Quadriplegia

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Quadriplegia.  "Quad" meaning "four" and "plegia" from the word meaning "to strike."  Dad was struck in a head-on collision and, in an instant, life changed.

But oh how he was determined, determined to continue to live. To live.  To live.

Dad was 62 when he had that wreck.  He spent sixish months in the hospital.  He came back home when he was 63.

Mom had worked for Encyclopeida Britannica for decades; one of their top salespersons.  An executive with Britannica called her and told her that if my brother would fly to Chicago, Britannica would sell us a van for $1.

We took them up on the offer. My brother flew up, paid the $1, papers were signed, and he drove the van back to North Carolina.

The big cargo van was never plush, sort of make shift.  But it served well those thirteen years.  It contained a driver seat, but not for Dad.  He never did promote to chauffeur. The front passenger seat was removed so that Dad could steer his electric wheelchair into where the passenger seat previously had been. Part of the wheelchair arm would then hook into a latch that anchored the chair, and thus Dad, into place.  There was only one other seat - a bucket seat put toward the back of the van; it wasn't too comfortable but served the purpose. Mom found a local handyman to put a power lift in the van so Dad could be lifted in and out.

One of Dad's favorite songs was the old hymn, "Love Lifted Me."

Even though Dad never drove the van he did get what Mom called a surrey. It was open-aired and gas-powered. I have no idea where Mom or Dad found that vehicle. I'd never seen one before, nor since.

The surrey had four wheels with a small flatbed on the frame. The flatbed served as a platform that Dad could drive his wheelchair onto via a ramp that came down on the back of the flat bed. Blue steel rails went around the two sides and back of the surrey. Motorcyle handle bars controlled the cart.  On the rear a tall flexible thin pole rose about eight feet into the air. On the end of the pole an orange triangular flag would warn folks that something was approaching or ahead on the road.

After Dad drove aboard, we would lock the wheels of his wheelchair. We would put a helmet on his head and some fingerless velcro gloves on his hands.  Dad then placed his hands on the handle bars, like when one rides a motorcycle. Since he couldn't bend his fingers, we would secure his fingers and hands with the velcro gloves around the handle bar grips.

Though Dad couldn't grip, he was able to move his wrists.  With his right wrist and hand he controlled the stop and go of the surrey.  Wrist down, and the surrey would move forward.  Wrist up and the surry would stop.  I don't recall what he did to cause it to back up.

The surrey didn't go very fast; I think it was slower than his wheelchair.  Yet he looked liked a race-surrey driver aboard that cart.

The farthest Dad ever drove the surrey was around 30 miles, from Hickory to Lenoir.  He took Old Highway 321A, the two-lane folks used to drive before the four-lane was built.  Mom followed him in the van just in case Dad ran into complications.  She was a nervous wreck; Dad was thrilled. He drove to Green Mountain, the camp ground where Mom and Dad had a trailer in place.

They bought that trailer and had it equipped so Dad could sleep there and Mom could care for him.  There had to be room in the trailer for Dad to maneuver his wheelchair. Like the van, it wasn't plush but met the need. The bed had enough room under it so that the bottom of Dad's lift could go under the bed.  Mom would get confused and call the lift a "tilt."

The lift was a piece of equipment we used to get Dad in and out of bed, and other places.  He would sit patiently in the swing like structure on wheels as we got him into position before lowering him into place.  He was always thankful for the help.

The song he used to sing in the mornings at home as our wake up call? "Love Lifted Me."  He'd typically have breakfast in bed. Then Mom, or whoever was on morning shift, would put the "tilt" (the lift) to work. During the day, Dad would have to be laid down a couple times and then gotten back up to help prevent pressure sores.

Though most of the time Dad simply drove his wheelchair around Hickory, he also drove the surrey at times.

Two different times when he was driving his wheelchair, without the surrey, he fell into creeks. Someone helped pull him out. I think they called the fire department; Dad and his wheelchair were heavy.  Yet he never let his wheelchair mishaps slow him down.

He'd drive his wheelchair to the library or to downtown Hickory to shop. On the back of his wheelchair was a large bag attached as a carry-all.  That's where he carried his wallet.  When he needed to pay for items or retrieve his library card, he'd ask with a smile to someone in line or to the clerk, "Could you help me out with my wallet?"  The volunteer would pull Dad's wallet out of the carry-all and hand it to Dad. Then using his chin and the back of his hands and his chest, Dad would open it up. Sometimes he would use a lame thumb as a tool to scoot a bill out of the wallet.  Other times he'd use the heels of both his hands, wallet secured between them, and stretch his arms forward so that the clerk could get the money or library card from his wallet. Someone would then put the items or books in Dad's carry-all.

