About rkpaulus

Writer. Mom. Wife. Basketball coach. Lover or all things chocolate. Winner of bubble gum jar! Grace is my oxygen.

History and Legacy – Two Sides of the Race Coin

Posted on June 4, 2020 by rkpaulus

In the words of Nelson Mandela, “To be free is not merely to cast off one’s chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.”

Think back to your high school history classes for a moment. How many weeks were spent reading about and discussing the first century of American history. And how much of that time was dedicated to telling the truths about slavery and racial injustice that weren’t politically abolished until 1886, more than a 100 years after July 4th, 1776. Or was it? Even after the Emancipation Proclamation, freed slaves were enslaved again under the guise of coal mining jobs as one example. Have you ever heard the name Green Cottonham? Or Jonathan Davis? Or any of the other unnamed children of slaves who were arrested and forced to live in a repackaged version of slavery.

Did you know there’s a museum in Alabama that memorializes the 4000 plus lynching victims in America? But it only opened two years ago in 2018 after years of research largely led by Brian Stevenson and his Equal Justice Initiative. What if current and future generations were required to take a field trip to view this perspective of American History and invited to walk through the painful aisles of truth that scar our collective past? Like kids in South Africa tour the Aparthied Museum or children in Germany visit the Holocaust Museum.

These are just a few of the things I’ve been thinking about since we return from marching alongside thousands of protesters in downtown New York City two days ago with the hubby and our four girls. The need to understand how we got here (history) should directly influence what we leave behind (legacy). As parents, we strive to raise kids who lead lives of grace and truth, encouraging them to actively pursue social justice in their schools and clubs, and to stand up and be respectfully disruptive for what is right rather than be silent and comfortably complacent. So we drive into the city, join up with the gathering of New Yorkers of every race, march, kneel, and chant slogans like, “Hands up. Don’t shoot,” and “No justice. No Peace,” along with the names George Floyd and Breonna Taylor. I am brought to fresh tears for those we protest alongside with who scream with worn voices of the loss and injustices that stamp their daily lives. Especially for the African-American boys and men in the crowd with their hands raised who continue to face an actual threat when they repeat, “Hands up. Don’t shoot.” And for the mostly safe world we will return to as a family while the cause of racial justice feels at times impossible to undo in our lifetime.

The history of racism dug graves so deep, the questions of representation, reconciliation, and reparations feel insurmountable when racially violent acts like that of Ahmaud Arbery and George Floyd essentially kick the black population back down into those graves. How can the voices of the thousands of protesters change the hearts of hundreds of thousands that might never agree to lay down their privilege. The taxing red tape of counter-arguments redirecting the spotlight off the racist acts in the past months to the questions of racism or the looters or black on black violence compose a smokescreen so thick, when and if the dust ever settles, the age old questions remain. Who tells our history? How can we know the whole truth? Shouldn’t the truth change us? And if we say we stand for love, justice, peace, and equality, how do we as individuals live according to those ideals in a world whose infrastructure was built on the polar opposites?

I don’t have answers to these layered questions, but I do understand one thing: history is not the same as legacy. We can’t choose our history at this point in time, but we still have a say in our legacy and the world we leave behind for future generations. The work ahead is not easy, but anything worth fighting for is an uphill battle, and if we walk this journey of love and justice together, united in our purpose and vision for the world Dr. King dreamed for us, I can’t say for sure we’ll reach the promised land in our lifetimes, but we have the moral responsibility to get a little closer, wouldn’t you say? We don’t have to agree on every detail and think homogeneously to make progress. It actually doesn’t make sense for everyone to take the exact same course of action, because each of us has access to different resources and spheres of influence. The resources and opportunities are countless and being posted all over the internet for the taking. But we should agree on one thing: the dignity and value of a human life. This could make all the difference. History. Legacy. What story will they tell about you when your life is over?

Freedom Walk

P.S. I wanted to invite you to join Cycling for Change on June 20, 2020 for a virtual Walk for Freedom. Registration is Free. Donations will go toward the restoration of survivors of human trafficking. It’s a small way to make a big impact against one injustice that overwhelmingly impacts underrepresented populations. Thanks for considering. And thank you again for all the past support and to all who have been a part of our Cycling for Change Family from the beginning to offer hope. Because hope. Changes everything.

