OH GRAN

A month ago, I was having the best month of my life. I was traveling around, seeing Thailand and Israel for the first time. My husband and I experienced memories that will recall stories for decades to come. I started sharing some of those stories and lots of photographs though this blog. And then I stopped.

At the end of October, my grandmother went into the hospital and anything related to me ceased to exist. Her stroke was so mild that she didn’t even know she had a stroke until the doctor and the tests revealed her diagnosis. She was in her house on the same hill on which she has lived nearly 80 years and, to her, she just fell. She felt her cane give way when she was walking on the ground floor of her three-level home and she just fell down.

Her fall happened in the morning but she didn’t feel any pain so she didn’t use that fancy medical alert button she wears around her neck. In the evening, when she tried to go upstairs where her bedroom and bathroom are located, she had trouble lifting a leg and realized she had a problem. But, Gran says, the doctor’s office was closed so she didn’t want to bother anyone since she couldn’t see her doctor anyway (and she still didn’t use that fancy medical alert button), so she waited until morning.

The next morning she did call a neighbor and advised that she needed to go to the hospital. Two weeks later, she was released with the caveat that she could not return to the multi-level home in which she has resided for 63 years.

I flew home while she was still in the hospital and spent some time with her before she was released. My family and I helped her get situated into temporary housing until we were able to find a suitable assisted living facility. Fortunately, I had already begun researching senior living communities while I was home over the summer so I knew which ones were top contenders, which ones were crap and which ones I had not yet seen. I made some appointments and I shared my findings.

For a woman of the Great Depression, my grandmother has more money than she lets on but it still isn’t enough to pay for years in an assisted living facility. The money we need to support her needs in a qualified care center makes all of us nervous but I know that God will provide.

So much of my time and energy has been devoted to my grandmother in the past few weeks that I have nearly alienated myself from friends, family members outside of the immediate vicinity and, really, any other commitments I have considered making – even blog time.

A few days ago, I was ready to crash. Gran had picked a place to which she would move and we went for a visit. She loved it so much that she told stories for hours and introduced herself to everyone she met in the hall. “Hi, I’m Helen,” she would say. “I’m moving in Monday!” That made me happy. But I knew that there was still a lot of work to do.

Gran, being from the Depression era, has kept everything anyone in the world could possibly need for something someday and has to my recollection never spent a dollar on any items she needed for herself. Any money in savings was spent on house repairs throughout the years; we had to buy her underclothes, socks a new outfit or two for Christmas and birthday presents because she simply would not buy those things for herself.

She was leaving everything she knew – her town, her hill, her birds, her gardens, her deer, her neighbors, her great grandkids next door – and she was trading them for a dorm room. To make the move more welcoming, we brought some furniture and decorative pieces she wanted from her house but I also wanted to get her some new things that I knew she would never consider buying in order to make her new home something special.

We bought a new shower mat and curtain, monogramed hand towels, accessories to match; we bought new bedding, a new sofa and some curtains. We also bought her some flowers that she could keep indoors and we have plans to place a bird feeder outside her window.

Knowing that she was moving in on a Monday, I just kept thinking that I had to make it until that Monday – last Monday. She would move in Monday, get situated and then Tuesday I could relax because it would all be over. Gran would be in her new place and I could focus on spending a day with a lifelong friend, just relaxing old-school-road-trip style. I had to just keep pushing to get everything signed, filed, purchased, moved in, arranged and hung so that she would be happy and so that I could rest. I just needed to make it to Tuesday.

Last Friday I hit a wall. I was so overwhelmed and as I was driving in the car after dropping off the first of three loads to be taken to her new home, and I just started talking. “God,” I said. “I don’t know what I need today, but I know you do, so please just bless me and give me wisdom to get through this day. I thank you for your grace that flows in like waves and I receive it.” That was it. I didn’t know what I was going to face that day and I certainly didn’t know how I was going to deal with any of it, but I knew that if I let Him take control, I would survive the day, and I just needed to survive that day.

When I stressed about furniture, God provided furniture – a free bed that had recently been donated to the facility and a $250 couch with five pillows from an actual furniture store that I could pick up that night. When I stressed about getting things done in time to meet deadlines I had already set for myself, He provided not only the time to do those things but also the ability to find what I needed efficiently and effortlessly. When I worried that Gran would not be happy, she turned to me and said things like, “Oh, this is bigger than what I expected,” when she saw her 350-square-foot room.