Dad was never robbed in thirteen years.  He knew the risks, yet his freedom was worth much more than his wallet.

I can still hear him sing in his deep voice, "Love lifted me. Love lifted me. .... When nothing else could help, .... Love .... Lifted .... Me....."

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entry ~ heritage ~

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December 31, 2009 - 12:10 AM

I haven't written in seven days?  I think that's correct.  Why haven't I written in seven days?  I don't know.

Christmas happened; it was a good day.  We went to my brother's new home for the day.

Hmmm....this isn't what I really want to write about. Remember that I don't have to write to please anyone; nor do I need to write to publish my writing. Yet for some reason I probably will throw this entry up on a blog.  I'll tweak it a bit; I usually do.  I keep the original though; I have learned to keep the original. I had a piece once that I tweaked so much, the original got lost in the midst; the essence of what I wanted to express became almost empty, like a shell housing hollow facts.

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As of 12/30/09, we have new floors on the lower level of our house.  John and Joshua and I packed up all the collection and remnants of life that were stashed in various corners.  John and Joshua moved lots of furniture out of the rooms that were getting the new floors; I felted the bottom of the furniture we didn't move out.

Now the hardwood is laid and I need to dust, vaccuum, wipe down, and rearrange the furniture.  I imagine I will leave most of the packed remnants in boxes for now. Most of it I've not used or touched in a couple years.  I have the boxes labeled.  I won't toss or sale those remnants yet.  I have time to go through them over the next years to discard what will be discarded and to preserve what will be preserved.

I found a TWI banner in the closet.  It's white cloth, about eight inches by twelve inches, with green tasselling at the bottom. The bottom has two edges that come down at an angle to a center point.  I think there may be gold trim at the top of the banner and perhaps at the bottom, right above the green fringe.  A wooden rod with decorative horizontal mosque-shaped ends slips through the top of the banner, like a tiny curtain rod.  A gold entwined cord is tied to each end of the rod; that is how the banner hangs. The banner states The Way International in the circular emblem which I think also has The Way Tree symbol, a tree trunk with an open Bible as the tree crown.  I used to draw those regularly when I'd doodle. I always liked trees, still do. "The Word of God is The Will of God" is written in block letters across the banner, I think in three lines with "is" sitting alone on the middle line.

I didn't toss the banner; I rolled it and placed it in a box with some other stuff, and then labeled and taped the box.  I'm not sure why I kept the banner.  In an odd way, I feel it is part of my heritage.  I can't just throw it away; not yet.  Maybe never.

Nor did I toss the framed print of Craig and Doctor.  I didn't know I still had it.  I thought I had tossed it, but there it was in the back of the closet, sticking up out of a box.  It surprised me and I thought, "Oh..."  I felt a bitter sweetness amble through my heart.

I had once truly believed The Way to be the Household of God and The Way Corps to be the highest calling.  I believed I had been trained with the finest training on earth and that I had turned my back on my Way Corps calling. Yet I still tried to live up to it; Craig had encouraged me after I dropped to continue using my training, that there weren't enough of us for any to sit on the sidelines. The belief system and the structure were the fabric of my life.  I had loved Craig as a brother and Doctor as a father; both as my spiritual teachers, guides, protectors of hearts and pillars of integrity.

Yet I have no doubt that Craig and Doctor and other past and/or present leaders have abused.  I don't think the sexual abuse goes on anymore in The Way; but I do think spiritual and emotional abuses continue.  The doctrine over person and heirarchy system will probably always be standard opertaing procedure within The Way.  Those two aspects seem regular fare in fundamentalist-type groups.

Sometimes I wish I could feel the anger and rage toward Craig and Doctor that others feel.  I feel guilt that I don't feel that 'righteous anger.'  With that guilty feeling, I have an image of Ralph or some other Greasespot Cafe judge and jury hollaring at me, telling me what scum those leaders were. Shouldn't I be angry?

I have felt anger toward Way leaders, but not to the extent that I have felt rage toward certain ex-Way followers who 'self-righteously' judge ex- or current-TWI leaders (or other TWI followers), all the while excusing or being blind to their own abusive past (or even present) words and deeds.

It confuses me at times.  I then breathe deeply and tell myself that my confusion is understandable.  I'm responsible for me, not for them.  And if I sit in self-righteous judgement, I could be guilty of the same.  I don't know, if there is an eternity and so-called judgement day, I imagine we are all in for some big surprises.

