Living with Lazarus

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on May 20, 2011

As the cashier lifted our tomatoes off the scale, I gasped to see that the single, sheer bag sagging with the ripe, red fruit had rung up at $ 18. (Of course, you knew tomatoes were fruit.) How many 79¢ cans of tomato sauce could you get from this single bag of tomatoes? No wonder it seems easier, cheaper, and faster to eat junk food. How many meals could I make out of $18 worth of spaghetti sauce and noodles? No wonder obesity is a problem that ironically plagues the poor disproportionately. It’s not that they have too much to eat; they have too much of the cheaper, calorie-laden, over-processed foods, and not enough of the wholesome, fresh, and nutritious foods.


Home economists might disagree, showing how easily one can whip up smoothies and homemade soups and granola. If Karla Seidita of Cheesecake Farms comes over to give me in-home demos (preferably daily), I will happily agree.


Why am I suddenly interested in tomatoes, when there is not a hint of Italian in me? Tomatoes are a heart-healthy food. So are oatmeal, almonds, avocadoes, onions, garlic, walnuts, fish, soy, and whole grains. Avoiding red meat, dairy, eggs, starchy foods, excess salt, fried, fatty foods are also good. In other words, chuck out the fun and flavor from your diet and toss in regular exercise, and with the weight reduction that likely ensues, you have a recipe for success.


The other day, I walked up the hill with my husband. He, having lost 45 pounds since November, took the ascent in stride. I, having gained ten since then, huffed and puffed beside him. I felt like the little pig and the big bad wolf rolled into one.


What a great and beautiful irony this was. Six months ago, my husband nearly died, and here he is now, affirming the advice on eating healthier and on the importance of the simple, daily walk. It’s like living with Lazarus.


In case you haven’t heard, (according to Robin Earl, the first editor at this newspaper to run my writing in 2005, everyone in this county knows the story), my husband suffered a massive heart attack and sudden cardiac arrest on Nov. 8th at age 52. He was unconscious for the first five days of his twelve days of hospitalization. He came home on Nov. 19th, used a walker for one day, rode in one of those electric wheely-carts during our first grocery store outing, and has improved steadily, having just completed his cardiac rehab therapy at Fauquier Health’s Wellness Center. Many of the medical staff have dubbed him “The Miracle Man.”


I am so glad that I do not have to face life alone. I am keenly aware of others who have recently lost their lifelong mates, and I am humbled and amazed and frightened all at once. How close did we come that day? Our life is a supreme luxury. Thank you, again, for your prayers.


In case you don’t know the story of Lazarus, I’ll introduce the Biblical one. I should say “a Biblical one” as two are mentioned in the New Testament. Having grown up in this country from the age of five, I dodged the Bible until I was nineteen. Therefore, I am sensitive to those who might be unaware of allusions to “Jonah” and things like “manna from Heaven.”


There are at least two Lazaruses mentioned in the New Testament. I say “at least two” to cover myself in case you know of others elsewhere in the Bible. This particular Lazarus was the brother of Mary and Martha, all friends of Jesus. If you recall, one of the sisters (Martha) was a bit of a workaholic worrywart punctual organizer type (we all need these kind of people, even if we don’t particularly like them) who got ticked off once when she was doing all the food prep while Mary sat at Jesus’ feet, soaking up His words. Martha was annoyed that she did not have the services of her sister, the Chief Kitchen Aide and General Gopher.


These sisters once urgently summoned Jesus to their home: their brother was sick and might be dying, and they needed a miracle, and they needed one right away. Jesus took His time and sauntered into town some three days later – after Lazarus had been found to be clinically dead, wrapped up and buried in a rock tomb. The sisters wailed. Why hadn’t Jesus come sooner? He could probably have saved their brother. If only he had come sooner. If only the brother had taken better care of himself and kept his weight and cholesterol levels down and exercised regularly. If only, if only, if only…


What they hadn’t accounted for was the fact that Jesus, being Son of God, could handle emergencies at any time, because time is as much a creation as this earth is. They didn’t need to call 911. They just had to call on the Son.


