Kindness. Women’s issues.
Social justice.
Personal histories.
These are just a few of our shared interests.
We, like many others, discover our common threads through art, and more often than not, we use cloth to tell our stories and speak our truths.
“You, too?” If we had a nickel for every time we’ve said that, we’d buy all y’all lunch.
We’re not carbon copies, yet even in our differences we find opportunities to rejoice, chortle, and learn. If that’s not the mark oftrue friendship, please tell us what is.
Here’s to the joys of an ever-unfolding friendship that began with a funny story at Sacred Threads 2019. Ask us to tell you that one some time.
~~~~~~~
Imagine a World: Nancy’s Larks + Be Kind – a collaboration by Maxine and Jeanne – will be on exhibit at the Southeastern Quilt and Textile Museum in Carrollton, GA from September 25 to December 20, 2024.
Heavily-feathered birds, all dressed up and ready to travel to the Imagine a World Exhibit
————————————-
Before we get started, a few things I want you to know:
– Though I haven’t sent our emails in several years, I’ve sent you 2 this week. That will not become a habit, regardless of how much I have to tell you.
– I plan to write articles here – especially now that there’s so much to tell you with the exhibit opening soon, so I’ll send an email once a week or once every other week with links to articles I’ve posted. Today’s article is time sensitive, and I’m gonna’ try to do a better job of planning ahead. (I need my 19 month old – and adorable – granddaughter who lives with us to get on board with this! Wish me luck, and thanks in advance for understanding when I don’t get as much done ahead of time as I’d hoped.)
– Most importantly, I want y’all to know that I appreciate you. Now, let’s get on with the exhibit news.
—————————————-
To hear me read this post, mash the right-pointing arrow above.
Turns out, it takes a flock to create a new world.
Would you like to help create this new world where everyone
and we do mean everyone
is welcomed with open hearts?
Do you enjoy creating something that’s fun, fast, and freeing?
Are you like us – dedicated to supporting folks with disabilities and creating a world fluent in Kindness?
Great! Then read on . . .
Nancy draws, I stitch her drawings. It is our Communion.
Our birds are based on Nancy’s fourth set of drawings
(scroll down to the third entry to start reading about her birds)
that sure look like birds to us.
Delightfully different birds.
Just as no two people are the same,
no two of these birds are the same.
We’re not copying her birds, mind you,
we’re just using them as examples
and as permission slips, if you will,
to cut loose and be free
as, well, free as a bird.
Some of our birds have no wings.
Some have one wing.
Some of the birds we’ve made have 4 legs
Some have one leg
Some have 7 legs
Some have no legs.
Some have seashells for eyes.
Some have no eyes.
Some have feathers
Othes are embellished with vintage jewelry.
All sing a song
even if we can’t hear it.
These birds don’t come with a pattern,
they’re cut free-hand
with scissors or a rotary cutter.
We sometimes draw freehand birds on cardstock paper
and use those as templates,
just because it tends to save time,
allowing us to make more birds.
We’ve made birds from placemats,
bedspreads,
old clothes,
and fabric we love and have been saving
for something special.
The thread doesn’t have to match the cloth on these birds.
They don’t have to be beautiful by art design standards.
Nobody is grading these birds
or selecting them based on their aesthetic appeal.
That’s the whole point of this exhibit:
everybody is welcome
and everyone delightfully different in every way imaginable,
We don’t judge in this world.
That wouldn’t be kind,
and kindness is the only language
spoken here.
We welcome these birds – every one of them –
into our circle of friends,
welcome them to our table,
welcome them to this new world,
knowing that their presence will
make this a better world
a more enjoyable, fulfilling place for all of us
to live.
If you’re interested, fantastic!
Grab some fabric
cut some one-of-a-kind birds
and ready, set, sew!
Oh – one very important note:
we will need your bird to bring
their own hanging loop with them.
That is to say, they need to come with a
hanging loop to help them fly through the sky.
You can topstitch these birds
or stitch them right sides together,
turn, stuff, and stitch the opening closed.
And the stuffing?
Feel free to use what’s within reach:
paper towels, tissues, fabric scraps, paper –
you get the idea.
You can embellish as you well
or send them plain.
Either way they will be welcome
in Kindness Route 1.
They’ll quickly find friends
as they fly through the sky of our world
and tickle visitors who come to call
colorful reminders that (with apologies and appreciation to Ray Stevens)
that everyone is beautiful in their own way.
The fine print:
We don’t plan to send these birds back to you,
but if you really, really want your bird
to make its way back to you, let me know, and we’ll figure something out.
