Tag Archives: writing

Arrivals and Departures

A friend and fellow blogger dropped his daughter off at college in Eastern Washington state, then boarded a plane going home to southern California. He recently described how it felt as the plane rose into the air:

Casting a shadow moving away from there. That’s us down there, pointing back toward where the 18 years happened. Watching the long-planned departure take place. Mulling that our part in her life is getting smaller. This is what we hoped for, right?  That’s us down there, shrinking.[i]

Brad’s imagery lingered with me.  I began imagining how some life experiences are like being on an airplane as we arrive or depart.         

Arrivals

The birth of a baby: I remember the moment when the doctor lifted our first daughter from the womb. She looked my way, our eyes met, and she seemed to be thinking, “Where in the world am I?” 

A child’s first laugh:  My nephew and his wife recently shared an enchanting video of the first time their infant son looked at them and smiled.  That week my wife and I had been watching “Dark Winds,” a detective series set in a Navajo community.  In one episode, an infant laughs for the first time, which, in Navajo culture, signifies the infant has become a person.  The family holds a traditional ceremony to mark that moment.

First personal memory: I was probably 4 years old. I was standing in a bedroom in our house.  I had taken three eggs from the refrigerator, snuck into the room, and was carefully dropping them one by one onto the linoleum floor.  Just as I dropped the second one, my mother came down the hall, saw me, and said, “What in the world are you doing!?!”  I said, “I wanted to see what it looked like when they cracked.” She took the third egg away from me.  I can still see the yellow yolks floating in the puddle of egg white on the floor.  That is the first time I remember being self-aware. I was watching myself; that same observer is me now, thinking about the words I am typing.

First spiritual awareness:  In 1991, the child psychologist Robert Coles published The Spiritual Life of Children, in which he described how children in different cultures wonder about God and the meaning of life.  Many of these experiences happen before a child is eight years old.  Perhaps you have such a memory.

Landing in a far away country:  In 1975, I flew to Europe on Icelandic Airlines.  I remember looking out the window as the plane descended from the clouds; we were crossing the English Channel, then suddenly were over the green French countryside.  It seemed like a dream.

First day on a new job: My most memorable first day of work was the day I began to serve as Executive Director at Hospice of Santa Barbara in September 2008.  I had never imagined being in that role, but there I was.  I sat down at my desk feeling both exhilarated and anxious. For months after, I felt like an impostor, as people expected me to know things I had yet to learn. I was a stranger finding his way in a new land.

Departures

Dropping kids off at Junior High: More than once, I drove away remembering what a hormonal and emotional roller coaster that time in life had been for me — and hoping for the best for our offspring.

Sending kids off to college:  We did it twice by car, once at an airport. Like Brad says, after so many years it’s a curious feeling to realize you’ll no longer be providing daily oversight.  They are on their own, come what may.  “That’s us…shrinking.”

Retirement: My last full-time job was Director at La Casa de Maria Retreat Center. I had planned to retire in the fall of 2018.  But on January 8, the Montecito Debris Flow swept away eight buildings on our property, including my office where I had posted my diplomas and favorite photographs; it all disappeared and was never found. In the months that followed, we worked on the recovery until the decision was made to shut the Center down indefinitely.  I left in June of that year. After saying goodbye to the staff, I drove out the back gate, thinking about how some chapters in our life end so much differently than we had imagined.

Last Call:  I don’t know where I will be for my final “departure” – at home, in a hospital, or in a facility.   Some hospice nurses have told me that, when someone is in their final days, they suggest the family leaves a window partly open so the spirit will be able to ascend freely when it’s time.  I have asked for that.  The lyrics of an American folk hymn come to mind:

When the shadows of this life have gone — I’ll fly away
Like a bird from prison bars has flown — I’ll fly away (I’ll fly away)

I’ll fly away, oh glory — I’ll fly away (In the morning)
When I die, Hallelujah, by and by — I’ll fly away (I’ll fly away)

Life for me hasn’t felt like being a bird behind bars, but more like being a pilgrim in a land of mystery and wonder.  Until that final boarding, may we appreciate all the arrivals and departures we have witnessed and those still to come.

“Shadow of an airplane on a field,” freepik.com

[i]Brad McCarter, “Departing: College Dropoff #3,” Eyes Wide Roaming” blog; https://bradmccarter.substack.com/p/departing

Lifelines

On June 27, I was preparing to be discharged from the hospital after a five-day stay for a strep infection in my cervical spine.  Just before noon, a nurse specialist came to my room to insert a PICC line, the conduit for the daily injections I would need the next 6-8 weeks.

She began by creating a sterile environment around me.  Then, in a 40-minute procedure, she inserted a tiny tube into a vein on the inside of my arm just above my right elbow; using an ultrasound scope to navigate, she threaded it up my arm, across my chest, and to the point above my heart where the medicine would enter my blood stream.  She covered the area around the entry point with a special dressing that a visiting nurse would change every week.  The exposed end of the line consisted of two purple, white and blue plastic insertion receptacles (“lumens”) where the syringes would be attached each morning; these dangled from my forearm when not covered.