Dear White Christian Friends

Posted on May 29, 2020 by rkpaulus

Devin Simpson’s song “I can’t breathe”

Dear White Christian Friends,

I just want to start by saying that this letter will not cover all points of view and/or all relevant arguments. I simply want to start a dialogue, because I know that when a conversation ends, hope is extinguished, and if there’s one thing I hold on to, some days by a thread, it’s hope. It’s the hope that as people who believe Jesus died for all the wrong happening in the world, the cross was not for nothing, and our love for Jesus is best demonstrated by our actions. And the grave is empty, reminding me that at the end of the day, this life and this lifetime’s evil and hurt will not have the last say.

First, my heart is broken, and I’m honestly nauseous. These last few weeks’ news reports remind me that racism is still prevalent and Ahmaud Arbery and George Floyd are two more names added to the crowded graveyard marked Black Lives Mattered. Let’s be honest. Their lives were not valued. And honestly, the whole incident with Amy Cooper just felt like a kick in the face in the midst of the death of two African-American males, both unarmed and murdered. That could have been my nephew going for a jog. My brother-in-law. His brother or his father. It honestly could have been my husband or father, both Indian, but dark-skinned. But even if I didn’t have black family members, the delayed arrests of the father-son in Georgia and the four police officers being fired felt like slaps on the wrist for crimes that needed to be punished more swiftly and justly.

My questions for you, white Christian friends are these: Why, after a news story or video of a black male being killed by a white person, do you feel the need to so immediately question whether the act was racist or not? Why are so many of you defending the tiniest possibility that the acts of violence were simply just that, and race did not play a factor? Also, why do you feel the need to research and just now bring to the world’s attention stories of unarmed white men who were killed by white cops? For the record, the actual statistics when you understand populations and percentages do not hold water or legitimize this argument. And finally, why are so many of you just silent? Absent from the conversation? Why the sudden white flight from the pain and sorrow and rage felt by the black community?

As a parent, my husband and I believe we’re responsible for having these difficult conversations with our daughters. We want them to know what’s happening in the world. We want them to understand to whatever degree their young minds can comprehend, that injustice occurred and the importance of speaking up, standing up, and being part of the solution.

As I wrestle with how to help and be a part of lasting change in the present culture, one bottom line repeatedly comes to mind. If I say I’m a Christian and I believe that we are all God’s children, and each of us is made in the image of God, and I fail to be there for my African-American brothers and sisters in their pain during this time, what am I communicating to them about their value in my perspective?

White Christian friends, how different would the conversation be if you stopped defending the argument that not everyone is racist? If we are being 100% honest and vulnerable, no one is 100% NOT racist. We all see each other imperfectly, especially those most different from ourselves. Acknowledging our country’s racist history and our present racist digressions is perhaps the first concrete step to true reconciliation between races.

And love. The Bible says, “LOVE covers a multitude of sins,” but if we truly love our African-American neighbors, can we try to do better? Show up. Mourn together. Stop defending yourself or your race. And just listen.

David W. Augsburger said, “Being heard is so close to being loved that for the average person, they are almost indistinguishable.”

Can we do that? Listen and learn. To listen means, I care about your pain and want to understand it better. If I can’t understand, I can ask God to help me understand. Let’s love each other enough to do at least this.

Can I leave you with a song written by my friend Devin Simpson, called, “I can’t breathe.” She wrote it. And she has a beautiful heart and voice. Please listen.

Sincerely wanting to do better,

Rajdeep

P.S. A great post on FB shared 8 concrete things White People Can Do About Racism by youth pastor Theo Davis. And a second really good source on “listening to the other side.” Lots of good material by Christian Rapper and Poet Propaganda. So many good books out there to be informed too. Fiction, The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas is a must read. And Non-Fiction, anything by Brenda Salter McNeil. Her newest book is coming out this August. You can pre-order now. I know there are many more resources for us to listen and learn from. Feel free to add them in the comments so we can learn together.

A Good Friday Love Letter to my New York Doctor Husband

Posted on April 10, 2020 by rkpaulus

Thank you for all the love, support, and prayers. We feel surrounded. <3

LINK to Guest Blog Below on Sheila Gregoire’s Page, “To Love, Honor, and Vacuum.”

A Good Friday Love Letter to a New York Doctor Husband

A Cinderella Mother’s Day, Thanks to Amazon – Part One

Posted on May 13, 2017 by rkpaulus

MD3 A text message streams across my phone like a messenger pigeon landing on my window sill, a prelude to an invitation.

“Sending you an email now with an exciting opportunity. Check it out and let me know.”

I know the sender. He is unlike the weatherman, because he always brings news of blue skies.

The subject of the email is, “Field Trip to NYC,” but I live in New York (Long Island, technically,) so my first reaction is confusion.