Instead, we’d like to offer them up for adoption
as a way to raise money for
the Southeastern Quilt and Textile Museum.
Each bird will take this story
to a new home where they will be
treated with kindness for the rest of their lives.
The financial contributions will be put to good use
by the museum. I promise.
And we – Maxine and I
plus all the visitors
and museum volunteers
will be enthralled with your bird’s presence
in this amazing world we’re working together –
and now with y’all –
to create.
I feel quite sure
that adopted or no,
they’ll leave a lasting impression on all who see them.
So what do you say?
Will you become part of this big, fat, crazy idea?
Will you make a bird (or several) today or tomorow
and get it in the mail to us so it can arrive
by September 24, 2024?
Even if it’s gonna’ be late,
please send it
because whenever it arrives
your bird(s) will arrive to
big smiles
and much gratitude
and will take a place in the sky
of this world of kindness.
(We’d just love for your birds to be part
of our Opening Night event, if at all possible.)
Note: Not that we’ve tried, but
Maxine and I don’t believe it’s possible
to make these birds without a smile on your heart and face,
and we Know that the kindness, caring, patience, exuberance
in your heart
will transfer into the bird(s) you make
with every stitch.
We’re oh so grateful
to the Southeastern Quilt and Textile Museum
for this opportunity,
to y’all for helping us fill the sky with
birds not of a feather, but of a story.
Birds of a story – their own individual story.
helping us change the world
by changing lives,
bearing the important message that
you can never go wrong with kindness.
Send your beautiful birds to:
Southeastern Quilt and Textile Museum
306 Bradley St
STE C
Carrollton, GA 30117
Whether you send birds or not,
we thank you for helping us
change the world
by being kind
to even the most different among us.
~~~~~~~
Road signs you can click to find more information and updates:
FOR YOUR CALENDAR: EXHIBIT DATES
Opening Date: Wednesday, September 25, 2024
Artists Mix ‘n Mingle: 4 to 6 p.m. on Wednesday, September 25, 2024
Storytelling + Workshops: October 15 (stay tuned for specific details)
Storytelling _ Workshops: November 19 (details coming soon)
Kindness Celebration: 4 to 6 p.m. on December 3, 2024 (Y’all are gonna’ LOVE this! Stay tuned for details.)
To hear me, Jeanne Hewell-Chambers, mash the arrow on the left of the above media file. (Apologies in advance for my allergy-laden voice. Oh, and any knocking around you hear in the background? That’s The Engineer repairing our air conditioning.)
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth . . .
~ from Kindness, a poem penned by Naomi Shihab Nye
At Sacred Threads,
a sacred coincidence . . .
When one woman uses her elbow
to shove me aside
and position herself
in front of the man who was
sharing a phone number with me
of someone who might be able to help me find
a suitcase lost in transit,
I turn – stunned –
to find a woman quietly waiting
to talk to me.
“I think I have something that belongs with you,” she says.
Thinking blocks or quilts for The 70273 Project,
I mentally envision my luggage
in search of space to get her contributions home with me.
It is not cloth contributions Maxine brings me,
however, but a story of Minni,
a woman who,
through a series of coincidences,
finds herself working at the Nuremberg Trial
of physicians. On trial were
many members of Aktion T4,
the secret organization
responsible for murdering (at least)
70,273 people with disabilities.
From rudeness to kindness.
From being shoved aside,
to standing smack dab in the middle of new possibilities.
76 years after the
end of Aktion T4
(though not the end of the
unimaginable murders, mind you),
a big, fat, crazy idea
lights on my shoulder and whispers
”Listen up, Shug, cause here’s
how you’re going to spend the next
several years of your life
and all your children’s inheritance.”
And because I couldn’t not do it, The 70273 Project was born
10 days later,
before I could think myself out of it.
From knowledge of unfathomable atrocities
comes worldwide compassion
and vows to be constantly vigilant
for opportunities to
counter hate, arrogance, and meanness
with compassion and education.
Were they caught up in their game
or were they a product of their home environment?
We’ll never know,
but their callous disregard for Nancy’s precious life
impacted countless other lives.
From their senseless actions
comes a new way of communicating, a wordless soul language
Few words
+ small marks
= communion.
It’s a world of riotous color
comingling with black and white.
A world filled with a forest of trees,
the likes of which you’ve never seen.
Brightly colored moss covers the forest floor,
and birds of various abilities, likes, talents, and song
fill the air.
