Strength in Community

By Linda Grupp Boutin 

We watch history unfold before our eyes every day. The very first historical day I remember with clarity was a November day, crisp and cool despite the sunshine bathing all around me. We were summoned from our 3^rd grade classroom to the playground where we held all-school assemblies. The principal told us that we were being excused early that day because the President had been shot in Dallas. From that moment until JFK was buried, we joined the rest of the country first praying he would be okay, then mourning the loss together, finally admiring his son saluting the casket of our fallen leader.

My parents had required we watch as rockets left the earth and allowed us to watch history unfold as witnesses to a presidential assassination. That wasn’t the only assassination I saw, there was the time George Wallace was shot—hit by a bullet and confined to a wheelchair for life. We lost Martin Luther King and I was watching the night RFK took a bullet. It seemed to me that a public life could be a very dangerous thing. 

There had been a Cuban Missile crisis that I could not understand except that my mom was terrified for my brothers in the US Marines. We prayed for their safety. Many young men I knew dreaded turning 18 and being forced to sign-up for the draft. My sister’s husband received a high number and we tracked the Vietnam War nightly on the TV.

I understood nothing was assured on this earth, but though traumatic, these events seemed distant, rarely touching me on a personal level. Events paraded through my life, Apollo space capsule fires, earthquakes, floods, tornados. I watched when the shuttle exploded just after liftoff killing all aboard. I knew this world to be dangerous.

So when 9/11/01 rolled around, though the world certainly wasn’t safe, I never expected the day to unfold as it did. I woke to my dog curled behind my knees a bit earlier than normal. I switched on the news to watch The Today Show and was shocked into full alert. A huge fire burned in New York City and it took a few minutes to realize a plane had crashed into one of the Twin Towers. I woke Gary and he joined me just in time for us to witness the second plane crashing into the second tower.

Time entered a strange warp with us consuming every detail as it was reported by CNN. Another plane crashed into the Pentagon, they grounded all flights, President Bush came on the air to help the country cope, Washington DC was evacuated, another plane crashed in a field. About then the phone rang and Gary’s interview for a computer job was cancelled; the company had been headquartered in the now melted Twin Towers. My boss at the library called and said we would not open that day and to stay home. We stared at one another in horror, how could this have happened? We heard commentators begin to whisper about terrorism and the pieces began to fall into place.

Nervous energy compelled us to do something, anything to try and cope. We decided to go and stock up at Costco and when we arrived at the store it was evident we were not the only ones to think this way. We put everything away and wondered what to do next. I wanted to go to church, but didn’t want to leave the news feed. Praying silently I petted my dog and tried not to imagine how many were in the destroyed buildings. Gary could not sit still anymore and pulled out a square canvas he had built.

I watched fascinated as he took a pencil and string and drew concentric circles on the canvas. The company he had hoped to work for never recovered. Eventually the library reopened, but they kept the TV on every moment they were open monitoring the level of alert the country was in. Not quite willing to accept that another attack was not imminent. CVCC contacted the congregation inviting us to attend all church prayer. Shell-shocked and stunned, I can’t remember anything about the service though I seem to remember we went.

Days passed by and Gary’s pristine white canvas filled with images and colors. The circles remained but filled with red and white, the center turned blue, the exterior of the circle orange and black. Stars filled the field of blue, the largest centered on the canvas. The damaged towers rose again to the right with a US flag filling the opposite side. A strange, dark earth appeared at the bottom covered with an equally dark hand. Fireman and helicopters appeared near the towers, the first responders coming to the rescue. Finally a snake wound its way down from the top, threatening but not overcoming the red, white and blue…

A picture can say 1,000 words, but this one says so much more to me. It says keep the faith, better days can come if we join together and strive to repair after an attack. Thirteen little colonies joined together to defeat the pre-eminent world power of that day. Shortly thereafter, the fledgling country had to reinforce the lesson of freedom. Smaller wars came and went, older countries decided they wanted freedom too following our footsteps, and Civil War tore us to shreds only to come back together in unity to free the enslaved and give all an equal chance. When we come together in unity with our community, we are the strongest country in the world. Let’s all join together and rebuild our country again today, overcoming as we did in the Great Depression. We can do it all again, if we choose to join one another and try.

