The Morning a Stroke, Like an Earthquake, Shook My Life

The call came at 3-something on Friday morning, July 12, 2013. When I saw my brother's name on the phone, my heart skipped a beat. I knew immediately that I was about to get some bad news.

Hello?

Deb, sorry to call you at this time, but I thought you'd want to know right away. Kathi's had a stroke, and it looks pretty bad.

I remember literally shaking my head quickly as if to clear the cobwebs, because, surely I didn't hear that right. A stroke? Kathi? That can't be right. She's not even 51!

You can't prepare for this kind of news. Like an earthquake, it shakes your life without warning, jarring you from your complacency, and compelling you to action.

In an instant, my priorities shifted. Nothing mattered except Kathi. Not the two freelance projects with their looming deadlines, not the boxes in my garage that I still hadn't unpacked from our move over three months ago, nothing. My beautiful younger sister was fighting for her life, and getting out to Virginia was the only thing that mattered. After losing my older sister, Carla, to pancreatic cancer ten years ago, the thought of losing Kathi, too, was something I couldn't imagine.

The next day news about Kathi was mixed. A message from one person said she was much better, even singing and laughing. There was hope! But later in the day, the news was bad. She was in ICU, 100% blockage, nothing the doctors could do, it's a waiting game.

The next several hours were spent making preparations to go to Virginia. And praying--lots of praying. I knew that God could spare her life, but would he? That was the part that scared me.

Thankfully, my niece, Stacey, came with me. I honestly don't know what I would have done without her, because I was completely unprepared for what I was when I got to the hospital. By then we knew that two of the main arteries to Kathi's brain were completely blocked, and because she didn't get medical care within five hours of the onset of the stroke, there was nothing they could do to unblock them. So, all she has going for her is her strength and her will to live.

And her family.

And her faith.

Over the next nine days, I witnessed that strength of Kathi's, and amidst the tears and the fear, there was laughter, and there was hope. Small victories that were huge. Like the day she remembered my name (it was only once, but it was a victory). And the day we showed up at the hospital to find her sitting in a wheelchair, dressed in her own clothes. She was beaming, and she was beautiful. And one day, she surprised us all by noticing that the calendar said it was June instead of July!


Stacey read "Hind's Feet on High Places" at Kathi's request

It's a surreal experience seeing my vibrant, smart, funny, articulate sister unable to communicate her thoughts, unable to walk or lift her right arm, unable to even feed herself. But in this vulnerable state, the core of Kathi shone through. It was clear to everyone she came in contact with that she has a pure heart, and a fighting spirit, and a sharp wit. She somehow found a way to make light of her situation, easing the pain for the rest of us with her sense of humor. The nurses would ask her, "Were you always this funny?" And she would immediately reply, "Yes." And then she'd look at us and say, "Right?"

Right.


Kathi and Me

Kathi and Stacey

The thing that struck me the most was how her deep, abiding faith in God was clearly comforting her. She asked people to pray for her, she sang songs from our childhood, she asked us to read the Bible to her. And, when a phrase touched her, she would get emotional. And, of course, that would make me get emotional.

We celebrated Kathi's 51st birthday while we were there. She asked for mom's homemade banana pudding instead of a cake. Stacey and I were only too happy to make it for her. I think it's safe to say that she enjoyed it (and she fed herself, thank you very much).





On the fourth day we were there, Kathi greeted us by telling us emphatically, "I'm going to get better. I promise."

Kathi has a long road ahead of her. It's not going to be easy. But I am going to hold her to that promise.

And I'm going to pray. Hard.

Tomorrow

I've known it was coming for weeks. It's been right on my heels, trying to sneak up on me without warning, but I've felt it. It has come every year for the last five years, and it will come this year, too.

Tomorrow.

It's still beyond my comprehension that Carla is no longer in "this world" with me; that I can't call her to share some silly joke or ask her for advice when I'm struggling with a problem. My mind can't fully take it in that her spirit has moved on--my sister and best friend. It's so unfair--and the pain in my heart is still so - well, painful.

I wonder if it will always be like this--coloring my world a gloomy grey when it should be filled with the vibrant blue of the California sky and the vivid oranges, yellows, and reds of the new fall season (yes, even in San Diego, you can see these colors . . . if you look hard enough).

Tomorrow.

I want to wish away this dreaded anniversary; ignore it, and pretend it's just an ordinary day like any other. But tomorrow will surely come, and I will surely wake up with the familiar ache in my chest. And I'll go through my "Carla box" of memories, and I'll cry--again. I'll mentally list all the joyous events she's missed, like James' and Sabrina's wedding, and the events that are still to come, like Anna's upcoming wedding, and one day Scott's, Stacey's, and eventually, Kelby's. The many grandchildren that she so desperately wanted, but that she'll never know. (Thankfully, she did get to see Ashlyn and Ben.)