It’s a land where differences are
not feared or shunned
but cherished and celebrated.
Stories are lived, shared, enjoyed by all
in this world.
The living beings who call our world home
learn from each other
enjoy being with each other
nourish each other in ways large and small.
Life is a feast in our Rural Route 1,
and we hope you’ll make a note on your calendar
and visit us here in the land of social media
and there at the museum
to learn more about Minni and Nancy,
The 70273 Project, how kindness can (and does) triumph,
and more. Much, much more.
Who knows?
Perhaps you’ll even find your way to visit the exhibit.
We sure hope so!
Imagine a World: Nancy’s Larks + Be Kind
Opening Wednesday, September 25, 2024
Artist Mix ‘n Mingle 4 to 6 p.m.
Treat yourself to being the first to know about
opportunities for involvement (there are several,
and I think you’re gonna’ like them!),
special event details, sneak peeks, and other fun tidbits and tales
by subscribing.
~~~~~~~
Road signs you can click to find more information and updates:
When Sue’s son died, she discovered yoga and how it calmed her body and distracted her grieving brain. A while later, she became a certified yoga instructor, offering classes online and in person. Then she began offering grief workshops (We met when I took one of her good workshops.), and recently she started her Growth From Grief podcast. Last week I was tickled to be interviewed by Sue for a podcast episode, and let me tell you: we had so much fun (yes, your can have fun while grieving), we decided to do a second interview. We talked about things you’d expect us to chat about: grief, living with loss, self care while grieving, and we also went off script and talked about other things. You’re not surprise, are you?
If you want to watch our interview, sit back, maybe grab some popcorn, and enjoy. If you enjoy it – and.I sure hope you do – maybe you’ll enjoy some of Sue’s other podcast episodes and go to her You Tube channel to snag yourself a subscription and give her a thumbs up.
If you’d rather listen as you walk, do yoga, or I don’t know, maybe make some art, click right here.
And that’s not all! Perhaps you’d like to join me in her Five Weeks to Grief Relief program that combines movement, writing, and sharing with other people who speak the language of grief. Best hurry on that one, though, cause early bird registration ends soon.
And now, my friends, enjoy Part 1 of Growth From Grief: Stitching Stories: Grief, Memory, and the Healing Power of Art. Please check back next week for Part 2 of our chat. And now, on with the show . . .
Nancy’s 4th set of drawings – 95 delightfully different, wonderfully wonky birds. Stitched individually and presented here in book form.
Imagine a World, a poem penned and read by me, Jeanne Hewell Chambers (who is fluent only in English and Southern, and while I adore the word “reliquaries”, it tangles my tongue every time. That’s why I spelled it in this reading. Sigh.)
Imagine a small town as big as the world being created
through quiet, non-aggressive, unpretentious ways
by kind hearts and doers of good deeds.
Imagine this big small town furnished with a single table graced with lush bouquets of chortles,
understanding, and recognition. Imagine ever-replenishing platters of stories being constantly served up at this table,
witnessed without judgment
and told with undaunted mettle.
Imagine a table with an abundance of leaves, where there is always room
for anybody to pull up a chair.
No special invitation needed
because inclusivity is not a word here,
not something talked about in committees,
it’s an action
a way of being
our native language.
Imagine a table where
we don’t count limbs or digits
because those are inconsequential numbers
that don’t tell us a twit about who you are or what you’re capable of.
A table where you don’t have to see to be Seen
or hear to be Heard,
be ambulatory to move forward
or hold a fork to be Fed.
Where you don’t have to sit up straight to be taken seriously
or be quiet to be allowed to stay.
Imagine a table where
those who view the world in the rich orderliness of black and white,|
formulas, and one right answer
mingle amicably with those who experience life in spirals
of riotous explosions of color and questions.
Where everybody shows up with baskets laden with attributes and abilities,
with experiences and erudition
unique to them,
and where all are welcome
because it takes every kind of elan
to accomplish good and worthwhile things.
Imagine a table
where some impart much wisdom without uttering a word
while others let their joy or needs be known in indecipherable, inarticulate shouts.
A table where
we listen over, under, around, behind, and through words,
where we listen to soulful eyes,
hands that come together in a hearty “Yes!”
and hands that remain forever still in laps.
We listen to eyes that smile
and reliquaries of tears that leave hushed traces.
A table where
we listen to crayon marks on paper,
spontaneous shuffling of feet,
and hanging heads.
to the tiniest movement of a single finger
and the almost imperceptible turn of a head
to eyes that aren’t comfortable
engaging with other eyes
and eyes that roam without cessation.
