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My beloved husband, Rex Ross. was born December 7, 1944.  He passed away on December 9, 2010.  You can read his obituary, his amazing story of his transplant (as well as my version of that story), and my earlier thoughts on care giving below on this blog.

Trees: Two views

I renew my attention to this blog on the anniversary of his Memorial service at Oconee Presbyterian Church.  Those friends have become family, “my people,” I often call them. They provide hugs, calls, meals, lunches out, and all the things loving, Christian folks provide for one another, and for the world around them. I have truly been blessed during this year.

I want to reflect on this year and this day again through my blogs, web site, and Facebook pages.  Please feel free to respond, and I’ll write back to you as well.  You can sign up to receive new entries as they appear; fill out the yellow “Join Our Mailing List” box.  Your email will never be used for any other purpose!

For today, Pastor Sue Jacobson shared this incredible poem by John O’Donohue. These words have brought me more comfort, have spoken more truly, and remain in my daily ritual of healing than anything else I have run into this year.  Thanks Sue…and everyone else!

For Grief

When you lose someone you love,
Your life becomes strange,
The ground beneath you becomes fragile,
Your thoughts make your eyes unsure;
And some dead echo drags your voice down
Where words have no confidence.

Your heart has grown heavy with loss;
And though this loss had wounded others too,
No one knows what has been taken from you
When the silence of absence deepens.

Flickers of guilt kindle regret
For all that was left unsaid or undone.

There are days when you wake up happy;
Again inside the fullness of life,
Until the moment breaks
And you are thrown back
Onto the black tide of loss.

Days when you have your heart back,
You are able to function well
Until in the middle of work or encounter,
Suddenly with no warning,
You are ambushed by grief.

It becomes hard to trust yourself.
All you can depend on now is that
Sorrow will remain faithful to itself.
More than you, it knows its way
And will find the right time
To pull and pull the rope of grief
Until that coiled hill of tears
Has reduced to its last drop.

Gradually you will learn acquaintance
With the invisible form of your departed;
And when the work of grief is done,
The wound of loss will heal
And you will have learned
To wean your eyes
From that gap in the air
And be able to enter the hearth
In your soul where your loved one
Has awaited your return
All the time.

-John O’Donohue,  To Bless the Space Between Us-A Book of Blessings

NOTE: I add this link for your convenience in reading more about the book I quote from. I hope you find it useful….

Several friends and family have asked me to post these images of my beloved Rex. Thanks to Pastor Pam Driesell for the title of his eulogy.  He was certainly “Awed by Life” in all he did.  Thanks for your support and love.  To read Rex’s full obituary, click here: In Memoriam: Rex Ross.

Rex Ross 1944 to 2010

My brave, beloved Rex fought many battles in 66 years.  I’m sad to let my readers know that Rex passed away as a result of bladder cancer on December 9, 2010. Read here the obituary I wrote with love that surpasses understanding.  You can sign the guest book at the web link at the bottom.  Thanks, dear friends, for being with me at this time.

Durwood “Rex” Ross Jr.

Rex Ross: New Zealand

Watkinsville – Durwood “Rex” Ross, Jr., 66, of Watkinsville, died December 9, 2010. He was born December 7, 1944, in Des Moines, Iowa, to the late Mary Elizabeth Sonneborn Ross and Durwood Rex Ross, Sr. Rex is survived by his beloved wife, Sally Hudson Ross; brother, Steve Ross, and his wife, Sue, of Findlay, Ohio; as well as uncles, cousins, and hundreds of priceless friends–most notably, Ted and Dee Edwards of Las Vegas, Nev.

Rex served his country in the U.S. Army. He graduated from Office Candidate School, Ranger School, and both Rotary Wing and Fixed Wing Flight Schools. He served in Vietnam from 1968-69, receiving the Distinguished Flying Cross for Valor, the Bronze Star for Valor, and 38 Air Medals. From 1969-1972, he was Air Field Commander and Aide-de-Camp in Germany, and was honorably discharged at the rank of Captain.

In Iowa, Rex owned grain elevators before returning to college to study Computer Information Systems. He was a computer analyst and IT manager in Iowa and later, Georgia, until his retirement from Stepan Chemical in Winder.

Rex was adored within many communities of friends. He is respected by all for his bravery, perseverance, abounding love, big voice, hearty laugh, generous council, and passion for golf, travel, and his wife’s fine art photography. On oxygen for six years, and dying of emphysema, Rex received a double lung transplant at the McKelvey Lung Transplant Center at Emory University in 2005*. Since that time, he snorkeled the Great Barrier Reef, drove a camper van throughout New Zealand, fell in love with Tasmania, played in the snow at Zion National Park, ate tons of lobster in Maine, played the Old Course in St. