Unexpected Endings

My sweet husband and I celebrated our eighth wedding anniversary this week. With a graduation the previous month, and several unexpected expenses, (or bad spending habits of yours truly... whatever) we decided to keep it low-key. My mom kept our little ones for several days, so we had some quiet alone time.

We decided to hit Fork & Screen for the movie "Me Before You." We had seen the previews, and although I was interested in seeing it, I didn't figure my man would be up for it. I assumed that it might hit a little close to home. From the trailers I viewed, it appeared a story about a young man with a sudden spinal cord injury that found he could still find love and happiness despite his profound change in functionality.

Three and a half years ago, my able-bodied, risk-taking, tenacious spouse hit a jump on the ski slopes harder and faster than he intended. He windmilled his arms to regain control, but flew past the hill and landed on a flat spot. His ski tips hit first, and he did what they call a scorpion. If you are familiar with that deadly little arachnid, you will recall that their tail appears to flip backward over the top of its head. Bob's face/head hit hard, and his entire body flipped over his neck, while his head remained face-down in the snow. It happened in a split second. It was the last hill of the day, and of the entire trip. They were headed down to eat dinner and to fly home the next morning. One last jump recorded to show his children that their dad still had it.

An unfortunate combination of bone spurs, natural degeneration, and a congenital condition called spinal stenosis created a situation where no spinal fluid was present surrounding the cord where the full impact occurred. His spinal cord had no cushion to protect it. Swelling began. He required surgery to decompress and fuse his cervical vertebrae from C3-C6. He is medically classified as an incomplete quadriplegic with Central Cord Syndrome.

Most of you know the details of our lives over the last few years. Bob spent a total of sixteen weeks hospitalized; he was in Utah for three, and here in Kansas City for thirteen. He went through intensive physical and occupational therapy, learning how to feed, groom, and bathe himself again, first power wheelchair-bound, then walking with an auto-ambulator, then a platform walker, a regular walker, and now a cane. I had to go through training on how to transfer him from a wheelchair to bed, chair, couch, and back again. I had to learn more about medications than I ever really wanted to know. I became educated in how to catheterize him, to give injections to prevent blood clots and some additional unpleasant tasks (for both of us) that I won't mention here. I became a full-time caretaker when I was already a full-time mom to both a one and four-year-old. Dressing an adult male at 6 feet and nearly 200 pounds is surprisingly more complicated than clothing a baby and a toddler.

It has been hard but oh-so worth it. We celebrate every milestone. Social workers informed us early on that a high percentage of marriages wouldn't survive this type of circumstance. Having lived it, we both can understand why (although it twists my soul into knots when I consider others whose loved ones left) because it is HARD. We are good. We have joy. Most importantly, we have Jesus, which gives us hope. We have a new normal. It certainly isn't how we had planned or hoped that our lives would be, but we have so much gratitude. We received blessings beyond measure on more than one occasion. We love each other. We have seen each other at our absolute worst and love each other despite our mess and humanness. It is a choice. Love is a choice. Joy is a choice. Surviving Is. A. Choice.

All that to say, I knew this movie would be a tear-jerker. I was surprised when my man suggested that we see it. "Its almost like it's us."

No. No, it isn't. SPOILER ALERT If you haven't seen the movie, and you're planning on it, stop reading right now. I'm going to tell you the ending. Put this down, set it aside, and come back to me after you've watched it.

As it happens, "Me Before You" is about assisted suicide. You're given a glimpse into that early on, but if you're like me, you may think that surely they wouldn't end the movie like that. You'd be wrong. At the end of the day, after waiting for six months to fulfill a promise made to his parents, after falling in love with this sweet girl hired as a caretaker and who LOVED HIM BACK, he still decided to fly to Switzerland and end his life with medical assistance.

Before I stir this particular pot, please don't send me ugly comments. If you are a proponent of medically-assisted suicide, good for you. We'll have to agree to disagree. I'm not looking for a fight; I am sharing my opinion based on a particular circumstance of which I have a thorough understanding. I can empathize with both main characters and certainly sympathize.

I was angry when I left the cinema. Furious that I just sat through a film that at the end of the day, attempted to invalidate our lives. A movie that pretty much just said to my husband, "You don't have enough value to continue living now that you aren't physically able to be the same man you were before your accident. If you loved your life before this happened, and are never going to have that same life again, you might as well pack it up, big guy, because it's just not worth it. You have no hope." A film that said to me, "You may love him enough to stay and help take care of him, but if you REALLY loved him, you'd stand by and let him die. Real love wouldn't want him to be sad about his condition. True love would 'let him go' and as an added bonus, maybe you'll be able to have this great second start and maybe go to Paris on his dime and get some new perfume."

