Category Archives: Family

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Time Among Generations

I have received so many unexpected gifts since my Epilepsy diagnosis. The biggest gift was time.

My injuries made employment difficult and I left full-time work almost 5 years ago. Several months later my Grandmother (then 91 years old) decided she should stop driving but she was still mobile and needed occasional rides. Since I was available to help, I started picking her up on Friday mornings and taking her to the grocery store while she did her shopping. It wasn’t long before I was doing all her shopping and then going to her apartment two days a week to help with various tasks that had become difficult for her. They were easy tasks for me, but for her would take all day and wear her out.

I made up the bed, watered her plants, swept the balcony, fixed her lunch, refilled the frig with Cokes for the maids who cleaned every Wednesday and her own Diet Caff Free Cokes, refilled her Hershey’s Almond and Toffee Nuggets, opened her weekly bottle of wine, opened the milk cartons, popped open the child-proof caps on everything that was unopened, painted her fingernails and even filed and painted her toenails. Each day she would have a little list of what needed to get done. We chatted the time away with current news, updates from out-of-town family, Mom’s worldwide travels and my family adventures with growing boys. We teased each other when my noon alarm rang, reminding me to take my medicine and her to take her Parkinson’s medicine. Occasionally we would argue and accuse the other of not knowing what they are talking about. I would tell her she’s old and forgetful. She would tell me I fell. Back and forth we went. Two heads are always better than one, and with loads of humor in the midst, we would eventually get there.

Hunter was not in preschool for the last nine months before he started Kindergarten. I already had my routine in place with Emmer. She counted on me being there every Tuesday and Friday. I figured he was 5 years old and could manage to occupy himself for a couple of hours when I was there.  Just as Emmer and I had already established our routine, he quickly fell right into place and established his own routine. We stopped at the grocery store each day to pick up what she wanted. I carried the list and he followed behind with the small buggy. Eventually he knew exactly what supplies she would want and which aisle to find them. He helped me carry the bags to her apartment. I took the steps to the 3rd floor and he always took the elevator by himself (proving his independence at an early age). He peeked in the door each day and looked for his special treat, one Andes mint, always sitting and waiting for him on the dresser in the entry. He headed right for her as she sat seated on the far left side of her sofa sipping super hot coffee and reading the newspaper, cover to cover. They greeted each other, shared hugs, he thanked for the candy and then escaped to her bedroom to curl up in her recliner and watch cartoons. When it was time to make up her bed, he assumed his position on the right side of her bed and helped pull up the sheets and tuck them in tightly just the way she liked them. He carefully placed her two pillows on the bedspread and fluffed them, just before patting them down into place without a wrinkle to be found. When he heard me pick up the keys, he knew it was time to head to the main entrance to get her mail and stop at the bank. His job was to carry the keys and open the post office box. He sorted the junk mail and dropped it in the recycle box and put everything else in the plastic bag we carried. We stopped at the bank where the teller kept his favorite lollipops. He always took two, claiming one was for his brother, though I’m fairly certain Justin never actually got a single lollipop.

This was our routine. Day in, day out. This was what we did when we went to Emmer’s. We had tasks to accomplish and a correct order in which to do them. When I was taking too long he would get visibly antsy. Emmer always knew when she needed to step in and occupy his mind. She told him she was going to teach him something important that he would need for the rest of his life. She taught him how to count coins. He would wheel her walker to her and dump out some change onto the seat of her walker. She started with the basics showing him the coins, letting him hold them, study them, feel the weight, the sides and the see the color. She taught him how to identify the coin and then taught him the value of each coin. Eventually he understood enough that she began to teach him how to add them all together. I can see them right now. I would stand in the kitchen doing my chores and peek through the open shutters into the living room where he sat at her feet. His eyes for trained on the seat of her walker and all that bronze and silver as her petite hands would move them about as she reminded him what each coin was. When he got lazy and started guessing, she was quick to correct him. She would say “Now Hunter, you are guessing. Pay attention and tell me what this coin is.” He would refocus and follow her instructions. 

Two generations apart, these two connected with each other. Hunter will carry that with him forever. Had I not had the gift of time he would never have had this gift. My injury…an unexpected gift that will last forever.

