bit of indebtedness that I have.   I have so much to give and give back.  

     I cannot recall if I have communicated this story to you or not, but this moment calls for it.     

     When I roused in my room after one of the surgeries, I'm not sure if it was my personality, God or something called Dilaudid, but I awoke in a great mood.  As long as I received my medicine routinely I was in moderate pain, light-hearted and didn't think much about my situation.  While I was holding my Mom's hand after a surgery I vividly recall a divine sense of prayer.  I spoke genuinely to her, " Mom, I can feel everyone praying for me, I can feel it.  That's why I feel so good."  I can only think of one way to explain this titillation.  When you watch how fans 'people surf' at a rock concert, there are many hands supporting that person as they travel along the crowd.  This is how I felt about everyone who was praying for us.  You were carrying me with prayer at a time when I could not carry myself.  It's an inspiration that I could never forget.

     When I speak of "you", I speak of everyone.  My family, friends, acquaintances and unique strangers that took time to help me, even in thought.  My family put their lives on hold until I could function on my own.  Our children practiced patience, nurturing and bred independence in their new roles, while my mind, body and spirit were reclaimed.  There were times when my own light diminished and was rekindled by a spark sent by one of you, whether you knew this or not.  I will never be afraid of saying a prayer or sending a message to someone because of awkwardness.  It was at the oddest junctures that a short note from someone revitalized my ambition to survive and live, like I wanted to live.  

     It is said that, "if you were not grateful for what you had before, that you could never be grateful for what you are to get."   I believe this to be true.  I do not wish this experience on anyone, it is painful in so many ways.  I am grateful to live thirty-five years as I did, but I am grateful to live any way I can now.  This is a promise to you, that I will pay it forward til the end of my life here on this earth.

If there was a way that I could touch you, to transfer my emotion of appreciation,  so you could feel what is in my heart, you could have endless peace just from that smallest gesture.   

 Gratitude has, undeniably, been my best attitude.

    

      

Lent: Why do Catholics Eat Fish on Fridays?

    Being a Catholic, myself, I have been asked this question many times.  I have never went into as much detail explaining it as I am today though.
 
   Let's start of with the definition of Lent.  

   Lent is the season of approximately 40 days set aside by the Church in order for the faithful to prepare for the celebration of the Lord’s Passion, Death and Resurrection.  It is to enable us to make a small sacrifice for the incredible sacrifice He made for our salvation.  Church members prepare for Easter by a recalling of Baptism and penance, that is, prayer, fasting and almsgiving.(assist the needy)

     Why forty days?   Jesus fasted for 40 days, Noah was in the Ark for 40 days, Moses received the ten commandments for 40 days and the Israelites wandered the desert for 40 years.   Think about it also, that a woman carries her child in her womb for how long?  40 weeks!  So, it seems that the number forty has a certain prelude for something better to come. 

     It kick starts with Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent.  Our foreheads are marked with ashes to humble our hearts and reminds us that life passes away on Earth.  The ashes are made by burning the previous year's blessed palms.  We remember this when we are told, 

          "Remember, Man is dust, and unto dust you shall return."

     For the next forty days, those willing, submit to fasting and self-denial in imitation of Our Lord’s forty-day fast in the desert and it ends with Passion Sunday.  

You may hear the question, "What did you give up for Lent?"  We give up something we really enjoy, maybe foods, social media or promise to do something special for others during those six weeks.

     Friday is a day of abstinence from meat for Catholics in order to remind us that we all sin and this little sacrifice is a show of repentance and satisfaction for our sins.  Why, is fish allowed? The drawing of a symbolic fish in the dirt was a way that the early Christians knew each other when it was dangerous to admit in public that one was Christian. Our Lord cooked fish for His Apostles after His Resurrection, and most of these men were fishermen. After He established His Church, these fishermen became “fishers of men” for the Kingdom of God.  Hence, the little fish symbol some have on the back of their cars, with the name Jesus in the center of it.  



     For those who don't participate in Lent, don't tell me that you don't love those Friday night church fish dinners!  All Catholics, age 14 and older participate. (certain situations are forgiven)    Now we all have cheated, at some point, I'm sure, right?  Okay, I know I have in the past and I do not believe you will be sent down to the flames for it.  I do believe it is a great gesture on our part, that we can accomplish once a year to remind ourselves of the sacrifice He made for us, to have freedom of choice and to live on this earth with sin. 

      We all know, Sunday, is supposed to be the day of rest, so we can  indulge Today!!!