The PICC line remained in my body throughout the summer. Every morning it transported saline solution, heparin, and the medicine.

On August 22 (57 days later) I met with the infectious disease specialist.  She told me that the strep infection that had tried to make my cervical spine its summer home had fled the premises; the treatment had succeeded and it was time to remove the PICC line.  I thanked the doctor for her care.

The nurse came in for the removal.  I asked my wife to video the process.  With minimal preparation, the nurse began pulling the line out. I expected it to be a bit messy – won’t there be some blood or fluid?  But it came out clean and dry. I expected to feel some sensation, but didn’t feel a thing. The procedure took about 20 seconds.  Just as a fisherman records the size of a trout, the nurse measured it: 43 centimeters (17 inches). I asked her if I could keep it.  She wrapped it in a sterile glove and gave it to me. I took it home with me like a party favor.  Here it is:

For medical professionals, inserting and removing a PICC line is a routine procedure, as are many other life-giving practices like placing stints, shunts, pacemakers and artificial joints.  But to those of us who benefit from these devices, the experience can seem like a miracle.

In the last week I have been contemplating my PICC line as I would a work of art. It continues to fascinate me: “This little stretch of tubing helped save my life.”

In a sense, it is a work of art.  Somebody had a vision, then probably experimented with different materials, shapes, textures and colors.  They narrowed it down to what could be manufactured, marketed and used. Somebody (perhaps a government agency or university) funded the process.  And now it’s out there in the world, saving lives with simplicity and elegance.

For me the PICC line was literally a lifeline.  And it’s led me to think about other “lifelines.”

Years ago I participated in a drum circle.  At one point the leader had us place our two fingers on the right side of our neck so we could feel our carotid artery pulsing.  He began echoing the steady beat with his drum and invited us to do the same. He reminded us that this artery formed while we were in the womb, picking up the rhythm of our mother’s heartbeat to give us life.  He encouraged us to realize this is an uninterrupted pulse going back in time, passing from one generation to the next, reaching to our most distant biological past.  It is a lifeline that connects us with all that breathes.

I see the people who helped me heal as part of my lifeline: the doctors, nurses and technicians who used their knowledge and skill to serve me.  And my wife was my lifeline.  Morning after morning throughout the summer she carefully followed the 25 minute procedure to give me the injections. 

We rely on many lifelines to live out our days.  I am thankful for them all.

Diagram of the human circulatory system: animalia-life.club

Being Grateful for Our “Inner Savings Account”

“As a lifelong traveler, I felt in my bones how home is not where you happen to live so much as what lives inside you…my inner savings account…the Sufis say that you truly possess only what you cannot lose in a shipwreck.”[i]

I spent five months backpacking in Europe in 1975.  One summer day I was hitchhiking in Bavaria from the mountain village of Lindenberg towards Munich. There were few cars on the country road, so I was walking more than riding.  I saw a thunderstorm approaching.  I noticed a 2-story farmhouse up ahead and realized it might offer some shelter. I got there and huddled under the eaves as the rain began to fall.  A few minutes later, the door opened. A woman stepped out and offered me a black umbrella with a wooden handle.  I could not speak German well enough to converse with her, but we nodded and smiled at each other. She went back inside.  I opened the umbrella and stood under it. Fifteen minutes later, the rain stopped.  I shook it off, folded it, fastened the fabric strap around it, and knocked on the door to return it.  She opened the door and I handed it to her, bowing my head in gratitude.  But she smiled and motioned to me to keep it.  Surprised, I thanked her and resumed my trek.

I kept that umbrella with me for the rest of my trip.  I took it with me on the flight home. I kept it for years afterward, even as it got frayed.  Every time I would pick it up, I was taken back to that moment and the gracious kindness the woman had shown me.  I’ve kept the memory all these years.  It’s part of my “inner savings account.”

What lives inside us?  Memories of many kinds.

How often do you hear a song that takes you back to a time when you first heard it as it was “deposited” into your memory account? How often does a food remind you of your childhood?   How valuable are our spiritual expereinces and beliefs? How vividly do we remember the unexpected kindness of strangers?

Isn’t it the case that, the older we get, the more likely we are to draw something from that account and share it with others while we still can?  Unlike monetary bank accounts, withdrawing a memory doesn’t mean you lose it; instead, you are keeping it alive.

I have always appreciated listening to peoples’ stories and keen to know what those experiences have taught them about life.  I add them to my storehouse of significant experiences, even though they did not happen to me.  Learning from the memoires of others is like investing in a communal “mutual fund.”  Sharing stories with family, long-time friends, and in spiritual communities is like having shares in “Mutual Memory Funds” from which we all benefit.

As years go on, our ability to access memories in our own personal account may diminish, which is all the more reason to claim them while we can.

Our “Inner Savings Accounts” and “Mutual Memory Funds” are lifetime investments that don’t get lost in shipwrecks, wildfires, floods or fluctuations in the stock market. They are “high yield accounts.”   They live with us and with those with whom we share them.  I no longer have that umbrella, but what it means to me will never be lost.

[i] My notes tell me this is attributable to the writer and world traveler Emily Hahn.