Something happened on Monday. It pierced my heart, opened my eyes, and gave me one more of those perspective adjustments. One of those moments when you realize you’re looking through one lens, and that you need to flip it around and look through the other end. Or maybe change lenses. And this something made me weep through a flood of conflicting emotions.

My heart catheter ablation isn’t scheduled until February, and while I continue to hope for an opening on the cancellation list so I can get in sooner, I’m forced to find ways to try to keep living and functioning in spite of a greatly reduced supply of oxygenated blood flowing from my heart to my body. If you’ve been following this journey, you know that I am very short of breath always, and sometimes it’s so bad that I feel like my chest is being crushed and I’m being suffocated. I’m so weak that, at times, I have to have help even walking to the bathroom, and walking any distance at all has become pretty much impossible.

I can’t keep borrowing my kids’ wheelchairs because they need them. So we decided it was time to rent one (fighting with insurance and hoping they will cover future months, but we paid for this first month while we pursue that battle). But first, I had an appointment with a doctor I see several times a year. I’ve known the receptionist there for years, and we regularly swap stories about our kids and grandkids. She is quite a bit younger than I am and only has two little grandbabies. I hadn’t seen her in awhile, but I didn’t really know why.

When I arrived for my appointment, I was struggling to walk and to breathe. Scott had to help me onto and off of the examination table. I was feeling a little sad and frustrated about all of it. This receptionist, concerned by this drastic change in my health, asked for more details. During that short conversation, I learned that her husband, who was only in his fifties, died suddenly just a few months ago from similar heart issues. Died. Gone. That’s why I hadn’t seen her recently.

Unlike me, he got no warning signs. No months of trying to breathe. No drastic loss of strength. No hours scheduling appointments with specialists and fighting for more testing to find the problem. No struggling to find new ways to keep functioning. No moments sitting with his children and grandchildren when he’d rather have been up playing with them. No talking and crying with his beloved about how hard the waiting can be. No more holding any of them in his arms.

I can’t even really describe the power behind the force that hit my body, mind, and soul as I heard and tried to process to this news. I was speechless and filled so deeply with so much grief and sadness. I hugged her and then Scott helped me to the van where I let the tears fall. I couldn’t stop crying. I was feeling so many things.

First and foremost was tremendous heartbreak for their family, followed quickly by gratitude for the crippling symptoms I’ve been living with all these months. This wasn’t the first time I’ve realized that I’m one of the “lucky” ones to have had symptoms to warn me, but I was able to see in a new and stark way what a blessing all of these symptoms are as they keep driving us to search for answers and treatment. They felt like a beautiful gift that’s been placed in my hands with so much love.

But even while I was feeling that gratitude, I was also asking, “Why!?”

Not why am I having to struggle, though. All I could think of was, “Why did I get this chance to keep looking for answers and living when he didn’t?” It seemed so unfair. It still seems so unfair. None of us deserves this chance more than others.

Life here in this world is so messed up and broken and has been since sin entered it and flipped everything upside down and inside out. This world is not our home. This is not all there is. Someday all the bad, all the sad will come undone, and beauty and joy will shine, shine, shine! No more tears. I long for that day.

But until then, this is where we live. I pray I learn more and more not to waste this time. That I learn to keep caring about other people, loving them better, trusting an all-loving and all-knowing Father with the parts I can’t figure out, and seeing beauty every minute. Right now. In the midst of the brokenness.

We left there and went to get my wheelchair, and then we went to choose this year’s pumpkin for designing and carving our Jack ‘o Lantern with the kids for Halloween — a family tradition for over forty years. I was still feeling so many emotions, but I wanted to focus on the gratitude at that moment. I was choosing a pumpkin for my kids. Holding it, smelling it’s kind of stinky smell, and I was out with my husband on a chilly, beautiful, fall day — in spite of a little rainy drizzle.

That evening, as we snuggled in our family room and read to our kids, I looked at the younger ones all bunched together in their pajamas, squished against each other and our dogs, focusing on the story. My heart was so full of joy at that moment. And Scott snapped a picture for me as I tried to read even while having to pause frequently to catch my breath, and whispered in my heart, “Thank you, God, that I’m still breathing, struggling, fighting, living, looking into my children’s faces.”