The email opens with, “You have been invited…” and it may as well have continued, “To The Royal Ball,” because who doesn’t like to be invited?

Amazon is celebrating 20 years as an IPO, and this Monday, the day after Mother’s Day, the CFO is ringing the Opening Bell on Nasdaq. About 40 people who work with Amazon will join in the festivities. My name made the list.

But it gets better. MD4 (1)

The next email arrives about a week ago, asking if I’m able to arrive timely on Monday morning. I reply with, “What time do I need to be there? There’s a LIRR train not too far from me I can catch. Once I know the time everything starts up, I can decide if there’s an early enough train.”

The response is a cc to a lovely lady named Nikki, telling her that, “Raj is a fantastic author who our team has worked with in the past… She needs a hotel room for Sunday night, please.” Hotel room? In the city? I mean, I won’t say no.

So Nikki graciously makes me a reservation at the Knickerbocker in Times Square.

But wait. Wait. It gets better. MD2

“Do you need ground transport to and from the hotel?”

I’m easy. I’ve been a New Yorker for close to two decades and very comfortable with the LIRR, the Subway, cabbing it. I might not have every inside scoop that true New Yorkers have but I can manage. I say so.

But the response is, “We’ll get you car service for both directions. No problem.” Uh. Okay. That’s thoughtful.

But wait. Wait. Wait. It just keeps getting better.

I run into my first scheduling conflict when I realize that this Sunday is Mother’s Day. I have to get something for my mother so I might go shopping for a necklace or just might hang with her and cook food for her. But I can’t just up and leave my kids on Mother’s Day of all days. I email Nikki and tell her a few different ideas I have, making sure that my goal for Sunday is to maximize my day with my family, feeling guilty for even asking if my kids come to the city with me. I was already so grateful for all the accommodations. Worse case scenario, hubby could drive the family in or I would head the city later on Sunday night. The response is, “Well, it doesn’t hurt to ask.”

Come Monday morning, the plan develops further, with requests for what time to pick up the whole family in a car. What time to drop off the family on Sunday night? And did we want car service to a restaurant in the city as well?

Too much! Too much! But so, so thankful. Overwhelmed with gratitude, because all the gifts—the invitation, the hotel, the car service, including my family—all good things. But the real treat is having my four girls with me to experience this special time with them. For them to know that a woman can be more than just a wife, a mom, a daughter, a sister, and a friend. A woman can move mountains with her dreams, and the topography is shifting, little by little. “Like a Girl” is the new Strong, and Brave, and Talented!

I also love that I get to celebrate this time with my biggest cheerleader—my husband. Sun has been telling every neighbor, co-worker, and person at the grocery store, “Hey, you know what? My wife! She’s gonna ring the bell on Wall Street.” Okay. Not quite. But he makes me laugh. And his confidence fills the gap when I doubt myself and worry if I have what it takes to make it as an author. He along with a constant supply of God’s grace, that is.

MD1 So this Mother’s Day, we’re headed to the city. We’re going to pick up some take-out, play cards, and jump on the hotel bed. Well, my nine-year old might test it out for potential sleep satisfaction, of course. And if the rain holds up, we’ll venture out to the rooftop and take a peek at the city all lit up at night. The city that never sleeps never ceases to delight, even after all these years. And maybe we’ll sing the words while dancing to Alicia Keys,

“There’s nothing you can’t do. Now you’re in New York. These streets will make you feel brand new. Big Lights will inspire you. Hear it from New York. New York. New York!”

If I could ring a bell for all the women who have encouraged me along the way, I’d ring it nice and loud for my mother, my second mom, my sister, my grandmothers, and all the female friends who have walked this road of life with me. I love you all. Hope your weekends are filled with grace (and chocolate!) as you make memories with your loved ones.

Happy Mother’s Day, All! <3

Ten Advantages to Being a YA Author

Posted on March 15, 2016 by rkpaulus

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All Week, teen authors from around the country will land in NYC, the teen night club of cities, to share, discuss, and sign their young adult books. Come! Join us! Invite your friends!

Here are just TEN advantages to being a teen author:

When you wake up to a little pink mountain on your left cheek, you can blame it on the hormone-raging world you choose to mentally live in for the sake of the cause. Clearly, the daily consumption of chocolate has nothing to do with you breaking out.

When the radio plays your favorite song by Justin Bieber, you’re required to turn it up so you can hear it like a teenager. You can always sing, “Sorry,” later.

When you get your news about the world from Snapchat, Facebook, and Instagram first, you pat yourself on the back for staying informed. Post. Like. Share. Repeat.

