There’s a lot I like about the film “Forrest Gump”, largely because I love the study of history and the film showcases so much of the past half century of my country and how we’ve been affected by it. My favorite line, hokey though it sounds, is the one everyone thinks of when you mention this film: “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.” It brings to mind the stories I’ve heard about my Aunt Patricia, the eldest of four children, and a great connoisseur of fine quality chocolate like See’s Candies. Every time her parents splurged on a box of candy, she would poke her finger through the bottom of a piece to make sure it wasn’t something she hated, like coconut or cherry. If she didn’t like it, she left it in the box – hole side down. I’ve always been put off by the selfishness apparent in this behavior, but looking at it through the lens of pastoral care what disturbs me is the idea of leaving the undesirable as is; hiding it rather than facing up to it and finding that you might not only NOT find a chocolate covered cherry inedible, but might even find it enjoyable. Forrest saw a silver lining in every cloud – heck, Forrest didn’t even SEE the clouds that filtered the light over him. I want to be like that when I face the things I don’t like and have ignored which now come back to haunt me.
When I went to see my internist in March for a full physical, my exact words to him were that I had felt ‘off it’ for a while. It wasn’t something I could put my finger on, but I knew instinctively that something wasn’t quite right. He ordered a full workup and found two problems: my blood pressure was too high, and something was wrong with one of my kidneys. I made a deal with him: give me six months to implement a cardio program to improve the blood pressure rather than put me on medication right away. He agreed, and in only four months I brought it down from 150/90 to 122/80. The kidney, however, continued to remain an issue. After a failed communication that resulted in a missed appointment with a urologist, I saw one on Thursday afternoon, expecting to hear what I’d heard twice in the past two years from two other doctors, one at an ER in Phoenix and the other right here at our Urgent Care Clinic: that I had an infection, and here’s some antibiotics to clear it up. Instead, she told me that the tests they’ve run already are not conclusive, but they can tell that the kidney isn’t functioning at an acceptable level. They want to run another test later this week, which will result in one of two things: either I have some sort of surgery to address an ongoing problem, or I may have to have my right kidney removed altogether.
To say I was blindsided by this is a vast understatement. I truly wasn’t expecting to hear something that serious, even though I’ve had problems with this kidney for the past eighteen months. If I’d still been at the job I had before I went to seminary, I probably would have seen to it much sooner, but I had no health insurance for over two years, and medical issues took a back seat to things like paying rent and putting food in my mouth. Not that I’m whining; don’t get me wrong. I remember talking to two different people years ago in Tucson, both of them homeless because they chose to buy the medication necessary for their health issues over having a roof over their heads. They made their choices, I made mine, and I don’t regret it. But too many years of ignoring stuff I didn’t want to deal with have got me in a tough spot now. The doctor was very frank with me; I was told that if the kidney is functioning at a very low level, it would actually be far more harmful to leave it in, and may even be fatal. She also underlined the fact that many people function perfectly fine with only one kidney. After I left her office, I went back to the chaplains’ office and poured out my concerns on two fellow chaplains, and the office secretary. We sat and discussed things for a while, and one of them asked if the doctor had mentioned cancer. I replied in the negative, to which he responded, “Did you ask her?” I’d been so shocked that it never occurred to me to ask, but given her forthright manner with me I think she’d have said something if she had that suspicion. I sat there for a while, rolling around in a ball of numbness, until that little voice inside me told me that it was unhealthy to wallow in this. I gathered my things and made a concerted effort to visit several more patients in the last hour of the day. Initially I was afraid that I’d not be engaged, that my concern over my health would overshadow any pastoral care I could offer. That was before I met Tommy.
