New Worries, New Insights: September 1, 2005
I have new worries today, but also new insights. First, I worry about Steve. He had developed an ear infection a few days before we left New Orleans and had finished a course of antibiotics in Houston. By the time we got to Opelousas the infection had blossomed into something more sinister. He was obviously ill. MJ called her ENT doctor, who agreed to see Steve today. Right away this doctor explains that Steve is at risk of developing malignant otitis, an infection particularly dangerous for diabetics. He warns that without aggressive treatment the infection could travel into the brain and become meningitis, and prescribes a heavy dose of antibiotics and bed rest.
I see this as a turning point and I perceive a new role for myself. I must now be attentive to Steve’s health in a way that was not necessary before. I realize that his body is reacting to the stress and I will need to tone things down and stay positive for his sake. And especially I must resolve to do things that I have never before had to do. Until he gets better, I will need to take on tasks that he has always handled so well. Disasters are no respecters of traditional roles.
Next, I worry about our son who is undergoing a personal crisis, and after Steve’s doctor’s appointment I talk with Ted about some options. Turning point number two is the realization that life goes on and pre-existing problems do not just go away when disaster strikes. Although we have much work to do as a family in the future, now is not the time to “fix” anything. I know more truly than ever that I can’t fix Ted’s problems anyway.
And then there are my two dear girls. Amanda is coping but I sense her fear and anxiety and grief, which sometimes bubble up in strong words and nervous energy. My concern for Steve and Ted and my own grief have dominated my thoughts, and I have not given her the comfort she needs or a shoulder to lean on. Her friends help her now and I trust that she will find her way through. I must accept Amanda’s complicated feelings —and my own—as valid and true, and with that insight I reach turning point number three.
Dayana remains a mystery to me, but I see worry and uncertainty in her eyes, even as she smiles. How lonely she must feel without her mother here to hug her or the English words to convey her feelings. Ted had asked me the night before if I could get a Spanish Bible for Dayana. When several people asked how they could help us, I passed this suggestion on. Right away several people offered to send her one. I take deep comfort in the knowledge that I only need to ask and others will find a way to help. And that is turning point number four.
This day has been packed full and the days ahead will be even busier. Transitions are hard work, and I acknowledge that we are in the beginning stage of a transition from our life in New Orleans to life in another place. Steve has gone to bed early, no doubt under the spell of the antibiotic and pain reliever. Amanda and I gather again in Ted & Dayana’s room to enact a kind of de-briefing and coming to terms with the situation at hand. I sense the nervous energy in the room, a reactive twitching, and I think it has to do with listening to the news too much. We have let other people’s impressions and interpretations of the disaster fuel our own worries. I am not immune to this and feel more anxious than ever. I crave truth and a realistic assessment of the damage. I especially need some concrete information about what I should be doing, what steps to take now. How will I know what to do? Where will we go? What will the future be like? I drag off to bed, burdened with these questions.
Light to See By
I cannot sleep. The room is very dark and I wish I had a night light, but slowly my eyes see the shapes around me. I look at Steve in his twin bed across the room and long to hold him. How far away he seems! Beneath the blanket I tremble under the weight of worry and it seems like my brain will explode with questions. Will Steve recover? Will our family stay together or go separate ways? Where will we go from here? Do we have enough money—any money—to start over somewhere else? Could we possibly return to New Orleans and rebuild? What about our jobs? Are our friends in safe places? What does our home look like now, sitting deep in the flood waters of Hurricane Katrina?
Slowly I turn my face toward the window where a sliver of light creeps through a gap around the window shade. Why is it so bright? And then I see it—a slice of moonbeam coming around the edge of the curtain. It slithers up the wall and shines right on my pillow. I might even reach out and grab hold of that moonbeam and see the night sky that sheltered me as a child. A rush of comfort and assurance washes me into a new place. It is the very same moon, its reflected light shining in a different place but the same moon, the same beam of light that assured me long ago in my childhood bed on Lexington Avenue that all was right with the world and God’s universe was orderly and regulated. Now in the deep darkness that covers Louisiana a moonbeam reveals an orderly world after all, even though what I see is strange and unknown. That ray of light which connects me to the past also connects me to the future. The darkness has gone away. We will be all right.
But I still know that your moon is there,
And your eyes and also your hands.
Thus I am not afraid.
Excerpt from Prayer of a Young Christian, Ghana[1]
[1] In Marcus Braybrooke, The Bridge of Stars, no. 45
Dear Sister Shull 