When you show up an hour early at the midnight premier of the movie version of your favorite teen read and initiate the standing ovation when the credits roll, no one can tell your age in the dark, so you are good. Clap louder!

When you shop at Forever 21, you can justify your purchases in the name of research. Never mind that Forever 29 is actually your middle name.

When your weekly eating-out budget runs over because of frequent trips to Chipotle, Panera, or Starbucks, you look on the bright side. At least your mom didn’t have to cook tonight. Oh wait. You are the mom. Even better!

When hours disappear after binge-watching several seasons of teen TV, you have just saved the world from repeat stories and been there-done that characters. And sure it was six straight hours, but back in the day, there were people who watched television with commercials. Talk about an outrageous waste of time.

When you scream like a teenager after spotting Taylor Swift at the Knicks game, you don’t have to play it off as if you’re cheering on the team. In fact, when the coach assists a bleeding player off the court, stand up and cue your very best rendition of “Bad Blood.” I’ll sing the chorus with you.

When your significant other asks you out in a text message, when you slow dance in the parking lot to the song on your car radio, or when you kiss each other in the rain, because let’s face it, a functioning umbrella is rarely in the right place at the right time—permission to fuel those falling in love scenes afresh. Because when you’re a teen author, it feels like the first time. Every time.

When you read your books, you smile, because you get to write the books you love to read. The stories you wish existed when you were a teen. But do now. So Yay!

What did I miss? I’m sure there are plenty more! And if you read YA, what have you read lately?

BTW, did you get your tickets to see Allegiant yet?? Counting down the days!

Hubby’s Ironman Heart

Posted on June 3, 2015 by rkpaulus

So the other night, I dreamt I slept with Ironman. Who says, dreams don’t come true?

In the morning, Hubby drives over to the hospital for his surgery. Meanwhile, I sit in the passenger seat, fully aware that I will be his chauffeur for the next two weeks, which won’t be easy, because Hubs absolutely prefers to be in the driving seat. When we arrive at NorthShore in Manhasset, a couple of friends greet us. They came to be a support. Shortly afterward, Hubby’s family meets us in the waiting room, and between the company and all the texts and messages conveying well wishes—I certainly feel surrounded.

Off they whisk Santhosh for bloodwork and as we wait. Jack, whose wife has her fair share of frequent flyer miles in the hospital, says, “A lot of the time is just waiting.” Waiting for your turn. Waiting for the surgery to finish. Waiting for recovery. And then waiting for the green light to go home. It’s nice to not wait alone.

When the waiting room volunteer calls Santhosh’s name, all six of us stand up, and he puts his hand out to stop us. “Woah! Maybe one or two of you can come back there, but not everyone.” Jack insists I go first. And when I see him, Hubs is already gowned up and laying on a hospital bed, just waiting for his turn in the O.R.

“I asked the guy what time you were going in,” I tell Hubs. “He said the first guy showed up over an hour late, so even though you’re second, it’ll be a little bit.” I playfully tug on his chest hair. “This will probably set the whole schedule back a few hours, if you ask me.” Hubs laughs, so I add, “Wait. Hold still,” as I fish out my lipliner. “Should I draw a big X over your heart so they won’t miss?” and we laugh some more.

Papers signed and prayers said, the surgeon shows up to answer any last second questions. They’re putting in a sub-cutaneous defibrilator or ICD to give his heart a fighting chance if the fibrosis from the HCM (hypertrophic cardiomyopathy) causes an arrhythmia.

“You might never need it,” Dr. B., the surgeon says, “But if you do, you’ll have it.” And with all we’ve learned about hubby’s condition in the last six months, this seems like the best next step to moving forward. The doc also explains, “This device will sit under your skin, under the left arm, and the wires will run across and up your chest and sit above the ribcage, not touching or entering the heart muscle as in devices of the past.”

I ask, “How big is it?” and he makes a two by two square box with his fingers and then a centimeter space between two fingers to show the thickness, but assures us, “As the years go on, technology will get better and the ICD will get smaller and the battery life longer.”

Hubby’s brother brings a ’91 Bulls Championship cap to show his baby brother because he knows him well – pretty much anything to do with the Bulls cheers Santhosh up. Jack tells a few stories, and Hubby’s mom insists we take a few pictures.

A kiss. A look. And they roll Hubby down to the OR while the rest of us head to get coffee. Hubby’s mom stays with me, telling me stories which makes the time go by rather quickly. When two hours pass, we walk back to the waiting room, and sit down, but I recognize my need to be alone and tell Amma, “I’m right outside,” exit the room, and pace up and down the hallway.

