I was most privileged to speak at the Woman’s Creativity Workshop hosted by Capo Beach Church today. This was another incarnation of the event we did in September. It was similar at heart, but different this time: different crowd, different artists/instructors, different stories. I loved every minute.
To me, this message is so important—not just because I have had a bad thing happen and am trying to see the good in it. It’s something bigger than me. Something bigger than our circumstances. Finding beauty and meaning through creative play/work/practice is something everyone can do. I believe that this is a primal God-given survival skill that everyone has access to. But it does take practice…and usually, a lot of encouragement. Notice I don’t use the word artistry, which I think can be intimidating to people who don’t call themselves artists. (Most artists don’t even call themselves artists, by the way.) These days I think of creativity as a sort of ‘problem solving from the soul,’ which applies in broader approaches to living as an individual than just putting pen to paper or paint to canvas.
Here are a few pictures from our morning. It was so wonderful to see a little of what lives inside each person who was there.
A peek at the grand finale:
Here is a big hugging-and-kissing THANK YOU to everyone who helped put this event together and showed up today. I hope you stay inspired. You have inspired me!
Joe says Vernon has been doing really well, wide awake, watching movies, and wanting to be “part of the action”( in his own words.) It was a beautiful brisk fall day so after a little matt-time, I rolled him outside so he could enjoy the fresh air. He insisted he wanted to be sat up at the table, where Justine had already set herself up for drawing.
We sat him up straight, as the table made him safer (taking a page from his friends’ recent visit.) Here is his attempt at writing the HONDA logo. “It just came to mind,” he said.
The first line was made with his right hand, his old default writer. When he writes or draws with that side, it seems like his eyes miss the paper completely. I remember this from last year, when we worked on his signature. The second was after we encouraged him to use his left. You can tell which is stronger. Fortunately for Vernon, he was ambidextrous as a child, but when he went to school, he was pressured to develop the right side over the left. It’s curious that perhaps his left hand was always intended for this kind of use—something he can take advantage of now.
Terry, the Jokester, rolled up around then, making light banter. I told him, “Sorry, but I’m interested mostly in talking to my husband right now.” Before he had a chance to have his feelings hurt, Justine graciously piped up: “You can talk to me!” So they chatted away while Vernon concentrated on his next drawing, this time with pencil.
It’s Terry, mustache and all, facing the direction he had been sitting. Vernon did this partly with his left hand, but when he wanted to use his right, he figured out how to use his left as a stabilizer (as seen in the previous photo.) He asked the date so he could sign the year below his signature (all right hand.)
Joe, who was getting annoyed with Terry’s presence, told him it was time for him to go in for Bingo. Terry asked the time and Joe told him it was nearly 2:00, so he’d better hurry. It was actually twenty minutes earlier, but Terry raced away on his wheelchair. But Vernon’s ears are like sponges. You never know what he will pick up on.
It looks like Vernon is still a Type Designer both at heart and hand.
This is the kind of occupational therapy I can see him doing.
Oh, delicious and struggle-filled progress, we welcome you here!
I got a call late last night that Vernon had returned to Mesa Verde after having an ultrasound on his arm. The tests ran negative and there was no clot, and since he received no new treatment, I mentally prepared myself for a difficult morning. My friend Susan offered to come along. I figured I’d need her for moral support, at least.
We found him surprisingly alert, his face thinner, and yesterday’s swollen hand shrunk down considerably. The doctor is perplexed on how he could have changed for the better so quickly, but I’m not complaining. I don’t know what we will find tomorrow, but this is a remarkable change today.
Susan and I asked him questions about Norway and then what he knew about World War II (don’t ask me how we arrived at either subject.) Here is a little lesson in European History, brought to you by Professor Vernon P. Adams.
The video cuts off right when Susan says: “You’ve got a great memory.”
