·
Sunday, 13 July 2008
San
Fermin continues!
·
Saturday, 12 July 2008
I
am grateful to report, my prayers have been answered. I glanced out the window and there, nosing
the door, was a very wet, bedraggled Zia Maria, happily home.
·
Friday, 11 July 2008
Thunder
and lightening crashed and boomed in the late afternoon. I paused at work and thought about my dog and
how she hates storms.
When
I arrived home in the midst of a heavy downpour, my heart sunk. The backdoor had been pushed open and there was
no dog in sight. My three-legged pup had
managed to leap over the 6-foot high fence and was long gone.
Where
could my frightened dog be?
How
to distract myself and wait for morning, when surely she would find her way
home? A long night ahead; how to fill
the hours?
My
heart is heavy.
·
Monday, 7 July 2008
The
Running of the Bulls –
Ahhhh
yes. The crazy chaos of the running of
the bulls is underway.
Could
it have been some psychic waves that found me doing research on walking the
Camino de Santiago de Compostela just as the annual running of the bulls was
kicking off?
As
I downloaded information on weather and equipment, I stumbled on a webcam for
I
can almost hear the roar of the thousands of participants, all dressed in white
with red belts and red scarves, all chanting:
"A San Fermín pedimos, por ser nuestro patrón, nos guíe en el encierro
dándonos su bendición" (Roughly
translated: "Oh San Fermín, our Patron saint, guide us through the run and
give us your benediction.")
They
each carry a rolled up newspaper used to draw the bull’s attention as they run
just ahead of the beautiful, strong bulls.
There
is controversy around the event but there is much, much more than the traditions
associated with the run and the fight.
I
do not plan to engage in a verbal battle over this, but I would rule out
conversations with anyone wearing leather shoes or who dines on meat!
·
Sunday, 6 July 2008
Hearts Singing…Organ Donors
and Joy…
The
back door is thrown open. Birdsong fills
the kitchen and I observe a variety of birds winging through the branches that
shade our kitchen yard. I catch glimpses
of the koi darting around the pond. The
six-foot potted morning glory wafts in the breeze outside the door, waiting for
me to decide where to let it put down its hungry roots. I can smell coffee in the French press. I plan to fill my happy yellow Bosco-mug with
coffee and head outside once I finish the breakfast dishes.
The
“This I Believe” segment of NPR’s Sunday Morning Edition pours out of the radio
on the kitchen counter as I delight in the hot, sudsy water-play that is part
of the dishwashing task. I pause as I
hear an introduction that mentions
I
continue to wash dishes, half listening to the radio voices, distracted by more
bird-play outside my window.
But,
the story begins to unfold. I stop, sit
down and listen as I discover that the woman speaking and I share far more than
Christine
Little speaks directly to me. I hear her
grief and pain. I hear her pondering
what it is like to be the donor family whose gift means the death of a loved
one. I hear her joy in the reprieve her
son receives from the gift of a human heart.
Then I hear again the sorrow and pain of losing that son and the comfort
that comes with the decision to share his organs and tissue with others.
She
speaks of her son’s sky-blue eyes and I think of my own son’s blue eyes. I recall my own remarks at a donor family
gathering a few years ago. I remember
the comfort I found in knowing that our son Caleb’s gift of his corneas would
allow someone else to see the beautiful world that his spirit embraced with
such joy.
I
find myself at my keyboard, thinking with my fingers.
The
coffee in my yellow mug grows cold as I tap out a note of gratitude to NPR for
sharing this program and then another note to the “This I Believe” contact
thanking them for their good work.
Lastly, I Google Christine and send her a heartfelt note.
How
the world conspires to bring us together…as it should. We are one in Spirit and so it should be in
life.
As
I tap out these words, the public radio station is airing Native American music
– my thoughts drift away. Though I do
not know what the words are about, I feel the power of that Sprit that guards,
guides and governs us all.
Following
is a copy of Christine Little’s essay (Extracted from the NPR site)…and below
it, is a copy of my note to NPR and the remarks I shared at the donor family
gathering.
