Lighthouse

I've often written of my treasured friend, Zee (Michelle Zitzmann). On Wednesday, she called, distraught, to tell me of chilling news regarding an old and dear friend she and her beloved, Steve, once lived in Life Group with (a group of friends journeying together through life's ups, downs, and in-betweens as they practice the disciplines of study, prayer, and fellowship to God).

Their friends, Joanne and Toben, have been married just over 19 years and have two little girls. Joanne suffered what I can only glean must be a "massive" stroke and remains in critical condition after two surgeries to treat her precarious condition. However, we do not lose hope. Though I do not know them personally, whomever Zee and Steve love, so then do I - and I freely admit to feeling a deep and profound emotional response to their story.

I'm posting here, in its entirety, Toben's latest post on Joanne's blog. It is so poignant, I do not wish to risk broken links and the like lest you miss out on such a tender reflection of love, hope, and faith.

Or put even better: some stories are such lighthouses of promise - of what we're most capable of at our best - in a world of tossing storms and threatening tides, they should, quite simply, be told. And heard.

Please join me in praying for this family.

What a Day

I can't even remember what I wrote in the last post and am too tired
to bother to look. Let me tell you what is going on at this very
minute. it is 9:06. The lights are low in Joanne's room. There are
hums and beeps and hissing noises coming from the dozen or so machines
that Joanne is attached to. The other noise: David Crowder playing
quietly on her iMac next to her bed. It is a weird juxtaposition
hearing his melodies and heartfelt lyrics mixed with such mechanical
utterances from all the machines.

The gory details: Joanne has in a nasal gastric tube that runs to her
stomach through her nose. She is on a ventilator that goes into her
throat to her lungs through her mouth. She has a drain from the incision
in her skull that is syphoning off the excess fluids and she has a
pressure monitor imbedded in the incision stick out of the top of her
head that monitors the swelling in her brain. She has IVs in both arms
and a Picc line in that extends directly into her heart. Not to mention
the 50 or so staples closing the incision from her "skull-ectomy". In
short, the girl has hoses and lines and wires running everywhere! But
you know what? She still looks beautiful to me. And she is at rest.

Michelle is her night nurse. I think night nurses are heros.
Michelle does everything she can to make Joanne comfortable including
repositioning her on the bed so that she doesn't get "bored" of being in
the same position all the time. She check vitals, monitors her response
capability: "Squeeze my hand Joanne!" Each nurse on the ward only has
two patients. She said she's not supposed to play favorites, but she
like Joanne the best.

I love having so many visitors and so much support during the day,
but having Joanne all to myself at night is nice. Being near her calms
me a great deal. Hopefully she is aware enough to be calmed by my presence too. I guess that comes with the territory for a couple married just over 19 years.

Here's my thought: not that much has changed in our relationship. She
is still here, she is still the love of my life, she is still the one I
want to grow old with. Her inability to talk or respond yet doesn't
really change any of that.

Enough of this writing. Time to hold hands with my girl.

Toben