The next morning, a dear friend, knowing nothing about what was going on in my heart at the moment, sent me a message, reminding me of her love and prayers and sharing something she had read that morning. One portion really stood out to me:

“I love fall. Leaves transition from green, revealing all their brilliance — vibrant yellows, oranges, and reds. Their beauty is most apparent right before their death. Winter soon arrives, and they drift down to the ground. This year, they feel like a startling representation of my heart. I’m looking back on a year full of devastating sickness, loss, and grief — a year of desperate prayers, seemingly left unanswered. But somehow, God reveals his beauty in it all — in the falling leaves and in the unanswered prayers.

I could so relate to this. “Even in the unanswered prayers.”

He is holding us. He is writing our story. He is close beside me always. And he sends me reminders minute by minute so I don’t forget when it’s not so obvious.

Enjoy a couple of these reminders from this week. Kathryn and her service dog Mozley love to head out into the neighborhood daily with her special trike and collect fall leaves for me. This is the highlight of sweet Kathryn’s day. When she gets home, her sisters help her sprinkle them on the wheelchair ramp in front of our house. Just for me. Just because she loves me and knows I love fall.

“Embarrassment is the feeling of discomfort experienced when some aspect of ourselves is, or threatens to be, witnessed by or otherwise revealed to others, and we think that this revelation is likely to undermine the image of ourselves that we seek to project to those others.”
~Psychology Today

“. . . The image of ourselves that we seek to project to those others.” This sounds to me like embarrassment rooted in pride. Not the good kind.

It’s so easy for me to spot hints of this in my children as I try to guide them through living a life of joy as a person with disabilities in a world where they are in a minority. It’s much harder to admit it when I see it in myself.

Yesterday was Friday. Date day for Scott and me. And it was such a gorgeous fall day. I wanted so much to return to our favorite paved trail that winds through the woods along the Little Miami River. We haven’t been there in months. Ellie loves it, and it’s always covered with crunchy leaves starting about now. But I can’t walk well enough to do that anymore.

So I spent the morning having an uncomfortable and straightforward conversation with myself. About pride. About embarrassment. About not being honest with my kids or myself. I could visit this trail if I borrowed one of the kids’ wheelchairs and Scott pushed me (which I knew he would be honored and happy to do). But what was holding me back?

Embarrassment. Pride. I felt being pushed in a wheelchair would make me look weak and pathetic. Old and fragile.

What kind of hypocritical message was I sending to my kids?! I never, ever saw them as weak or pathetic or fragile when they “walked” this same trail. In wheelchairs. They are courageous, brave, strong. My heroes.

I was ashamed of myself. So I talked to myself the same way I would talk to them.

I am weak right now. So, so weak. And I’m getting gradually weaker. So what? That’s not who I am. It’s what I am. I can’t control that.

Pathetic? I can control that. I’m only pathetic if I’m wallowing in self-pity, hiding away in my house on a perfect fall day, whimpering about not being able to walk a trail that I love so much. Trying to act like something or someone that I’m not — projecting an image.

Every week, before one of my virtual appointments with a Cleveland cardiac team member, I have to fill out the same annoying pre-registration form. One of the questions on that form — a question I have to ponder every single week — is “If you had to live the rest of your life at the level of function you have now, would you be satisfied?”

I always answer no to that question, because we are all still hoping to find answers that will improve my function, even if we can’t return it to my pre-heart-failure state. But I spent more time examining this question yesterday while I was talking to myself.

What if? The truth is that it would take some grieving and adjustment, but that eventually, I believe I would choose to live joyfully and with all the gusto I could manage even if I had to accept the fact that nothing could be done to change things. I don’t expect that to happen. But if I can’t find joy and happiness no matter the circumstances around me, I will never really find it even if things are going great in every area of life.

So yesterday I chose joy. And to go sit in a wheelchair in front of my favorite old tree, Ceorl, and look at his ancient, drooping branches that always seem to exude wisdom and contentment and strength.

I chose to allow Scott to push me along that trail, dappled with sun and shadows, covered with deliciously crunchy leaves, my Ellie girl trotting happily beside me. I chose to look passersby in the eye and smile at them. To lift my face to the sky and hungrily drink in the fall sounds and breeze and colors. To laugh. I chose to live my best life yesterday. It was a good day.

This is the choice I want to make every day. I may have to talk sternly to myself, but “when I am weak I am strong” because “. . .[God’s] power is made perfect in weakness. Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.” 2 Corinthians 12:9.