Tommy’s mother is in the hospital, and he doesn’t quite understand why. He was sitting on the window seat in her room (which happened to be the For Every Season There is a Miracle Room) while she lay intubated and unconscious. I asked what was going on, and he got a little agitated and explained that he didn’t understand all the things the doctors had said. It was at that point I realized that Tommy has a lower IQ than many people, but it didn’t stop him from talking animatedly about his Baptist church right down the road. He proudly told me that it’s his job to cut the grass because he’s the only person who is qualified to do it, and just like that I thought of Forrest Gump, the ‘gozillionaire’ who offered to cut the massive town hall lawn for free. Tommy takes great pride in what he does, as if it were the most important thing in the world – and to him, it is. He also said to me that God is his special friend. I was envious of his ability to focus only on what’s right in front of him and be happy about it, until I realized that one needn’t be Forrest Gump to do that. Worrying about what might be is pointless. Of course, God told us that, but hey, I’m only human. I worry, and I imagine the worst, which nets me nothing more than unwanted stress. I think God sent Tommy to me, and me to Tommy, so that we could offer each other the support that each of us needs. For Tommy, it was prayer about his mother’s situation. For me, it was the lesson that I need to focus on what’s right in front of me, and put all my energy into that, instead of wasting it on the hypothetical. After all, you never know what you’re gonna get in that box of chocolates called life. When you get stuck with a coconut when you were really expecting caramel, instead of imagining where the caramel might be hiding, enjoying the chocolate that covers the coconut is what counts.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
New Orleans: Proud to Crawl Home
I wish I could claim ownership of the witty title of this blog, but I’m afraid that honor goes to someone else. It’s a statement I’ve seen on dozens of bumper stickers over the past year in this city. La Nouvelle Orleans. Nueva Orleans. The Big Easy. My adopted home. On the day I first arrived, roughly 90% of its inhabitants had been evacuated for Hurricane Gustav, which they had been warned would make “The Storm” (that’s what the natives call Hurricane Katrina) look like child’s play. We know now, of course, that that didn’t happen; Gustav lost strength as he rolled through the Gulf of Mexico and slammed into the mainland, causing far more damage north of here in Baton Rouge and Shreveport. New Orleans lost power for some hours, but came through largely unscathed. Its inhabitants returned home as if nothing serious had taken place, and picked up life where’d they’d left off. This is the dominant attitude among the denizens of this tropical port city – put the bad behind you and move on, living life as if there’s no tomorrow, because there may NOT be a tomorrow. I think few people know this better than natives of New Orleans.
The Storm is still a dominant discussion with visitors, even four years after it struck. Three days after I arrived, having yet to find suitable housing, I used Craigslist to connect with the woman who would turn out to be my roommate for the next 11 months. On my way to her house, I stopped a 20something couple in a pickup truck at the corner of Claiborne and Jackson, asking how far it would be for me to walk to Carrolton Avenue. Without hesitation they said, “Oh, that’s too far to walk! Hop on in; we’ll give you a lift.” It shames me still to admit that my first reaction was to draw back and think, “are you NUTS?!? I don’t even KNOW you!!” Such is the mindset of a Yankee. We Northerners are a rather self-focused lot, and rarely express such open friendliness. But I’d already demonstrated courage when I moved here having no place to live, so I accepted their offer. I shared that I had literally just arrived in New Orleans and had yet to know much about it. The young woman looked out the window at the houses passing by and said sadly, “I just don’t think this city will ever be the same after The Storm.” I didn’t realize at the time just how deeply those words are felt by natives of NOLA (another local term). Of course I’d already heard and seen bits and pieces – a member of the Southern Louisiana Presbytery whose home was destroyed told me that if it had been built on ground just nine inches higher she would have been able to save it. The Garden District branch of the NOLA Public Library, a big beautiful home on St. Charles Avenue, is indefinitely closed for repairs, with a big sign about ‘recovery’ on the front lawn. Gradually I’ve learned more: my boss has food supplies stored in her office in case another relief effort is needed. After The Storm my roommate’s church had to borrow space from the oldest Protestant congregation in the city’s history, First Presbyterian of NOLA, because their own sanctuary was virtually destroyed (they are still rebuilding). My own church is a blended congregation: the oldest “White” UCC in NOLA (St. Matthew) has merged with the oldest “Black” UCC in NOLA (Central), because Central’s sanctuary was destroyed – and is still being rebuilt. During a small group meeting of several of my church members, one of them (who is a NOLA transplant, having lived here only 15 years) summed it up perfectly: even if New Orleans as a city exists for another thousand years, it will always and forever be divided into two phases: Before The Storm, and After The Storm.
Though The Storm dominates discussion, what stands out to me is the genuine friendliness of Southerners. My roommate’s next door neighbor is her closest friend, and I have warmly been welcomed into the fold. I am family by adoption, which never fails to amaze me. It’s not a generational thing, either – everyone considers me family. Yesterday, while walking down Carrollton Avenue eating some coffee flavored gelato from Gelato Pazzo, I passed by the neighbor’s son by adoption (because his mom is neighbor’s other best friend), who was on his way to Subway to buy a sandwich. He’s typical of guys in their early 20s – drooping jeans, goth design tshirt, and three metal studs in his lower lip outlining his goatee and making him look remarkably like a devil, or a latter day General Beauregard in hip hop attire. A smile stretched across his face as he greeted me and gave me a hug (that’s another thing unique to the South – you won’t find Yankees hugging or kissing each other’s cheek!). Such treatment never fails to warm my heart. In her final evaluation of me at the end of my first unit of CPE, my supervisor wrote of me: “community is what she most longs for, and simultaneously fears.” I thought of that today, as I reflected in this blog, and realized even more strongly why God chose to bring me to New Orleans. Here, my hunger is fed – and I in turn have gained the trust necessary to be part of the family. I didn’t have to make the effort from the start, because in NOLA, friendliness is always extended toward others. NOLA natives are the very definition of community.