I didn’t realize the impact these times had on Hunter. This week he came home from school and told me they were learning how to count money in class. “Mom, people in my class don’t know how to count money. I know how to count money. My Great-grandmother taught me how to count money. Not my Grandmother, but my really really old Great-Grandmother. Most people don’t have a Great-grandmother, but I do and she’s really old. We used to go help her when she lived in her own apartment. She taught me how to count money. She would ask me how much an orange drink cost at Cashions. It’s always been .69 but she never remembered that. She always asked how much my favorite drink was and sometimes, if I had done well with my counting she would let me count up to .69 and take it with me to buy my own drink. But we had to get enough money without using the quarters. She kept the quarters for playing bridge with her friends, so we had to count up enough dimes, nickels and pennies. Sometimes if it was a really special day she would give us enough money to go buy Happy Meals for lunch. I loved that! Oh…..how I miss those days.”  Then he smiled, propped his chin on his hand and stared out the car window.

I smiled too, knowing that he had a treasured gift. Those nine months gave him memories that will live with him forever.  A life-changing injury gave all of us gifts. The gift of time for each other. The gift of time among generations. I will treasure these gifts, for generations to come.

Copyright © Gatewood Campbell, October 2011

Hunter in 2009 shopping for Emmer’s supplies

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My Passion for Pavement

 
I am overwhelmed beyond words by the outpouring of support for me at the Chicago Marathon! So many people and so much money! YOU are what Team in Training is all about. This is an avenue for all of you to give hope to those fighting cancer. As individuals, we can touch a few. As a TEAM, we touch thousands! This passion of mine is only possible because of generous donors who help make my dreams a reality. I can only stand back and shake my head in amazement at what we have accomplished together.
 
Drum roll please…..$4,627! That is HUGE!!! 
 
Over 70 different families from all over the country, and even overseas have made this happen! You reached deep to support me, to honor my Mom and to honor your own loved ones. Your sacrifices will indeed change the lives of those affected by these vicious blood cancers. I am blessed with amazingly generous friends and I cannot begin to express the gratitude I feel. I wish I could reach out and hug each one of you. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you!
 
Many people have asked where I find the determination to take on marathons. Partially it’s because I am truly my Mother’s child and I’m half crazy. The rest of it is because it’s personal, but without the help of all of you, none of this would even be possible. You have played a vital role in the success of my quest for a cure. I want to share with you the success that I have seen first hand and you will understand why your role is vital.
 
Mom’s leukemia diagnosis came in 1996. Fortunately the disease progressed slowly and it wasn’t until 2002 when she needed her first round of chemo. The chemo was successful in treating her cancer but the side effects were horrible. Several months into her treatment I went with her to the doctor. My memory of that day is still vivid. The doctor offered Mom a deal she couldn’t refuse. She could stop treatment immediately and avoid the torturous side effects of another month of chemo. The doctor described it as gambling. He said she could walk away with the progress she had made and bet that research over the next few years would result in a new drug that she could better tolerate. She took the bet and ran. 
 
I’m not much for gambling. I prefer the sure thing. I decided I would do whatever I could to ensure the right drug was ready when Mom needed it. A couple years later I discovered the partnership between Team in Training and the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I realized this would be the way I could directly impact cancer research and drug development. I ran the Country Music Half Marathon with TNT in 2006 and the San Diego Rock ‘N’ Roll Marathon with TNT in 2008.
 
Early last year it became clear that Mom would need chemo again. There was one lingering question that we needed answered. What would be the drug of choice this time? Would her only option be the same drug from 2002 that she could not tolerate, or would her bet pay off? You can guess how this story ends. Indeed there are new drugs in use now and she received some of them during her chemo last year. When the doctor told us that he would be using a new drug, miles and miles of pavement flashed before my eyes. The aches, pains, tears and agony of Nashville and San Diego were all worth it for that one moment when the bet paid off! This is why I run and this is why you give, for that one moment when a doctor can give a patient good news. Medicine is not an exact science and no two people are exactly the same. What works for one does not necessarily work for another. Research and drug development must continue. Your generosity ensures that research goes on. You are paying it forward and I’m forever grateful.  
 
The Chicago Marathon is all about celebrating life in our family. A marathon is a shining example of my Mother, her perseverance, her dedication, her adventure and quite frankly her “get over yourself and just do it” attitude.
 