Celebrating an Unexpected Heroine

By Linda Grupp Boutin

In the midst of drums of war pounding in Syria, celebrations of the 50th Anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have a Dream" speech, and the fuss over one 20-year-old dancing at the MTV Music Awards, did you miss the story of Antoinette Tuff last week? If so, you missed hearing about an unexpected heroine demonstrating how to save lives while solving a small part of the problem of misuse of guns in America.

She started her week following her normal routine. And despite personal problems in her life, she showed up to work as a school bookkeeper at an elementary school in Georgia. Little did she anticipate what the work week would bring. Because by Friday, she found herself sitting across from Anderson Cooper on CNN being interviewed and introduced to the 911 operator who helped keep her calm while she faced the unexpected challenge of a mentally unstable man with an AK-47 and almost 500 rounds of ammunition standing in the school office.

Usually Antoinette would have been in her busy at her desk on a Tuesday morning, but had been diverted to take a phone call before settling down to her usual work at the school. She shared with Anderson Cooper that she had received bad news, but not the exact nature of the problem she had learned about on the call. The next thing she knew she was calling 911 while talking to Michael Hill holding the gun and telling her he didn't care if he lived or not.

What would you do if faced with such a situation at work? Turns out Antoinette had training in handling crisis situations. After the mass shooting at Sandy Hook last December combined with shootings at schools for far too many years, administrators have realized their employees needed some preparations. But it turns out, according to what she shared in her interview, that she also had learned some critical skills on Sundays and Wednesdays from her pastor at church.

Through her fears and despite her own problems, Antoinette saw the hurting human inside the gunman. She spoke to him respectfully calling him "Sir" and finding their common cord of humanity. She relayed his instructions and requests to the 911 operator who sent the messages to the police surrounding the school. After some more talking, Michael placed his weapon down, set the bullets aside, took a drink of water, and laid on the floor to surrender to the police.

Although he had shot some rounds off, not one person died or was wounded on the scary morning at the school. Antoinette's coworkers warned the teachers to lock the doors and protect the children, but the gunman never got near the classrooms. A calm and understanding woman talked Michael Hill into turning himself in and every parent of each child and the loved ones of the workers at the school were able to hug their family members thanks to a very special woman named Antoinette Tuff.

As the police prepared to come in and arrest the gunman, she took the time to tell him that she was proud of him for not hurting anyone. She also told him that she loved him and that we all have problems in life and that he could get through his problems too. She encouraged him and acknowledged his pain and found the words to disarm the armed man thereby saving countless lives.

Goodness won out last Thursday morning at a school in Georgia. And though this week's news challenges us to see the goodness in life, let's celebrate together an unexpected heroine who provides for us the role model for a Christian putting their faith into action and walking in the footsteps of Jesus.

Celebrating the Joy of Life

By Linda Grupp Boutin

Today a friend tagged me on Facebook. She said a particular video made her think of me (http://rawforbeauty.com/blog). I clicked on the link and enjoyed a belly laugh watching a video featuring this dog bounding through golden fields, jumping high in the air to clear the tall strands, disappearing again completely enclosed by the plants in the field. Considering I have a blog writing about my love of dogs and the antics of my basenjis, I can see the association she made with me. But I also must say that I envied that dog and his pure joy in life, leaping and jumping, celebrating all he saw around him.

I try every day to celebrate the joy in life because not a one of us has any guarantee that tomorrow will come. We take it for granted that we will have another day, and another, and another. But we all know that one day this life will come to an end. One time speaking with my 86-year-old father he told me that the first thing he did every day when he awoke was to thank God for keeping him safe and granting him another day. I took Dad's advice and try to remember to give thanks daily too. When we maintain an attitude of gratitude all that surrounds us takes on the aspect of a gift, which is exactly what all of life and what we have precisely is, a gift from God.