A very quick update to close this post. We went to Cleveland this week and saw the electrophysiologist. We really liked him a lot. He explained things in a way that no one else has up to this point, making it clear to us why I am so weak. There are multiple problems with the left ventricle causing the heart to send much less blood to my body than it needs. It seems that this is all being caused by not only the high frequency of PVC’s as my heart tries to beat, but also by the specific type of PVC’s.

I will need to have surgery (ablation – not open heart), and they are trying to get that scheduled as soon as possible. I would love a 100% promise that it will work. He said he can often give people a 95% prediction. My heart is a little more complicated, though, so he can only give me an 80-85% chance of success. But we will take that and move forward, continuing to take things one step at a time.

My kidneys are still not handling the heart meds well, so they changed those doses again, and although they didn’t seem to be helping the heart issues anyway, I am feeling worse since those changes this past week. More proof that the answers for me don’t lie in medications.

First, though, I return again next week for a right heart catheterization in the cath lab. I was told to come prepared for the possibility of being hospitalized then, depending on what they see in that procedure. We didn’t ask enough questions to understand this part fully (we were trying to process a lot of info at once). We will keep everyone updated as we learn more.

Thank you, always, for the prayers, for the financial help as we try to manage the extra expenses these trips bring to the family. A generous gift has covered those trips for us so far, but it is almost gone now. And thank you for helping the kids with meals here while we are gone. They are all showing signs of stress from all of this, and it helps so much to know that this practical piece is covered. We will continue to need that help if anyone wants to know how to come alongside us. We are looking for help with two meals this coming week.

Whew! This has been a hard week. These last few days have been especially hard. Breathing. Walking. Talking. Keeping my emotions in check. Just hard.

A good, long cry in Scott’s arms helped reset things, and the hard work my kids poured into making sure our celebration for September birthdays happened reminded me that I’m not alone. 

There’s not a lot to report. My team in Cleveland continues to play around with medications and dosages via virtual appointments. I had a week of small but very noticeable improvement, and it was so wonderful. Even just slight improvement made such a difference! Unfortunately, my kidneys didn’t seem to handle the medication changes well, so we had to back off. And I have slowly worsened again each day since.

There are a couple of other things being checked out now, too. My PET scan, while ruling out cardiac sarcoidosis, also showed some nodules on my lungs, so the pulmonologist in Cleveland wants to just confirm that these aren’t anything to worry about. They are trying to arrange more testing for this while I’m in Cleveland next week seeing the electrophysiologist, and I will see the pulmonologist there to discuss those test results when I return to Cleveland again in November.

Also, I was finally able to see the neurologist here in Cincinnati to discuss the apparent TIA’s was having (these seem to have resolved over the last few weeks). I really liked this doctor a lot. I was surprised to learn that I haven’t actually had a brain MRI done, after all, but a brain MRA. This showed that the blood flow to the brain was good, but didn’t actually, as I had been told, confirm that I have not had any strokes or seizure activity. I will be having a brain MRI next week after we return from Cleveland. We don’t expect to find any signs of strokes, but it will be good to know that for sure.

The signs of the coming fall fill my heart with joy, and I’m thankful for the beauty all around me. I’m more aware than ever before of the small daily changes in the colors of growing things, in the sounds of the leaves when the wind blows, and the differences in the way the breeze feels against my face as the seasons slowly shift. Being forced to sit and to move very slowly has its blessings. And God is so gently carrying me through this season in which I feel very much like a “fragile flower as it trembles on the lip of the Alpine glacier.” This quote from John MacDuff stroked my heart tenderly:

“Our Omnipotent God keeps watch over the lichen on the rock, and the lily on the mountain side. He tempers His wind to the fragile flower as it trembles on the lip of the Alpine glacier. There is surely nothing more sublime than this microscopic love of our Great Father.”
~ John MacDuff

What peace, what beauty, what comfort is found in that focused, microscopic love of my Great Father. I feel so blessed.

A quick update about my PET scan done Monday here in Cincinnati. We are so happy to share that it showed no signs of cardiac sarcoidosis. We very much want answers to what has caused my heart failure, resulting in the loss of so much daily function, but we didn’t want it to be this. So this was happy news, indeed.

We return to the heart center in Cleveland again at the end of September, and we are hoping, since sarcoid, thyroid, and coronary arteries have all been ruled out as causes, that maybe this will be the appointment where we can start zooming in a bit on treatment plans. We will update again when we know more.