Worry suddenly floods my mind: He should be done by now. What’s taking so long? Has something gone wrong? Why hasn’t anyone come out to talk to us? As the tears begin to spill, I pour out my fears to the one who knows my every thought, and as I pray, the tears just keep coming like a dam break I cannot contain. Pacing and crying. Crying and pacing, finally, I catch sight of the surgeon approaching the waiting room.

Deep breath. “You’re just the person I’ve been looking for,” I tell him, and he smiles. Then he assures me hubby did great. We took him to the dentist at altaskydental.com
afterwards to make sure he wasnt having side effects in his mouth which is common, it turns out everything was fine thankfully.

“And the device works great. We tested it, and it worked on the first try.”

I saw hubby’s expression as the surgeon explained earlier that they would create a situation where he would need the ICD in order to test it. Santhosh’s face said it all. He knew that meant to make his heart have an irregular rythm in order to see if the ICD would correct it.

Maybe Dr. B. saw the worry on my face, because he followed with, “Don’t worry, he was completely out when we tested it, and he’s still pretty groggy with the anesthesia. Someone will come and get you when they roll up him to recovery.”

He walks in and talks to Santhosh’s mom, conveying the good news, and I walk back outside to call my Dad. Dad barely picks up his phone and I am a hot mess, trying to hide it, but he knows I’m crying right away. “What’s wrong? Is he okay? Is everything okay?” Dad asks.

“Yes. Everything’s great. Everything went fine.”

“Then why are you crying?”

And all I can say is, “I don’t know.” But as I hang up with my dad, I know. I’m simply overwhelmed. Maybe I’ve been holding it in. It is so real now. Hubby really has some crazy device inside him now. And from now on, he can no longer go through airport metal detectors. That’s just one of the changes we will deal with from now on.

But I don’t cry with just anyone. Something about talking to my dad, and later when he calls me back and asks, “How’s my crybaby doing?” I thank him for being there for me when I needed a shoulder to cry on, even if it was over the phone. And I make sure to laugh and tell him, “I’m good now.”

Several hours later, Santhosh is finally alert enough to talk, a huge ace bandage wrapped around most of his chest. Just as predicted, they shaved his whole chest, and he recounts the prep team’s poking fun at my man of many hairs. One guy said the classic, “Time to take the sweater off,” while another joked, “Get a few razors. Heck bring the whole bag.” But he can’t laugh, because laughing hurts. Any movement hurts right now.

Nine o’clock rolls around by the time a room opens up, and the girls are able to visit him. And Sarah, our youngest, asks some poignent questions while eyeing her dad in the hospital gown under the covers. “So… are you wearing underwear under there?” is her first. Twenty minutes later: “Is it weird to sleep naked?” And finally, “Are you sure you don’t want to put on some shorts, Daddy?”

Questions answered, good night kisses given, we leave hubby to rest and drive home to sleep.

The next day, I drive back to the hospital and wait for hubby to get discharged.

When hubby first received his surgery day, Sarah and I went straight to the toy store on a secret mission. We came back and after dinner gave Hubby the goods. When he unwrapped the package, he smiled ear to ear as he ran his fingers over Ironman’s heart. “I think I’ll grow out my goatee like Tony Stark to make it official,” he said, and we all gave him the thumbs up.

As we drove home the day after his surgery, I asked him, “How does your body not react to the device? I mean, it’s a foreign device inside you?”

“It’s made of Titanium,” Hubs says, a metal that the body does not generally fight off for medical reasons I haven’t looked up yet.

Then Hubby Google’s Ironman, and says, “I guess you were spot on.”

“About what?” I’m driving so I don’t know what he’s reading.

“Ironman’s suit.” Hubby smiles. “Guess what it’s made of.” And together we say it.

“Titanium.”

When we arrive home, I leave to pick up some pain meds, which he needs asap as the earlier dose is quickly wearing off. And we’re taking every moment in stride. I joke with how he should enjoy this royal treatment. “It’s not every day I get to help you put your socks on.”

He says, “This is what it will be like when we grow old together.” And all I can think is, I hope that we can grow old together now that you have an ICD, but I know full well, every day is a gift. There are no guarantees.

But I thank God for today. For my Sunshine making it through surgery. For being surrounded by friends and family. And for a chance to keep moving forward with Cycling for Change. Because Hope changes everything. I’m aware of the power of hope more than ever these days. It’s time to share it.

Amazon Found Me! And Wrote About my Books!

