Category: His Vast Strength (stroke)

An interlude from grief

On 05/13/2022

In His Vast Strength (stroke), Pay Attention

Could you use a break from my grief? I sure could. A respite. An interlude.

in·ter·lude/ˈin(t)ərˌlo͞od/ – An interlude is a short period of time when an activity or situation stops and something else happens. (collinsdictionary.com)

Yes, it’s definitely time for an interlude from grief.

I woke up yesterday morning with a song in my head. I regularly do that and I try to pay attention to the specific song lyrics that my mind sings to wake me up.

Storms within my troubled soul
Questions without answers
On my faith these billows roll
God, be now my shelter

Those lyrics are from “Lord From Sorrows Deep I Call (Psalm 42),” one of the “100 Days” playlist songs, a playlist I thought would get me through the day of surgery and instead seems to be sustaining me through the first 100 days after the stroke.

The one line that was most repeated in my head though was

Sing, oh, sing through the raging storm

Actually, in my head it was more like

“SING, OH, SING THROUGH THE RAGING STORM!!!”

The story behind the picture

By Carrie

On 05/06/2022

In His Vast Strength (stroke)

After loading up my car, we all hopped in and headed south for spring break. Actually, after having Cody sit in the backseat, Chuck and I loaded every inch of the SUV, including precariously putting things around and on top of Cody. I mean, we loaded that vehicle. Clothes, food, Cody’s small acoustic guitar, basketball, Godzilla DVDs…a hard plastic, 12-inch Godzilla toy that Cody nicknamed “Godji.” All the essentials.

Fully packed, we started on our journey. As we drove, the snow on the fields disappeared and bare ground emerged. We finally arrived at our hotel and managed to extricate all of our belongings – and eventually our son – from the car. Thank goodness for luggage carts (two of them).

We had a two-room suite with a kitchenette/living area and separate bedroom because we planned to be there for 10 days. With celiac disease, Cody and I can’t go out to eat at most restaurants so the kitchenette was crucial. Amazingly, I had discovered that the one celiac-safe restaurant in the whole city was only 5 minutes from our hotel! Which, it turned out, was really fortunate because most of the frozen meals I had purchased to pack didn’t fit in the car…what with all of the other essentials.

We unloaded the luggage carts and put luggage and boxes roughly in the areas where we would use them, i.e., food in the kitchen, luggage in the bedroom, Godzilla DVDs by the TV. The first thing to be unpacked, however, were the swimsuits. Truly, the most critical items we packed. After donning suit, goggles, Crocs, and grabbing Godji, Cody announced it was time to swim!

For the next few days, we swam (I consider hot tubs to be swimming), ate great gluten free food from the local restaurant, and watched Godzilla movies.

I had planned on taking lots of pictures with my phone to show you our trip (because…no room for the real camera, of course, what with all of the other essentials) – except I forgot my phone at home. “Oh, well,” I decided, “that just gives me a chance to unplug” (plus Chuck had his phone, Cody had a tablet, and I had my laptop – so, you know, unplugged).

I was going to take pictures of us crammed in under mountains of luggage, swimming at the hotel, standing outside of an historic building across from the hotel.

And then I planned to tell you the story behind the pictures. Something about not comparing your life to what you see on social media.

Because, while everything I have said is true, the full story isn’t as exciting as I’ve made it sound.

His vast strength

By Carrie

On 04/29/2022

In His Vast Strength (stroke)

In the last few weeks, I have wondered if ComeSoAlive.com was finished. I wondered, “How do I show others ‘coming alive’ when I am so destroyed right now? I’m only writing about how hard life is. I sound like Eeyore.”

These posts of honesty and pain and sadness are what I need right now. I have had days that I’ve asked God to help me write, because it’s healing and what I needed. But this darkness isn’t lifting anytime soon, and you may all trickle away in the meantime.

So, I thought, “Maybe I should stop writing for a while.”

On the website, I organize the different posts by categories, such as “Beauty in the Storm.” I typed thoughts during five years of epilepsy and, when I started Come So Alive, I thought that material, “Beauty in the Storm,” was what I would mostly use for posts…until I ran out of those entries. (I figured it may be a short-lived website.)

Yet, week after week, God has surprised me with blog posts that aren’t about epilepsy. Some certainly have been but, amazingly, I frequently wrote posts the day I published them that I couldn’t have even written four or five days before, because part of the story hadn’t happened yet. I have added new categories to the website as the topic list grew. I didn’t think “Eeyore” would be a great category to add though so I’ve wondered.

