2025.11.16 NEBULIZATION. Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

Over the last however many days, I have been engaged in the search for a nebulizer, prescribed for me by my wise doctor of pulmonology. Arriving to announce the about-to-appear nebulizer was a large box of vials filled with a mysterious liquid solution. 

But what is a nebulizer? 

I laughed and thought about this old joke we used to tell when I was in grade school. A bunch of kindergarteners puzzled over how a thermos worked. We all knew a thermos kept our milk cool, and our soup hot, yet only one small kindergartener risked asking the obvious: “Yeah, but how does it know which is which?” 

*  *  *  * 

Do you see how easy it is to get lost, or hide behind collective ignorance, blaming or shaming just about anyone else when you also are secretly afraid?  

I tried to blame my poor husband for not knowing exactly what this nebulizer thing was and how exactly it was relevant to my condition, my official pulmonary condition —a whole big wordy diagnosis. Oh yes, I did call the pulmonologist who instructed me to contact the prescriber, who instructed me to call the company, who instructed me to hold. Even google went blurry!  It was no one’s fault, but when you are afraid, anything feels worse than it actually is. 

I was on a merry-go-round of fear and shame—not fun.

You all know this process, and likely we all know how the search for answers leads to more questions and more, yes, fear. I should know this!! The only thing worse than naive, forgetful ignorance is pride, because of course pride is like starch—stiffening.  

So yes, I cried. Then I blamed and shamed, even poor old God who just loved me, which I thought was really dumb!  Then I forgave my poor husband who didn’t know exactly what the hell a nebulizer was either.  Then I remembered the silly joke about the “ignorant” thermos and laughed.   

The bursting energy and pressure of laughter alone completely, yes, “nebulized” me. I exhaled and inhaled in a burst of moronic joy—just enough to help me call and ask, and remember what the nurse had said!  I’d already ordered and paid for my nebulizer—seriously it IS in the mail. 

2025.08.10 IT'S A BIRD! IT'S A PLANE! IT'S MCLEAN, aka SOULS-IN-FLIGHT/FIGHT MODE?

These days life in a costly, supposedly luxurious residential retirement community defined as “Independent Living/Aging-in-Place” everyone is actually dying-in-place—uniquely and dependently. People are truly quite creative— in their fashion, darling!  

The only essential qualification for this kind of daily drama/trauma is a sense of humor, such as: Q “Hey what was for dinner to night?   A: You know, it’s really hard to tell you except it was unrecognizably stew-ISH. Quite pleasurable to the well-trained eye. Looked like a Renoir in the dadaism style of Paul Klee. Q: Rembrandt, eh?  A: Possibly one of the daughters."  

Since everything is impressionistic here, I am free to elaborate at will. Whatever it was it looked like death-on-the move, or movement. Balletic in fact. 

To be quite serious, most of us do not care much about food and other pettinesses, yet we do care seriously about every neighbor inside and out. Thus the flow of life goes onward and inward and outward all at once.  BRILLIANT BALLET, NO? 

clapclapclap……….………….trap

 

2024.01.08 What I Learned in Sickness and In Health, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons

For two weeks I have been in intensive rehab care for a spinal compression fracture in my lower back. I’m home now and continuing to heal as I reflect on my experience. I have learned how enlivening it is to laugh and to remember that, in addition to efficient and capable staff, there is also a patient with a voice in the bed.

*  *  *  *

VITALITY: How vital am I?  The number of times in a 24-hour cycle someone enters your room while you are in the hospital and feeling drained of energy maybe even of blood itself, can actually cause me to feel devitalized!  Oh, some are very polite and kind and ask you if they can “check your vitals” —place an oximeter on your finger and tighten a blood pressure cuff on your arm. Still, you know it will happen whether you consent or not, and even if you are sound asleep. You know you will be judged uncooperative and perhaps resistant to treatment if you refuse. Still, I have a voice, enough to persuade the night nurse to tell them to let me sleep through the whole night after lights out at 11 p.m. till dose #1 at 6 a.m.  “She needs to sleep to get well!” She is respected. I have a nurse-friend who can rise above the rigidity of  “validity” just for my sake this night.  Thank you!

PILLS: Countless in a wee paper cup. These pills come in and go out. Most of them I recognize, like old friends. Nurses are able to recite each one and its worth, also the identity and purpose of  any new one, such as a probiotic to guard against a small dose of antibiotics. I do wonder how all these pills can travel my one digestive tract, each discerning its correct healing mission for my lungs, and my back pain, and my aging bones.  Like an infant, I trust.

INFANCY: Language thereof.  The cries of the aging as each one recedes from full vitality and joins the process of dying, which is like the process of being born into the world and out of the safe warmth of the womb. First there is profound silence, then a touch and yowl of protest—a wail that says, Listen to me, my heart. I’m here. Quickly we hear Touch me. Then Warm me. Then, Swaddle me I’m cold.  Then, Take me home now. Cuddle me. And soon Feed me. Suckle me at my mother’s breast or with the fake but nourishing nipple of a bottle and security of a diaper. And at last, the silence of deep sleep, contentment. Let me sleep now.

*  *  *  *

Dying and birthing are similar transitional processes. I believe that divine love is present at birth and at death—to welcome, listen, swaddle, warm, touch, feed, pray, and let be, which is not the same as let go.  

2020.08.30 Moving Dialogues

Where the freak are the bloody Q-tips?
How should I know? My ears are clean.

Isn’t this the Sunday Jesus suggests taking up our crosses?
Yes, but he was wrong. He meant to say hiking boots.
Yeah, for the trip back to Gethsemane.

It’s so quiet around here.
Maybe because we’re the only ones making noise.

What’s this?
What?
This little white L-shaped thingie.
It belongs on the bed frame—somewhere I think.

Can’t find my sweatshirt.
I saw it somewhere.
So did I.

I think we should put the good silver in here.
We don’t have good silver.
Your mother did.

Aw, aren’t we cute in this pic?
That was our wedding day.
Oh God!

There’s blood in the sink!
Oh yeah, I just knicked my finger.
Doing what?
Something with a knife.
Well, you used half a box of Kleenex on it.
Just bring me the paper towels, bandaids, and be quiet.
Is it bad? Like ER bad?
‘Tsokay, I remember where the hospital is.

I found us a chiropractor.
One that takes our insurance I hope.
I forgot to ask, but they would’ve asked me first, right?
Call them again.
Can’t, I already spent several hundred hours on hold. Besides, they might be hurt. At least the              new PCP I found takes Medicare.
Oh, and I bet the hair stylist does too!

Hey, our old eye doctor is still here.
Do the math. It would have to be his son!  

Hey, the front door clears our braided rug.  
Brilliant! Where’s the underpinning?
I might have told the movers to just chuck it.
What the ………?
It wont’ slide it you don’t step on it—much.

Hey, they have Bingo here! AND a movie on Friday nights.
(No answer)
Did you hear me? Movies. Maybe popcorn.
(No answer)
Hey, I’m talking to you.
Please, please, please stop talking.

I just had a vision
BVM?
No, the freakin’ Q-tips.

 

To be serious, we have just moved into our new home in a retirement community called McLean Village in Simsbury, Connecticut. For us it’s familiar territory, and we’re happy to be living near many though not all of our children and theirs. It is beautiful and tree-full. We are not settled yet, but alive enough to laugh and still believe in God—and Q-tips.