I needed, and am glad, I had the services of both, because living with Lazarus is great. The man is worth his weight (current and former) in tomatoes.

A Thanksgiving to be thankful for

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, Nov. 26, 2010

How do I compress a miracle into 850 words? The old, flippant, me would have said such brevity would itself be a miracle. But the new me is tempered and sober. I can no longer take the name of miracles in vain.

My husband, Eldred, turned 53 last week. He was here for this birthday, thank God, having been pulled off of Death’s doorstep three weeks ago. My husband is alive and well and at home, and it is nothing short of miraculous.

He spent twelve days hospitalized: eight in intensive care, and five of those, unconscious. Without the access to technology, skilled personnel, transportation, and communications available in this era and in this area, my husband would not be alive today. Were it not for your ardent prayers – thank you - and those of many others, and sheer divine mercy, he might not be here.


Eldred suffered a massive heart attack and cardiac arrest in the early morning hours on November 8th. Thank God I was nearby. Thank God for the competent and calming woman who answered my hysterical 911 call and walked me through CPR. Thank God he was walking when he collapsed, or he might have expired unnoticed in the chair where he had just finished an email. Thank God he wasn’t driving, or he would surely have lost his life, and possibly taken others with him. Thank God for the EMS who came at once and transported him to Fauquier Hospital as soon as they had him on drips and a ventilator.


While the paramedics worked, I called the Headmaster of my school, Dr. Young Shin. “I’m not coming to school today,” I babbled repetitively. “Eldred…Eldred…Eldred…” was all I could sob before getting any coherent information out to him. That he understood me is amazing. He and the staff and families at Providence Christian Academy have been incredibly good to me.


When I got to the ER, I knew things must be really bad, because they would not let me go to him immediately. The Fauquier Hospital staff were wonderfully supportive, particularly a lady by the name of Ina, who insisted I put graham crackers and juice into my bag, reminding me to take care of myself while medical experts took care of my husband. It was soon decided that he be airlifted to Inova Fairfax Hospital for an emergency catheterization procedure.


My pastor, the ever-loving Dick Wright came to both hospitals. Before “retiring” to pastoral work in 2005, he was the most widely syndicated political cartoonist in the US and a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. His gifted hands held mine in my hour of despair.


“I can’t lose him, right?” I beseeched Dick through tears early that Monday morning in the ER of Fauquier Hospital. Had I ever really appreciated my husband of 24 years? Pastor Dick reassured me I would not lose him and that he himself is a walking showcase of cardiac work.

Before leaving the hospital, I watched from a distance as my seemingly lifeless husband was hoisted from the gurney into the garish, blue helicopter. How our boys would have liked to see such a helicopter from up close in happier times. It was an eerie feeling to be left holding a “Patient’s Belongings” bag that contained all of my husband’s clothes that had been safety-scissored off of him. Please, Lord, don’t let this be my last memory of him. Please don’t let him die.

When I got home, I felt lost and stupid. I needed to notify my husband’s workplace, but what was his director’s phone number? All I had was my husband’s desk number at work. I called it, hoping to get an option to reach an operator, but I got a generic voicemail. I checked my husband’s cell phone, but that was of no use. After Googling and a few phone calls, I left a message explaining my husband’s absence.


I mapped out directions to the hospital, and left money with the children at home. No one would be going to school that day.


Elizabeth Baden, my sweet, bubbly friend from church and several others offered to care for my four children left at home (the two older girls are at college), but I felt comfortable leaving my eldest son, just months shy of 16, in charge.


At worst, he might torture the younger ones with perplexing math problems. Perhaps hygiene would be neglected. Perhaps they would watch too many cartoons. None of those things, ordinarily of great concern, mattered now.


Don’t brush your teeth. Don’t change your underwear. Watch “Kung Fu Panda” all day long. None of it will matter if we lose your father.


Incidentally, the kids performed remarkably well: They cleaned themselves and the house, which had looked like a disaster zone well before my husband’s episode. I’m thankful for my children. I’m thankful to have my husband back.


This is the most thankful Thanksgiving I will ever have had. I plan to treasure each day and each person in my life, including you. Happy Thanksgiving. I plan to give thanks daily.