My beautiful (inside and out) mother, Anne Whittlesey Moore, turned 70 yesterday. Seven entire decades… and she’s still sane! More than that, she’s wise and loving, graciously inspiring to everyone who knows her—even a little bit. My dad (with whom she will be celebrating her 50th wedding anniversary in February) donated a hefty gift certificate for a swanky Santa Barbara hotel to the cause and all five daughters and our Aunt Sue (Dad’s sister and one of mom’s best friends) met up for the weekend. My mom and I drove up early Sunday morning to pick up Tamara (Kansas City), Acacia (Chicago), and Cambria (Seattle) at LAX, then drove the rest of the way together. Aunt Sue (San Louis Obispo) and my sister-in-law Nicole (Palo Alto) drove the other direction to meet us at the hotel.
Santa Barbara is one of my mother’s favorite cities. It holds her favorite clothing shop, which of course we visited in our fabulous shopping excursion, in which everyone bought something special to wear, if nothing else just for the togetherness of the experience. We do love shopping together, especially since its so rare actually BE together…and extra-rare to be without children in tow. We also love eating together, and every time we went to a restaurant for a meal, the waiter brought my mom a small birthday cake (or ice cream, mousse, or flan) which we gleefully shared, passing the play around the circle till it was clean. There were at least five separate candles she’d blown out by the end of her birthday.
Every mealtime, the seven of us huddled together and asked her about another decade of mom’s life: a story she remembered, a highlight, a lesson. We never got through all the decades, but it was sweet to see how she felt she came into her ‘purpose’ when she had kids. Of course its not her only purpose, but its good to be a child of someone who felt that great about mothering. And she still IS a great mother. She told us her great hope in mothering was always that she would be friends with her children. It was wonderful to bask in the collective love and friendship…and to honor this woman who made us all possible. (And in some ways, still does.)
My dad managed the kid’s schedules and care, and I was able to delegate babysitters and pick-ups mostly by text. It was also by phone that I could talk to the care home and the hospital about changes there. Vernon was discharged on Sunday afternoon, though I had originally been told it would be Monday. All seemed fine.
After dropping Acacia back at the airport this morning, Tamara, Cambria, and my mom went with me to visit Vernon in Costa Mesa. The first person we saw was Joe, smoking in the courtyard. “What’s happened to Vernon,” he asked. “He’s not the same man who left here last week.”
I was only slightly nervous about what I’d find, but he was worse than I had seen him for some time. His eyes weren’t squeezed tight—instead they were wide open. He muttered phrases over and over than made no sense. He yelled out a lot, quite energized but totally confused. I did manage to get him on the mat for twenty minutes or so, which seemed to calm him down a bit. We eventually rolled him outside to get some fresh air, and he mellowed out a little more, making slightly more sense, but not much. Though his face was less puffy than before the last surgery, we noticed how swollen his left arm and his hand had become.
If there are two new blessings in my life this year that I am thankful for everyday, it is Joe and Dr. Dan. I don’t know where I would be without them…let alone Vernon. I texted Dan the above photo (taken by my sister) along with my concerns, and within a short time, arrangements were made to send Vernon to the ER at Hoag yet again.
As far as I know, he has had an ultrasound on his arm, but it is almost 11 and I have not heard anything new. This most likely means he will be sent back to Mesa Verde tonight and will be back to dialysis and life as usual in the morning. I’ll be there to check him out, wherever he is then.
Now…transitions are hard. Going on a wonderful holiday with my closest family and then suddenly being dropped into more hospital drama isn’t what I would have preferred. But the holiday WAS wonderful and joy-filled and nothing can take that away.
Tomorrow has enough problems of its own to worry about them today. At the moment, Vernon is in the hospital…though I am concerned about him, there is nothing I can do now. Tomorrow I will know more. But tonight, I will go to bed with my heart overflowing.
I have a family who loves me as I love them. A living husband who is in good hands. And a mother who is my dearest friend (and role model) of all.