When I felt like I was ready to break, living on nothing other than adrenaline, I got into my car and suddenly found my radio turned to a local Christian station. This is the crazy part because, though I like the Christian stations, I hadn’t actually been listening to one that day. I had been listening to country music that brought back a homey feeling (I grew up outside of Nashville). I know which station I was listening to and it was definitely not Cleveland’s The Fish. But, all of a sudden, I heard familiar piano keys and the words came on and I glanced at the station: 95.5 FM.

                I’m tired, I’m worn

                My heart is heavy

                From the work it takes to keep on breathing

                I’ve made mistakes

                I’ve let my heart fail

                My soul feels crushed

                By the weight of this world

(note: eyes were totally watering by this point as I said, oh my gosh, yes…I am worn out! I do feel crushed by the weight of all of this!)

                And I know that you can give me rest

(it’s true, I do know where to find rest but for some reason I just keep worrying and pushing myself to my limit)

                So I cry out with all that I have left

                Let me see redemption win

                Let me know the struggle ends

                That you can mend a heart that’s frail and torn

                I want to know a song can rise

                From the ashes of a broken life

                And all that’s dead inside can be reborn

                Cuz I’m worn

                I know I need

                To life my eyes up

                But I’m too weak

                Life just won’t let up

(ah, yes, this too makes sense)

                And I know that you can give me rest

                So I cry out with all that I have left

Let me see redemption win

                Let me know the struggle ends

                That you can mend a heart that’s frail and torn

                I want to know a song can rise

                From the ashes of a broken life

                And all that’s dead inside can be reborn

                Cuz I’m worn

                And my prayers are wearing thin

                I’m worn even before the day begins

                I’m worn, I’ve lost my will to fight

                I’m worn, so haven come and flood my eyes

Let me see redemption win

                Let me know the struggle ends

                That you can mend a heart that’s frail and torn

                I want to know a song can rise

                From the ashes of a broken life

                And all that’s dead inside can be reborn

                Yes all that’s dead inside will be reborn

                Though I’m worn

                Yeah I’m worn

At that, I mellowed out a bit, took a lot of deep breaths and reassured myself that it would all be OK. Thanks God. You knew what I needed to hear right when I needed to hear it. Thanks for getting me and knowing me so well.

The move was tiring but we had a lot of help and my poor husband has survived a tired, cranky, worn out wife who made him help with the move and assist me in rearranging Gran’s room no less than a dozen times. He sometimes grabbed me by both shoulders saying things like, “Focus. I know what you’re doing but shouldn’t Gran have a say in where her couch goes?”

In the end, I decided I knew best and, really, I wanted everything to be done and beautiful so that she didn’t have to worry about where stuff went, so I arranged the room to my own perfect standard and then she had me switch the bed and the couch when she got there. Grr Paul.

When we left the hill Monday, I started looking around at the leaves and the snow on the ground, thinking what this feeling might be like for Gran. I peeked over to the lake’s bank, thinking about the times I spent walking around the water, and I recalled some of her stories that centered around that lake.

She was brought up in one tiny house on the hill, and moved into her current home just up the street when she was pregnant with my mom. Her sister lived just next to the tiny house where Gran grew up but died last year. Her grandson, my cousin, lives in the house next door with his wife and two kids. What it must feel like to be away from all that after so many, many, many, many, many, many years.

I got sentimental as I turned out of the driveway, angled around the bend and came to the stop sign at the end of the road. I hid my tears behind sunglasses as I explained that Gran was not banned from the hill and that she could absolutely come back and visit as much as she wants. She looked over at me and said, “Don’t forget that load of laundry in the dryer.” Right.

I turned left and headed toward the doctor, getting teary eyed once again. As if I were new to Salem and had never lived there, gone to school there or lived in the same house as my grandmother for more than a decade, Gran decided to tell me where to go. “Now, the best way to get to the doctor’s office is to go straight up Ellsworth and turn on Third Street.” “O.K. Gran.”

THE COOLEST THING I’VE EVER DONE

After touring Masada and looking out upon the beauty that was the Dead Sea, we were able to enter the lowest place on earth and experience the Dead Sea and all its glory first hand. The sea’s shoreline is more than 400 meters below sea level and the sea floor itself has a depth beyond 300 meters. Trying to touch the sea bottom, however – even in the shallows – is quite a feat.

Standard ocean salt content ranges around 3 percent by volume, while the Dead Sea’s salt content rises above 30 percent, making the sea one of the world’s saltiest water bodies and a location where reportedly no living organism can survive.

