Waiting for the unknown...

The last few days have been a roller coaster.

Walking into the hospital room, I never know what to expect. Some of these recent experiences have been beyond my worst nightmares, while other moments have reaffirmed the simple state of grace we all hope prevails in the darkest instances.

Much of this time, I've spent trying to keep my nearly three year old niece occupied. Hospital waiting rooms are not long on options to accomplish such a feat. Sometimes we sing songs we've just made up. Sometimes we play "Kelcie wears the Peterbilt Hat". Sometimes we go for walks. Sometimes we sit with grandma, until things get too bad and we go elsewhere. Sometimes we have the same maturity level, according to the nurses.

I hope this is a good thing. Sometimes.

Yesterday, "we" took a break from the waiting room and went to the Supermall in Auburn. As my folks looked on, my sister Kellie, Kelcie and me rode the merry-go-round. Up and down, around and around we went. It seemed the most perfect symbol for my time in Seattle so far. Circular emotions and the altitude sickness of this rollercoaster of dread, hope, sadness, and then comfort. Up and down, around and around... this is how 88 years old looks at this particular intersection of the bright light tunnel and the twilight moments.

I really don't know what lies ahead. Not much remains of the Billie I knew. Yet modern medicine seems to fight this battle with her numerous challenges as if it was only a small inconvenience. Kidney's begin to shut down? Congestive heart failure? Pneumonia? Fluid build up? Heart attack? Each of these is answered with a dose of something, an intervention, and a litany of optimism.

I don't feel optimistic.

I wonder at these interventions, the suffering, and the fact that Billie doesn't seem to want to linger here anymore. The pain still remains, despite the bliss of periodic morphine. My grandmother was specific: No heroics, no feeding tubes, and certainly no jump starts. Yet here we are despite these good intentions and it seems very pointless. I wonder, will we once again be in a position like we were with my great aunt? Where at the end, there are these barely whispered pleas coming from a hospital bed. The ones similar to my great aunt's, asking for my sister and me to help Grandma Bill over to the other side? I'm still haunted by those thoughts, still sense that helplessness, and my sister and I still look at each with worried expressions each time we try to discuss the next hour, the next day and the next week.

I've also spent so much time in hospital this week that I have begun to recognize the other long term worried well folks. They nod at me now, as they make their way toward their own dates with uncertainty. Sometimes we talk. Mostly we just sit together in the waiting room, staring off into the corridor, wanting to be doing something, anything... but afraid to leave, just in case "that" moment comes. It's like living on top of a pause button.

Yet, one woman I've come to know by sight refuses to nod at me. Yesterday, facing boredom, I really watched the old Russian woman I've come to recognize. Her face seems burned in my mind. Slightly hunched over, she has a modest floral scarf tied around her head, and she wears a determined, hardened expression that old Russian women are known for. Her husband is in the hospital, neither of them speak English, and if you nod and smile to her, she glares in return. I'm learning that old Russian women are not trusting of smiling men.

Maybe they have seen too many such expressions, filled with ulterior motives. Sometimes the rest of her extended family arrives, all speaking in native tongue and looking less Russian and more American with each passing day. I wonder what it must be like for a grandmother to watch these changes, confronting a new culture, with its confusing, strange, and unfamiliar languages. The old woman's children and grandchildren now bear no resemblance to life in the old country. Indeed this poor Russian woman must feel like an exile, stranded in a land of little comfort, her hardened face the only link back to a place now so far away.

I've also come to know a Pacific Islander family. The brother of the patient who now shares my grandmother's room is a muscular Samoan man. He shares an eager gleam in his eye, and a lecture about smoking if you have the time to listen. He will tell you he's in great shape for being over 40. He doesn't smoke, he takes care of himself and his five children are his pride and joy. He will also tell you that his sister however, wouldn't listen. She smoked and smoked and smoked. Now her lungs are a mess. He will tell you this as he sits next to you and eagerly smiles and pushes up his sweatshirt sleeves revealing muscular arms with bulging veins that carry more circulation than Interstate 5 during rush hour.

I like him, and I'm grateful that his sister replaced the crazy woman that was Billie's roommate. Still, as I look at his kids, who are all overweight, and not nearly as healthy as their father, I see an example of the blindsides and the selective views we all carry. Mankind is always so eager to see the sliver in our fellow man's eye while ignoring the logs building up in our own. I wonder how many beaver dams I've got that others see, that I am oblivious to.

Last night, just before we left to return to my parent's home, I became the center of a huge procession of culture immersion as this tightly bound, tightly wound African American Family descended on the formerly quiet waiting room and adjacent halls. Gathering to wait through a relative's crisis, I became outnumbered as family member after family member appeared on the wings of the elevator. The chaos and life they brought to the sterile hospital, gave me great comfort.

Racing small children, hip teenagers, and other missing persons collided with their mothers and fathers in the hospital corridors, hugging and exclaiming through the quiet. Exchanging greetings, worry, and love, I watched in wonder as I quickly became an unseen silent witness to a generous outpouring of fried chicken, soda pop, and an earnest discussion of Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ."

One wide hipped woman, full of day time talk show mannerisms did the whole neck dance as she talked about owning one of the first bootlegged copies of the film but being terrified to watch the show. "Uh huh", she offered in an exaggerated motion, "I ain't watched it yet. I am just not up to it. My neighbors who seen it three times even offered to come over and sit me through it but I just can't. It's still in the wrapper."

A teen age boy appeared from the sidelines and began talking about Christian Rap and a "Holy Ghost Church" right behind Fred Meyers that had "the Tongue going on". He swore that God was happening there and he'd seen it up close and personal. Mid discussion, the nights prayers came over the loud speaker of St Francis Hospital, and the boisterous became completely still. Everyone paused, mid stride, bowing their heads in reflection and respect. I too sat perfectly still, watching, taking it all in, until the prayer concluded, and "fast forward" returned to govern the family's pace.

Wondering how much harassment this family get from the local cops when pulled over, I sat reflective. Did the men behind the badge ever considered that behind the identifying attire, were spirit filled believers? Many of these faces, back on the street, all afro'd and gangster clothed up, would most likely produce fear and uncertainty. Watching my mother's reaction when she unexpectedly came around the corner, confronting and caught off guard by the collection of souls, confirmed such a reaction. Yet looking beyond appearances, here we were talking spiritual music and crucifixion with the sort of theological certainty of great religious thought and reverence. The commonality between my parent's views and this family's was very real and striking. Yet the paradox created by this unlikely scene remained long after I returned to my grandmother's room and kissed her a sweet and gentle rest, and the quickest good night.

I guess this the truest thought I can relay from this whole experience. That everything is relative when you are dealing with a relative in trouble, facing a life threatening reckoning. Faith, love, and joy-regardless of where your coming from, these are the ties that bind humanity together. If only we have the vision to see them.