Posted on February 3, 2015 by rkpaulus

Just thought I’d share this fun news with all my readers!

Last summer, I received an email from a guy who worked for Amazon. I must admit, I didn’t believe it was legit at first, even with “Amazon” in his email address. But the letter was long and sweet, thoughtful and very encouraging—and this Editor from Amazon read my first book, Swimming Through Clouds! And he loved it!

I boldly asked him if he read the sequel and he hadn’t. Yet. A few days later I received another email raving about Seeing Through Stones. He wanted to talk to me. So I dialed his number and we had a lengthy conversation about my short but exciting writing career. And he wanted to know more, so he asked if he could interview me formally and propose an article to his manager to be published on Amazon’s site.

He wanted to share my story with Amazon customers, and October came along and hubby had to travel to Seattle for business. I joined him, and at this point, four months had passed and no interview with the Amazon guy happened. I once again boldly emailed my new friend over at Amazon, and said, “You know, I’ll be in the neighborhood if you still want to do that interview. We could do it in person rather than on the phone.” He agreed. And with Amazon headquarters right there in Seattle, he worked a few blocks from our hotel so we met downtown, and he showed me his Amazon badge, and even up to this point, I wondered if this whole thing was real.

Then he said, “It’s such a beautiful day. We should find a place that Talia and Lagan would want to go to do the interview,” and we walked a short distance to the only ‘park’ in the city. One that did not have a willow, and during the summer did have a waterfall, but it was turned off at this point. I was touched by this alone and then we sat at a table and talked for over an hour, his laptop and mic set up, and the backround of traffic off in the distance.

It was a sweet interaction and maybe I’m just used to being open, but I answered all his questions and felt comfortable to tell him the ups and downs of my publishing journey. When we rose to part ways, he walked me back half way to my hotel since it was on the way to Amazon and this is the part that I’ll never forget. The direction of the interview changed and he shared a very tough time that he had gone through. I was moved by his vulnerabilty, and I was reminded one more time why I write. Because this life is tough to navigate. The extremes of what we go through catch us off guard and we fumble and fall as we try to walk through another day of madness. These are the stories I want to write so that, maybe, together, we can learn how to walk these waters. And swim through the clouds of life, together.

Months go by, and as in most big companies, things take time, and there were certainly days when I doubted anything would come of the interview. But the story is now live and ready for your reading and listening and sharing!

Thanks always for all the book love and support!

Stay true. Stay real. And love while today is called today.

-Raj

LINK to ARTICLE: https://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html?docId=1002999561

Learning to Live with Cardiomyopathy – Take One

Posted on January 23, 2015 by rkpaulus

So we venture into New York City together yesterday. The trip on the Long Island Railroad we usually take for dates is to meet with a cardiomyopathy specialist, Dr. Mark Sherrid. When we reach Penn Station, we follow signs for the subway, and after filing through the turnstile, I hear a train so I race down the steps and yell back to hubby to hurry. “It’s our train!”

But he’s still at the top of the steps. The first train rides off, but a second arrives moments later. Hubby steps on and I follow. Then he looks back, reads a sign, and announces that we’re on the wrong train. “This one’s going to Brooklyn!”

So I jump off, but the doors close. And hubby’s still on. Well, all of him but his hand. Pulling out my Superhero cape, I quickly reach into that tight opening and attempt to pry the doors open, all the while thinking I’m about to say goodbye. We’ll be separated and have to find a way to meet back up.
But the doors open and hubby jumps off. Only to realize that that was the correct train, and we panicked for nothing. But man did we have a good laugh. Laughed so hard at the drama and the whole scenario, especially my ridiculous attempt to rescue him.

When we arrive at the doctor’s office after a much needed coffee run, a very bright NP spends a long time with us, going over hubby’s history and how his diagnosis was discovered, and then we move to an examining room. This is the first time I watch hubby get an EKG on his heart. Poor guy has to get a couple new patches on his chest shaved. And as I watch him lay there with his eyes closed while the machine pitches out his rhythm, I fall in love again.

And when the EKG nurse leaves, hubby steps off the table and holds up a random sign laying on the desk, and says, “Time for a selfie?” I shake my head no, tickled that he still finds a way to make me laugh even here. In this moment when we both knew this is serious.

When the doc comes in, he chats for a bit, and then begins to examine hubby, and when hubby sits up, the doc says, “Archery. You should consider taking up archery. Think you’d be good at it.”

We all laugh. “I’ve always liked Legolas from Lord of the Rings. Sure. I could try it,” Hubby says.