In the meantime, members of the Cleveland heart team stay in touch with me several times a week, in addition to weekly virtual appointments for now. And we are still playing with medications and dosages a bit and watching my labs. Monday afternoon, I suddenly began to feel a little less weak, and breathing became a little easier as their aggressive attempts to force some of the fluid away from my lungs seems to finally maybe be working now. I’m a little scared to get my hopes up, but yesterday I felt even a bit stronger and breathed a bit better than Monday, and today (Wednesday), while not quite as good as yesterday, has still been a bit better than my bad days. So maybe we are beginning to see some of the interim benefits of the medications that they have been hoping to achieve. Continued prayers are cherished for sure. One of our sons had a major facial reconstruction surgery today, and I was so thankful to be feeling better as we spent the day at the hospital for that! He came through surgery really well, and should be coming home tomorrow to start his tough, weeks-long recovery.

We had a little celebratory movie night as a family after we got my test results, and I spent time holding my “comfort chickens” on the couch during that movie. Comfort chickens? Maybe many of you don’t know about our temporary house guests. So I’ll also do a teensy update about them and include some photos as I close for now.

We did a study on winged creatures for science in our homeschool this year, and this summer we wrapped up that study by hatching fertilized chicken eggs. We had a dozen eggs in a borrowed incubator, and after twenty-one days we witnessed the amazingly beautiful births of seven healthy chicks. It was such an incredible experience in the middle of the hard things of life right now.

Our chicks grew so, so fast and are now six-week-old teenage chickens. They are quickly outgrowing their indoor cage (and getting very messy!!). So their time with us is coming to an end, and within the next couple of weeks they will be going to permanent homes. It looks like we have three males and four females, although we are still a little uncertain about two of them. The hens will join our neighbor’s hen coop where we can visit them any time we want, and the roosters (who are not allowed in our neighborhood) will be going to a local farm where a friend’s son volunteers and will continue loving on them in our place.

They are Speckled Sussex chickens, which are known to be social, more timid than other breeds, very sweet, and to make good pets. They have loved being snuggled (as you can see from the photos), and we will miss the fun and joy they have brought into our family for the past couple of months. Our golden retrievers, who both really adore these babies, will also miss them a lot. Enjoy the photo dump, including a few of our kids and grandkids with the chickens. I’ll update again when we have more news.

“We do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses.”
Hebrews 4:15

Thomas Goodwin writes in his 1651 book, The Heart of Christ, about this verse. He says, “I have chosen this text, as that which above any other speaks his heart most . . . and that so sensibly that it does, as it were, take our hands, and lay them upon Christ’s breast, and let us feel how his heart beats and his affections yearn toward us . . . the very scope of these words being manifestly to encourage believers against all that may discourage them, from the consideration of Christ’s heart toward them now in heaven.“

Words concerning Jesus’ heart are precious to me right now in all new ways.

My sweet Kathryn, my forever four-year-old baby in a nineteen-year-old body, knows how much I love and long for fall. I grieve the passing of fall every year, and start watching for signs of it well before summer’s end. As part of her daily physical therapy routine, her sisters take her for rides on her special tricycle whenever the weather allows that. And if she spots a leaf changing color, she collects it to bring home to me. (I am so, so blessed and loved!) She has found three leaves for me this month already. First this one:

And then most recently this one:

Do you see what I see? It is such a perfect red and perfect heart shape. Except for the broken lower left section. The area of the left ventricle. Which is exactly the part of my heart that is no longer functioning as it should and causes my heart to beat with dangerous irregularity. The part of my heart that has so drastically and suddenly changed my life.

I love this leaf. It brings tears to my eyes. It reminds me of Goodwin’s image of holding my own two hands trustingly over Christ’s heart and feeling it beat. Perfectly. For me. With love and compassion. With affection. And it makes me feel so safe and so loved and so gently cared for. No matter what. In spite of the broken parts of my heart and its dysfunctional rhythm. Regardless of what caused this to happen.

After my last blog post, I did hear from Cleveland Clinic’s heart center, and once we connected, things moved very quickly. I was sitting in their offices exactly one week after our first phone conversation. My new cardiologist, Dr. Carmona, is young but so knowledgeable, and he laid things out very clearly for us. Although we still don’t have any answers yet, he explained possibilities and treatments for each and the proper order for exploring each. We left there feeling hopeful, but also knowing there is still a long road ahead.