A table where we remain deeply attentive to each other
because we know that there are countless ways to express and convey
and all deserve to be heard.
This is no fairy tale . . . at least it doesn’t have to be.
Right now, right at this very minute,
there are enough capricious, uncalculated caring folks
who pledge covenants
of encouragement and empathy,
kindness and curiosity,
laughter and listening,
and in unending ways large and small
we roll up our sleeves and build this table.
With grace and gumption,
we vow to help people build their wings
without jealousy, fear of diminishment,
or dread of becoming grounded
because we know with absolute certainty
that there’s sky enough for all.
Every chair is a storytelling chair at our table
because everybody has stories worth sharing.
Every. Single. Person.
We listen to each other with openness and attentiveness
not just because that’s what we want to be shown when we tell our stories,
but because we are absolutely certain that by bearing witness with curiosity and respect –
even to those whose stories are difficult to hear – we learn something that will help us do our part to make the world a better place.
We delight in knowing that our common threads are often disguised as differences, and that our stories,
when offered and received in gentle communion,
prove ever so much more potent than bullets,
more unifying than threats,
more gratifying than feuds and vendettas,
when it comes to living together on this beautiful blue orb called Earth.
~~~~~~~
Several years ago, in a story of magic and awe that I’ll tell you about in installments here ‘n there, I met Maxine Hess, and now here we are – collaborating on an exhibit at the Southeastern Quilt and Textile Museum in Carrollton, GA. We call the exhibit Imagine a World: Nancy’s Larks and Be Kind, and we are creating the world we want all y’all and us and our families and future generations to inhabit. The exhibit opens September 25, 2024 with an Artist Mix ‘n Mingle from 4 to 6 p.m. Here’s where you can watch it unfold, get more information, ask questions, and hopefully come say Hey to our faces when we’re there.
Had all gone according to plan, today would’ve been spent celebrating Mom’s 96th lap around the sun, but alas, she took her last earthly breath 14 days after this photo was taken. I would’ve baked a cake and delivered it to her. We would’ve done what we did last year: spent the weekend with her, taking her to her favorite restaurants and shops. We would’ve laughed a lot, hugged frequently for no apparent reason, and made new stories while telling old familiar favorites (again).
It’s been a hard year – as many of y’all will understand what it’s like to have grief keep its boot on your neck – and though I honestly didn’t feel like doing anything but laying curled up in bed, I threw my legs over the side of the bed, stood up, and got to work baking pound cake after pound cake after pound cake using her signature recipe, of course. Last Friday, The Engineer, SeaByrd, and I picked Alison up after work, and off we merrily went to Fayetteville, GA where we spent all day Saturday delivering bags filled with pink forks, party plates with matching napkins (pink, white, and lots of flowers as were Mom’s favorite), and 82 slices of pound cake to many of her friends and family.
We couldn’t get a bag in the hands of every person she loved – such is the nature of being the daughter of an extroverted, much-loved and respected mother. If we missed you, please accept my deepest, hugest apologies, and don’t you even think for a minute that it lessens Mother’s love for you. It’s simply a matter of the finite nature of time.
Last week was quite busy, as you can imagine, and should’ve been exhausting, but it wasn’t because labors of love fuel energy levels instead of depleting them. When we crawled into the hotel bed Saturday night after spending more than 12 hours delivering the “party bags”, a peace wrapped itself around me like I’ve never experienced before. That peace rocked me to sleep, and lingers with me still. If and when it does decide to take its leave, I will do anything.- including taking on more big, fat, crazy ideas – to know that peace again. (That sound you hear is The Engineer and Alison groaning!)
I haven’t figured out how to deliver you a slice of cake through the ethers, but I can make sure you get a copy of the letter I tucked inside each bag along with a copy of Mother’s pound cake recipe. Let me know if you bake her cake, and if you do, please raise a fork to Mom’s memory.
First, the letter . . . Like any Southern woman worth her sweet tea and lipstick, Mother had her signature cake recipes. Mom’s made-from-scratch cakes were one of her love languages, and she baked them to help loved ones celebrate milestones and moments; sooth hearts bruised through sadness and hardship; forge and foster relationships with friends and family. She even baked and decorated a multi-tiered cake for her brother Charles’ wedding. (And almost before the kiss sealed the deal, the green leaves that once adorned that cake, adorned my cute, chubby face because Aunt Jeanette – who didn’t need to because I already adored her – let me get to the cake first.)
