HOBBIES

See? Even old fashioned things are still needed in people's new fashioned lives. I've had a lot of hobbies in my lifetime. Horseback riding, sitting in my favorite tree for hours on end, lying on my back in an open grassy field watching the clouds go by, counting bugs, reading, wading in the shallow creek, watching certain boys, drawing, writing lousy stories, reading lousy stories, cooking great food, perusing the Bible, wondering if Jesus just might be who he said he is, deciding he actually IS who he said HE is, reading the Bible again (but this time with conviction), and on and on it goes.

Life is never boring. Just pick something and give it your all, your heart. What matters will rise to the top and stay there. I can't go on now. The handwriting has given way to whatever is affecting me now. Just know that what is in your heart is what matters.

Hold onto it and savor it. It's yours forever.


Linda

Together

As friendly as we Richardsons are in general, we are quite private people. Our inner, personal thoughts stay inside us. Well, not always with me so much. I let more out, through this space.

But don't go to the other three expecting much. Oh, they do feel deeply, but it's quieter than my feelings. They act fine, while the pain remains simmering inside. And that's as they prefer it. Let them be who they are. Don't prod for more. You won't get it, and will only hurt them.

I know you want to know how they're doing with my coming demise. Yet if you ask, the answer most likely to spring to their minds is, "I hate this. Life sucks. My Mom (wife) is dying. There is nothing I can do to help her. How the hell do you think I feel?" Then out loud, "Oh, I'm fine." They're not going to share their inner hearts. But they do care that you care how they are.

Steve goes from day to day caring for my most basic needs, doing everything and even more than one could consciously want done. But it's all good and appreciated. And he never gets weary or mad in front of me. But his heart is dying every day. Life without his beloved, or the thought of it's reality, is a nightmare about to come true. Don't ask him how he's doing. You have that knowledge here.

Morgan remains humorous and helpful. She lays down with me every night, rubs me, holds me, sits quietly or talks, depending... Often she simply watches me and touches me. "Don't ask me how I feel, Mom. You know." I do. I know her heart is breaking and there's no cure.

Sam had said he's stay away when this time came, but still he comes to my room every day. He still talks and laughs. He still touches the tip of my finger, a "secret" code with him and me. The thing is, he initiates it now, not just me. He looks at me more often, in the eye. I gave him my bulky silver ring, the only one that would suit a man. He took it. It's his now. When the the time is right, he'll wear it, and remember me.

And me? I'm going to soon step over into glorious joy, and not miss them. It will be heaven and one day they will be there too. My pain will be over, and someday they will be in that place too. So don't feel sad for them for too long. For awhile, yes, but we know where we are going. We are going to be together.

When You Can't Get What You Want, Accept That Which God Knew You really Needed All Along.

By now I have truly no idea to whom I owe responses and answers. Sorry. I'm too confused at this point. If you're still waiting for some answer, the wait is over; if you're already tired of my too many emails, well, here's one more so just deal with it.

I was just lying here in bed awhile ago thinking about what a waste I'm making of this lazy day. Hungry (in and of itself unusual and wasteful - the shrinking stomach has no space for food) and lazy and "oh poor me" and all sorts of other whiny stuff. I really can't stand women who whine. Yet, then to become a whiner. Gak!

First, I was still in bed at 5:30 (after sleeping a full ten hours already) but no one made me go to bed at 7:30, did they? Steve, who had a normal grownup's evening was still trying to sleep, but some little finger was poking him to see if he might be almost awake, and not letting him rest. At that point the abuser's husband offered to gently rub the abuser's sore back, which was of course totally undeserved and a small miracle, but perhaps also a way to end his own torture of whine chatter. He rubbed my back, eased my pain and woke up with me.

So up we were at 6:00AM and I felt disgusting and icky. Shower time. Ha. I cannot stand alone underwater anymore. Within minutes Steve had rigged someway for him to wash my still long hair while I sit under the spray of hot, soothing water. He gently did it all while I kept my whining to a minimum. Before I knew it, I was rolled into a large warm ball of terry cloth robe and tucked under my blankets once more.

In the meantime He and Morgan had dragged a huge lounge chair from the library into our bedroom so she could sit there and read and be with me. I could be a spoiled princess having every whim catered to in my own home. How cool is that?

Should I mention that it's now 1:26PM and I still haven't seen the downstairs? This upper sanctuary is growing on me. Better check with the rest though. My little bubble could burst. They keep bringing me meds, rubbing me, soothing me, being kind to me...how long can this go on? Oh right, they love me even on days I'm a jerk, when I've conveniently forgetten how beloved they all are to me, and in the end, I'm practically healed with the love they pour over me by the bucket.

Wastefuly Extravagant

Do you have a rotten kid? Ever hear the story of the "Prodigal Son"? You know, the kid took his full inheritance, left, acted like a jerk and broke his father's heart, repented and crawled back begging forgiveness and acceptance, yet not necessarily expecting it. Powerful story of forgiveness and redemption.

I know a man who has several kids, and I'd say more than one could be a prodigal son (or daughter). The kids have heard all the right words, read all the truth in their occasional Bible reading, even talked about it a bit, but nope, they just don't give a crap. I say it that way, 'cause that's the way they see it. A bunch of ****. No need to repeat myself.

