Writings of Constance Ore ( 1937 – 2010 )

Who knew that pneumonia could be so painful? I have just returned from the hospital with fistfuls of instructions and sacks of medications. One of the challenges is getting the right antibiotics to be effective without bringing on the dreaded C-Diff. I have an infected left lung and since my hemoglobin was as low as it has ever been, I got a blood transfusion as well. As always, we approach this with hopes that the medications will be effective. I will write more as the week advances.

The day is hot, full of sun and blooming flowers. We are all doing various projects, and I am wrestling with a new series of dark thoughts. I am sleeping more and prior to this, my dreams have been quite acceptable, many containing happiness, beautiful landscapes and a whole body. Upon awakening, there has been the “Oh, that’s right” awareness and life has gone on. I seemed to be able to deal with coming back into reality, but in the last few days, there is much turmoil in the dream world, and intense anger. The dizziness and nausea are constantly present with the latter increased through my own actions because I have been eating foods that I have really enjoyed in the past, knowing well that the digestive system will not be pleased. A contrariness of spirit is beating about in my head and where does one go from here? It feels as though I have gone through so many prayers, psalms, songs, mantras, books of guidance and words of wisdom that I could sit and recite for a long time, but the unrelenting continuo goes on, “sick, sick, sick, sick, sick, sick, sick. . .” My energy is such that I can’t even stomp about and grind my teeth in a satisfactory way. It is well that I am not the Queen a la “Alice in Wonderland”, Sanctuary would be a study of rolling heads. And no, I will not kick the dog.

Charles and John-paul are doing their best to deal with this and one of their ploys has been a sudden desire to have a lesson in the making of “Rothe Buns”. We set up parallel bowls, etc., and commenced with verbiage worthy of the World Cup coming from each of them as they pronounced their own natural superior qualities in bun making. Charles’ huge hands were soon incredibly enmeshed in sticky dough with his insistence that smooth and even surfaces were really a sign of dull conformity while wildly stressed and strange shapes indicated an art form. While he was thus carrying on, John-paul would sprinkle flour on his surfaces from above his head, soon covering the kitchen floor with a mist of white even as he produced lovely orbs. There was much laughter that rose along with the dough and upon the second go round they had a nicely edible product. I believe there are plans for more lessons in the making of old family recipes.

We see the oncologist tomorrow, so perhaps we will be able to find yet another door to pass through as we go onward toward the conclusion of this sometimes difficult story.

(sound from Cornell Lab of Ornithology)

We returned late this afternoon from our long weekend “road trip” which featured the Niobrara State Park, NE., where we stayed in a cabin atop a high cliff overlooking the confluence of the Missouri and Niobrara rivers. This was perhaps the quietest place I’ve been for some time; one could hear one’s own heart beat and breath in the silence. No airplanes, cars, boats, or trains’ engines sounded anywhere around the edges of stillness. Coyotes at sunset, birds throughout the day and on into the night and some movements through the grasses kept us aware of the life surrounding us. When I was in grade school, one of the reading books had a great story about the Whippoorwill and how it got its name, so after all this time, it was grand to actually hear it right after sundown, repeating its three pitched “whip poor will” call. I always think at such moments, “If no other thing happens within this day, I have had an experience new to me, and that makes it time well spent.”

It is good to find magic in unexpected places, and when these places are not far from home, and home is Nebraska, it is even better. We went across an old railroad trestle (now a walking path) which presented geometric shapes arranged in a very straight pattern across the shifting and untidy back waters. Its placement permitted us to see small flocks of American pelicans going through their morning routines, as well as cliff swallows gathering at their mud nests on the steep banks of the river. We watched bald eagles flying up and down the waterways – they are more common now than in the past, but it is still a grand sight since they are so huge.

We finished off our adventure with a stop at the Ashfall Fossil Beds State Historical Park where we walked through masses of wildflowers to the “Rhino Barn”, a large enclosure which features archeology students working on unearthing ever more fossils – this apparently is the only known site in the world where entire three-dimensional skeletons of large prehistoric animals are preserved. The volcanic ash from a volcano in what is today Idaho killed hundreds of animals, including rhinos, camels, three-toed horses, and birds, among others, and preserved their remains.

The signs spoke of “millions of years” having passed, and I considered a civilization many years in the future digging about in our present culture’s debris and carefully writing up the scope and meaning of the plastic bags, medical waste, or other deleterious materials that it finds.

We agreed upon our return that even a short time away on a trip felt like an adventure. On the last evening out, my own health moved into a new sphere with a few moments of unconsciousness as I hugged John-paul good-night; the sense of being “gone” came on so suddenly that it was startling to find myself lying on the floor with both dear ones bending over me, taking pulse, and looking anxious. Since then, I have had an unsettled feeling in my head and a great weariness in my person.

Summer’s first official day – hot, humid, hungry mosquitos, and the 2 1/3 inches of rain last night still has the wetland in its river manifestation, with waters covering the paths to the bridges. On these rare occasions, we walk on the somewhat shorter paths on this side of the stream, circling our neighbor’s pond and coming back past the windmill and through the hedge of lilacs that stands nearby.

Last Saturday, Heidi, Zoie, Kira and I gathered up an old white sheet, a bucket, and an extending pole (normally used to change light bulbs in our high ceilings) for a mulberry picking adventure that replicated the experience I had when a child on the farm. We trekked over to a large tree which I had previously identified as one that created very fine product and while Heidi, Kira and I held on to the sheet and placed ourselves under a branch covered with ripe berries, Zoie whacked the tree with the long pole, causing a rain of fruit. This produced a wonderful volume, and was fine fun at the same time. We moved around the tree and gathered 3/4 of a large bucketful in a very short time. I imagined my mother and grandmother watching this continuation of something no longer commonly done and I could almost see them and hear their applause.

Several gifts made last week a fine one. First, the family visit, then the suggestion to the Blog about taking a certain medication for nausea. I followed up, and for the first time in weeks, I have had some improvement in the taste of food. Then, Janna gave me a wonderful book called “Living at the End of Life” by Karen Whitley Bell. The subtitle is “A Hospice Nurse Addresses the Most Common Questions”. She uses stories about her encounters to discuss such things as “I Wish I Had More Energy” or “What Will Happen? The Physical Journey” as well as giving all sorts of examples of family and caregivers and coping. I told Charles that he truly needs to read it also. One thing became apparent – I am not nearly where I’ll be before dying unless I run into some illness that takes advantage of the lack of immunities. (I gathered from the stories, that one will/can become terribly weak, bedfast, and finally, unconscious.) The stories about “eating” confirmed to me that my system is shutting down, and my present life experiences are common (lack of energy, pain, dreams, etc.). She repeatedly gave examples of how a person who has an evident terminal illness has choices. She emphasized the need for love and for living in the moment. She also dealt with the spiritual side of the subject quite competently. This is a timely book for us, and in my opinion, most helpful.

The next gift stands on the edge of the front yard; it’s the clematis that cries out “Look at me!” every time we walk past the windows. Last fall, Charles and John-paul put up a pole wrapped in chicken wire with hopes for a tower of flowers, and the clematis is delivering. As it grew, it literally sent its vines out from the arbor to reach for the pipe, a distance of about three and a half feet.

Summer is here – I am here. I am alive to greet another season and it is the best gift of all!