I am scheduled here in Cincinnati for the PET scan this Monday (Aug. 21) to rule out or confirm the cardiac sarcoidosis, and we are still praying that this test will show that this is not what’s causing my heart failure.

I have been in regular contact with members of the team at the Miller Family Heart Center in Cleveland since my appointment, and that will continue (either via My Chart, phone, or virtual appointments) until I return to Cleveland again at the end of September. They have added a number of new medications to my daily line-up as they attempt to help me feel better and try to decrease the risks of a worse, or even fatal, heart event while we continue searching for answers. The medications haven’t helped yet, but we are still slowly ramping up, watching frequent bloodwork closely for kidney damage (as the meds can cause this), and this team is amazing. They are caring, communicative, and great listeners, and it’s clear that it really is true that Cleveland is the place to be if you are having heart issues.

We are so thankful that they are close enough to drive to, and for help from a number of you as you have provided meals for our kids here when we have to travel and even helped with expenses to cover costs of hotel rooms for Scott and me while there. Again, we are so blessed and so loved. Thank you!

The children’s daily needs continue, and I’m doing my best to keep their school and all things going with the help of the the older ones who are all also still moving toward their own paths of independence in the middle of it all. In fact, one more daughter bought her first car this past week and begins her work as a nurse at UC Hospital downtown this coming week, and another son has a huge facial reconstruction surgery this coming week.

Scott and I continue trying to maintain our Friday date days to stay connected to each other and refuel, but those days look very different right now with all my my physical limitations. We were blessed with a fall-like day yesterday, including temperatures in the mid-70’s and a dew point of only 52 degrees. I ached to hike, but knew that wouldn’t be possible. Scott did help me down a short trail, though, where I was able to sit on a dead tree and breathe in the amazing air, listen to the breeze, and just be thankful for each of those moments surrounded by nature and reminders that God is good and still writing a beautiful story. It doesn’t matter if I can’t see the good parts right now. Scott took our dog Ellie for a little trot further into the woods, and it was a refreshing time for my soul to just sit there and lift my face to the heavens and know that I am held safely in the arms of a Father who knows what he’s doing.

I will continue to update as I can, and please keep those prayers going. We cherish every single prayer and word of encouragement and act of love. They keep us afloat.

I saw my cardiologist again today.

It’s so, so hot, and I hate having to go out at all. I mostly stay in the car with my feet up and the air blowing on max cold whenever I can while Scott runs inside to complete errands, etc.

Summary of today’s visit: My health continues to deteriorate.

While I wait for more appointments and hope for some answers, I feel as if I am fading. I feel like I fade away a little more every day.

We have made the decision that it’s no longer safe for me to drive, and since it requires both vans (and both of us driving), we no longer go anywhere as a whole group.

We celebrated three of our kids’ birthdays this past week, and I fell asleep as they were all opening their presents. I missed it. Scott made sure to get pictures, but it wasn’t the same.

One daughter’s birthday gift was a trip to the movie theater with Scott and me. When the day of her movie outing arrived, Scott dropped me at the door as he always does these days, but even walking at a snail’s pace, I had to stop and rest five times between the door and our seats inside the theater. It seems to take so much more energy than I have just to lift my foot and take each step. So much more breath than I have in my body to take in enough air.

Early this week, I made the decision to reach out online to Cleveland Clinic and officially request an appointment at their heart center. They work with patients and cardiologists all over the world (and especially all over the country), reviewing any tests that have already been done and meeting with patients to discuss treatment plans and diagnoses. They have reportedly been the number one heart center in the country since 1995. Scott and I felt like we couldn’t just keep waiting forever while I keep getting sicker and sicker. I should hear back from them in the next few days.

In the meantime, as I said above, I also had another appointment with my current cardiologist today. She was pretty shocked to see how much worse I was at this appointment than I was a month ago, and when a few tears of frustration leaked from my eyes, she and her medical assistant seemed to really finally hear me for the first time. She agreed with the surgeon who did my heart catheterization that the problem is not with my coronary arteries (or anything else that’s been checked so far) and that I really need to see the electrophysiologist sooner rather than later. They got on the phone with his office and convinced them to see me next week instead of at the end of August. This was a piece of good news.

She also wants to repeat my three-day heart monitor to confirm her suspicions that the medications aren’t helping anything. If this turns out to be true, she will stop those meds because she believes they might be partly responsible for how terrible I’m feeling.