A Kind And
Generous Heart
As heard on NPR's Weekend Edition Sunday, July 6,
2008.
I learned my belief from my son. I believe in selfless giving.
Eight years ago, my 13 year-old son, Dustin, became very ill with a heart
enlarged to double its size. The medical term, as unimportant as that is to a
grieving mother, was cardiomyopathy. For several months Dustin lived on life
support as we were forced to stand by and watch him wither away. While his
friends were out playing baseball, flirting with girls and sleeping in their
own beds, my son was in a hospital bed, attached to a machine that kept his
heart beating. As a mother my first reaction after crying was anger, and then I
played the bargaining game: “Take my life for his, Lord. I’ve lived my life but
he still has so much to do.”
People all around me were praying for a heart to become available, but it made
me so angry and confused because I knew for that to happen, someone else’s
child would have to die. How could anyone pray for that?
I still remember so clearly the morning we got the call that there was a heart.
As we stood in Dustin’s hospital room watching them prep him for surgery we
experienced the true definition of bittersweet. His dad and I, seemingly in
unison, realized that at the precise moment that we were standing there with so
much hope and so much love, another family somewhere was saying goodbye. We
knelt down together and cried and we prayed for them and we thanked them for
giving such a selfless gift.
To our amazement, just 10 days later, Dustin got to come home for the first
time in many months. He had turned 14 in the hospital and at such a young age
he had received a second chance at life. Over the next two years he got to go
to high school, learn to drive and have his first girlfriend. He got to spend
time with his family and be in the great outdoors, which was where he truly
loved to be. He put his brand new heart to good use volunteering at the
homeless shelter and helping the elderly. He also became a very devoted
Christian young man.
Dustin’s new heart failed him when he was 16. A tragedy, yes, but we have to
see it as the miracle it was. We received two precious years with him that we
would never have had without organ donation. We have more pictures, more
memories and a great satisfaction in knowing that he was able to experience
some of the most exciting times and milestones in a teenager’s life.
When he died, as difficult as it was for us, we knew that it would be Dustin’s
wish to give back. His eyes went to someone who wanted to see. Someone who,
perhaps, had never seen the faces of the family they loved so dearly. I believe
that one day I will look into the face of someone else’s son or daughter and I
will see those sky blue eyes looking back at me—the evidence of selfless
giving.
Christine Little is a circulation clerk at the public library in Bettendorf,
Iowa, where she lives with her three remaining children, a dog, cat and guinea
pig. In her spare time, Little enjoys reading, writing and relaxing on the
beach with her family.
Independently produced for NPR by Jay Allison and Dan Gediman with John Gregory
and Viki Merrick.
MY NOTE TO NPR/THIS I BELIEVE
Greetings
from Sunny Santa Fe,
Christine Little and I have much in common; some quite superficial (like being
from
I am grateful to her for sharing her thoughts. I do not have words to
express just how comforting it is for me to know my own son Caleb lives on, in
many ways, through the lives of those who are recipients of his organs. When
Christine spoke of the paradox of accepting the heart and knowing what it meant
to another family who must be saying a sad farewell, I found myself saying a
prayer of gratitude. Knowing that our son's gift of life really does
bring joy to others is comforting.
I am inserting a copy of my remarks at an organ donor family gathering a few
years ago. My words about my own son's blue eyes seem similar to
Christine's.
Since Caleb died, our own lives have taken on new energy and we have navigated
new courses - we started a small library in rural Malawi in honor of our son
(CALEB Library Project - Contributing to Africa's Literacy and Education
through Books) and we have served in Peace Corps (Ukraine Feb 2005-May 2007 -
see my journals at www.pulverpages.com)
and now my husband and I are serving in AmeriCorps*VISTA.