Thank you for taking this journey with me.
Thank you for loving me.
Thank you for trusting me to run the race until the finish.
Many, many thanks for CELEBRATING LIFE with me!
 
Copyright © Gatewood Campbell, October 2011
 
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God Never Wastes a Hurt

God never wastes a hurt, God wants to use you. In the back of my Bible I have random quotes and thoughts that I have heard over the years. I’m not sure where I was when I heard this, but I’m certain that God prompted me to write it down. I’m clinging to this now and trusting that there has to be something big in my future.

I’m not mad anymore. I’m tired and frustrated. I’m frustrated with the reality that Epilepsy has no cure and no perfect medicine. I remember when I was little and we would go to the Davidson Clinic to see Dr. Williams. I used to ask my parents why doctors “practiced medicine”. That indicated to me that it was not yet perfected and I didn’t understand letting someone who is still practicing something stick me with needles and prescribe drugs to me. Now I understand why doctors still “practice” medicine. I was right all along; medicine is not yet perfected. I understand it, but truly I would prefer that someone other than me serve as the guinea pig.

Apparently I make a good study in medicine. Lord help me, I surely hope THAT is not the big purpose that God has for me! You know when you read the labels on medicine and it says “a small number of patients may experience rare and unusual side effects such as…”, yes, well I tend to fall into that category. I guess everyone falls into some statistic and at least I fall into the rare and unusual category. I’ve always thought I was a kind of stand out person anyway. I majored in Psychology in college, it was not my intention to become a study in psychology. Nevertheless, here I am.

The good news is that the seizures have stopped. The not so good news is that as I slowly increase the new medicine I rapidly turn into someone I do not even recognize. It’s really quite possible that Webster’s 2012 newest addition will read: Mood Swing – definition Gatewood Campbell. I asked Johnny if I could hang a sign around my neck that reads “Heavily medicated. Not responsible for anything that is said or done.”  This new medicine turned me into someone I don’t know nor can I control. After several days of uncontrollable sobbing and screaming at strangers in parking lots for their inability to drive responsibly (or whatever else was annoying me at the time) I decided it was best that I remove myself from the outside for a bit. It seemed that was in my best interest as well as the best interest of the state of North Carolina.

Epilepsy is all about misfires in the brain. In order to treat it, you have to corral the misfires. Let’s just say that I’ve got some wanderers that clearly do not want to cooperate. My doctor says that the side effects I am experiencing are rare and unusual. I really should have expected that by now. Although I am more than ready to throw in the towel, quitting is not an option. I’m still trying to convince myself that a seizure would be worse than how I feel on this medicine. The jury is still out on that one for now.

So, here we go again. In order to isolate the symptoms I’m having, we backed off the new meds for a week and in a few days I will try them again. My dosing schedule is about as complex and confusing as the back to school forms for the boys. I hope I’m more successful at my dosing than I was at communicating how Hunter was supposed to get home from school on the first day. Oh well, he eventually made it home safely regardless of the detours. I certainly pray that the outcome of my detour will end favorably as well.

I’m forever thankful for the generous help and support of our friends and family who continue to rally around us. I have no words to express the depth of gratitude I have for what you have given our family. From the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU!

God never wastes a hurt, God wants to use me. I’m sure it is for more than a footnote to some pharmaceutical company’s research, so until then I’m trying to put aside my frustration and hang on to see the bigger picture.