Well, I didn't expect to write those last five paragraphs.  I wanted to write about the print of Craig and Doctor and the bittersweetness I felt upon seeing the print.  But now I don't want to; I feel kind of sick to my stomach.

I'll just say it is the print of the painting by the artist Tom Cowan, portrait busts of Craig and Doctor; they appear to be seated. Doctor is wearing a green ball cap with "The Way Corps" in green letters on a white background, a squared-oval patch on the front of the green cap.  Green and white were the Way Corps colors.  With his left hand Doctor is holding an open Bible, probably to Ephesians. His right hand is placed on the Bible pages like he is pointing something out as Craig is looking where Doctor's fingers are pointing. Doctor's eyes are also focused on the page where Craig is focused. Doctor has his mouth open slightly, like he is teaching or showing Craig a scriptural or spiritual truth, "the eyes of his understanding being enlightened."

Doctor's holy spirit ring on his right fourth finger is prominent; it is a ruby color which is similar to the background color of the painting. His wedding band is seen on his left fourth finger.

Craig appears to have the fingers of his right hand on the fourth finger of his left hand, like he is touching or twirling a ring.  Is it a Corps ring or a wedding ring?  I don't remember.  It seems we were told once.  Craig has on a wrist watch.  I recall Craig once stating with a chuckle something like, "If you ask me what time it is, I'll end up telling you how the watch works."  An example of how he was always "apt to teach," as the scripture commands of overseers in the Church.

"The Teacher," a poem apparently written by Doctor as his signature is under the prose, is calligraphied on the right side of the print. Doctor called himself "the teacher."  He instructed new graduates of his Power For Abundant Living Foundational Class that wanted to write him, to address their envelopes to "The Teacher."   That's what I did when I first took 'The Class' in December, 1977.  Doctor wrote me back; I was thrilled and stunned.

All the Way Corps were called to be teachers.

The Teacher

The teacher of God's Word is one of a kind

Who loves God with all his heart, soul, mind, and strength;

And who loves nothing more than to teach His Word.

The teacher of God's Word is an artist

He works alone ~ reading ~ thinking ~ praying ~ studying

Believing to share his product with all the world.

The teacher of God's Word is a giver

One who gives without the gaurantee of being received;

One who rejoices without knowing if anyone else will joy;

One who corrects the irresponsible and careless;

One who gives, gives, gives, and keeps on giving.

The teacher of God's Word lives only to teach

to receive, to weigh, to discard, to develop,

to learn, to treasure, to give, to motivate,

to enlist, to stabilize, to encourage, to direct.

And may I add, and to build equipped believers,

   abassadors strong and wise

Who teach because they love the teacher's task

And find their greatest prize

In eyes that open, and in minds that ask.

                                                                                                Victor Paul Wierwille

I used to think that was such a humble poem.  Now it creeps me out, and makes me feel dirty.

I notice in this above entry that I use the word "Doctor" for V.P. Wierwille. That is how I felt about the print when I saw it; it wasn't VPW, the man, but VPW, the beloved teacher and "doctor" of the scriptures.

Why did it end up such a lie?  It causes my heart to ache, and that's o.k.

Living is a hard thing, sometimes.

I hope I'm making a new tapestry; one that is more real. Surely I am? Surely I am...

It's 1:55 AM now.  Goodnight...

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"I meant to do my work today...."

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I found something today!  What did I find?

It found it online...some tracks from one of may all-time favorite LPs, "Friends."  I used to have this pink-colored album.  But like all my "worldly" albums, I rid myself of them in late summer of 1977 when I decided to give my whole self "to Jesus."  I left the albums at a mental health hospital, Broughton, in Morganton, NC.  I wasn't ever a patient there, but thought maybe the folks there, patients and employees, might enjoy the music.  I felt a certain empathy for patients with mental health challenges, and for some reason I chose Broughton.

Ahh, now I recall why I chose Broughton.  I had heard that the song "Fire and Rain" by James Taylor was about something to do with Taylor's own hospitalization due to mental health challenges.  I was told part of his time was spent at Broughton. I had quite a few James Taylor albums in my stack; thus I thought of Broughton Hospital. Perhaps too, I felt an unconscious connection as my mother had spent time at Broughton when I was a toddler.

I just now googled and found some interesting facts; James great-grandfather was a doctor at Broughton before it was named Broughton. Click here to read a snippet: Sweet Baby James' ties to Burke by Steve Walker from the Morganton (NC) News-Herald.

Click Snopes link, "Fire and Rain", for a history behind that song. It appears James didn't spend time at the Morganton facility; yet sought help elsewhere for certain struggles.

So I left my albums; including Rubber Soul, The White Album, Friends, James Taylor's works, Steam-Powered Aeroplane, and lots more good stuff; that late summer day on a desk at Broughton Hospital.  I asked the front office where I could leave a donation and I was directed to another office.  No one was in at the moment; it may have been lunch time.  My stack of albums was at least a foot high; the stack was heavy.  I left a note on top of the stack, "From Jesus."  Oh well! ;-D

The following songs from "Friends" are some of my favorite songs of all time.  Through the decades I have continued to say those words, "I meant to do my work today...but the brown bird sang in the apple tree....and all the leaves were calling me..."







Two years ago, my daughter bought me an older Elton John CD because she saw this song, Friends, was on it.  Through the years she'd heard me say how much I loved the song, but we never heard it on the radio nor did I have a copy of it. My daughter saw it listed on that CD, and now I have it. Plus she got to hear it for the first time.  Probably my most favorite song of all time.....so far.  ;-)

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Daughtering ~ Grief ~ Substance

Click here to read about an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction .

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The last few days I've been rather....delicate.

This is the first Christmas without both my parents alive, the first Christmas where the house I was raised in is now in someone else's hands.

So many thoughts run through my mind as I write this.  I want to go off on a tangent about my visit to that house some weeks ago.  I met the new owner.  She is lovely, heart-filled, and absolutely adores that old house. She is young, in her early 20's.  It's her first home-purchase. I shared with her some history about the house and about Mom and Dad.  She works as an occupational therapist and was keenly aware of what that house represented to my father and the work it took for him to be able to stay at home all those years after his wreck.

Yet, to write of that tangent, I avoid writing the thoughts of Mom, the thoughts I went through this morning as I talked with my counselor.  I no longer hire counseling on a regular basis, but I needed some help. He had an opening this morning.

I wasn't a bad daughter, though in my teen years I was a wild one.  There was a period of time in my late teens that I would "bark" at Mom.  I can't remember what about, but I know I did at times.  On the other hand, as far as I recall, my parents never said, "I/we love you," to me; not until after I first said it to them.  That was shortly after I became a Christian when I was eighteen years old. I decided I should tell my parents I love them because the Bible commanded to honor thy mother and father.

Then I recall I told them those words again when I was in the 10th Way Corps at Emporia, Kansas.  It seems Mom had had surgery, a thyroid removal, and I told her over the phone that I loved her.  I was on the pay phone in the top floor of Owens Hall, the dormitory at The Way College named after Ermal Owens, the first Vice-President of The Way. Mom, Dad, and I more regularly exchanged those three words after Dad's accident.

I wasn't a bad daughter.

Mom called me before her suicide attempt. She could have called someone else but she didn't.  She must have called me because she felt I wouldn't hold judgement over her or something; the point is, of all people she called me.  And I did go to her rescue; I think that's what most folks would do.  The doctors at the hospital said she would have died had someone not come to her aid; she'd taken enough pills to do the deed.

I wasn't a bad daughter.

I used to massage Mom's feet when I'd go to visit her in the years after Dad died; he died in 1996.  I'd soak Mom's feet in warm water, massage them with lotion, and then (to the best of my ability) cut those thicker-than-thick toenails.  Mom enjoyed that.  I cut her fingernails too, and would massage her hands with lotion. Mom or Dad had never hugged me that I recall, so we didn't hug.  I did stroke her head some and brush her hair in her elderly years.  I'd sit with her. I didn't clean up about Mom's house often; but sitting with her and massaging her feet probably meant more, huh?

I wasn't a bad daughter.

January will be one year since Mom passed.  I've still not touched the boxes that are strewn about in my dining room filled with remnants of the house where I grew up.  I tell myself that is understandable as I battle feeling guilty for not having organized it yet, or the rest of my house for that matter.  Since before I had major surgery in August, 2008, I've kind of let the upkeep of the house go. Hubby and son have stepped in to care for some of that.  Perhaps I'll call someone to help me after the first of the year; so I'm not alone.  Maybe I'll do that; maybe not.

Death seems more permanent now since I'm no longer sure of my beliefs regarding eternity.  I guess there is a bit of grief in that too, in the no longer knowing. Perhaps there is more grief in that than I consciously realize.

Grief isn't empty; it reminds me of joy and the substance of life.

I wasn't a bad daughter....

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