Okay, that last part was over the top. If you've seen it, you'll know what I'm referencing. They weren't married; they didn't even know each other before his accident. I get it. He wanted her to get to go to school and experience a life she couldn't have. Very sacrificial. Blah. Blah. Blah.

On the way, home, Bob reminded me that I can never actually understand what it is like from his perspective. He reminded me that he was athletic and bold (some may say cocky) and vivacious. He never questioned his abilities. If you don't get it right the first time, you get up and do it again. He was driven, ambitious, and on top of the world. He did a swan dive off the top of Black Rock in Maui. We went zip-lining and rappelled in the Sierra Madres. He would roller-blade eight to ten miles at speeds that were ridiculous. He traveled for work, ran a company, and was 'large and in charge.' He now feels some level of pain every single day. He can't sit for extended periods of time. He can't stand for long periods. There are no risk-taking activities in his future other than walking the length of our house and hoping he doesn't catch a toe on the carpet. Bob felt for this character in ways most would or could not. He said that if he didn't have hope or didn't have Jesus, he could easily imagine himself in that boat.

While I can not fully comprehend everything Bob goes through every day, I certainly can recognize what it is to have to the entire course of your life suddenly and drastically veer to the left. I can picture the fatigue and doubt and overwhelming sense of anxiety. I can recall exhaustion and inexplicable anger.

I would never wish this type of trauma on a single soul. If I could go back in time, and change Bob's trajectory on that slope, or better yet, keep him from making that trip at all, I would do it. It's hard. I love him. I don't like to see him in pain. I don't like to see his pride take a hit if he stumbles. It hurts my heart for him to see people occasionally assume that physical disabilities automatically mean there must be a mental impairment. A man with the best of intentions once continued to call my larger than life husband 'Buddy' and did everything but pat the top of Bob's head and call him 'good boy.' He didn't realize how condescending he was, and apparently believed he was very helpful. My husband was gracious and kind, and took it like a champ while I seethed quietly.

I certainly do not want to minimize the loss. We have grieved. We have had to develop a new normal, but let me be clear, neither Bob's value, nor the value of our relationship comes from society's view of us, or from what either of us can physically accomplish without device or aid from other sources. He has merit and worth because he is a creation of the Most High God. He has children who adore him. He has a wife (ahem) that has no interest in walking through this life without him. We have friendships that strengthened over the course of this journey. We have friendships that developed because of this journey. We have grown more spiritually than we would have otherwise, because, let's be honest, it is a lot easier to rely on God and trust Him when your feet get knocked out from under you than when you think you've got it all within your control.

I wonder how many quadriplegics, paraplegics, or anyone suffering from an illness that leaves them wheelchair bound or dependent upon others for their necessities feel watching a story unfold that ends with the character they identify with deciding that it just isn't worth living if he has to be like them. Maybe they would feel differently if they were shown as they are...fighters, warriors, courageous and dignified. Unwilling to be told they are unworthy of breath. They empathize. Definitely. I am guessing that most of them realize their story isn't over. Perhaps if they could see an ending where they recognized that just because life AS THEY KNEW IT was over, that LIFE ITSELF is far from over, it could be uplifting.

I know it was just a story, and I'm just telling you ours. Our non-fiction, still wading through it, still getting murky on occasion, saga. It's far from over. We're just getting started, and it's a good story, dare I say, a great one. I will cherish every single moment of it, even the hard ones. I will eagerly anticipate the next eight years of life with this man, and hopefully another eight after that, and so on, and so forth. We aren't over yet, we're just at a new chapter.

It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time...

Today was pretty unpleasant for me. Nothing happened, specifically, but rather a cluster bomb of twaddle, hormone-induced rage, and an inability to move without groaning after two excellent workouts. By excellent, I mean, they would be magnificent for someone who had some semblance of being in shape. I, by the way, am not that person. (Is smooshy a shape? Because if so, I totally retract my earlier statement.)

I should have known better to step on that stupid scale this morning. That started it. First of all, this is the very last week that I should even consider pressing a toe onto a scale. Not so much as my pinkie toe. Just like every other inappropriate weighing times, I can never seem to help myself. Eat a pound of chocolate at two o'clock in the morning, or binge-eat Apple Jacks in the middle of the night? The following morning seems like the perfect time to see how my weight is doing, don't you think?