When the “what-if” happens

By Carrie

On 04/22/2022

In His Vast Strength (stroke)

We talk so much these days
Because I have so much to say
You stay and listen to me closely even though
You already know
You already know
JJ Heller, “You Already Know“

I found that song a few months ago (more accurately, that song found its way to me) to add to the “100 Days” playlist. It’s a very catchy tune and those lyrics play in my head frequently. Sometimes, in the weeks leading up to surgery, they were the only lyrics in my head all day.

You already know. “You” in the song being God.

Last week, I reposted “Looking hard for signs of life” from Good Friday 2021, which it turns out is what we are doing this year after a new storm hit. In the original post, I wrote,

“After the storm, the ashes, the hard winter, do I usually look for life? Or do I just mourn the loss? Do I keep walking when the trees are bare? Even though there are dead leaves wherever I put my foot next. Do I hope, looking hard for signs of life?”

A year ago when I wrote that, God knew. He knew what life would look like a year later. And I feel a little betrayed. He knew and He didn’t tell me. That may sound odd. No, I don’t actually hear a literal voice of God but I do hear from Him. He knew and He didn’t tell me what was coming.

Looking hard for signs of life (again)

By Carrie

On 04/15/2022

In His Vast Strength (stroke)

I debated posting on Good Friday because it seems too holy for anything I could write, but this post from last year came to mind. In rereading it, I had forgotten that, even though I wrote it in May, it took place on Good Friday in April.

I wonder if the disciples felt this way. A life-shattering event as the sun set on a Friday evening, the beginning of their Shabbat. Shocked and seeing only death around them. A Saturday of silence where there was nothing they could do. Scared and wondering how the story ends – or if it already had. Having no reason to assume new life was just around the corner.

I guess that’s where our stories differ. They could not have hoped for life after death. A year after writing this post, we find ourselves looking hard for signs of life again. As we mourn. As we keep walking. And as we have to trust that spring and new life will follow this harsh winter we have had.

Looking hard for signs of life, first posted May 4, 2021

I found a bench in the sun and waited for my friend to walk the labyrinth. I had walked it first and wanted to give her time alone in it. Once she finished, she sat on a bench across from me, and we shared our experiences, which in the same labyrinth were very different from each other’s.

There were large, barren trees in a ring around us. I wasn’t paying much attention to them but my friend commented on the one behind me, whose crooked branch I was sitting under. She had been quietly assessing if it was a dead branch and the likelihood of it falling on my head. But then she noticed very small buds on the tree and realized it was safer than it looked. She said,

“You really have to look hard for life.”

When the waiting ends, part 1

By Carrie

On 04/08/2022

In His Vast Strength (stroke)

We learned in November that my husband likely had an issue that would require a second open-heart surgery. The doctor wanted to consult with a specialist about her tentative diagnosis and so we waited. Amid waiting for an answer and our growing anxiety of anticipating another open-heart surgery, an Instagram quote caught my eye from a podcast called Th e Place We Find Ourselves, which consisted of exactly 100 episodes.

“Well, in 100 days we will have an answer,” I thought.

I also had the thought that I should start a new Spotify playlist – and called it “100 Days.” I had tried to remember how I survived the wait before the first open-heart surgery and remembered that singing was how I battled the anxiety – so that would be how I would survive this wait too.

The doctor called a week after Chuck met with her (and the day I started the new playlist). She said the specialist was 99% certain of the diagnosis but needed better imaging.

So, we waited until the end of December when they could get him in for more imaging to determine if he in fact he had that issue. Then we waited until the middle of January for the pericardial specialty clinic to discuss his case, decide if they agreed with the initial diagnosis, and, if so, decide who his surgeon would be. Then we waited two more weeks for the scheduler to call to finally schedule surgery.

Perspective

By Carrie

On 03/25/2022

In His Vast Strength (stroke)

Two weeks ago yesterday, my husband had open-heart surgery. It was planned although it had been a surprise that he needed it. He scheduled the surgery at a hospital 90 minutes from our home because it was the only hospital in the state that could perform this rare type of surgery. We were nervous but also knew he would have the surgeon who had done more of these than anyone in the state and, as it turns out, probably more than anyone in the world.

Because the hospital was so far from home, we also booked a hotel right across the street for Cody, my mom, and me to stay in during Chuck’s recovery in the hospital. Cody was thrilled – the hotel had a pool AND a small basketball court!

The day of the surgery, I wanted to stay with Cody as much as possible so after Chuck was wheeled to the operating room, I went back to the hotel to wait. I received text messages from the hospital throughout the next 3 1/2 hours with status updates and, at 3:42 pm, I received, “The patient’s procedure is starting to close.”