Mother cherished you and the goodness you brought to her life. She loved the meals you shared and the adventures you went on together – whether traveling afar or just down the road. She loved laughing with you, and she especially loved the stories you shared with her and the ones you created together.
Come July 22, Mother would’ve celebrated her 96th lap around the sun. Oh my goodness did she pack a whole lotta life in her scant 95 years! Consider this a slice of her birthday cake, and as you enjoy it, please take time to savor some of your special memories of Mom. Say her name. Talk to her. Tell stories starring the two of you – tell them right out loud. Or share them with us. Chortle. Shed a tear or three if they come.
Thank you for the joy you brought to her life, for the kindness you lavished on her, for helping us celebrate her birthday, and especially for remembering her, how she lived and how much she still matters.
In love and gratitude,
Jeanne + Andy
Alison + Ava Jeanne
Kipp + Marnie + Calder + Embry
PS: Mother’s pound cake recipe is on the back. Bon appetit!
And now, The Recipe:
ADA HEWELL’S POUND CAKE
INGREDIENTS:
3 c. granulated sugar
1/2 lb. (2 sticks) unsalted butter
2 T. Crisco shortening
6 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla extract
3 c. all-purpose flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1 c. milk
INSTRUCTIONS:
Cream the sugar, butter, and Crisco with an electric mixer, about 3-4 minutes.
Add eggs and vanilla. Beat with an electric mixer about 10-15 minutes. Be sure to beat for the full time.
Combine the flour and baking powder. With the mixer on low, add flour mixture and milk (alternating) to the creamed sugar and eggs mixture. Mix after each addition until just combined.
Pour batter into a tube pan that has been generously sprayed with non-stick baking spray {or buttered & floured}. Bake at 325 degrees for 1 to 1 1/2 hours until a toothpick inserted in the top comes out clean.
Cool about a 1/2 an hour in the pan; remove cake from pan.
Bubbles, Alison, and Ava Jeanne leave the hospital to begin our lmulti-generational together! (Note the beautifully smocked – if I do say so myself – dress Ava Jeanne wears home. The bonnet Ava Jeanne wears was worn by her mother when she came home from the hospital.
Sounds of
Tiny hands slapping watermelons
and joining in with applause
until she knows an A+.
Boats making their way
through the deep water of our backyard.
Birds melodiously conversing
with birds of different feathers.
Wind chimes singing a duet
with clacking palm trees to the tune of gentle breezes.
The feel of
Really cold ice on her tongue.
The tickle of peach fuzz against her chubby cheek.
Heavily mayonnaises potato salad
squishing through her tiny fingers.
Ephemeral bath bubbles on her arms
Ocean waves stealing the ground from beneath her feet.
Scents of
Roses and peonies.
Heavy hot air of the Lowcountry summer.
A watermelon busting open.
Bubble gum flavored toothpaste.
Seeing
Her mother’s face when she enters the room.
The vast ever-changing ocean.
Her bedtime bottle.
Slowly
slowly
Sometimes taking one step forward
and thirteen backwards,
The shroud of grief is pierced
at least momentarily
and she reacquaints me with
wonder
delight
and hope.
~~~~~~~
Notes:
~ Ava Jeanne is a year older now than in this photo, but the computer wouldn’t cooperate and upload the photo i want to use.
~ My mother took her last earthly breath last fall, and still I grieve. Hard.
~ This was written as granddaughter Ava Jeanne took her 2-hour nap this afternoon in my lap. I know, I know. I shouldn’t be rocking her at this stage . . . but one thing I know for sure: I won’t get a second chance to do this.
Mother and Daddy (Yea Yea and Car Car to the Grands and Great Grands) got married in the Fayette County GA jail. yes, really. Granddaddy (Mother’s daddy) was Sheriff, you see, and in those days voters elected the Sheriff and taxpayers got the family – especially the wife – for free to cook, clean, and make sure the prisoners had freshly laundered white shirts and pants with the black strip down the side.
Though I love the story about them getting married in the jail, Mother did not find it charming at all. So 26 years later when The Engineer and I decided to publicly say “I sure will!”, I told Mother to plan and host the wedding she always wanted because all that mattered to me is that I got to spend the rest of my life with this man . . . and that we had watermelon at our reception. Mother went all out, hiring caterers (who brought delicious watermelon, attractively served), planting snapdragons (something she’d always wanted but never could seem to get around to it till she had a big deadline), and her front door – usually ignored by people who preferred to save steps and instead come in through the back door under the carport – got used! At the end of the night, her smile was as big as her exhaustion.