Tomorrow.

The recent passing of Patrick Swayze to the same, evil pancreatic cancer that took her life has made this year especially difficult. All the painful memories of her last months came flooding back when I heard the news of his death, and I found myself drawn to any media reports about his life, and I sat in solitude, unable to change the channel, tears pouring down my face unchecked.

But the tears are cleansing somehow. In some strange way, they create a momentum that carries me forward. She wouldn't want me to wallow in sadness. I know that. But, even after six years, the hole she left is still there, gaping and raw, and I'm still left with a heavy emptiness that weighs me down and tries to crush my spirit. And sometimes--all too often, really--it succeeds.

Oh, how I miss her!

This morning, as I ate breakfast, contemplating the coming day, God reminded me of a verse that I've often quoted to comfort others who are grieving or going through a difficult time: "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning."
Psalm 30:5

I'm praying that my joy will be renewed soon.

Maybe tomorrow.

Remembering Carla

Amazingly, it was four years ago today that my sister and best friend died of cancer. Not a day goes by that I don't think about her. So many times I want to pick up the phone and call her to ask her opinion or advice, or maybe just to share something funny. But she's gone, leaving a huge hole in my heart and in my life. I still need her. I don't want her to be gone. I miss her.

I often dream about her, but there's always that gut-wrenching "knowledge" that the visit is temporary, that something is wrong. Thinking about her last night, I truly hoped that I would dream about her and not have that "feeling." I wanted to just enjoy spending time with her without worrying about her or thinking that she couldn't stay. But the dream didn't come. So I woke up this morning with her on my mind and thought I'd just write a little about my memories.

Carla was the oldest girl, and she took that role seriously. She was the one who learned to cook and sew. Her side of the room was always clean. She was a nerd in every sense of the word, and she knew it. She was skinny and awkward. I remember when she tried out for cheerleading. It was so hilarious to watch her try to do a cheer. I still remember how it went:

O - K
Hello, Judges!

We'd like to say, "hello"
to you in a special way!

We'll start it all out with a welcoming
cheer,

Just to let you all know that we're glad
you're here!

H - E - double L - O

We say, "HELLO!"

Oh my gosh, she was pathetic! Needless to say, she didn't make the squad. I don't think she actually expected to, and I was surprised she even tried--it didn't fit her conservative personality. I held that incident over her head for years.

Even though I was younger by almost two years, I was much stronger than she was. (I'm still freakishly strong, as my friend, Amy, would say.) I could carry her piggy-back, but if I jumped on her back, her legs would crumple beneath her and we would both fall to the ground, laughing. I could beat her up. I never did, but we both knew that I could. I also held that over her.

When she was about 17, she started to blossom. She learned how to fix her hair, got her teeth fixed, and got contacts. Her whole attitude changed. She became confident in herself and started dating (lots of guys were now interested).

She got married two days before her 18th birthday. She and Danny had 5 amazing kids, and her family and mine were close as our kids grew up together. She was much stronger than even I knew, handling infidelity with such grace and strength. After her divorce, she went to school and got a college degree, all the time working and raising five kids!

After a few years on her own, she married Mike Clements, who had a young son, which gave her 6 kids. Then they had another baby, making a grand total of 7 kids. Kelby was only 4 when Carla died. But Carla had prepared her family well. Her older kids were responsible enough to help Mike with Kelby, which gave Carla a lot of peace. Stacey, especially, has been an amazing caregiver to her little sister. I am so proud of her (and all of the kids).

All of us Jinks siblings have a dry sense of humor. When we get together, we crack ourselves up, but others seem to wonder what the heck we are laughing about. Carla and I shared a very similar sense of humor. Often, we would laugh so hard that we would be doubled over in pain. I think I miss the laughter the most.

It's comforting to remember how she was so full of genuine joy the last few years of her life. She deserved that, and it was a pleasure to watch her as she talked about her job as the Director of Children's Ministries at The Rock Church. And the pride with which she spoke about her children and grandchildren was clear. She loved her job, her kids, and her husband, and it showed. Mike and I have our differences, but I'll always be grateful to him for making her so happy at the end.

So, here we all are, four years later, still missing her. Still trying to deal with life's challenges without having her to lean on. Not easy.

At Carla's memorial service, we played a slideshow with photos of her. The audio played during the presentation was "What a Wonderful World." I can't listen to that song without getting choked up. I miss her. Did I say that already? Can't wait to see her again. Someday . . .

Take a look at this video. It's amazing.

Have a wonderful day!