I love that a friend perceives me as a joyful creature. She knows many of the challenges I face with my health. These difficulties contribute to why I appreciate the day, no matter how tough it might be. Pain keeps me company, but so long as I keep busy I can keep it at bay until I go to sleep at night. Then as it tries to raise its ugliness and make me give up, I start to talk to God. Sometimes I can be eloquent with prayer, but when it's midnight pushing 2 a.m. more often I beg for His deliverance. Please Lord, just let me sleep. I know it will be better in the morning light...

And He does, and I rest, and in the morning I bound (sometimes) out of bed much as that dog flies through the fields. And each day when I can touch another life, in some small way or large, I know that every effort is worth it. Because in the doing, my life makes a difference. Today a young teen kept trying to ride his bike across the street. Being a busy Friday afternoon, all the drivers in their cars were too busy to stop and give the young man a chance to cross the street. I pulled up to the intersection slowly, came to a full stop and signaled him to safely cross. The cars going the opposite direction saw me stopped and gave him grace as well. I went on my way feeling like such a small thing can make another person's day, paying it forward in a simple sense.

So what about you, what do you need to celebrate with joy in your life? Health, wealth, a special friend, a cherished pet? Take that moment to give some thanks. There is no right or wrong way, just an opportunity to develop that attitude of gratitude. Embrace the moment and understand our interconnectedness and how that provides each of us the chance to encourage one another.

No Turning Back

By Linda Grupp Boutin

     I stared into my backpack. Did I have everything I needed? The space felt stuffed with the objects for an estimated three to four days. An opened bag of M&Ms, pain medication, heparin to keep my line open (Did I really need to carry this?) and an odd assortment of things to sustain me. I pulled the drawstring taut around the top and strapped our only sleeping bag into place at the base. One last glance around the closet assured me that inside the pack I carried everything for my anticipated hiking trip.

     My green parka hung loosely on a thin frame. The hiking boots that had seen no use for over two years completed the ensemble. I glanced at my husband, Gary, sitting; shoulders slumped, on the bed. He looked up from his clasped hands when I stepped into the room. Tears filled my eyes, but there was no other way that I could see through this mess. Resolutely I turned from the bedroom and out the front door of our apartment. It had taken months of long consideration to reach this decision and I would listen to no further arguments on this matter.

     My footfalls crossing the parking lot created the only sounds on this dark, late November night. My endurance lasted through Thanksgiving, but I could no longer continue the medical regimen required to preserve my life. For over a year my paralyzed digestive tract tolerated no food whatsoever. If I dared take a bite, I landed in a hospital bed. Each night, just to continue living, I connected myself to two machines, one to feed me intravenously for over 12 hours, one to drain the excess fluids from my stomach to attempt to keep them from entering my digestive tract.

     Quality of life entered the news that year. A family wanted to discontinue medical treatment for a daughter trapped inside a coma for too many years. I understood the issue all too well, from the inside, but not trapped in a coma. I knew the pain of illness, emotional and physical, intimately. Reflected in Gary’s eyes, my illness closed us into a world intolerable at best. At UCLA the doctors held out hope for me for an intestinal pacemaker or maybe a transplant in a decade or two. I shook my head to clear the images and looked both ways before crossing the road out of habit.

     My mind tripped back to happier days when Gary and I planned our first backpacking trip together. Newly in love, overflowing with hope for the future, we purchased the packs together along with one for my dog, Ginger. Now less than 5 years later we all knew this trip was to be taken alone. My husband could not understand why I could no longer tolerate the two tubes hanging from my chest, the machines hum all night long, my desperate desire to eat which the doctors had forbidden.

     I left it all behind that night: the intravenous pump and pole, the bottles and bottles of solutions to feed myself with, the tubings, sterile dressings, suction machine. Walked away from my closet full of supplies for life to embrace what would follow, no intention of continuing the ludicrous routine ruling, supposedly saving, my life. I was done, exhausted, finished.