This
December, we intend to volunteer with the organ donor family and support an
organ donor family float in the Tournament of Roses Parade - people can
dedicate flowers to loved ones as part of the float. A healing and joyful
experience for all. In May of 2008, I plan to walk a 500 mile
pilgrimage of gratitude (the medieval Camino across northern
It has been six years since we last saw our son, but he lives on in so many
remarkable ways - I see him looking back at me. When a heart breaks, it
is then that love is released - it is like breaking out of a seed or like a
small bird cracking out of an egg...
I feel strongly that it is because of our loss that we have had the courage and
the drive to embrace the world and be the change we wish to see.
Thank you for your series and thank Christine Little for her voice.
Thank you letting me share my thoughts.
Life is good...
Virginia J. Pulver
www.pulverpages.com
_________________________________________________________________________
DONOR FAMILY GATHERING
Service of Remembrance
18 Oct 2003,
Transcript of Remarks by Virginia J. Pulver
It is a pleasure to be here – so much love in this room and even more important, so much joy…at least I hope the tears I am seeing are tears of joy and celebration.
When someone dies, we expect to feel pain and sorrow. It is easy to be bogged down in self-pity, thinking about all the things that will never be…sorrow, will always be there, but we can learn to handle it gracefully. The difficult feelings and emotions do not come as a surprise to us, except, perhaps in how profoundly debilitating our pain and agony can be. We do not want to let our loved ones go – we are left behind and we are in pain. We weep for ourselves. We are helpless, like animals in pain.
And we should weep, but celebration is the message I want to share with you … even in the time of devastating sorrow, we can be surprised by joy, we can seek out joy, we can celebrate. We smile and laugh through our tears…we walk without pain, for a while. Our ability to cultivate joy, to choose joy, in the face of pain and fear, may surprise us, but I believe we should acknowledge your pain, but share our joy.
I love to hear my son Caleb’s name spoken aloud. It brings me pleasure when I hear his name. It saddens me that I seldom hear his name anymore. Have you noticed, people are hesitant to say the names of our loved ones aloud? It is as if they are afraid we will react with tears. Maybe we will, but they may be tears of joy.
I find ways to sneak my son Caleb’s name into conversations because I want him to be remembered…I want to celebrate his life. I want to keep his name and his spirit alive somehow!
By now, most of us in this room, know lots of
techniques for remembering our loved ones…many of us have special
rituals… I want to share one of my “coping” techniques…Caleb drove a
black Jeep Wrangler (which he nicknamed “the Hair Dryer” because it had no air
conditioning and yes, he lived here in
(The delightful, beautiful woman Caleb was dating brought me here today. When Michelle and I got out of her vehicle, we were surprised to see a black Jeep Wrangler parked in the row behind us. It made me laugh and Michelle shared in that laughter too. It made me feel a bit better, because, as you can imagine, I was feeling some stress about attending this function and also about sharing these remarks. Just when I needed support, there was Caleb’s Jeep Brigade is working its magic!)
So, we learn to find ways to keep the memory of our loved ones alive.
The one most important way to keep our loved one’s memories alive is the one that has brought us together – our loved ones really do live on through the organ, tissue and eye recipients – our donor family.
I was not prepared for the joy I found when I began corresponding with some of Caleb’s organ recipients. I did not know how healing it would be to write to them. I did not know how comforting it would be to hear about how the quality of their lives is enhanced by the gift of my son’s organs. They share a message of gratitude, but I am the one who is really blessed…I know through these recipients that my son Caleb, really does live on.
I want to share with you some excerpts from some of my correspondence with members of Caleb’s organ donor family. Jeff is the young diabetic who received Caleb’s kidney…
“…I want to
thank your son, Caleb, for giving me the chance to go on with my life in a more
normal manner … I will think of Caleb often and thank him again and again and
again…”
Here is an excerpt from one of my letters to him:
“Jeff, I
want to thank you for something you said in your letter; you wrote: ‘I will
think of Caleb often and thank him…’ Jeff, that means so much to
me. You can not imagine how sad it makes me to think Caleb may be
forgotten. He was such a joy to us and we miss him very much. It is
very important to me to keep his memory alive somehow. I am grateful to
you, as an organ recipient, because it is through you that Caleb will live
on. It pleases me to think of that. I hope his kind and generous
spirit will continue to find expression through your life and I am glad you
will be thinking of my son too.”
