We Never Know What the Next Seven (or 100) Days Will Bring . . .

June 22, 2015March 8, 2024 ~ Sharon Abbott ~ 1 Comment

As Paul says every week at the end of his sermon and before the blessing, “We never know what the next seven days will bring.”

Today marks a hundred days since my first surgery for what should have been a routine hip replacement. In the grand scheme of things, not really all that long. Never-the-less, I have counted them down and looked forward to today since March 16 with both anticipation and anxiety. “It looks good,” my surgeon said at today’s appointment.” And so today I can move forwards (or backwards depending on your perspective) to my normal life. But so I don’t forget, I wanted to record the story and my take-away.

The first surgery went well, the physical therapist and everyone else marveled at how well I was doing, how I was ahead of schedule in the rehab, and I was on way back to my old life – minus the hip pain that had plagued me for years. All was well. Until it wasn’t. A few days before my six weeks check up with the surgeon where I fully expected her to discharge me, I noticed a pain in my thigh. I mentioned it to her during my appointment, almost as an afterthought. Her brow furrowed, her smile faded and she asked me dozens of questions and then, “We need to xray.” That xray revealed what she feared – the bone was not growing in around the stem that went down into my femur and the stem had shifted. In all of her years of surgery and out of the hundreds of patients she had treated, she had had only two cases where this had happened. I was the third. That appointment was on May 6th. By the 7th I was in serious pain and by the 11th I was back in surgery to replace the stem. We had to start over, only this time I would have to stay off the leg for six weeks, using either a walker or a wheelchair.

We never know what the next seven (or one hundred) days will bring. For me it has brought countless acts of kindness.

Visits, cards, care packages, texts, emails, FaceTime and phone calls from my family, always reminding me that I was loved, thought of, and cared for.

Offerings of well wishes left on our doorstep: a basket of muffins, a meal, balloons, flowers, home-made gingersnaps.

Old friends who brought quiche and fresh fruit on a Wednesday morning and stayed to visit.

A 20 year old girl and former student who came to sit me with me one afternoon so that Paul could go to work.

Work colleagues who stepped in at a moment’s notice to cover for me.

Chocolate covered strawberries.

People who sent gift cards to restaurants or showed up with Chinese food for lunch.

A friend who made me a necklace and sent it with a card which read– “Nothing says ‘Happy New Hip’ like jewelry.”

The anonymous Amazon shopper who sent me books through the mail.

Two sisters who showed up with a chocolate chess pie.

The flowers which showed up on just the right day.

A daughter who used some of her precious days off work to come and stay with me after both surgeries.

The texts and cards and messages that made me feel connected and cared for.

Nurses who cared for me so well both in the hospital and at home.

A physical therapist who came to my house three times a week and prayed for me more often than that.

And of course, always, always, always there was Paul: my companion, my chauffer, my meal provider (no, he didn’t cook – though under supervision he learned to make a mean egg salad sandwich ), my courier, my house cleaner, my gardener, my launderer, my encourager, my wheelchair pusher, my “whatever you need, I am here for you.” These 100 days have been a reminder that vows matter. “For better or worse, “ he promised. “ In sickness and in health.” But to do it with such grace and kindness and generosity. . .

But perhaps most unexpected and because of that the most lovely were the kindnesses of strangers. The old man who insists I take his place on the bench as we wait to get seated in a restaurant. The teenage boy with baggy shorts looking up from his phone to see me inching my way toward a door and turns back to open it for me or the seven year old girl who lets go of her mother’s hand to do the same. Everywhere I went, whether with the walker or the wheelchair, it seemed to me that people were quick to notice that I was struggling and offered their assistance cheerfully, eagerly, and with compassion not pity. Some people credit Philo of Alexandria, others say it was someone else, but whoever said it, we all need to tattoo it on our forehead: “Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a great battle.” My battle in the last three months has not been great – it has been an inconvenience and I want to make this point clearly and loudly. I cannot begin to understand the battle that the physically disabled face in their battle to live, work, and function in an environment where everything is a challenge. Nor can I begin to understand the life of those living with terminal, chronic or debilitating illness or pain. I certainly don’t understand what it is like to fear for my health or safety or dignity because of the color of my skin. These are truly “great battles”. And the truth is, like most of us, I don’t know how to help or what to say to those who live on these battle fronts. But this is my point – my “battle” was visible to those around me and, without exception, their response was kindness. And it makes me want to treat everyone I meet like that (even if it’s just giving up a seat or opening a door or bringing muffins) because I don’t know what battle they’re fighting that is not so visible. But I can be sure that just because they’re not using a walker doesn’t mean they don’t need help – or kindness.

The Dog Days of Summer

July 20, 2013December 12, 2024 ~ Sharon Abbott ~ 5 Comments

I love summer.

I even love the “Dog Days of Summer”. You know – those hot, sticky, muggy, days that hit Maryland around July. Don’t hate me. I just love them. I love drinking gallons of iced tea, sitting under the ceiling fan, going barefoot, pulling my hair up in a not-so-neat pile to get it off my neck, eating cucumber salad for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I love going outside at 10 o’clock at night and being
hit with a blast of hot air. I love all of it. And I don’t know why. Being a red head, I was never one of those girls who could “lay out” as a summer activity. You know – spread your towel out in the back yard or on the concrete beside the swimming pool, slather on the baby oil, put on the shades and bake your way to beautiful, golden skin. Oh, not that I didn’t try. I would go through all the steps – only to end up with a hideous looking sunburn that left me in so much pain and misery that I wanted to die (that’s the teen drama speaking). And when the pain subsided I was left with peeling skin and freckles – the bane of my life. I remember once reading in a beauty magazine that you could bleach them out with lemon juice. Not true. Anyway, as a kid and teenager, summer was fraught with peril and danger and I never considered it my friend.