My ex-roommate in Phoenix was very unexcited by the idea of my coming here. One of my bestest friends from high school recently signed on to Facebook, and asked me, “What the HELL are you doing in New ORLEANS???” as if it were something filthy. They don’t know the NOLA that I know, though, so I can only pity them. It’s not all about Bourbon Street and bare breasts (for the record, the genuine natives of this city, to a person, all stridently claim that it was drunken Yankee co-eds who began this tradition, not the locals), or the looting scenes that national TV just had to show repeatedly in the wake of The Storm. It’s about community. Heck, I’m even learning that making eye contact is the NORM here. In Chicago, if you do, you’re expected to look away instantly or it’s taken as a challenge. Here, if you don’t acknowledge someone it’s seen as a slight. More to the point, it goes beyond simple acknowledgement. One of my patients, a transplant from Ohio 19 years ago, put it perfectly when he explained why he loves this city: “because here, when people ask you how you’re doing, they actually want to know the answer.”
Sometimes I wonder if I’m crazy, loving this place….especially now that we’re into August. This is my first August here, which has inspired countless warnings of “Oh, just you wait – you haven’t felt humidity yet, ‘til you’ve survived a NOLA August!” (hint to the locals: it’s not exactly something to brag about). Sometimes it feels as if I’m swimming through the air. I open my front door and feel damp in less than 60 seconds. I have learned to disregard logic when it comes to direction, since from my house’s vantage point the sun rises in the south and sets in the east (that’s why they call this the Crescent City!). The diet is not exactly what one could call healthy, unless you eat mainly raw fruit. But the people have made me welcome in a way I’ve never felt. When my residency ends in six weeks, I’ll be staying here.
Yeah, the local phrases are a little different (I knew I was truly an adopted daughter of NOLA when I looked at some gathering clouds a few weeks ago and said, ‘looks like it’s fixin’ to rain’) and groceries are still far more expensive than they should be, but this gem of a city has been healing to me in so many ways that I can only turn around and offer to assist in its own healing from The Storm. After all, that’s what family does - and it’s a strong family. This afternoon on my way through the parking lot of Robert’s (pronounced Row-BEARS, since this is NOLA) Grocery, I saw a late model Toyota with the following bumper sticker: ‘drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was gone’ and laughed out loud – just like a good NOLA native would. We came through alright, and though a tremendous amount of recovery work STILL remains, we’ll continue to rebuild, while enjoying life to the fullest because you never know what lies around the corner – or how long the levee will hold. Laissez les bon temps rouler!
The Storm is still a dominant discussion with visitors, even four years after it struck. Three days after I arrived, having yet to find suitable housing, I used Craigslist to connect with the woman who would turn out to be my roommate for the next 11 months. On my way to her house, I stopped a 20something couple in a pickup truck at the corner of Claiborne and Jackson, asking how far it would be for me to walk to Carrolton Avenue. Without hesitation they said, “Oh, that’s too far to walk! Hop on in; we’ll give you a lift.” It shames me still to admit that my first reaction was to draw back and think, “are you NUTS?!? I don’t even KNOW you!!” Such is the mindset of a Yankee. We Northerners are a rather self-focused lot, and rarely express such open friendliness. But I’d already demonstrated courage when I moved here having no place to live, so I accepted their offer. I shared that I had literally just arrived in New Orleans and had yet to know much about it. The young woman looked out the window at the houses passing by and said sadly, “I just don’t think this city will ever be the same after The Storm.” I didn’t realize at the time just how deeply those words are felt by natives of NOLA (another local term). Of course I’d already heard and seen bits and pieces – a member of the Southern Louisiana Presbytery whose home was destroyed told me that if it had been built on ground just nine inches higher she would have been able to save it. The Garden District branch of the NOLA Public Library, a big beautiful home on St. Charles Avenue, is indefinitely closed for repairs, with a big sign about ‘recovery’ on the front lawn. Gradually I’ve learned more: my boss has food supplies stored in her office in case another relief effort is needed. After The Storm my roommate’s church had to borrow space from the oldest Protestant congregation in the city’s history, First Presbyterian of NOLA, because their own sanctuary was virtually destroyed (they are still rebuilding). My own church is a blended congregation: the oldest “White” UCC in NOLA (St. Matthew) has merged with the oldest “Black” UCC in NOLA (Central), because Central’s sanctuary was destroyed – and is still being rebuilt. During a small group meeting of several of my church members, one of them (who is a NOLA transplant, having lived here only 15 years) summed it up perfectly: even if New Orleans as a city exists for another thousand years, it will always and forever be divided into two phases: Before The Storm, and After The Storm.
