Try not to worry…

Posted on December 8, 2022 by Margaret

This is Nelson’s mom Margaret, writing for Nelson tonight. I’ve been here in Minnesota for a few days, enjoying the company of Nelson, Ann Sophie, little Will and his other grandparents, Astrid and Ralph, from Germany.

Since Nelson last posted a blog, he and his family have made the move from a rented apartment to the new home they’ve bought. Owning a home that’s two blocks from the many buildings of the Mayo Clinic is a big advantage for someone who finds himself needing the services there, many times each week. For example, Nelson has one appointment tomorrow and four more on Friday. But as a result of him being so frequently at Mayo’s, his cancer cells are on the run. And that’s the whole point.

But none of it comes without a price. The stronger the treatment, the harder to bear. After weeks of taking the daily doses of two powerful immuno-chemotherapy drugs, Nelson’s liver had recently begun to show signs of deterioration. His medical team decided to give his suffering body and his liver a week-long break, hoping Nelson and his liver would both benefit.

During this time, Nelson felt much better—except for the severe pain in his hip that radiates down the back of his leg. This pain began in his lower back where scans showed cancer cells in his bone marrow weakening the bone and causing a vertebrae to crack. That pain then radiated gradually toward his hip, and eventually down his leg.

There is no spinal stenosis, for which we’re happy, but Nelson’s pain has been debilitating. Scans show the cause as a pinched nerve between the spine and the pelvis. He can’t walk except with his new cane—a lifesaver. Without that, he wouldn’t be up and about, so the cane is something to be grateful for.

Scans have also shown that the bone marrow is breaking down in other places in Nelson’s body too, so we’re all praying against any more of that, and against worrying about it, too.

On Monday, the doctors put Nelson back on those powerful drugs that always take him down with high fevers, sudden shaking chills, and lots of vomiting. But same drugs also kill cancer cells. The doctors altered the dosage slightly to determine which of the two drugs is the one harming the liver. Despite acute suffering while formerly on these drugs, Nelson was all “yes” on resuming them. It’s a love-hate relationship but is the only medical tool left in his toolbox.

Despite all that, last night God gave Nelson the best night’s sleep in a long time (in the chair), and this morning he felt well enough to head for the basement in the new house (actually an older home) to do some work on shelving. Days of this kind of energy are few and far between, but when they come, they bring joy and encouragement.

In Nelson’s last blog he shared about an infection in his left side around the catheter they were using to drain his lung. They prescribed antibiotics, and those have worked their magic. The infection is gone, and the redness, too. The right lung catheter has been reinstalled and is once again being drained daily (250-300 milliliters).

Ann Sophie’s parents, Astrid and Ralph, have worked like troopers the entire time they’ve been in the USA, cooking meals, babysitting, chauffeuring, packing, unpacking, shopping, painting, helping in every way imaginable. They are amazing all of us as they bring their stamina and strong work ethic to every task. Ad their willingness doesn’t end.

Today, Ann Sophie and I had fun unpacking a few more boxes and rearranging the sunroom, which for now is baby Will’s new bedroom. It’s a cooler place to sleep, but his new sleep sack keeps him toasty warm. Despite the serious nature of these difficult days of dealing with cancer, having Will in the middle of things brings laughter and light-heartedness to us all. He helps us remember that God’s instructions are:

“Do not be anxious about tomorrow…” (Matthew 6:34)

Young Love (#76)

Posted on January 20, 2017 by Margaret

August 1, 1969

Inch by inch Mom was releasing her hold on “708,” as she referred to her old home. Gradually she was stepping away from the happiness she and her family knew while living at that address, but she needed one more visit for two reasons:

Many remaining items from their garage sale a week earlier were still stashed in the garages and basements of neighbors’ homes and needed to be dealt with.
My brother, Tom, had prearranged a political meeting at 708 for a man who was running for Congress.