April 5, 1973 (the fourth day anniversary of our engagement)
So there we were necking – I mean SITTING – on the gorgeous blue one-piece L-shaped sofa in the living room, The Engineer and I, talking about plans for the next weekend when I noted that I had to go to a wedding shower for a friend, also noting that as an introvert of the first order, showers are not my favorite type of gathering. “Well,” he said, playfully tapping my nose with his finger, “when we get married, you’ll have to go to lots of showers.”
Caught completely by surprise, I sat upright, leaned away from him, and noted the obvious, “You haven’t asked me yet.” I. just wanted to make sure this Atlanta boy knew the correct order of things. They might, after all, do things differently in the big city, but he was in the country now, and we did not make assumptions about such things as being the lead actors in a wedding.
“I know,” he said, obviously pleased with himself, and taking a better position to see my reaction.
I picked him upmet him 8 weeks before when a high school friend and I ventured into the bar where he worked weekends, drawing beer, and I took one look at him in that brown leather floppy-brimmed hat and knew that very night that this is who I wanted to go through life with. I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life necking sitting beside this adorable, funny, brilliant man, but even I hadn’t had time to start planning how the engagement and consequently the wedding would go.
Finally, he slid off the low sofa, got on one knee, took my hands in his and asked, “So will you?”
“Have you asked Daddy?”
“No, I wanted to ask you first.”
“You still have to talk to Daddy, but YES I WILL!!!” I said (and I didn’t cry).
That was March 31, 1973.
On April 1, 1973, we were sitting (not necking this time, just sitting, I promise) in the swing in the backyard when he had another good idea: “Why don’t we promise not to tell anybody just yet?” he asked, an idea that was fine with me because I was sure . . . and not sure. You know? We decided to keep it a secret for a while . . . which turned out to be less than 24 hours!
And the rest, as they say, is 51 years of history.
April 5, 2023
The 8 month anniversary of the day Mother took her last earthly breath. It seems like this morning, and it seems like my whole life ago. Grief still has its boot on my neck. I now cry at the most inane things. Sometimes I don’t even know what broke the dam and allowed the tears to flow.
David Kessler who studied death, dying, and grief alongside Elizabeth Kubler-Ross says the number one need of a person grieving is to have someone bear witness to their grief. I feel that strongly, deeply, near constantly, but i keep my lips zipped because most people are uncomfortable talking about such subjects deemed “sad” and “negative” and what I want to do more than anything is make people smile. So yea, I turtles in soon after that last breath, retreating to my shell and pulling down the black-out curtains. I stay away from social media, talk to only 3 people: a cousin who’s like my Big Sister, my friend Laura, The Engineer, daughter Alison, son Kipp, and daughter-in-law Marnie.
I know that’s more than 3 people – such is the thinking style of a #BrainOnGrief. I’m just glad I caught it here. Usually it’s weeks after before I see some embarrassing goof.
That’s another thing: my brain is mushy.
I can’t seem to find ground under my feet.
I spend more time in bed than ever before. Bed therapy, I call it.
I’m exhausted all the time – and I do mean all the time. Grieving is exhausting.
Even now I’m embarrassed about what I’ve told you and fear I sound like I’m auditioning for one of those tv commercials for insurance where the fella is trying to teach adults how to be young by getting them to cease and desist doing all sorts of things – like telling your life story to complete strangers! (Personally, I think I’d be a shoo-in for that role.) (And several of the other behaviors the dude is trying to eradicate in the name of not embarrassing your children.)
I binge read grief memories, seeking the magic key or password that will allow me to escape. Just last night I started reading a book on happiness. Joy is still way too far out of reach, but happiness? I might one day find my way back there. I have a plan. I’ll tell you more next time. Right now, I feel a bed therapy session coming on. Thanks for being here. Thanks for listening reading.
a trio of sparkly pink hearts embellishing the beautiful arrangement of flowers my daughter Alison sent on the occasion of my first anniversary of what she calls my Second Chance Day. Alison, a banker, ordered these flowers from one of her customers. I love that she supports her customers.
The post about my Heart Alert brought many questions on Facebook and behind the scenes – something that delights me because this is an important conversation about a serious women’s health issue that needs to be talked about. Here are the Questions and my Answers:
Q: How long did the diarrhea and nausea last?
A: Less than 5 minutes. It was like my body was stepping up its efforts to get my attention and get me moving toward help.
Q: Did you have any other warnings or was this the first and only clue that something was amiss?
