A WORLD OF THANKS

by Cheri Roland

Tuesday mornings after chapel are a zoo.   We must coordinate getting 20 seminarians off to six different agencies for their Field Education and Ministry experience.  The transport issues are enough to transport me out of my mind.  And today’s pouring rain, out first since April, has the interstate traffic in a snarl.  It’s snowing just up the way.  We can see our breath inside.  Thankfully our house and offices have “air con”, which puts out cold or heat.  Today all the air cons are cranked up.  With a sigh of relief, I sit in my lovely warming office, listening to monkeys mournfully calling to the hadedas, huge prehistoric birds that inhabit the Hundred Acre Wood nearby.  (Pooh and Piglet would be terrified.) 

I’m in a pensive mood.  The myriad of changes to our FEM course schedule that invariably usher in each new semester have been made. My brain thinks this is a better workout than Sudoku; just imagine a 107 grid puzzle where each move precipitates nine more.  This hurdle coming to an end is almost a let-down.  Doug and I have just passed the two year mark here in our temporary Pietermaritzburg home; only nine months are left in our commitment to SMMS.   I’m struck by the realization that our stay on earth, too, is temporary.  Sam Choate, bless his soul, loved to sing about that, “O Beulah Land, Sweet Beulah Land “.  (When Googling this, I expected to find slave era roots, but surprisingly the song was written by Woody Guthrie.)   He longed for the place where his heart would finally be home.  Maybe the realization of ever-increasing health issues makes my remaining time in this world suddenly seem so brief.   And maybe it’s twinged with anxiety about leaving “the wonderful village called SMMS” and returning to Tampa to reinvent our lives.

Today I accompany Doug for his second consultation with our friend and the psychiatrist the Lord graciously provided.  We are both different people than we were at our first visit three weeks ago.  With the ruling out of AZ, MS and Parkinson’s, we are giddy with relief.  Doug’s memory loss is, as the doctor suspected, the consequence of chronic stress, precipitating anxiety, depression.  This we can manage.  The spector of gigantic genetic snares snapping closed on him has fled.  But with our palpable relief comes a new appreciation for the cataclysmic crash experienced by families who have received dreaded diagnoses.  A shudder passes through me.

I can’t stop thanking God for the gift of my husband back.  Over the past year it had become increasingly quiet in our home.    I longed to hear his laughter, his chatter, his mimicking our precious Clara’s darling antics from our latest Skype session.  He is back to planning fun outings for our down times, batting around new places to explore.  Now I’m thrilled he is talking to me again, planning for our future – all stages of it, while avidly tracking the progress of the Rays, politics and golfer George McNeill.  He reads me amusing editorials and cartoons and articles, makes witty observations, finds joy in introducing others to the great gifts from above, and is passionate about sharing what he has learned with everyone.

This is obviously not the happy ending of our saga, but will remain a bright beacon along our path.  I want to give special thanks to our US family, Nat, Samie, Marty and Jack, along with SMMS family, Peter Storey, Pete and Jenny for their loyalty and loving support through this frightening life crisis.  When my mind was frozen with anxiety and fear, they were able to offer invaluable, concrete advice on how to proceed.   We get by with a little help from our friends – and a lot of help from our God.

       

"HaveYou Seen my Keys?"      by  Doug Roland 

  Good thing I'm not running for office, or what I'm about to tell you would end up on Fox News or the Daily Show, or both. Instead I offer this as an important part of my journey.  It belongs in the open, not in a closet.  

My mother once told me that her greatest fear was to die in a nursing home.  In her late 60's she began to suffer memory loss.  It frustrated her to the point of claiming her remaining years.  She also had Parkinson's Disease, then senility, then dementia.  She deteriorated to the point that In her last couple of years, she did not recognize anyone, and  died a lonely, horrible death in a nursing home.  Fear was not listed the as cause of death, but that's what it was.  Were she not a woman of deep faith, it would be an unbearable way to remember her.

And so I entered my 60's with that memory near the surface of consciousness.  In the last couple of years practicing law, I thought maybe I was a closet magician.  It seemed like every piece of paper I touched would disappear.  In time it became frustrating.  My mother's fears echoed faintly.  Fortunately, I was not far from retiring.  I assumed that would be a chance to take a breath, do something different. 

Moving to South Africa was something different, at once exciting and stressful.  It was a step to an unknown place, to meet unknown people, and live in a different and very complicated culture.   But we went to work cheerfully.  Once we settled into somewhat of a routine, I began losing not only papers but also events.  Did I lock the door?  What time are we supposed to be there?  Where is my pen?  What did I do with . . . . ?  Routine things eluded me.  For example, I received an e-mail from home one evening that contained some very good news.  Next morning I read the same e-mail and was elated at the message I had already received and forgotten.

This sort of thing begins to weigh on you.  I became even more anxious, slept poorly and sensed a loss of confidence.  I began to drink more to get a little relief, to be able to laugh and have a few minutes of calm.  Of course, it was an illusion. I knew it and could no longer deny it.

About two weeks ago, I went to a psychiatrist.  He's not an ordinary psychiatrist.  He is an ordained Methodist minister, one of the first people we met when we came here in July, 2010.  His opinion is that I am suffering from anxiety and depression, and not dementia,  but a pseudo-dementia. He prescribed an anti-depressant and sent me to a neurologist.  I should add that he was the first doctor I ever visited who ended the session with prayer.  I felt better already. 

The neurologist was a student of the psychiatrist in med school.  She sent me out for tests - brain scan and an ultra sound on the carotid arteries.  The film shows something that looks like a lightning strike.  It's significant brain damage but not in a vital area.  Blood flow to the brain was good as was brain functioning.  Still the damage on the film suggests a stroke.  She has put me on vitamins.  The dreaded conditions of dementia, MS and Parkinson's Disease were ruled out.  Whew!! 

I'll be seeing the psychiatrist regularly. My condition will evolve in time.  Meanwhile, I go to work each day.  Alrready I am not feeling the same level of anxiety. I sleep better. I'm down to one or two drinks per week.  I also get cold quicker. (That should come in handy when we return to Tampa.)  I don't feel depressed, but it's not over.  I figure this problem has been building for 30-40 years.  It only showed up within the last year.  There's still a ways to go.   

As a footnote, Cheri went to our family doctor for other reasons and told her about all this.  The doctor said we would not believe how many patients she has that are on anti-depressants.  Makes we wonder, what kind of world are we in and should we be on a different path?