Tom (left) had worked hard on this candidate’s campaign and had scheduled the event many weeks before the house sold. No one had expected it to sell as fast as it did.

Although the rally was landing on the same day as the new owners would be moving in, they agreed to let Tom (and Mom) host the event in the back yard, a gracious gift. The newspaper had publicized the event as an opportunity for university students to join the candidate’s team, and Tom would be leading the charge.

Meanwhile, Mom busied herself collecting her garage sale possessions, hosting the sale “Part 2” in the next-door-neighbor’s driveway. And of course, as the day unfolded, she ended up inside her old house, helping the new family with whatever she could. She had done a good job readying the home for its new occupants, and her diary comment was, “708 SPOTLESS.”

“Going home” is satisfying for most of us, and after moving from a beloved house, going home to a different one can be unsettling. All of us can testify to running errands in the weeks after a move and automatically ending up on the route to our old address rather than the new house. There comes a day, though, when the transition must be made, even if we have to concentrate hard to get it done.

Tom’s rally was a success with about 50 attendees, and the candidate was appreciative. Mom’s garage sale succeeded, too, and as she hauled the remaining items away, she left 708 for good. Once she made up her mind that she had really moved out, it took only 3 days before a very special note popped up in her diary. They had been out to dinner, after which she wrote: “…and then to our new home, which we LOVE!”

In the end, Mom and Dad lived in their smaller home for more than 30 years, and Mom never loved any home more than that one.

“The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places.” (Psalm 16:6)

Young Love (#75)

Posted on January 19, 2017 by Margaret

July 31, 1969

Mom was having trouble saying goodbye to the home where she’d raised her children and had so much fun doing it. The morning after the move, she drove back to 708, let herself in, and waited for the new owners to arrive. While she waited, she went to work painting some basement shelves she hadn’t been able to finish in the final flurry to move out the day before.

I can’t imagine what the new owners must have thought when they pulled in to the driveway after their closing and saw Mom’s car there. But she had ingratiated herself with this family in previous weeks, forging quick friendships. She probably threw the door wide open for them with the same warm welcome she’d given a thousand other guests, explaining that she was there to finish painting… after which she would “get out of the way for their moving van.”

The new owners told her their truck wouldn’t be arriving until the next day and that they had just stopped by to be sure the house was empty. In a short while they departed, inviting Mom to stay as long as she wanted – and she wanted.

Once the painting was done, she did what she really came to do. She walked upstairs, entering each room, lying down on the floor, arms outstretched. She wanted to talk to God.

In the master bedroom, she thanked him for everything she could think of that had gone on in that room – for a husband who had always been faithful, for successful recoveries from illnesses and surgeries, for time with children who climbed in with her during thunderstorms, for a daughter who donned her bridal gown in that room just before getting married, and much more.

She moved from room to room, each time spreading herself out on the floor and mixing memories with gratitude to God… no doubt with plentiful tears.

After she finished upstairs, she went to the main floor, and her prayers must have been lengthy as she thought about hundreds of get-togethers she’d held in that home.

Surely she thanked God for the chance to be a Christian witness to neighbors and friends in those rooms, especially grateful for the children and teens who accepted her frequent invitations to “C’mon over.”

She even went to the basement where so many church socials and gatherings had taken place, and my guess is that when she stretched out on her laundry room floor, she wept hard.

Many of her conversations with the Lord had taken place as she ironed, her favorite household chore. She stood at an old wooden ironing board often, ironing sheets, towels, tablecloths, handkerchiefs, even Dad’s underwear.

As a kid it seemed to me she looked for excuses to heat up her iron and stand there – but maybe it was because that was her holy space. I remember many a strained conversation (since I was her wayward daughter) that occurred as she ironed. The tension between us was always mitigated when we could focus on a pillow case going from wrinkled to smooth, rather than looking at each other.

When Mom finished her worship time in each room that day, she took a few pictures of her empty home and walked out the door. Amazingly, though, she already had plans to return – just one more time.