Next, she ordered a PET scan to definitively rule out one other thing. An earlier test mentioned the possibility of sarcoidosis, but she felt that was very unlikely, so moved on to other possibilities. Now she just wants to be sure. We know very little about this condition, but from what we are hearing, in addition to being very rare, it can also be pretty serious. So it will be good to have this ruled out for sure. This scan will be done on August 10.

Lastly, she suspects I will probably need to have cardiac ablation since the medications haven’t changed anything at all. We hope to know more after we see the electrophysiologist next week, since this is his area, and we will still consider getting more opinions at Cleveland Heart Center, since things seem to be somewhat less than straightforward.

Thank you for any and all prayers as we continue following the steps of this part of our journey. This is not what we would choose, but we trust the Author of our story.

As I often do, I’ll end with a quote from one of my quiet times this past week. We don’t want to miss any opportunities to know more of God in all of this, and we know that the best and deepest times of learning come in the dark and scary times. I need these quiet times and reminders from Scripture and others who have gone before me.

“Sometimes it’s hard to know what God is doing. We all rage at God, demanding he do more than he is doing. He remains quietly unthreatened, saddened beyond words that we think him cruel or indifferent, but unswervingly committed to the course he has set. He refuses to redesign the plot of the book, having already written the last chapter and knowing that the ending is very, very good, and that every thread in our story is necessary to that conclusion.”
~ Larry Crabb, Finding God

The search for answers continues. My symptoms and reduced daily function continue. The statements of, “Something is definitely wrong, and it clearly shows up in all of the tests, but we don’t know what’s causing it,” from all of the medical professionals continue. As of yesterday afternoon, the numbness in my left hand has worsened and spread up my arm and is almost constant now, making typing a frustrating challenge as my brain tries to force the sluggish fingers on my left hand to move in sync with the fingers on my right hand.

So, please overlook any typos or mistakes I have failed to back up and correct.

But life and all the beauty that brings also continues.

First a recap of the most recent testing.

The brain MRI showed no damage to my brain—no signs of stroke in spite of the seemingly neurological indicators to the opposite. That was good to know.

The heart catheterization, while giving the cardiologist a really good look at what’s happening in that funky and faulty left ventricle of my heart and causing him to exclaim, “Oh, yeah! Look at that! The way the diastolic number dips with each PVC you throw? That’ll make you feel really terrible!” also confirmed that the coronary arteries are not causing this problem. So, while it really was good news to know that my arteries are in pretty good shape, and while he was a really kind and focused doctor, I already knew that what’s happening in my heart is making me feel terrible. So this merely eliminated one more thing.

As he put it, he, as the “plumber,” has checked out the plumbing and confirmed that it’s not causing the problem, so now it’s time for the “electrician” to check out his part. The “electrician” being the electrophysiologist I am scheduled to see at the end of August. The cardiologist told me that he is trying to get me in sooner than that now, based on the concerning activity he witnessed during the cath. So we are praying he is able to do this.

In the meantime, we wait and try to keep living life, because life doesn’t stop.

Scott’s eye surgery was beautifully successful, and we are so happy about this news and the results. He will have the left eye done tomorrow. He and I also just suddenly decided at the same time that we were ready for his Covid hair to go. So with his new look—short hair and no more glasses—we had the kids take a new picture of the two of us. Same awesome husband; whole new look.

The kids are showing a lot of signs of the stress of watching me kind of deteriorate before their eyes. Most of them talk well with us about their feelings, voicing their fears and concerns. But Kathryn isn’t really able to do that. Yesterday, she had two seizures and crying meltdowns. As usual, her VNS device stopped them both times when we swiped her with her magnet, and she tried her best to express what was causing her distress, but the most she could get out through her sobs was, “Mommy. Heart.” It still brings tears to my eyes to remember it. She needed me close to her all day, and although I’m not allowed to get my arm in the pool yet after the heart cath, I stood with it in the air and cradled her, floating weightlessly against me, in the pool for awhile yesterday afternoon. She and I were both comforted by this time together. We are still praising God for the miracle of this new pool!

Mozley has been dutifully sticking by her side, pressing himself against her when she cries, but he has also been trying to stick close to me, sensing that things are off. He has his big, gentle paws full at the moment even though Ellie stays alert to my every breath, too. The only thing better than being loved on by a golden when you are feeling distressed or ill, is being loved on by two goldens during those times. At one point yesterday, between Kathryn’s seizures when she was stable and working a puzzle with a sister, Mozley actually left her (which he never does!) to follow me upstairs. I dragged myself up the steps and collapsed onto our bed, trying to breath as Scott and I discussed some behavioral problems we’re having with one of the kids. Mozley stayed close to me while Ellie chose to leave me in his capable paws and rest on the floor beside the bed for awhile.