I've had three sodas in a month and a half. If left to my own devices, I would drink one soda after the next until I floated away in a sea of lively carbonation. I've upped my H2O intake; I've tried to make better eating choices. I finally hit the gym for the first time in months. I attempted to run for the first time in I can't even remember how long. Never mind the fact that my shins acted like I'd never gone for a run, like EVER. I still went. Is it too much to ask that the numbers on the scale, at the very least, stay in the same general locale, or drop a bit here and there? I'm just asking that they stop climbing like they're trying to scale Everest, for the love.

Clearly the number today wasn't ideal. Combine this with feeling the need to swear whenever my legs move, being unable to locate my coat (or my wireless headphones, or my son's Moon Journal, or my keys, or my youth), not having time to fix myself the healthy breakfast I undeniably need, and this morning may have gotten off to a rocky start.

There may have been some outbursts. Perhaps a few doors were slammed. It's a possibility that full-on screaming tantrums were thrown. On the way to Bible Study. In the best possible nice Baptist girl way, of course. *Insert eye roll here for emphasis*

I then spent some glorious (yes, that's sarcasm, for those of you who don't know me well) time at Chuck E. Cheese with two legitimately adorable 4-year-olds, a good friend, and my mom. It actually would have been great, had my overall attitude not already been in the toilet, swimming around with my hopes of maintaining a diet.

If the scale is already being a complete tool, why not help it out by eating at Chuck E. Flipping Cheese. If you've already eaten a load of pizza, then why not have an ice cream cone while you're there? If you've already had a load of pizza and an ice cream cone, and you hurt everywhere, why not shrug your shoulders and agree when someone offers to grab Freddy's for dinner? Most importantly, if you're already eating super-de-duper nutritious Freddy's, then by all means, drink a large (because a medium just won't suffice) Mountain Dew. Mmm mmm good.

I'm hoping that tomorrow will be a better day. In fact, I'm afraid I must insist on it. That leaves me twenty-six minutes to finish this one off with a bang. If that scale so much as whispers an invitation to step on it tomorrow, I'm throwing it out the window. Wait, no... that's not right. Better day, better day, better day *muttered under her breath*. I will, ummmm... hide it until I can get myself together, NOT step on it, NOT jump on it from a height sure to destroy it permanently, and NOT break any other items in our house.

Han Solo and Our Resurrection Garden

Palm Sunday started with a light snow this year, which considering it was in the seventies a few days ago, would have been shocking, had I not lived in the MidWest my entire life. Kansas likes to keep you guessing. "It's part of our charm," she said facetiously as her eyes rolled to the top of her head.

I'm not sure if my memory is failing, (which is possible, because Hello Peri-Menopause! Nice to meet you, ya schmuck.), or if the emphasis on the Triumphal Entry wasn't as prominent in the churches I grew up in. It is just as likely that they didn't spend a ton of time explaining the details in a way that the kids understood the relevance.

Blessed with a church that places a lot of significance on the entire Holy Week leading up to Easter; our children consistently have lessons and hands-on activities regarding everything that led up to the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ. On the Wednesday before Easter, they have a "Walk Through the Bible" event that starts with waving palm branches and shouting Hosannah in our little 'Jerusalem' and then moves into having their feet washed by our very gracious and humble servant leaders. It includes an example of the Last Supper, a Prayer Garden representing the Garden of Gethsemane, and ends with the reading of the Easter story and an explanation of the Resurrection. On Maundy Thursday, we have a self-guided silent communion service. Friday, we have a Tenebrae service (which for a girl who grew up in a small, old-fashioned, we ain't kiddin' around, we're Southern Baptists church is UNHEARD of) that is one of the most meaningful and touching services I've ever experienced. Lastly, the week culminates with the celebration that He is Risen; He is Risen Indeed.

My point being, my littles seem to know much more information than I did at their age. They're probably just smarter than me, so there's that.

Last week, as we prepped for Palm Sunday, my youngest came home with her construction paper palm branch that she made "just for me." She was explaining to her daddy and her big brother all about Jesus riding a borrowed donkey through the streets of Jerusalem. She bowed low at the waist, waved her branch, and with a very sincere little voice, shouted, "Han Solo, Han Solo!"

As we questioned if she meant "Hosannah," she dismissed us with a wave of her small hand, and a "yeah, yeah."

