September 17, 2013

I’m sorry it has taken me so long to write I have no excuse, especially since my days are long here in the rehab place and I find the hours so hard to fill. I have to confess to just letting age take over and to taking lots of naps. I wrote this the other day as I was getting a maintenance dose of chemo just to keep that old cancer spook away.

I am having my coffee with Jesus this am as I sit here in the Medina Hospital. It is really good coffee too because Jackie took the time to stop at Starbucks on the way over to get me. I’ve asked Jesus to be with me and I really feel His presence beside me as the healing poison drips in. I will have to have these treatments for at least one more year, but only once every three months and it is a light dose that only makes me tired, not nauseous or sick in any way. I marvel at the medical care I get..

I sit in a very comfortable lounge chair – feet up, pillows everywhere. They bring warm blankets to tuck around me and fuzzy socks to warm my feet. They even put them on for me. At my elbow is my coffee, peanut butter and cheese snacks, water and a dose of Tylenol just in case. In front of me is my very own TV set and beside me is a floor to ceiling window that looks out from the sixth floor over a lovely wooded area and blue, blue sky. I have a button to push for whatever I might need. I feel like a reigning queen. If it weren’t such a scary life threatening disease, it might make someone want it just for the pampering.

I am so fortunate though. Back at the rehab “Avenue” every precaution is taken to see that I don’t fall, catch any germs, am well fed, cleaned up body and bed, breathe well, and have the right exercise to make me well. They even have an entertainment director to help us keep from getting bored. It would seem like an ideal existence. Someone is here to help me get a Jacuzzi bath, scrub my head and back. and even rub lotion on my feet. They come in the wee hours of the night with a pain pill if I need it. Yet, I long to go home. I should revel in this existence, yet I chafe to get out. What a perverse creature I am. No matter what the gates are made of, if we are shut within them then it is a jail. I can’t wait to be free of this environment.

So, if creature comforts, being waited on hand and foot, and executive treatment aren’t enough to make me happy, then what is? What makes me happy and content? What do I long for most?
I watch the other inmates here. I call them inmates because they probably feel as imprisoned here as I do even though we are treated so well and are in really beautiful surroundings. They all long to leave and go home. Why? Home isn’t opulent usually. There are no servants waiting on ones’ every need or seeing to your health, well-being , or safety. Yet home is where all of us long to be.
Home is where we have to do for ourselves, make our own meals, clean up after ourselves and make our own comforts. Why do we want to be there? Because it’s where love is. Love is around us at home. Family is there, pets are there, our beloved is there. HOME–where love abides.

One little lady here reminds me every day of my own great fortune. She is a tiny woman, 90 years old with more years than she has pounds. She has the whitest hair of all and the sharpest mind. I wish I could give her what she longs for most – a family. She had no children, no grandchildren, hence no great grands either. She has one niece and one nephew and neither one is young anymore, both in their seventies and finding it hard to care for their aunt anymore. This little woman needs so much. I’ll bet she’d take most anything for the little arms that reach up for a hug, or for the big strong ones that reach down to give one. Those arms are more precious than any possession.

How I wish that kind of love for the little lady who is well cared for but who will never go home.
I wonder if she has Jesus’ arms to wrap around herself and give her warmth. The song says His arms are everlasting and I believe it. I pray for the everlasting arms of Jesus to keep you all warm in heart.

Love, Irma Jane