On May 23, 2024, my husband, Jim Gallagher, entered the E.R. he worked in for 15 years, this time as a patient. Within days he was fighting for his life as an infection that began in his foot raged throughout his body, and on June 4th, his leg was amputated below the knee in order to save his life. This is an ongoing log of our journey.
Our adventure began with a phone call:
“You won’t be able to stay at home,” the man said. “The fumes will be too much for you, so you’ll need to be gone for a few days while we do the work.”
With a long list of fixes pending before we can sell our home, we had reached out for help with the floor refinishing. But here was a dead end. The lacquer finish was not fit for anyone to breathe for a couple of days.
Our lives are, well… weird. Jim’s back pain requires the use of an articulating hospital bed. Movement from bed to wheelchair requires a second person and space to move. Even toileting is complex, with the need for a raised seat and room for a wheelchair, so I struggled to find the solution. You can’t just move into a friend’s guest room for a few days. Our unfinished basement? No bathroom. A tent? Can’t raise ours by myself.
I flipped through the options, but the sticking point was always that commode and the hospital bed. If I could rent one, or move the one we already have, where could we go?
. . . . . . . . .
The week before had been good, but hard, as most weeks are. Physical therapy was always followed by crippling back pain the following day, and it felt like we were getting nowhere. Also, the time came for Jim to write that letter of resignation, a line in the sand we both quietly grieved over as we accepted the new reality of this ending, this turning of the page.
Losses, we’re learning, need to be named, and grieved.
Time away and a break from the additional burden of home renovations sounded delicious. Hmmm… the coast? Maybe we could find a place at the beach. Maybe we could even take a little side-trip to say goodbye to Jim’s team of coworkers in the Emergency Room there.
The hotel I called was open to us having a bed delivered, and I booked the room. And at the last minute the missing piece—the hospital bed itself—was booked and on its way. Now for the rush of arranging for the dogs, planning for meals, packing all the things and cramming them into my small car. So many things, and just one slightly frantic and definitely sweaty body able to do it all! Jim coached, I flew, tension warred with weary anticipation as the car door slammed and we pulled down the drive.
Slowly my spirits rose as we drove through the “dead spot” where cell coverage lags and drew near the coast. And then, that first, magical breath of salt air!
I had forgotten how jaw-droppingly stunning the beach is. Mesmerizing as you watch the relentless, steady pounding of the surf, and the compliant shifting of the sand, changing the beach landscape just a little each day.
When we opened the door to our room, there was Jim’s hospital bed, settled right up against the glass doors, and facing the corner fireplace. The best seat in the house! I bustled and hauled and unpacked and moved Jim to the bed and stocked the fridge and rearranged the furniture and did the meds and made trips to the car, and at last Jim was beautifully settled in, framed by the sea.
Sometimes I forget that when my agenda is completed, Jim’s is still waiting.
I slid the balcony door open and sat down, gazing out at the ocean and stopping to drink in a deep breath.
“Honeeeey…?”
Sometimes I forget that when my agenda is completed, Jim’s is still waiting. He would, if he could, retrieve that ointment for his back, fetch the pillow needed under his hip, grab the massager, make the lunch, find the phone, and sort his own meds.
My spirit balked at the interruption of my moment, and resentment tried (successfully, I’m afraid) to find it’s way into this sunny and salty moment. Even in the middle of the precious gift of respite, reality follows hard at our heels. The relentless needs and work persist, pounding as steadily as the waves washing up on the sand. If you are a caregiver or a Mama, you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?
Was it sweet? You bet! Was it exhausting? Also yes.
Even in a perfect little nest above a gorgeous beach, there are a mountain of things to do—exponentially more when you add in medical needs, financial changes, home renovation, major life changes, and many new and critical decisions to make. And only one body able to perform these tasks for both of us.
But the beach was beautiful and the sun gleamed. We did make that trip to Jim’s hospital and warmly thank his friends. There was a wonderful breakfast spot, some dreamy beignets, a great movie or two. Goodness washed in like the breakers. And then withdrew. And then returned. And withdrew again.
That, friends, is the tension of our lives, whether at home, in the hospital, or in a glorious beachfront hotel. Each day our hearts soar at the almost excruciating loveliness of kind friends, a great meal, God’s miraculous provision, lovely refinished wide pine plank floors. And then they plummet as we face hard things, fret about Social Security, or worry about decisions that feel over our heads. Some nights I slept peacefully in my huge, king-sized bed piled high with pillows. Other nights I laid awake and cried, feeling powerless to accomplish all that is necessary and critical to our future.
