A Season for Family

I’ve realized from about October to February, is our season of family.  Hunting alone facilitates a great portion of this, and then the holidays manage to cement the rest.  We just don’t have time to spend with many friends, as much as we’d like to.  Family really takes priority.

During the harvest season, I think it is easy to start feeling like you are drowning in the work of a homestead.  I generally feel like I tread water pretty steadily around here, but after a spastic comment on the Apron Stringz blog, when both CJ and Erica of NWEdible reached out to me to make sure that I was alright, I realized my Shiny-Happy exterior was cracking a bit.  While I’m afraid that the comment I left came across way crazier than I intended, the truth is, I have been somewhat overwhelmed.

In April, Rick’s dad was diagnosed with ALS  (aka Lou Gehrig’s disease).  I’ve sort of kept this under my hat, since Rick wasn’t keen on talking about it with anyone, even in person.  He got pretty tetchy when I mentioned it to our neighbor (who is getting to be like family) and to our midwives while I was still pregnant with C.  So I’ve kept it off the blog all this time.  But I started bracing myself.  I’ve seen diseases before.

I’ve had the unfortunate experience of watching my own father pass away.  He was diagnosed with lung cancer when I was fifteen.  Lung cancer has a 15% survival rate and a lot of people treat you as if you deserve to get it.  But my dad hadn’t smoked in over 20 years before he was diagnosed.  The cause of it was more likely asbestos from being a mechanic or possibly having the polio vaccine tested on him while he served in the Air Force.  Or seeing as he had lost a sister to lung cancer, had a brother that got (and beat!) prostate cancer and a father that died of multiple myeloma at 58, maybe cancer was just in his genes.

But my dad was determined to live.  He had surgery, most of one of his lungs removed, chemo and radiation.  He beat the cancer.  He was cancer free for 8 years before his body, racked by the treatments he received, gave up on him.  I was so grateful that my dad lived to walk me down the aisle, to know Rick.  It was hard to watch my dad, superman in my eyes, go from 6 foot tall to 5′-1″.  To see him lose weight.  For me to never sleep in peace, afraid that his oxygen machine would sound an alarm in the next room if my dad quit breathing, even for a moment.  To see his big, strong mechanic’s hands turn soft and thin.  He died at home in 2004, the day before my 23rd birthday.

ALS makes cancer look like the freakin’ flu.

With cancer, there are treatments, even cures for some.  Hope.  With ALS, there is nothing.  Just waiting, watching, making your loved one feel comfortable as they lose the ability to make their muscles work.  The prognosis for ALS is more than bleak.  Stats vary, but we’ve been told that up to 70% of people diagnosed with it die within 18 months.  It is always fatal.  Less than 10% live longer than five years.

Rick’s dad was beginning to show symptoms last October, though we didn’t recognize them.  He’d been feeling weaker for a while longer before that, but just chalked it up to being tired.  He just turned 51 last month.  Because of my experiences with my own dad, I keep expecting to see things plateau with him, but the disease has not slowed at all.  In April, his words were slurred, by May he was hard to understand.  By June or July, he would only answer yes or no questions out loud.  Now it’s even hard to tell the yeses apart from the nos.  His hands and arms are atrophied pretty severely, so he can’t write.  This past weekend, they gave him a feeding tube.

Through this, my, uh… “greenisim” is wavering.  I’m feeling the urge more an more to take the easy way out.  To throw the proverbial grey water down the drain instead of out the window.  (Here’s where the crazy comment on the Apron Stringz blog comes in).  Part of me doesn’t want to care anymore where my food comes from.  I want to turn the heat up to 69° from 67° and not feel any guilt.  Bag the whole Riot for Austerity.  Throwing in the towel looks appealing.  Part of me is wondering why I should care about organically grown green beans when my father-in-law is struggling to swallow.  I’m wondering if  we can sustain our sustainable life style?  And is it worth it?

The truth is, I know in my heart that it is worth it.  But I need to find a way to be ok with what I can do right now.  Maybe the Riot is beyond my reach at this point in our family’s journey.  Maybe CJ’s Quiet Riot, or even just tracking our energy use is good enough for right now.  Maybe I need to be ok with the things we are doing and hold the space while our family gets ready to walk through the coming grief.

I’ve known somewhat more loss than anyone in Rick’s family (all his grandparents are still living), and I know my strengths can be quite helpful in hard times like these.  The loss of his dad is going to be a devastating blow.  And I’m grateful to have this time with family right now.

So here I am, holding the space.  And turning up my thermostat to 68°.

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Categories: Community, Sustainability | Tags: , , , , , | 10 Comments

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10 thoughts on “A Season for Family

  1. Amy Borum

    Hi Anisa – I am an old friend of Rick’s and wanted to let you know how sorry I am to hear about Rick’s dad. I will be praying for your family for strength and comfort during this extremely difficult time. Thank you for sharing.

    • Thanks Amy – Rick reads comments too, so I know he’ll be glad to know you are thinking of him and praying for their family.

  2. Thanks for your heart filled honesty. There are truly “seasons” to life and this is one that you hold tight to your family.
    From inside the little blue bungalow,
    Katie Jean

  3. Hi Anisa, I’ve enjoyed your blog and comments on Erika & CJ’s blog as I’ve become a fairly regular reader of both of their blogs in the past six months. I have to agree with Katie Jean’s comment and am sending your family positive thoughts for a sense of peace as you all live this disease together in support of your father in law. I lost my grandmother to ALS when I was 12. My memories of the disease’s progression are vivid to this day.

  4. I had a very dear family friend die from ALS. It was a really difficult thing to deal with, and I’m sorry your family has to experience it.

    Be easy on yourself. We all do the best we can, and at different points in our lives our best changes.

  5. Grace, Anisa. May you be a source of grace to your Dave, and Rick and all their family. Grace is more important than strength. Grace to yourself– in the R4A or in the homestead or in the thermostat. I’ll be praying for more grace, every day.

  6. Thanks for feeling comfortable enough to share your life with us, Anissa. It’s easy (and acceptable) to take the “easy” way when life gets overwhelming (after all – that’s what overwhelming does – it takes away your normal). Prayers for your family. P.S. And thanks for checking in on us at the blog…we’re still kicking, just keeping it quiet while we go through our own overwhelming stuff.

  7. Prayers for God to carry you through this difficult time.

  8. Calamity Jane

    wow, you must have felt naked when you pressed ‘publish” on this one. i can imagine.
    not much time to write, but sending you cheers through your hard times. real cheers, as in “Anisa! Anisa! She’s our (wo)man! If she can’t do it, no one can!”
    do what you can, and forgive yourself the rest, sister. join the leagues of us who try and fail, and get up to goddamn try again.

  9. Be kind to yourself…

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