But all I can think is I know why the cardiologist said it. Archery doesn’t require running fast. It won’t make Hubby’s heart beat too fast. Or work too hard.

When hubby asks him a question about athletic heart, the doc begins to listen to hubby’s heart with a stethoscope. “Shhhhh,” the doc answers, and I see Hubby’s face.
His raised eyebrows say, “Did I just get shushed?”

And I smile back. Yep. My baby just got shushed.

After a few more questions about hubby’s history, we move to the doctor’s office and take a look at the Echo and MRI images, and I feel like I’m in a med school lab. I have never understood what is what on the screen until the cardiologist points to the chambers and then zeroes in on the septum. “See here.” Then he takes a virtual ruler and measures the thickness. “It’s close to 18 mm.”

And the number is only a couple of a millimeters worse than what we originally thought. But when you’re talking the area inside of your heart, every millimeter of extra muscle is that much less space for blood to flow through. The larger number feels like a punch in the gut for me. I want him to change it. But then he measures the same area on the MRI images and the numbers are similar, and everything hits me harder than the first time. Maybe because now it isn’t just a number on a paper, but right there in front of my eyes is hubby’s heart. Beating. Pumping. Hurting. Broken.

Dr. Sherrid then begins to talk about what Hubby’s next steps are. How he should exercise in moderation. But no more competitive sports. No more biking up hill. No more push-ups or pull ups. In fact, no more lifting any weights over fifty pounds. Sarah-Bear, our youngest, is close to forty pounds. Grateful for the last fourteen years when hubby carried each of our girls. Some days all four at once.

Aware that those days are over, I try to focus on what hubby can do. He can still bike. On flat paths. He can still kayak. On quiet waters. He can still do a lot. I am so thankful for all this. I nod as the doctor talks about how important it is for hubby to realize that he will now work out to stay fit, not to make his heart better. He can’t make his heart better. But he can hopefully help his heart not to get worse.

One glance is all it takes. A tear. Then two slip down hubby’s cheek. And I can’t keep looking at him, because now I’m tearing up too. Fighting to gain my composure, I ask the doctor, “How often should he follow-up?” and Dr. Sherrid, his eyes downcast, says, “Once a year.”

And as we rise from our chairs, the doc says, “Just remember. No one leaves this life unscathed. We all have to go through something. Keep your perspective.”

Dr. Sherrid was warm. Funny. Wise. And spoke with the authority that his years of experience gave him. And we both walk out of there knowing he’s right. We are one of the lucky ones. We found out about hubby’s condition while his heart still beats. We know what it means to count our blessings. We hold on tightly to the one who blesses. Who gives and takes away.

And as we walk back to Columbus Circle, I thank God again for being so real during a time when I need to know for sure. And as we ride back on the train I tell hubby, “Man, God sure does love you.” And then I correct myself. “Actually, it’s all about me. It always has been since I’m God’s favorite. The mess of a mess that I am, God just knew I’d be such a worse mess without you.”

Hubby laughs.

“So a little longer?” I ask.
He nods.

Thank you God for a little longer. Thank you.

One Heartbeat at a Time

Posted on January 16, 2015 by rkpaulus

My Sunshine and I endured a one-hour road trip down winding roads, around mountainsides, past palm trees and street vendors selling mangos and star fruit, guava and passion fruit. All because the only OB on the island of Dominica that had a functioning sonogram machine was in the capital city of Roseau. Except that when we arrived, the machine was down. Five months passed, and aside from the nausea and food aversions, I still wondered if I really was pregnant.

When we arrived back in the States, and Hubs came with me to my first appointment with an OB in Michigan, the doctor covered my tummy with a cool gel and then pointed to the screen. “Hear that?”

The whooshing sound grew stronger as she moved the device.

“Your baby has a lovely heart beat!” she said, and the tears began to flow and when I looked over to hubby, he was tearing up too.

This was for real. We were really pregnant, and this baby was on her way. Her heart beating was the song I had longed to hear for all these months, and it was even more amazing and precious than I had dreamed it would be.

When our second princess was born, the doctor told us she had a heart murmur and she would very possibly outgrow it. She did.

On Monday, December 8, 2014, I had just dropped off my youngest at school when hubby texted for me to please come home. He needed to talk to me. I left my laptop in the car, thinking whatever it was, I could hear him out and then get on with my day and my writing. Barely inside the front door, hubby met me and pulled me into his arms as he barely managed to say the words, “Julie’s son, Mikey.”

“What is it? What’s wrong? Is he hurt? Has there been an accident?”