Lastly, we had a beautiful family gathering this past Sunday to celebrate such a special moment. Madlin and Raiza have both worked so, so hard for the past couple of years through one family crisis after another, through Covid and lockdowns, through their own fears and frustrations to pass all of their GED tests. They have both graduated now, and we gathered the family on Sunday to celebrate them and also Meghan’s graduation last month from nursing school. All my kids, along with Scott, worked so hard (while also helping their sister Robyn get moved into her new apartment) putting together an amazing meal and beautiful berry tart dessert while I sat by resting and looking on in both sadness and joy at their strength and capability and love. For me. For each other. For the family as a unit. The emotions are all too big to put into words, but I am so blessed. So, so blessed. It was a day of laughing and loving and celebration of well-deserved accomplishments. I’m so proud of my children.

I’ll close with some photos from our special day Sunday and with words from my morning reading in Finding God:

[Someday] the peace will be complete and the joy constant. Now, [though], we must enjoy the blessings when they come and persevere when they are absent. We must have the courage to continue when all good feeling is gone; we must call him good and remain faithful when we have absolutely no sense of his presence. To do so will sometimes feel like walking through wet cement. But still we must pursue him. It is a rather old-fashioned concept, but one worth keeping, because some problems, like Paul’s thorn in the flesh, will not disappear. They weren’t meant to.”
~ Dr. Larry Crabb

This is just a short update. More test results have shown probable past multiple heart attacks that we were unaware of. Most days, I continue to feel weaker and to have more trouble breathing. The numbness in my hands and feet seems to be happening more frequently, my balance seems to come and go, and some days I’m fighting with more mental confusion and word retrieval. We know that the left ventricle isn’t working properly, but we’re still searching for more information about why and what to do. It’s easy to get lost in the just feeling physically bad each day and to also let the fear about what unseen things are happening in my body and what might be coming at us overshadow everything. We continue to fight against this human tendency. There is no peace found there.

Earlier this week, I took a few minutes to be alone, look at my flowers and marvel at their beauty and just let myself focus on and feel the things I have been afraid to face. I talked to God about those things, honestly voicing my emotions and fears in spite of logic. I’m so thankful that God fills our world with beautiful reminders of who he is and how much he loves us. My morning reading today reminds me that God is always up to something and never stops working in and through us. That we are never out of his sight or absent from his great desire to draw us closer to himself. That when we seek him, he will hear us and reveal himself to us even if that sometimes means pain or scary things along the way. 

“No one will conclude that God is good by studying life. The evidence powerfully suggests otherwise. The search for God will lead us through struggles, setbacks, and confusion. Confidence in a God who doesn’t always make clear what he’s doing at any given moment doesn’t come easily. If left to our own way of thinking, every one of us would conclude that God either is bad or doesn’t exist, that no God in this universe is good enough to be trusted with the things that matter most. As we look at how God treats some of his children, even those who abandon themselves fully to his care, we’re not impressed. If it is true that all our problems are rooted in the suspicion that God isn’t good (or isn’t good enough), then the only way through our problems is to know Christ better and thereby to find God. Finding God is developing, through Christ, an unshakable confidence in God’s absolute goodness and perfect love no matter what we may experience in this life. Shifting our foundation from doubt to confidence, from terror to enjoyment, from rage to worship will occur only when something stirs within us that makes us long, more than anything else, to build our lives on the reality of God. But we’re not there yet. No one is, not fully. Confidence in God and hope in his provision do not, in this life, always reflect themselves in a breezy joy.This is not heaven, and that’s why I need him so desperately in order to live in the pain and yet still love and give.”
~ Dr. Larry Crabb, Finding God 

Also in Rosenow family news. Meghan graduated from her nursing program this past Wednesday, and Scott had cataract and retinal repair surgery on his eye on Thursday. He is recovering well, but pretty incapcitated for awhile. He will have cataract surgery on the other eye in two weeks. As I type this, a dear friend and long-time supporter-of-our-family-in-practical-ways is downstairs trying to repair the kitchen sink that is falling out of the countertop. We have so much to be thankful for. We are so blessed by such a loving support system, especially in our church family.