     It won’t take any time at all, I kept reassuring myself. Three or four days at most, depending on how cold it was in the Laguna mountians. Dehydration would set in, after all, the medical encyclopedia listed this as a terminal condition. I have the right to choose treatment or reject it, don’t I? After all, I’m an adult. I had chosen to go to the doctors and accepted their recommendations, but now I’d changed my mind. After experiencing the life they’d designed for a year, doing all they expected, I could no longer accept it. This must all come to an end because I cannot live my life without eating. They are simply asking more than a person can endure. My plan had been to be a nurse to others, not to spend every day of my life taking care of a sick me!

     Hence my plan to cause Gary as little grief as possible. Why did he have to keep fighting me on this? He said life is always worth living, but he has never gone a day not eating hooked up to machines, much less a year. So take as little as possible, leave Gary the car, take the bus to Alpine and walk out into the forest. Find a nice, quiet spot and let the disease take my life. Shouldn’t take too long, probably just three, maybe four days at most. Dehydration would take me quickly, I swallowed hard and reassured myself.

     What is that I hear? No one should be calling me, not right now with my mind made up. I kept walking heading for the bus station. I saw the lights ahead and kept moving forward. Now I recognized the voice. One I knew all too well after just a few years of marriage. His long legs quickly overtook my lead. I begged him to go away. He said he would just walk with me, no more arguments. His pace matched mine. The lights brightened as we approached the benches arranged at the bus stop in the shopping mall. I took a seat, praying for a bus, any bus to arrive soon, so I could escape his company.

     After minutes passed like hours, the bus approached. I didn’t check the destination, it didn’t matter, anywhere away from him would work just fine. I mounted the steps, jangled my fare into the box, stomped to the back of the bus, turned and took a seat. Sliding my arms from the pack I relaxed. I had made it. Now I could be released from this bondage of life with illness, disability, pain in body, mind and soul. Eating would mean nothing where I planned on going, food irrelevant.

     The bus was just sitting there, not accelerating from the curb to take me to my destination. I looked up to see what the bus driver was doing and quickly discerned the problem. Another person had boarded the bus after me and now I was staring directly in those deep, brown eyes I knew all too intimately. Gary stood facing me, standing beside the bus driver. He seemed to be trying to imprint in his memory some final impression of his wife, now fleeing from his look of overpowering love. “Why did he have to follow me?” my thoughts screamed inside my head.

     Now my eyes dropped to my hands and the moment of truth had arrived. That look killed so much in that instant. How could I turn my back on someone who wanted me so badly in their life that he would chase me down like that? I had to do this right, not be a burden, not make a mess, but clean one up. And suddenly I knew that quality of life had nothing to do at all with it. Empty, devoid of meaning, it was not up to me to pick and choose the time or date. Whether it took just three or four days or maybe thirty or forty years, it just simply was not my choice. But once decided, there could be no going back. I could not subject either of us to this anymore. If I changed course here, reversed myself, I knew it would be the commitment for life.

     Slowly, my fingers clasped the strap of that blue backpack. Fighting all impulses, my knees pulled me up and back onto my feet. One step followed the next back to the front of the bus. When I reached him, he pulled the backpack from my grasp, hefting it onto his broad shoulder. I did not ask the bus driver to return my fare, just stepped down the steps and walked forward. Back into life, back into not eating, back into daily, 12-hour regimens of intravenous feedings for the next 7 years.

     Today, 32 years later, I look back at that moment in time when I was convinced to embrace life by brown, loving eyes that refused to let me go. And bless the moment he walked into my life.

Originally written for Ladies Home Journal Personal Essay Contest 2012. I had hopes of receiving a prize for this one, but I didn't win. However, my nephew asked for a copy and later told me that it hung on his bulletin board. I understood I had won on a much deeper level a prize that money could not buy. I thought I would share it with my blog readers and followers. This event occurred in 1980 and was a moment of truth that changed my life and has guided every step of my life afterwards. There are no "do-overs" in life and no turning back from the choices we make.