But he only said two words, “His heart.”

And as we wept in silence before going over to our dear friend’s house, I couldn’t wrap my mind around what none of us could change. Twenty-five year old Michael Gomez, Division One Wrestling hero, State Champion, coach, and up and coming police officer had a heart attack in his sleep, and an entire community hurt deeply for the loss of such a treasure. And for the pain of two parents, two younger brothers, grandparents and all those who were grappling with the devastation. They had a conversation about services and Tuell-Mckee helped with everything and the casket, check them out on https://www.tuellmckee.com/funeral-packages/.

It was a long week as funeral preparations were underway, and during the service, whatever each person heard, no one walked out of there without the sober reminder that no one is guaranteed tomorrow. Each day is a gift. Each heart beat.

During this particular week, hubby who had been training for the past sixteen months to cycle from Seattle to New York City started a work up on his own heart in search of an explanation to an abnormal stress test he had—one in which he felt little to no discomfort, but the readings clearly showed a lack of blood supply to his heart when his pulse reached 160. But when he stepped off the treadmill, it took fifteen minutes for this to go away and a normal flow to return.

One test lead to another and with each step, it seemed that maybe it was just a false positive or maybe the machine was broken. I suggested his generous gift of chest hairs interfered with the readings. His coronaries were clean, and he’d never felt so fit in his whole life. The final test was an MRI on his heart, and the cardiologists and hubby felt pretty certain it would be fine too, and they’d have to somehow dig deeper. But then the MRI Tech called for him to return to get more images.

This whole time, I felt at peace. But that afternoon when I got the text that he had to go back in for more pictures, my panic button went off. Why did they need more pictures? What did they see? I needed to talk to someone. Someone I could cry with. So I called my parents. And as I spoke with Mom and Dad, I told them my fears, and they listened, encouraged me, and made me laugh, and called me, Crybaby. When my mom asked me, “Why are you crying?”

I said, “I don’t know. I just needed to cry. So I called you.” And she passed the phone back to my dad. He reminded me to trust God and just be patient.

The next day after hubby came out of his second MRI, I knew from the look on his face that he knew something. They saw something. And as we sat in the car, he told me that the tech suspected thickening of his septum (the middle passageway in the heart) and the diagnosis was very likely cardiomyopathy.
When he got the official report the next day, hubby met me outside and this was the first time in two weeks of testing that he broke down. We made our way to the kitchen table as he read the report to me and explained the terms to me. He has hypertrophic cardio myopathy, and there’s no way he can cycle across the country. Moreover, he can’t really do anything right now to make his heart work too hard while we wait it out and let his muscles inside his heart hopefully return to a healthier thickness.

Telling the girls wasn’t easy, but our second princess offered to wake up twenty minutes early so he and she could walk to school together. J Walking is safe for hubby to do. And in the midst of tears around the dinner table, my fifteen-year old nephew who was visiting for Christmas Googles something on his iPod and says, “I know this is really sad news, but I want to encourage you.” And he proceeded to share verses from the Bible on God’s grace and hope and love for his uncle at this time. The words were like rays on sunshine piercing through our cloud-covered hearts.

So these days, we are counting our blessings. First and foremost, hubby is still with us. The diagnosis was found fairly early. He’s still leading the c4c Cycling for Change team, just from a driver’s seat of the RV now. And he just fixed the leak under the kitchen sink, for which he earned a Superman coffee mug. He’s my hero, even if the sink still leaked. Because maybe there’s something wrong with hubby’s heart from a medical perspective, but sometimes I wonder if his heart became too strong, not from all the cycling or some genetic disposition but rather from loving me so hard. And so much.

And as we lay in bed on the morning of the New Year, I said, “Good Morning. I want to dedicate a song to you for 2015.” And then I pressed play on my phone as Smokey Robinson broke it down for us. “One Heartbeat at a Time.”

Because sixteen years ago, we vowed, “To have and to hold, for better for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health…” And as I dropped off hubby to the airport this morning for a class, he sent me a text after he got through security.

“Love you! Thanks for being my rock! For what for you foreva!”

Because that’s how our love story started. We promised to wait for each other. And now we continue to wait on God. As God unravels this new chapter, we wait as He helps us to understand Hubby’s new normal. Our new normal. And for as many heartbeats as he gives Hubby, I’m so thankful to be the one to get to hold his hand. Be held in his arms. And walk this life with him.

One heartbeat. At a time.

***

And you? Have you been needing a word of hope and encouragement during this new year? What challenges are you facing? How can I pray for you?