A: There was an episode of the uncomfortable stretching sensation that woke me up 3 nights prior. I breathed my way through it and went back to sleep. Not one of the smartest things I’ve ever done, that’s for sure.
Q: In the comments on Facebook, Dana Boyle LaPointe asked this good question: Can you describe the stretching sensation . . . location? Anything else?
A: The uncomfortable stretching sensation was in the hollowed-out place at the base of my throat. (Where’s that World Book Encyclopedia with the overlays of the human body when you need it?!) It wasn’t on the left side of my chest where I put my hands when sending love to someone, and no pain or discomfort radiated down my arms. The discomfort remained localized at the base of my throat. You know those resistance bands used in fitness workouts? It felt like that. . . like 2 hands were pulling in opposite directions at whatever is in this place in my body. (Research ahead!)
Q: Did you go to Cardiac Rehab?
A: Yes, though I didn’t stay long. When I hadn’t heard from them in a month after my Heart Alert, I reached out to them. The hospital had given them an incorrect phone number for me. I signed up, went to orientation, and show up at the hospital’s gym, ready to go. I danced – I literally danced – my laps that day, so happy was I to be moving forward. I’d been afraid to walk (10,000 to 12,500 steps a day) or dance (every night at bedtime The Engineer and I dance to “Could I Have This Dance” by Anne Murray.) because nobody talked with me about whether I should walk or gallop back into my life. I asked the people supervising Cardiac Rehab and the head of the hospital’s fitness department for parameters: how much could I walk? What was considered a low blood pressure? High blood pressure? Any particular sensations I should be aware of should they appear? What was a good resting heart rate, and what was an alarming heart rate? I got no answers. I asked the cardiologist who directed me to ask them. Because it took us about 40 minutes to get to the hospital, because The Engineer had to tend to Baby Ava for an hour by himself, because I couldn’t figure out what the goal was for me and my recovery, and because we have a well-equipped fitness room at home (complete with treatmill, which is all there were having me do there – walk), I turned in my notice. I was gracious about it, explaining to them what I just told you, and thanked them for being there. I got no response. None at all. I have talked with others who went to Cardiac Rehab in different states, and most of their experiences were drastically different, and they recommended I find another Cardiac Rehab (there is none here).
Q: Of course I couldn’t close this post without sharing the question every member of my family – daughter Alison,son Kipp,daughter-in-love Marnie, and The Engineer each asked me in one form or another (after a respectful amount of time, of course): Did you see St. Peter? How ‘bout Lucifer?
A: Yes, these clowns are my precious family, and I adore them! Truthfully, it never crossed my mind that I might die. Not once. It has definitely changed the way I live, but the notion that I could’ve died didn’t land for a very long time, I guess because there was too much going on!
If you have questions, ask away! You can post them here in the comments, on Facebook, on Instagram (I’ll be posting there tomorrow. Some people don’t like seeing posts on FB and IG at the same time.) And you can always email me: whollyjeanne (at) gmail (dot) com
When The Engineer and I first married, I laid down a rule: last one out of bed made the bed up. One year ago today was the first day my rule was broken. By me.
I lingered in bed then took a shower and washed my hair. As I made my way back to make the bed, I noticed a tug of war happening inside my body in that hollow space at the base of my throat. Unlike the pain folks must have felt on the torture racks of ancient times, I felt only discomfort. Intense discomfort, to be sure, but not excruciating pain that would’ve granted those turning the gears at both ends of the torture rack names and other information they sought. I made a silent note of this unusual sensation, filing it away in my mental file cabinet under For Future Reference, pulling the bedspread up over the pillows. The decorative throw pillows never made it to the bed that day. When the diarrhea and nausea hit simultaneously, Brain and Bones whispered in unison This. Is. Serious.”
We’d only lived on the island a short while, and to that point, not a single visitor had been able to find us via GPS. That’s why I didn’t trust the EMT’s and an ambulance to find me, and I sensed I couldn’t afford such a lengthy wait, so Andy drove me to the ER, something I’ve since given many second thoughts. How awful, I think in hindsight, it would’ve been for him to watch me die in the passenger seat.
As we pulled into the ER parking lot, I uttered my first words, directing The Engineer to forget what the signs said and listen to me when I told him to park at the curb to the left of the entrance to the door. At that moment, I really didn’t care if we inconvenienced anybody especially since we’d left the door open for others, and there was plenty of room for other vehicles to get past us. “You need to take the lead, and you definitely need to fill out the paperwork,” I said as the doors opened to let us through, “and remember to say the magic word: heart.”