A friend and I were discussing writing and inspiration recently, and the question of “Hunter or Gatherer” came up. (Elizabeth Gilbert briefly writes about this concept here.) The Hunter goes out to track down and chase inspiration, energized by movement and change. The Gatherer stays close to home, in quiet reflection. “She grows and cultivates ideas, rather than chasing them.” My friend and I decided that surely, we must be Hunters, based on our similar personalities.
But it’s not always one thing, is it? I would love to go and chase down inspiration, I adore hearing other people’s stories, but I spend a lot of time alone, reflecting, thinking. Sometimes it drives me nuts, honestly, all these ideas and thoughts I’m hoping to connect together. I have started taking a little notebook with me at all times, just to jot down notes, in case I need to remember later. I’m using my phone’s voice memo app if I’m driving (though I haven’t been able to go back and listen to any of these thoughts as I hate hearing my recorded voice.) Still, the words are there if I eventually need them. I’ve become a Gatherer, though I’d rather be a Hunter.
So…I was sitting next to Vernon’s bed in his hospital room yesterday, notebook and pen at the ready. Vernon was directing me to find him music to listen to on Spotify (his anti-anxiety drug of choice.) Doctors and nurses were coming in and out informing me that tests were being ordered, but we didn’t know when they would happen or exactly what solutions they might lead to. In my phone-notes, I wrote: Venogram and Thrombosis, thinking they would make more sense later, when I could google the terms on my own. I also wrote: Risk of Heparin induced thrombocytopenia (impressive that my predictive-text had that one in its vaults.)
Vernon was uncomfortable but sleepy, only wanting his music. Instead of climbing the walls, I went down to the cafeteria for some food…but really, I knew it was time to hunt. I thought back to all those months at Mission Hospital last year, when Vernon was in the coma. How had I stayed interested, curious, inspired? How had I found something to write about every night, when he wasn’t even moving and the doctors could give me no prognosis. I’d gone hunting. I’d taken walks with my camera phone. I’d listened to people at other cafeteria tables, watched family members of patients huddling in waiting rooms, made friends with the coffee cart guy. “I get to be here today, in this strange world. This is an opportunity, a treasure hunt. What am I going to find? And is it around the next corner?”
It was amazing, just recalibrating my attitude. The hospital became an curious place again. And almost immediately, in that basement cafeteria, I was rewarded. Check out these pictures:
I was cracking up. Each department decorated a different pumpkin. See if you can guess who did which? Physical Therapy is my personal favorite.
After that small mood-lifting encounter, the day totally turned around. I had just seen my good friend Sue’s daughter Caitlyn on our floor. In all the times we have been at Hoag, Vernon had never been on her floor, but this time, she was actually looking after Vernon while his nurse took a break. While on my own lunch break, I called Sue to let her know. She just happened to be driving near the hospital with her husband. He was willing to drop her off if I’d take her home later. Next thing I knew, we were all hanging out together, waiting for Vernon to be taken to Radiology.
Oh, but it didn’t stop there. Soon after, I got a call from bestie Melissa, who happened to be driving to San Diego with her her family (from LA) and wanted to stop by in passing.
You can’t tell, but I’m wearing Melissa’s gorgeous hair and holding Elizabeth Gilbert’s new book. You can tell we are wearing yellow gowns because of Vernon’s hospital history of MRSA.
Vernon went into surgery safely. He was adamant that he didn’t want to have general anesthesia, so I’m curious if he understood that he was about to go under. He nearly crawled out of the moveable bed on his way to the theatre. “I just need help getting my feet and legs out,” he pleaded to anyone nearby.
From my understanding, the surgeon was going to open up some veins around his new central venus catheter (in his chest) and perhaps add a stent. I’ll get more details about whether they found anything else later this morning, back at the hospital.
I left him there, Caitlyn calling us on our way home, to ensure us Vernon was back in his room.
And that, hopefully, is where I’ll find him this morning. Have a great day!
A special cover of Vernon's fav song 'Waterloo Sunset' by friend and singer/song-writer Ian McGlynn. All proceeds support Vernon's recovery! Donate what you can and download a beautiful song in return.
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