Love and plants aligned
The days are officially getting longer as of 8:05 p.m. Tuesday. I usually pause on the winter solstice, knowing that the darkest days of the year are behind us. This moment, with stars suspended in time, was memorable.
One day I found myself in a parking lot waiting for something or someone. The backdrop was not the brightest. To pass the time, I inspected the burgundy branches of a barren tree. The tree was far from lifeless, although it would have appeared to be dormant if viewed from a distance. I saw the buds poking through the bark, emerging in intervals along the leafless stem, growing slowly in the cold.
Trees never pause to look into the future. They grow “as if.” The same is true with bulbs after some hopeful gardener puts them into soil and the rains arrive.
Humans would be wise to live the same way, to march along expecting something worthwhile at the end of the journey. Otherwise, there would be no need for savings accounts, gardening catalogs, dehydrated tomatoes — or endless plans for the future.
Family gatherings
Despite the virus, this holiday season has been a reminder of the strength of our family’s love.
Mom wisely decided we can gather in February or April, or some other month when we won’t need to sit a certain distance apart and wear masks. Readers will see this column on Christmas. Some of use will not be with our families this year. Yet, there are so many other days we can share and show our love.
Dad has been receiving chemotherapy, and we decided it was important we were all together. It would be a small group, and we would celebrate on the solstice. That’s when we could best see the “Christmas Star.” Jupiter and Saturn aligned more closely than they have been in 800 years — a view of a lifetime.
On the days leading to Dec. 21, Dad was in the hospital nursing damaged kidneys. We gathered, but in an entirely different way than we had planned. When he was released, we formed the Hacking post-hospital team.
I became the heavy lifter, being the tallest of the women in our group. Dad and I worked out a lift, pivot and shuff le routine for making necessary trips across the house. Auntie Pat, a retired nurse, is the medical records interpreter. Lynda, my step- mom, keeps careful notes and plans our next steps. Others in the family came through for so many necessary and sometimes unexpected roles.
For those two nights, before another emergency room visit, we took turns caring for him on what was intended to be our family Christmas.
Dad kept swatting away the annoying tubes in his nostrils as he slept. We took turns replacing them and kept an eye on the finger pulse oximeter that noted his blood oxygen level.
On that night of the Jupiter/Saturn conjunction, I was sitting at the edge of his bed near a large window. I pointed out the sunset.
I know my dad well. In a nearly nonverbal way, he insisted that we go outside and view the aligned planets. I didn’t even know he was paying attention to the time. “Right now?” I said, confused by the wide- eyes that were, indeed, a command.
That’s my dad. Downright bossy at times, even when bed-ridden.
Fight. This has been our family pact. Heroic efforts.
“In the wheelchair?” He nodded firmly. Looking back, it was silly to roll outside, even briefly. Yet, Dad didn’t want his daughter to miss this once-in- a-lifetime event.
That night we continued to watch his blood oxygen level and that’s how we noticed his pulse rate. Dad’s heart began racing like a hummingbird.
This led to following Google directions to another emergency room, where dad’s heart was zapped back into a regular rhythm. Auntie Pat, our family nurse, said if we had made different decisions, his heart could have burned out like the motor of a blender. Back on track, we soon learned his kidneys are almost back to normal.
Fight. This has been our family pact. Heroic efforts.
“He always liked that famous Dylan Thomas poem,” my dad’s older sister told me as we looked to the southwest that same solstice night.
“I didn’t understand it when we was young, but I can see he feels the same way now,” she said.
I looked up the poem the next day.
“Do not go gentle into that good night,/ Old age should burn and rave at close of day;/ Rage, rage against the dying of the light./
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,/Because their words had forked no lightning they/ Do not go gentle into that good night./
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright/ Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,/ Rage, rage against the dying of the light./
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,/ And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,/ Do not go gentle into that good night./
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight/ Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,/ Rage, rage against the dying of the light./
And you, my father, there on the sad height,/ Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray./ Do not go gentle into that good night./ Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”