We will continue to update as we learn more. I can’t say enough how much the prayers and words of encouragement mean to us, and to those of you who have felt led to help out by sending grocery gift cards or gifts of money, you can’t even imagine what a huge help this is. Thank you with all our hearts.

I love this tree. He greets me at the entrance to one of our favorite walking trails along the Little Miami River. I love him when he’s full like this as summer begins. He looks strong and capable, even as his skeleton shows through all that green. I love him in the fall as the leaves become brilliant with color. But I love him best when he’s bare and exposed. Naked. Showing all his secrets and brokenness for the whole world to see.

Several years ago I named this tree Ceorl, (prounounced CHA-orl):

“In the Old English poem Beowulf, the word ceorl “man” (Modern English churl) is used for old kings and wise nobles, which is unparalleled in other Old English writings, where it often means a freeman of the lowest class or a peasant. The Beowulf poet uses it always in certain set phrases, and they seem to have been formed in close connection with its original meaning ‘old man’, which is lost in Old English but is retained in its cognates in some other Germanic languages.”
*researchgate.net

He has always reminded me of a wise, old man, so this name seems so perfect. And although he looks tired, even dead in the winter, I can picture him smiling wisely and patiently at me every time I pass him.

Every year, fresh growth emerges from what appear to be only dead and broken branches. Many of those leaves are from other plants and vines that grow along his twisted old trunk and bowed branches, depending on him for support and foundation, but I always look closely each spring to be sure, and . . . yes, much of that green is his own. He is still alive in there. Providing that support for all those other plants, and his own kind of incredible beauty to this beloved trail. I think of him as mine.

As I continue processing this new diagnosis and wrestling through a myriad of emotions, wavering between acceptance and rebellion, I feel a little like Ceorl right now. The naked version of him. No matter how many times we say to ourselves, or out loud to others, “Age is just a number,” “I’ll never give in to age,” or one of my favorites as our family grew and we aged, “You’ll never grow old as long as you have someone to potty train,” we cannot stop the march of time and its effects on our bodies. I cannot hide the way this new disease is robbing me of breath and strength right now. My weakness and oldness are exposed.

Every single day the words, “heart failure,” whisper through my brain as I still keep thinking, “Really? Aren’t I just imagining this? Is this really happening to us?” Except the words actually sound like this: “heart Failure. Failure! FAILure. FAILURE!” As if I’ve done something myself to bring this on my family. Let them all down. Brought this into their lives in some shameful way.

I know that’s not true. But I find myself apologizing repeatedly to all of them. It’s part of the process. I know this. I’ll work through it and move on with a few new broken branches, but it’s where I am at this moment.

I am feeling my body laugh at me right now about all those things I said through the years as I shook my fist at coming old(er) age, and I feel all of the broken and bowed pieces acutely.

But I also feel life inside of me! I feel my weakened-but-still-there desire, and even ability, to stand firm but twisted while those I care for, and about, use me for a support and a foundation, latching onto me for what I have to offer them, and to offer what they have for me. We will get through this as we figure it out.

During my quiet time this morning, Joni had this to say in her book, “Songs of Suffering: “[Even as Christians] We still wrestle with pain and become easily discouraged. We have questions about suffering that seem unanswerable, and we struggle to stay satisfied in God. Even when we read the many promises of God, they often feel out of reach. . . You may be suffering, but do not stop singing. Do not stop believing. The long-expected one has come (and has promised that he is on his way back)! You can bank on every single one of his promises because Christ sealed them with his blood. So turn to him in your pain, for the promise maker always makes good on his word.”

Of all the things I’ve been afraid of in my life, I’ve never dreamed of heart issues. I didn’t want this. I certainly didn’t ask for this. But I have asked God so many times through the years to help me know him better. To trust him more. To feel the realness of him deeper in my soul. And this seems to be the next step he has planned for answering that prayer. My main prayer now is that I won’t waste one second of whatever he has to teach me — to give to me — in this new season.

“Affliction is a pill, which, being wrapt up in patience and quiet submission, may be easily swallowed; but discontent chews the pill, and so embitters the soul.”
~ John Flavel (c. 1627–1691)

May God give me the courage and grace to swallow this pill, fully aware that his loving hand has placed it on my tongue. May I see it for what it is. A sign of his love and an invitation to enter in and know him better.