We returned home from church this afternoon (complete with a purple clothes-pin donkey, again made 'just for me' and actual palm branches) and set to work on our Resurrection Garden. I located this amazing thing on Pinterest. Check it out.

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/26458716535243572/

Today was the day to plant the grass seed. We will likely have an abundance of new grass now growing beneath our deck, because child-sized hands, a giant bag of grass seed, and a plant saucer may be asking for too much coordination out of a four and six-year-old. I am excited to see the grass start to grow. We need to go searching for our large rock that will be in front of the tomb. Monkey already picked out six sticks that we will form into the three crosses on Good Friday. I like that this is a full week and a half to two-week project that has separate lessons. It reiterates the main points. I love that my babies know and understand what I failed to grasp until I was older.

May each of you enjoy the rest of your Holy Week. If you're looking for a great place to worship, I may know a place. *wink, wink*

Chaos, Then & Now

If you met me twenty years ago, I pray the resemblance to present-day Sarah would be vastly different. A few things would be similar. My entire life was shrouded in chaos, so that hasn't changed. My hair was red. That's about it.

In the last two decades, I have gained enough weight to create a whole other person. In fairness, I was anorexic back then, so I needed to gain at least a young child. Not the medium-sized adolescent that seems to have attached itself to my hind end, mind you, but at LEAST an eight or nine-year-old. My swearing has vastly improved. Not that I've gotten better at it (although...well, never mind), but I don't do it as often. I no longer hit movies on opening night with my girls, but I'm older, and therefore pretty tired. Friday night movies are a thing of the past. I no longer smoke a pack and a half a day. I can't tell you there aren't days when I miss that, though, if we're being one hundred percent honest.

I was reminiscing (or what's the word when you're recalling the past, but not looking over it fondly and with longing, because trust me when I tell you, twenty-something Sarah can stay in the nineties, people. She doesn't need to be popping back up into this century) and giggling a little about the absurd things that was just my normal.

My ex-husband was a piece of work. That is so beyond-the-pale polite, I can't even tell you. I was specifically recalling a time when I was working a mid-shift in the exciting world of telecom, and he was planning to attend a bachelor party. Now we had already argued quite a bit about said party, because you know, he wasn't a bachelor. My twenty-something self wasn't thrilled that my husband was going to be doing all manner of depraved things with this particular group of "friends," but he had babbled incessently about how he was just going because he was a DJ, and he would just be handling the music. Let's keep it real folks, I wasn't his mama, so I could only put up so much of a fight. I was even less entranced at the notion that he would be gone before I returned from work, and wouldn't be home until two or three the following morning.

We only had one vehicle at the time: a shortbed Ford Ranger. This meant my mom had to come pick me up from work so that he could use the truck to haul the stereo equipment. She also had to watch our daughter until my shift ended. Accomodations were made, and he went to participate in his stupid party.

I clocked out at 8:00 P.M, hopped in my mom's car with her and my girl, and headed home. I had an exciting evening of TV viewing to get to. I'm giggling thinking of that, too... because this was back before the cable box came with a remote. It was a little sliding thing on a box with three rows. Remember those things? No? Just me? Fine.

When we got to my apartment, I grabbed the diaper bag and my purse while my mom got the baby out of her carseat. I ran up our stairs, dropped the diaper bag, headed to the television, and tossed my purse behind me onto the couch. Instead of the silent landing you would have expected from a small purse landing on a large, overstuffed sofa, I instead heard the loud thump of my purse hitting the wall, and then a screechy noise as it slid all the way down to the floor. I was confused. What was happening? I turned in circles. Where is my couch? I walked into the kitchen. Where are our kitchen chairs? Why is there no furniture in my house except a television and a king-sized waterbed in the bedroom? Why is our balcony door wide open? Remember that cursing I mentioned in the second paragraph? I was using that skill set like a BOSS. My mom came in, and decided that she'd just take the girl back to her house. There wasn't really anywhere to put her anyway, SINCE OUR FURNITURE WAS GONE.

Keep in mind that this was pre-cell phone days. I'm pretty sure I had a pager back then (a little tiny purple one, if memory serves), but the dingbat I was married to did not. I didn't know for sure where the party was, and even if I did, I had no car to get there anyway.

About one in the morning, the phone finally rang. Dum-dum wanted me to know he'd probably be a few more hours.

"Um, where is my couch?"

"I have it. Where did you think it would be?"

"Well, I really didn't know, bleep bleep bleep. I guess I thought it would be in my living room. Because who in their right mind goes to a party, and thinks, you know what? I'm going to bring my COUCH."