I would like to share one more excerpt from a letter to a cornea recipient:
“…It is
also a comfort to share some memories of my son’s adventures with you.
Because you are a cornea recipient, I want you to know our son’s eyes witnessed
so much beauty in the world; many things you may have never seen, but now, in a
small way these things are part of you. These things are part of Caleb’s
legacy. His eyes watched the running of the bulls at
It is through the organ recipients our loved ones really do live on…
I am so grateful for the individual who approached my husband and me concerning the opportunity to donate. In our shock and grief, we were certainly not thinking clearly, so the opportunity to donate might have passed before we were lucid enough to share with those in need.
I would also like to thank the dedicated people from the Donor Network of Arizona. People like Lani Hickman, the family services coordinator, who have helped us reach out and touch (and be touched) by the organ donor family…a family that allows our loved ones, my son Caleb, to live on. Through our donor family, his name will live on. ... there will be people to whom his name means life and possibilities…
I want to close with a gesture that has become very important to the Pulver family…whenever we gather someone usually finds an opportunity to share a flurry of magical, mystical soap bubbles … a moment of celebration and now, a moment of remembrance…please indulge me… [SOAP BUBBLES]
Thank you and I wish you blessings of joy…
* * * * *
·
Saturday, 5 July 2008
Thunder-Boomers
My
dog trembles as the afternoon thunderstorm rolls in. Her ears pull flat against her head. She makes herself small. I can see the trembling from across the room.
Monsoons
are a regular part of life here. They
pass quickly, but during the daily twenty minutes or so we are pummeled with
rain, the wind commands our attention and the threats seem ominous. Thunder rumbles. They sky is dark. The temperature drops. In a short time, it is all over. The sky returns to turquoise and the birds
resume their singing.
Zia
slinks off to her corner, still wary of quick changes. She assumes a more relaxed pose, but her eyes
roll up as a last rumble of thunder resonates across the mountains.
In
minutes the sun beats down and the powerful flurry becomes a memory.
·
Friday, 4 July 2008 – Independence Day
VISIT THIS LINK WITH SOUND
ON:
http://www.wherethehellismatt.com/
I love this. Dancing his way around the world… I am going to watch it again!
·
Thursday, 3 July 2008
Houdini, My Dog’s Middle Name
Miss
Zia is a magician. Twice now, she has
met us as we drove up the lane to our present home. We left her inside the high fence of the
large dog yard, yet here she is wagging her happy tail behind her, clearly
outside the fence.
As
we did last time, my spouse and I walk the fence, looking for evidence of
digging. We find nothing.
Jumping
the fence? Not likely since Miss Zia is
missing her left rear leg. While having
three legs does not slow her down, it does make some challenges less likely.
So
how is she getting out?
It
is a mystery.
I
am grateful to find her on the property when we arrive home. Some dogs would be rambling down the road to
explore or chasing after sheep and horses across the road. It appears Miss Zia simply enjoys hanging out
in the other yard.
·
Tuesday, 1 July 2008
Smooth-sailing
ahead – at least for the next few days.
Company is gone and a three day weekend is unfolding with no outside
demands. Sprints and marathons have been
the rule of life for quite a while.
The
luxury of unscheduled time lures me…I can almost smell it. Anticipation is wonderful.
July
marks the end of Mark’s AmeriCorps adventures.
His contract expires mid-month.
What will he do next?
ab
TO
READ
JUNE
POSTS OR OTHER, OLDER ENTRIES,
RETURN
TO THE ARCHIVES ON THE LEFT.
FYI:
If you want to read about our
Peace
Corps Ukraine adventures,
start
with January 2005 - May 2007.
Happy
Now
we are having AmeriCorps*
here
in beautiful
Life
is good!
ab