A very nice man in a blue shirt greeted us, and when he heard the word “heart”, he quickly moved Andy to a seat near the door to the exam rooms, and offered a seat to me in the gen pop area of the rather crowded waiting room. I ignored him and took a chair next to Andy.
In a very few minutes, a smiling peppy woman also dressed in blue stood before me. “Can you walk?” she chirped. “I can,” I told her, “but I don’t think I should.”
“Oh, it’s not that far,” she assured me, swatting at the air. “Come on. Follow me.”
I tried, but when we passed mile marker 27, I stopped, leaned against the wall, and asked if she had a wheelchair she could summon. “Oh, we’re almost there,” she assured me waving her hand at what seemed to me an endless hallway. “We’re turning right here,” and that made me feel more optimistic . . . until we turned and I looked down another endless hallway. I stopped again, and she let me rest a few minutes before urging me on. People were waiting for me. And besides, we were almost there.
I entered room 16, and sure enough, many people were flitting around preparing for me. I was helped into one of those fashionable hospital gowns and somebody helped me climb up into the bed. It felt really good to be off my feet.
Though I don’t think I ever got his name, the hospitalist on duty that morning was one of the kindest men I’ve ever not met. As the flurry of activity happened all around him, he remained calm, smiling, and he made sure he touched my arm or held my toes (which ever was more readily available), sending reassurance through his touch. His touch was my anchor in what was becoming a very stressful, scary time.
“Stemmy in 16, Stemmy in 16,” we heard over the loud speaker. I looked at Andy and asked “Aren’t we in 16?” “Yep,” he said. “That’s you.
Minutes later the flurry of activity slowed when someone said loudly “The cardiologist is here” and people chose one side of the room or the other as a smiling man stepped inside the door, rubbing his hands together in keen anticipation and announced “Not just any cardiologist. The BEST cardiologist is here.”
Now y’all need to know that my first job as a married woman was working as an administrative assistance for the CEO of a private hospital in Atlanta where I was quickly introduced to arrogant doctors. I can’t tell you how many times I grabbed a doctor by the top shirt button, pulling them down to my eye level, and looking into their retinas saying “The only difference between you and me is the classes we took in college.” But on this particular day, Dr. Smalheiser’s words registered not as arrogance but as confidence – just what I needed to hear before turning my heart over to this stranger.
Shortly after his arrival, I was whisked down to the OR – kissing The Engineer good bye at the door, making him promise to move the car then come back and wait for me close by – and the flurry of activity began all over again in what seemed like a small, cramped room. When I left that room, it was with 3 new pieces of heart jewelry (aka stents) and though tired, I had more energy than I’d ever known.
Bubbles, Alison, and Ava Jeanne leave the hospital to begin our lives together! (Note the beautifully smocked – if I do say so myself – dress Ava Jeanne wears home. The bonnet Ava Jeanne wears was worn by her mother when she came home from the hospital.
I spent 3 days in ICU and 1 day in the Step Down unit (forget the official name), and recovery was easy, effortless. Three days after I was released (1 week after my Heart Alert) I was back in the hospital as daugher Alison’s pit crew in the birth of my newest Sprite, Ava Jeanne.
Ladies, there is no checklist that I can find for heart attacks in women. I had no radiating pain, no elephant sitting on my chest, no intense pain. Just the uncomfortable stretching sensation and the briefest of brief diarrhea and nausea. Listen to your bodies and heed their warnings. If in doubt, head to the ER . . . by ambulance (though I have another story for you about that on another day.)
I call my event not a heart attack, but a Heart Alert because it did indeed get my attention! My daughter Alison calls today my Second Chance Day, and that makes sense, too. Anyway, I spend today – the one year anniversary of getting a Second Chance from my Heart Alert – creating my Vision Board for how I want to spend the next year and beyond with a side of creating the longest Daily Gladitudes and Gratitudes List ever. My friend Rainy and I call our Vision Boards “Explosive Blessings”, and honestly I need to add a room to the house – a great big room with blank walls to hold it all. Here’s to much life ahead of us all and more goodness than we can count. I’ll share photos when my board is complete. Do you have one you’d be willing to share with. me?
Cheers. Clink, y’all.
Right this way if you want to hear Jeanne read (Remember: she’s fluent only in English and Southern!)
A bird in Nancy’s fourth set of drawings
Nancy draws, I stitch her drawings. It is our Communion.
here ‘n there