On our last morning in the hotel, I slunk silently to the soft sofa. Jim sat propped up in his bed, the ocean framing him, reaching with his words to comfort his clearly cranky bride. And there the Lord graciously walked us through probably the most important, soul-mending conversation in our 41 years of marriage.
God has not changed.
We couldn’t gloss over all the Hard. We named it and grieved it. But we also (and by “we”, this time I mean Jim, the Talker) rehearsed our whole history together. It reminded me a little of those Psalms where David reminded the children of Israel of all they had been through and all the ways in which God delivered them when things were hopeless. Jim recounted time after time of pain or hardship, and folks, we have had our share of horrors to face in our 41 years of marriage.
But as Jim talked, he reminded me of how time after time, God always faithfully stepped into our story, held out a branch for us to hang onto, changed the course of our destiny, provided the impossible, sent a reprieve, corrected us with love, left his clear fingerprints, and frankly, just saved our proverbial bacon over and over! His hand, his care, is undeniable.
And that’s what I needed to remember that day. And today. And tomorrow. And the next hard day. God has not changed.
Life is that twisted mixture of pain and pleasure, grief and hope. The breakers roll in, then retreat, and roll in again. But because God is real, it is NEVER hopeless! He returns, faithful, wave after wave, soothing, mending, slowly shifting the shape of the landscape. And doing it with such splendid, salty beauty.
What a precious moment, to cry and be real together, to remember the character of our God, and to emerge from that journey at rest once again, confident in his faithfulness.
Great is Thy faithfulness,
O God my Father!
There is no shadow
of turning with Thee.
All I have needed
Thy hand hath provided!
Great is Thy faithfulness,
Lord, unto me!
. . . . . . . . . .
Eventually we (and by “we” I mean one of us) packed up our belongings and stuffed them back in the car. We drove down the beach to enjoy the sunshine and the view one more time.
And then, contented, hopeful, realistic and restored, as we wound our way homeward, God did it again!
This, too, began with a phone call.
“Want me to get that for you?” Jim asked. And though I’ve never had him answer my phone in 41 years, for some reason I said, “Yes!”
It was Social Security.
Now, there is always a backstory, and the backstory here is that about seven weeks ago I couldn’t access Jim’s Social Security account to apply for Social Security and Medicare for him. I waited on hold for 45 minutes, talked to The Guy for 45 more minutes, but even he couldn’t figure out how to get Jim’s account to work.
“There is one other thing we can do,” he said. “We can make an appointment to have someone call you back and you can apply over the phone.”
“Great! Let’s’ do that,” I said. “When can they call?” I thought it would be later that day.
“The first available appointment is August 23rd at 2:00 p.m.”
I was horrified! Seven more weeks to wait? I made the appointment, but later I found a different way to access Jim’s account and apply for Social Security and Medicare anyway.
The problem is, because Jim is technically disabled and unable to work, instead of the quick response I received affirming my own Medicare coverage, the response I got for Jim was, “We have received your disability application and will respond when we have had a chance to review it. The average wait time for a response in Oregon is 300 days.”
Imagine my delight at that news. 300 days?!! We don’t even want state disability! He just wants to quietly retire, and now we have to wait 300 days? (Can you feel my blood pressure rising?) What would we do in the meantime? What about Medicare? Healthcare is rather critical just now. Would we have to do COBRA for 300 days?
These are the tangled snarls that make one feel so helpless and small.
We change. He stays the same.
So that Friday as we drove home through a corridor where calls usually drop, Jim answers my phone, and it’s Social Security. What seemed like a ridiculous, unnecessary phone call weeks before, was actually a divine appointment made by the hand of our good God, who knew what my need would be seven weeks later. In that one phone call, he lifted the burden of one more unsolvable obstacle for little, overwhelmed Kathy Gallagher. I didn’t even have to pick up the phone, and in 10 minutes, Social Security and Medicare were all taken care of. “Your back payments will be in your account on Monday,” the man said.
What???!!!
(Joanne, I blame you. I know you were praying for this one!)
Hallelujah!
Look, you guys. Life is really, really hard. And life is also so, SO GOOD!
When we stop to remember who God is, and what he has done for us, for you, for each other in the past, our hope is renewed! God is the same on our good days and our bad days. Day after day the breakers of God’s relentless grace wash in, out, and over us, slowly changing the landscape, and changing the shape of our lives in the process.
We change. He stays the same.
Deep calls to deep
in the roar of Your waterfalls.
All Your breakers and waves
have rolled over me.
The Lord decrees His loving devotion by day,
and at night His song is with me,
as a prayer to the God of my life.
Psalm 42:7-8
Listen to the roar. Surrender to His sovereignty. And stop to admire the beauty of the impossible, AND the impossibly beautiful.
God is with us.
Commentaires