I really like this guy and hate for him to suffer, but I guess it's not him who suffers, is it? It's his kids who are on the outside. We can imagine - from where were are - what life is like for the kids. Either it's great and they're living life high on the hog, still enjoying that inheritance, or they're sorry and broke, wanting to come home. The thing is, it's up to them to turn back. Once we've left, we're grownup and on our own. Dad isn't likely to go out searching.

So what changes us? What do they need? From the original Prodigal son story, they need a few things. A Dad who truly loves them, but more than that, they need the brains to know when to give up and quit after they've squandered their measly inheritance. In today's age, it's rare that one can just go out and make it on their own. They need to know when to turn to someone who just might have a better plan.

So, what to do? Well, do you know what "prodigal" means? It means wastefully extravagant. It doesn't meant lost and later found. How wasteful are you? How wasteful am I?

How many sons and daughters does God - yeah dorkhead, that's our "Dad" - have who have wasted all that is given, even just most of what has been given, or just a bit of what was given. Gosh, I feel like a wasteful pig. I don't want to be prodigal. I want to be useful, and worthy. I want to be close to my Father. I want to weep at his feet and acknowledge that all I have is His. I can't make it without Him.

His First Time

What will never happen? Think hard. What is one thing that the person you know and love best will absolutely never do? Got it? Now imagine him/her doing it anyway, just to make you happy. Miracles do happen. Steve put in my garden. The man who has waved kindly from inside the house as I sweat and dug and planted, the man who would eat the produce, but not even pick it from the mangled weedy plot of earth...that's the man who is now in my kitchen covered in sweat from his hours out there doing what he doesn't really know how to do.

I've had to zap away my own little jealousy tentacles when I see how neat and careful his efforts have been. He has made insane efforts to prevent any weed growth in his little plot. If I were a random weed hunting for new stomping grounds, I think better of settling in Mr. Richardson's premiere plot. Surely he'd find a way to win, and I'd be toast.

Tomatoes (3), cukes (2), and peppers (2 colors) will be the glory of Steve's first garden. Even if I never live to see the produce, I am so excited at what he has done. He's even replanting some of my strawberries from last season.

I probably won't write a lot about how they do, but please inquire with Steve as to how his garden grows. Maybe, just maybe a few moments of pleasure will sneak into his new adventure. I hope so. That he's doing it for me is enough. Lord please grant him some joy in the adventure.

In Your Hands Now

Okay, it was not a good beginning for me today. Within minutes of waking up, I told Steve I was praying to die within 7 days, tops. I can no longer bear this unceasing pain, this life of imprisonment in my weak and failing body. Then I cried, both through and because of the pain, the nausea, and the neverendingness of it all. So he held me and softly kissed my cheek, telling me it was okay, I was free to leave him. "Don't try to hold on for me, Honey."

Does it break his heart? Of course it does. Does he want the best for me? Yes, and death is the preferable outcome at this point. He is so strong and brave; I could not do this alone. He invariably knows what drug to give me, and when to give it. Rubbing any part of me that hurts is his specialty. Leaning over to kiss my face always comes at the most opportune times. Drinks arrive before I ask for them. Movies I love are offered before I even think of them. Steve is the other half of me. He just knows.

We almost separated twice, back in the days of youth and stupidity. And no, I cannot recall why. I only recall a half packed suitcase. That's how important it was, as in 'not.' I suspect most marriages go through that at some time. Most friendships probably do also. We love our friends, our spouses, and our families, but some days they just make us want to smack them. Putting ourselves last is the surest way to overcome those moments. Me? I can never be higher than #2 on my own list. Much lower if anyone other than Steve and I are involved. Add Morgan and Sam? I'm #4. And so it goes.

This morning I seriously thought I'd have trouble keeping my promise to Morgan, that one about not dying while she wasn't here. I was spiraling down so fast. But tonight I feel...well, not normal, but less deathy. But I also know that I can no longer take pills. They stick in my throat. I have to drink anything so slowly that thirst cannot be quenched. No solid foods, only soft ones. Today I had apple sauce, pudding, a creamsicle, a few shakes of Ensure, lots of juice, and maybe some mashed potatoes. Oh, and a bit of very soft deviled egg without the bread. It all went down. True, it totaled about 1 cup of food altogether, but I ate it.

I'm staying up late, since I want to wake up late and not have to face that horrid food thing again tomorrow. Yes, it makes me cry. I'm starving to death, but feel no hunger at all. I've been promised that I shouldn't have to suffer. Well, it's already too late for that! But I know what they mean. They'll take care of me, keep it to a minimum. Steve will do anything anything he is allowed to comfort me. You know, morphine, oxycodene, all sorts of strong drugs.

So, yes, I do want this to end. They all know. They just keep pouring on the love, doing whatever they can to bring me joy. I'll be able to wave to them that last day, seeing them smile, laugh and cry as I go away. Steve will not be whole for a long time, but he will recover and he will survive. Take care of them all for me, will you? They're in your hands now.