Rehab, the Story Continues: Santa is There

John 8:12 “Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.”

Three-and-a-half days! I made it. I made it to the weekend. But getting there was not without its many hurdles. This story is not all about ‘The Nursing Home’ ordeal, or the staff, this is about my journey, a fifty-two-year-old woman with stage four breast cancer, lymphedema of the left arm, radiation treatment to my bones and recovery of major surgery of my broken femur. Take for instance my Oral Chemo, it was running out, I did not have the wits about me to know how to reorder so I had to leave it up to my husband to take care of matters. The drugs I was on were pretty strong and keeping my mind busy and pretty much in a fog.

He called the Dr.s office, the nurse said she’d order it, no problem, he called back and Fay said it would be delivered Friday but needs a signature. Uh oh, hubby would have to miss work AGAIN, and miss seeing me all day to wait for meds! Not a happy gal but it’s okay, I’m tough and getting tougher by the day! Needless to say by three o’clock when the meds had not arrived hubby came to the hospital to visit me, even if it was only for two hours. He can’t drive at night, so we watched the sun (or lack thereof) very closely! A different story, the meds never arrived.

When Friday came I was happy to have made it to this day alive, although I had never wanted to give up more than I did this week. A loneliness had settled in, hubby knew it, and no amount of cuteness from Ray, or compassion from the staff could move me. It was a tough week on my spirit and soul. This was also the last day of radiation to my arm, and my son stepped up and said he could go to the CC with me. The weekend, I’d get a break, right? 

Then there was the day earlier in the week that they had to take my clothes to put name tags on them, even though we told them WE would wash them, they needed to be tagged. (I didn’t hand everything over but I stupidly gave them lounge pants, two flannels, brand new socks, and a pair of underwear. All were returned by Friday except my underwear and socks. When Kay, my occupational therapist heard this she set out on a search of my missing panties. She returned to my room waving them in her hand and said, “Hey, no wonder they wanted to keep them, they’re cute!” We both laughed but I through my tears. She hugged me!

Then there was Santa. Thursday had been a day of sunshine and warmth and I had even had a chance to open the window. Ray didn’t like the window opened because it gave her a chill. She was on the other side of the curtain between our beds and didn’t know it was open. The warmth, the sun, it was all I had to cling to. Yes, people, before you tell me to cling to God, please know, HE is the only thing that kept my breath in my lungs, He is first and foremost, but the sunshine and the warmth were for me on this day. 

Coming back from my radiation treatment that day found me in the sunshine. On the side of the entry to the hospital was a little area with a table and four chairs, lining a brick path were rocks, rocks of all shapes and sizes. Hubby and I followed the path, to the chairs and table and we sat in the sun, I in my wheelchair of course. We watched as nurses changed shift and a nurse had brought a resident outside to feel the warmth of the day. The table was back a little ways from the entry so hubby and I enjoyed the table and sunshine. I enjoyed the one monarch butterfly that landed on a rock not ten feet from me and my chair. Thank you, Jesus, I whispered out loud, as a tear trickled from my eye. 

Then he appeared, an older man hunched over his walker. He was taking tiny steps as he scooted to the path. An obvious Husker fan dressed from head to toe in his puffy red Husker slippers, his red husker lounge pants filled with the Husker team logo, all topped off with his white t-shirt with a big N for Nebraska, trimmed in red on sleeves and neck. His full white moustache and beard were reminiscent of Santa Claus. Steven softly sang… ‘here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus lane...’. I smiled.

Santa stopped at the rocks and just stood there looking down at them. One minute, five minutes passed and he moved, inching closer to where Steven and I were sitting. Again, Santa paused to stare at the rocks. He was within earshot of me now, I said, “Do you like the rocks as much as I do?” I myself was eyeing one shaped like a heart. Yeah, I draw to me these kinds of people. 

He looked up at me, then back to the rocks before he answered, “Yeah.” He began inching closer to me again, and stopped, mesmerized by the rocks. He began talking without looking up from the rocks, “They’re beautiful. Back in my shop, I take CLR to clean them. It brings out their beauty, then I polyurethane them. Yup.” He began to turn around and looked at the other side of the path lined with rocks.

As he slowly turned, he made his way right to the edge of the path. I thought he was turning to go back in the home but no, he paused to look at this side of the path, too, before heading inside. Staring at the rocks he whispered, 

“Y’know, it’s like looking at a million mountains,”  he went on, “Y’know how the rocks are made don’t ya? The rain,” he paused a moment, “the rain cuts them out of the mountains and they all wash downstream, getting cleaned up through the river until we gather them and see them for their beauty.”

By this time I had tears in my eyes and Steven and I were both looking at each other in wonderment. I knew there was a message in there for me but I couldn’t see it through my tears. Santa looked at me and smiled raised a finger to tap his nose and he proceeded to slowly walk back to the door, with one last quick pause to gaze at the rocks, he went inside.

I told Steven that it was now time for me to go back inside too, I got what I came for, a message. I picked up a rock, and we went inside the home, to my room. It didn’t seem so small anymore.

The moral of the story to me is: We are all refined by God made perfect in His image as we go through the trials and suffering of being washed downstream until we’re seen in our perfection before the Lord.

Isa. 48:10 “Behold, I have refined thee, but not with silver; I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction.”

The Pool...

Pss. 49:3 3 My mouth shall speak of wisdom; and the meditation of my heart shall be of understanding.
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Writers call it the pool of words, some the pool of thought, any way you look at it, there is a metaphorical meaning behind... the pool.

Steven King made fictional use of this pool in Lisey’s Story. While Lisey and her deceased husband found the pool to be either a healing place, an imaginary portal that few could step through, or a burying place where the deceased lingered or passed into another realm, the pool existed in their minds, and apparently Manda bunny, Lisey’s sister.

In a form of reality, the pool exists within each and every one of us but often we get so caught up with our daily existence that we never take a dip. We stand back looking at the ripples, fear the plunge because the water appears too cold to be immersed in, or we just walk around the pool edges running our fingers across the top, so we can add to the ripples.

In the pool lies clarity. I love a pool that is ice blue, wrinkled with drips of sunshine embellishing the length and depth. A pool is so different from say an ocean or a river because of the clarity. (assuming you have the proper chemicals and filter to keep it clean.)

The ocean can be laden with crabs and such that keep you at a foots length from really diving in to feel the jellyfish wriggle between your legs. The river is equipped with many rocks and sharp edges that you always want to be wearing protective gear on your feet so they don’t get cut or bruised.

Then there’s the pool. The refreshing pool that sits with it’s wavering water, calling out to you to come in and drink from the beauty. You wade into the shallow end, perhaps slowly making your way to where the water almost crests the mouth then you feel yourself getting lighter and lighter and you float off to the deep end. I always like clinging to the side with my feet paddling behind me, a complete control experience.

Writer’s are metaphorical people. We like to swim, not dip in the pool! This is where we get our clarity, whether we are in the ocean of turmoil, the river of boulders, or the pool of sanity; we swallow all of the offerings and gulp down the intense feeling and bring forth a story of reliable prose.

We have a filter in our brain that allows us to see through the murky, algae infested waters and it is in this place...we listen. We block out all of the incoming thoughts, scrambled as they were and we decipher just what the universe is trying to tell us.

The pool is our meditative process, one that a lot of writer’s or people, rarely dip into, for unknown reasons. Why not dapple in the pool of silence and meditation? You’ll see... it's a clarifying experience.

Pss. 119:99 I have more understanding than all my teachers: for thy testimonies are my meditation.