If you look closely, in the center of the photo you can see the spa, which used to sit at the water's edge

Walking out to the sea from the shoreline, which once rested upon the edge of this spa, we had to be on alert for salt crystals mixing in with the sand. Since we were not smart enough to pack swimwear, we had to buy some in the spa gift shop and were advised to also ensure we had comfortable plastic flip flops. The sandals were required to protect our feet as the sea floor, unlike typical sandy bottoms, was covered in jagged salt crystals that could easily scrape any soft surface, including toes and soles.

A view of the salt bottom through the clear water

Walking into the water was a bit of a challenge, first due to the slick salty bottom and second, due to the thicker water. Many adults walked like toddlers learning to take their first steps as we all took caution not to fall (especially if one of us insisted on carrying a not-cheap camera to capture some of the fun).

Baby steps

Once out in the water, it was almost a game to learn how to float. Those who frequently swim (and we know that does not include me) automatically assume a swimmer’s position and wait to see what will happen to their bodies. Water foreigners like myself lift one leg at a time, scared of falling to the sea floor even though we have been told that everyone floats, including a 250-pound man sitting in a chair reading a newspaper like it’s no big deal.

We were strictly advised to be sure that our faces did not touch the water and, in the event that our eyes endured a splash of salt, we were given specific contamination wash instructions. Knowing that my face could not touch the water made me slightly freak out when attempting to float on my stomach and my freaking out did not help me keep my balance.

So what is it like to swim in the Dead Sea? The only words I can use to summarize the experience would be completely unreal.

As we took our first steps, we felt the thick, smooth water against our legs and the slick salt crystals as we slid across the rough terrain. Our arms were out wide, aiding our balance efforts and we took one slow, deliberate step in front of the other.

The water was warm and completely placid, only shaking when a body disturbed the peace. When the water was waist deep, we attempted the unthinkable. Paul began by lifting both legs and allowing his feet to pop above the surface, giggling as he did so. I gave a nervous smirk as I cautiously did the same. I, too, giggled.

We were floating without any of our own effort. We couldn’t help but laugh. Then, I realized we were not the only ones laughing. In the middle of nowhere, in a placid water body in between canyons and mountains, there was a deafening yet completely serene silence that was only broken by faint laughter – lots of laughter, from every direction. We had found the happiest place on earth.

Once more comfortable in the water, we decided to try a few different positions. Paul curled into a ball; I threw my arms up with my feet out flat. Paul stood up and then flopped on his stomach with his neck arched to the sky and his feet bobbing behind him.

I twice attempted to float on my belly but my flip flops caught water between the sandals and my feet and my unsteadiness and fear of face planting only made me flop around like a drowning toddler. It wasn’t pretty but it made Paul laugh.

Before we knew it, we had gone deeper toward the sea’s center…out into the land of the untouchable. For the first time, I was not terrified to be in an area where I could not touch the bottom. Paul, as desperately as he tried, also could not touch the bottom. He stood straight in the water, closed his eyes and grunted as he tried with all his might to touch the bottom. He started laughing, “I’m just bobbing like a cork out here! I can’t touch!”

I could have stayed out there for hours but, knowing that we had a limited amount of time and a friend waiting on the shore, we decided to wade our way back, but not without taking a piece of the sea with us.

A short tractor ride away we found an adult’s playground – a trough filled with Dead Sea mud and shower stations flooding sulfur and salt water.

Though I have thought about what it would be like to take a mud bath, I have never actually placed myself in a tub full of mud. I hadn’t scooped mud into my hands and rubbed it all over my body for any reason over the age of 5. However, this was Dead Sea mud. If I was going to do it, I was going to do it here.

I walked over to the basin, filled with mud, minerals and brown water, stepped my feet into squishy, gushy mud and placed one hand inside. A texture person, the first thing I did was physically examine the goods. Wet and squishy, yes, but not as gross as I had figured. I took a scoop, rubbed it on and away I went. The next thing I knew, I had mud on every exposed area I could reach.

After brining in the sea, I baked in the sun and then rinsed off under a salt water shower. I have been asked if the salt dried my skin and the answer is no. The salt water left a near oily film on the skin and after the mud, my skin has never been so amazing. I stocked up on Dead Sea supplies but that's another story.

LOCAL COLOR

When I visit countries, I like to immerse myself in local culture, but I also like to experience local color - and not the William Faulkner kind. From a land filled with white and sand colors, today's post is all about the visual. Enjoy the color that I found on the Tel Aviv streets.