"They needed extra seating. I was HELPING."

"When people ask for extra seating, I think they may expect, you know... folding chairs. NOT. A. SOFA."

There were several more exchanges containing quite a few more bleeps. It ended with me telling him in no uncertain terms that he better be home toot sweet with all of my furniture in tow.

Did I mention this was in the spring of 1993? Do you remember what happened in 1993? Perhaps hearing about a major flood in our neck of the woods? Knowing the cause of floods, you should also realize that we didn't have a tarp. I tell you that point, so you'll understand what happened when his drunk (so drunk) self showed up two hours later with my brand new fabric-covered sofa in the bed of the trunk while it was pouring rain.

Imagine my surprise (not really) when the front door was flung open and above the thunder claps and lightening strikes, the man I used to be married to bellowed for me to get my bleep outside and help him get the couch inside.

"Did I take the couch outside"?

"Sarah, I don't have time for this. It's pouring. Get down here and help me"!

"How'd you get the couch outside?"

"Richard helped me."

"Well, you'd better go get Richard to help you get it back inside."

"He's drunk."

"Then you'd better go get Richard's drunk bleep to help you, because I didn't take it out of the house, and I'm not carrying it back in."

Inevitably, I ended up carrying that ridiculously heavy thing into our apartment. I also nearly pulled my shoulder out of my socket when Drunky-Drunk dropped the top end while going up the stairs. While I haven't spoken to that man in years, I would lay money down (you know, if I weren't a good Baptist girl who doesn't ever gamble) that to this day, he would tell you that I completely overreacted, and that he still doesn't understand "what the big deal was?" I do NOT miss those days, even if they did provide for some pretty entertaining stories.

I'll take the chaos of two littles running around and exhausting their forty-something Mommy. The complete pandemonium of my man's spinal cord injury, the teenagers, the soon-to-be-graduate, the idea that I'm a Gigi. The peri-menopausal, un-medicated, ADD mess that I now embody on a daily basis is leaps and bounds ahead of where I was twenty years ago. There's been a lot of growing up, and lot of patience added (okay, well at least a little), and a whole lotta Jesus. Make no mistake, I'm still a hotbed of bedlum. Funny stories and hysterical children are absolutely an every day occurrence at the the Bye house, and I see no end in sight. In the end, though, I'll take the extra weight (to an extent, let's not get carried away...), the non-smoking, the lack of late Friday nights, because this crazy comes with Happy, Contentment, and Joy, Joy, Joy).

No Kidding, Interuppted...

I keep telling myself (in my head, that is) that I MUST start writing again. Of course, then I find a reason to do something else. Occasionally, it is something totally worthwhile. Periodically, it may even be momentous occasions that distract me from my goal, but more often than not, it's something completely and totally trivial. I may need a nap. (Who am I kidding... I LOVE NAPS!) Perhaps there has been a TV series that I'm not completely caught up on. Perhaps my ADD has kicked into high gear, and I actually sit down to write but then forget what my topic was going to be...or start a sentence and remember that I forgot to start dinner, or forgot to stop the timer on something. In the end, excuses are excuses, and I need to get back in gear.

Those of you who know me, ok, all of you know that my sweet man had a spinal cord injury three years ago and that last year, well... last year sucked, to put it mildly. We thought he was regressing, the doctors had not a clue (someday soon I'll write a fabulous story about the importance of being an advocate for your loved one that requires intensive medical care) and we were clueless as to where our life was headed.

Isn't it amazing that after witnessing miracle after miracle, watching our sovereign God work in unexplainable ways, that your trust in Him can still waver when you're in the thick of it? I was swallowed up in depression, as was my man. He very literally could have died. Doctors thought he was in neurogenic shock. Want a real heart-stopper? Google that mess while you're sitting in an ER with your man. Lucky for me, I had a senior pastor that googled it on my behalf and sent me a text telling me not to.

I am lucky and grateful to have friends that love me enough to make me aware of when I'm having a pity party. They encourage me in my faith. They remind me of where we've been and what we've overcome. They smack me around a bit to help me get my head on straight.

Last week, I finally started the process of getting off medications that helped me cope with the last three years. It's time. It's time for a lot of things. Time for me to get the extra 40-50 pounds off my hind end. Time for me to live abundantly again. Time to be free of any bindings I may have allowed myself to be trapped by. Time to remember that my identity should be wrapped up in Jesus, and not in my junk. Time to hit Reset again, as many times as is necessary going forward. So on that note...

*reset*