Copyright © Gatewood Campbell, August 2011

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My Beloved Montreat

This is my safe place, my peaceful place, where I am the most secure in my own skin. This is where life happens, and relationships remain, regardless of life. When life takes an unexpected bend, these are the people that hold you, in their hearts, in their minds, in their prayers and in their actions. They hold your hand and they carry you. This is where I am embraced and where friends help me embrace change. This is where it’s ok to ask the deeply personal questions, because it’s not invasive.  It’s an avenue to understanding, to growing, to succeeding and to thriving, for all of us.  The people of this valley have faced tremendous heartache and unspeakable tragedy. There are survivors from every hardship imaginable, and still they walk the same paths they have taken for years, hand in hand, with friends they once met as clubbies. When the bend in the road reveals a hard fought victory, those fellow clubbies will stand behind you, watching you, cheering for you, wanting you to have the stage and feel the thrill of success. The victories are so much sweeter because we have shared the battle with those wanting to bear the load. This is where love crosses generations. My mother’s friends love her, they love me and they love my children.  I share that love with their families. My mother made a lifetime of memories here, I made a lifetime of memories here and now my own children are making a lifetime of memories. Montreat is people, woven together, spanning years, spanning miles and all the while remaining connected.  Montreat is the point of origin from which we venture out into the world.  We know that when it’s time to come home, she, and her people will welcome us with open arms, eager to embrace us.  If her sweetness could be bottled and sold, we would all be rich. But if it were readily available, it wouldn’t be what it is. Her inability to be replicated is what makes us love her so deeply, and yearn for her when we’ve been gone too long.  My week in my safe place has come to an end.  I’ve run her roads, climbed her trails, dipped my toes in her stream and spent precious hours with people that I adore. I’m refreshed and ready to venture beyond her iconic stone gate, because I know that I carry her and her people, in my heart wherever life takes me.

Montreat, how I love you, how I love you, my dear old Montreat…

© Gatewood Campbell, July 2011

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The Little Gatewood That Could

There are lots of things that I don’t do anymore, things I used to do without hesitation, but now I just don’t do them. One of those things is talking.

Everyday conversation can be extremely difficult for me. It does not come naturally anymore. When I was in rehab, my cognitive therapist spent hours role-playing with me. We would pretend to see each other across the aisle in the grocery store and practice casual encounter conversation. She would say “Well, Hi Gatewood, how are you?” And, I would freeze, not knowing how to answer this simple question. At my worst, I could not even find the words to answer this question that we throw around multiple times every day. Usually I would just smile, nod and keep moving. On a good day I might have answered “Fine” but I would not have known to follow it up with “and how are you?” Instead there would just be awkward silence because I didn’t follow up my response with the expected question. So, in that awkward moment of silence I would think….nothing….I was thinking absolutely nothing. My mind was blank. I wanted to call the person by name but I couldn’t match the face with the name. Johnny constantly reminds me that he can’t remember anyone’s name and it’s ok. Actually, he says that my brain injury just caused me to have a man’s brain, but he has had 39 years to adjust to life with a man’s mind, so I’ve still got some years of adjustment ahead. But here’s the thing that causes me endless frustration, before my noggin got knocked, when I saw someone I knew their name, the names and ages of their kids and the schools they attended, the names of their parents, their spouse, sometimes even their address or their phone number. I realize this is a lot of unnecessary information, nonetheless, I knew it, I could recall it quickly and use it frequently in conversation. Post noggin knock, I recognized the faces but I was never sure that I would call them by the correct name, so instead of a personal conversation, my response was a nod in their general direction and then as if I had picked up the “Pass Go and collect $200” card I would dart off in search an aisle without a shopper that I may have to make eye contact with. At my worst, I would do my shopping very late at night when hardly anyone shops. This allowed me the necessary quiet to focus on my list and the peace of knowing I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone….and I really loved the self checkout line. Now that was sheer bliss, I could even get through the checkout without speaking to a soul! Loved that!

I’m much better now. Not where I once was, but definitely leaps and bounds from where I have been. For those of you who get me to talk, you must know that you have touched some part of me that few people reach. You give me that peaceful place, that peaceful acceptance, that peaceful space that allows me to speak slowly. I need time to think through my thoughts, assign the correct words to each specific thought and them string those words together in the right order so that a solid message can be conveyed. If I’m really comfortable then I might even talk a little bit faster and not feel like a deer in Johnny’s crosshairs when my speech abruptly stops because I have mixed up my words, lost my words or started my sentence with the end of the thought instead of the beginning of the thought.