But somewhere along the way, that changed. Now I sit in the shade and read my book and listen to the insects and the birds and it feeds my soul. I don’t like air conditioning. I almost refuse to eat at a restaurant in the summer that doesn’t have outdoor seating because I hate to bundle up in a sweater and hurry through my meal because I’m freezing. I like the heat. (In the interest of full disclosure, we do cool the house down at night to sleep. But the first thing I do in the morning is warm it up.)

This week has been unusually hot. And though the evenings are the way I like them, hot and humid, the day after day of near 100 degree temps with high humidity can wear a little thin – even for me. And they take me back to the summer of 1976.

It was August and we lived in Kansas in an apartment that was on the second and third floor of an old house. I was nine months pregnant and had a four year old and two year old. Our apartment had no air conditioning. None. I stripped the kids down to their underwear, put on a tent that I called a sundress, and wondered to myself if I had really died and gone to hell because surely this is what hell must feel like. Did I mention I was nine months pregnant? And we had no air conditioning? We did find an ancient window unit in the basement that the last tenant had discarded and we (and by we I mean Paul) hauled it upstairs and installed it in the living room window. We plugged it in, prayed, held our breath, and hit the on switch. The sound that came from that machine sounded like a tribe of banshees each using a jack -hammer to break up concrete. The kids – who had been playing out in the yard (in their underwear)- came running up the stairs “Daddy, Daddy, make it stop!” We only knew that’s what they were saying by the look of terror in their eyes and reading their lips – we certainly couldn’t hear them over the racket. The best relief to be found was to stand in front of the open refrigerator. Which I did. Often. Everyday the weatherman talked about the record breaking heat and I prayed that relief would come soon. Paul went to work every day, drove by the bank with the thermometer that confirmed what he already knew – he would return home that evening to a bowl of cereal; sweaty, cranky kids; and a wife who had seen better days. But the baby came in the middle of August (we named her Faith, maybe because of the faith it took to believe we would both survive those days), finally the heat broke, and life went on. I’m sure it was sometime after the memories of that summer had faded a little (a lot) that my love affair with summer began.

I have been reminded of that summer because now, in the heat of these days and nights, as I wait for the birth of my granddaughter who is due the first of August. I understand how miserable the wait is for my daughter Joy and how if feels like it will never end. But it does.

As for me, I will pour myself another glass of tea or buy a 5 cent glass of lemonade from a budding young entrepreneur, turn the ceiling fan on high (okay – and maybe I’ll turn on the air conditioning just a little) and soak up these dog days of summer.

And many thanks to my second “August baby” (yes, I did it again) Sarah for the use of her photos which always tell a story.

It’s All About the Snacks.

February 3, 2013March 5, 2024 ~ Sharon Abbott ~ 1 Comment

In our family, Super Bowl Sunday was never about the football… unless the Bears or later the Skins were playing… and really, how often does that happen in one’s lifetime??

No. Super Bowl Sunday was always about the food. The snacks. All the stuff you got to eat on that day on any other day would have been considered indulgent and gluttonous. On this day, everything was allowable.

I think it must have been about 1987. I can’t remember if we had friends coming or it was just family – either way it would be a party and I had been cooking (junk) food for days. That afternoon I was finishing up the Chex Party Mix (this was before you bought it in a bag and actually made it from scratch). Joy was “helping” me. We mixed the three different kinds of Chex cereals, the peanuts and then poured the buttery mixture over it and put it in the oven. The M&M’s would be added later. So messy, so fun!! She was at the “helping” stage most children go through at about three or four and she was relishing the role. I remember Fletcher one Thanksgiving when he was about the same age wanting to help. He pulled a chair over to the kitchen sink where I was preparing the turkey to put in the oven. He watched for a while before he put voice to the question, “What is that?” “THIS,” I proclaimed proudly of the 20 pound foul sprawled in my sink, “is the turkey!!” “It looks like some kind of dead animal,” he said with mild alarm in his three year old voice. Well, when you put it that way. . . but I digress.

Joy was helping me with the Chex Mix for the Super Bowl party and carrying on a running dialogue – mostly with herself.“I just love the Super Bowl. I have always loved the Super Bowl. I think Super Bowl parties are the best parties ever. Don’t you love the Super Bowl? When can we have the snacks? What time will the Super Bowl start? How much longer is that? Is this YOUR favorite party? Don’t you just love Chex Mix? Can I have some Chex Mix now? Well, how much longer till the Super Bowl starts? Shall I ask the kids if they are ready for the Super Bowl? Can I fix my bowl of Chex Mix now and just hold it till it’s time for the Super Bowl to start? What shall I wear to the Super Bowl? What are you going to wear to the Super Bowl? How much longer, now?” And so it went…. for most of the afternoon. She was so excited for it all to begin. The other kids begged me to make her stop, but she was not to be shushed “She doesn’t even LIKE to watch football!” they complained. “She hates Sunday afternoons when that’s all we do. Why is this so different?” Who knew?

Finally it was time. She spread out her blanket on the floor. She brought pillows from her bed. She put on her “special party pajamas”. She brought in her favorite doll to enjoy the festivities. She straightened her blanket. She fluffed her pillows. And she oh-so-carefully carried her bowl of Chex Mix into the living room and sat on her blanket. We turned on the television. The announcers were talking, the fans were screaming, aaaand the kick-off. Joy was shocked – almost beyond words. She jumped to her little feet, whipped around with her hands on her hips and in the most accusing and disparaging tone I have ever heard in a three year old she said to me, “THIS LOOKS JUST LIKE FOOTBALL!!”

Whatever she had thought a Super Bowl party meant, never in her wildest dreams did she imagine that it was about football.