Though The Storm dominates discussion, what stands out to me is the genuine friendliness of Southerners. My roommate’s next door neighbor is her closest friend, and I have warmly been welcomed into the fold. I am family by adoption, which never fails to amaze me. It’s not a generational thing, either – everyone considers me family. Yesterday, while walking down Carrollton Avenue eating some coffee flavored gelato from Gelato Pazzo, I passed by the neighbor’s son by adoption (because his mom is neighbor’s other best friend), who was on his way to Subway to buy a sandwich. He’s typical of guys in their early 20s – drooping jeans, goth design tshirt, and three metal studs in his lower lip outlining his goatee and making him look remarkably like a devil, or a latter day General Beauregard in hip hop attire. A smile stretched across his face as he greeted me and gave me a hug (that’s another thing unique to the South – you won’t find Yankees hugging or kissing each other’s cheek!). Such treatment never fails to warm my heart. In her final evaluation of me at the end of my first unit of CPE, my supervisor wrote of me: “community is what she most longs for, and simultaneously fears.” I thought of that today, as I reflected in this blog, and realized even more strongly why God chose to bring me to New Orleans. Here, my hunger is fed – and I in turn have gained the trust necessary to be part of the family. I didn’t have to make the effort from the start, because in NOLA, friendliness is always extended toward others. NOLA natives are the very definition of community.
My ex-roommate in Phoenix was very unexcited by the idea of my coming here. One of my bestest friends from high school recently signed on to Facebook, and asked me, “What the HELL are you doing in New ORLEANS???” as if it were something filthy. They don’t know the NOLA that I know, though, so I can only pity them. It’s not all about Bourbon Street and bare breasts (for the record, the genuine natives of this city, to a person, all stridently claim that it was drunken Yankee co-eds who began this tradition, not the locals), or the looting scenes that national TV just had to show repeatedly in the wake of The Storm. It’s about community. Heck, I’m even learning that making eye contact is the NORM here. In Chicago, if you do, you’re expected to look away instantly or it’s taken as a challenge. Here, if you don’t acknowledge someone it’s seen as a slight. More to the point, it goes beyond simple acknowledgement. One of my patients, a transplant from Ohio 19 years ago, put it perfectly when he explained why he loves this city: “because here, when people ask you how you’re doing, they actually want to know the answer.”
Sometimes I wonder if I’m crazy, loving this place….especially now that we’re into August. This is my first August here, which has inspired countless warnings of “Oh, just you wait – you haven’t felt humidity yet, ‘til you’ve survived a NOLA August!” (hint to the locals: it’s not exactly something to brag about). Sometimes it feels as if I’m swimming through the air. I open my front door and feel damp in less than 60 seconds. I have learned to disregard logic when it comes to direction, since from my house’s vantage point the sun rises in the south and sets in the east (that’s why they call this the Crescent City!). The diet is not exactly what one could call healthy, unless you eat mainly raw fruit. But the people have made me welcome in a way I’ve never felt. When my residency ends in six weeks, I’ll be staying here.
Yeah, the local phrases are a little different (I knew I was truly an adopted daughter of NOLA when I looked at some gathering clouds a few weeks ago and said, ‘looks like it’s fixin’ to rain’) and groceries are still far more expensive than they should be, but this gem of a city has been healing to me in so many ways that I can only turn around and offer to assist in its own healing from The Storm. After all, that’s what family does - and it’s a strong family. This afternoon on my way through the parking lot of Robert’s (pronounced Row-BEARS, since this is NOLA) Grocery, I saw a late model Toyota with the following bumper sticker: ‘drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was gone’ and laughed out loud – just like a good NOLA native would. We came through alright, and though a tremendous amount of recovery work STILL remains, we’ll continue to rebuild, while enjoying life to the fullest because you never know what lies around the corner – or how long the levee will hold. Laissez les bon temps rouler!
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