This leads me to “The Little Gatewood that Could”. There are a lot of things that I can do. I can take care of my family, I can take care of old ladies, and I can run 26.2 miles. But I don’t do conversation well and I certainly do not want to speak to more than about four people at any given time. I hardly want two eyes peering at me waiting for me to speak, much less a dozen or more eyes waiting, watching and listening. At this point, most people would say they would rather run a marathon than whatever else, but since I’m clearly not like most people, and I would rather run the marathon than talk I can’t say that here, but you get my drift. I don’t do speaking. A couple of months ago, after my Mom announced her retirement, a group of her close friends and colleagues began planning the retirement party to end all parties. This was no small “thanks for the memories” event. Michael Scott’s party planning committee had nothing on this group of folks and they had big plans for Mom’s special day. So I get this call from Mom’s dear friend Kathy and she mentions the people who are going to speak at Mom’s party…and she says “and of course you”. I think I may have checked the volume on my phone to be sure I heard her correctly and that the phone line was actually still connected. I was sure I had not heard that I was going to speak in front of a group of people…and about a topic as emotional as my mother! Oh dear Lord, come quickly, more specifically before 4pm on June 27th, because I can not figure out how to pull this off. After we finished talking and I realized that I was no longer interested in that great bargain find at Habitat that had caught my eye, I got back in my car and thought it through. Obviously my 95 year old Grandmother was not going to speak, my brother was in Colorado and I couldn’t see propping a 12 year old and a 7 year old on stage either. So, yes, I was the obvious choice, and indeed it was appropriate that a family member speak to Mom, about Mom, for Mom, but seriously, did they really want me to talk….to actual people? So like everything I do, I talked it out on a Tuesday night run, with my running buddy Mari. She had read some of my writing and told me I could definitely do it, I just needed to start writing down my thoughts and my speech would piece itself together. Well duh, it have never occurred to me that I could write something down, rehearse it and use that as my guide to speak.

Fast forward through days of jotting down thoughts, a lot of miles run while thinking about what to say, random notes on my computer….and a couple of hours pacing in the backyard under the 97 degree sunshine while I rehearsed reading aloud the final copy of my speech. I needed to convey the words of my speech without my legs wobbling out from beneath me, without the paper shaking violently in my nervous hands, without my neck turning red from fear and without sobbing uncontrollably and irrationally as I spoke personal heartfelt words about the woman who raised me. Again, dear Lord, I’m really serious, Please come before 4pm this afternoon, you have about 1 hour left to arrive and save me from this! No dice, the appointed hour arrived. The kids and I arrived with my Grandmother in tow, well actually I was in tow I guess, since I was pushing her in the wheelchair. The room was packed with Mom’s friends from as far back as her days in Elementary School. People had flown in from all over the country to be here for Mom. This was certainly not the local grocery store aisle, but somehow I needed to pretend that it was and that I could do this. As the show unfolded and Mom was seated on stage a couple of heavy hitters opened up with their thoughts on Mom. I reached into my purse and pulled out my speech, slid it onto my lap and fitted my glasses firmly on my face. (I’m 37, give me a break, of course I need glasses now). I knew I was about to be introduced…and then…there it was…the words I had feared for so many weeks…Dr. Barton said “Now Wookie’s daughter is going to come up and share a few words about her Mom” at which point I thought my mother was going to fall off the stage. Her eyes bugged out of her face and her mouth dropped when I stood up. I think she thought it was a joke, but, speech in hand I walked on stage. Ok Lord, you didn’t come, so I’m counting on you to give me the strength. So, I looked at Mom, I looked at a gazillion eyes staring at me, listening to me, anxious to hear what I had to say. Many faces looked at me with love and pride, as if channeling their own strength to me, knowing me well enough to know that this was a big, a bigger than big step for me to speak in front of this group. My legs didn’t give out, my shaking hands were hidden by the podium which held my papers, and I had a nice suntan to hide any red that might have popped up on my neck. Yes I cried, but I think I contained it enough that people could understand what I was saying, and my eyes weren’t so blurred with tears that I couldn’t read my words. And then, it was done. I had conquered about 6 years of demons in about 6.5 minutes flat! I was supposed to keep my speech to 3 minutes, but I am my Mother’s child so I wasn’t really so concerned about a time limit. I figured since I was the daughter of the star of the show I could get away with breaking the rules anyway. I’m not sure if it was the words that I spoke or the fact that Mom knew just how far I reached outside of my comfort zone that meant so much to her. Maybe it was a combination of both. For me, I really didn’t think I had it in me to pull this one off, but I did. Just like Kathy told me weeks ago, it would be worth it. And it was, in many, many ways.

© Gatewood Campbell, June 2011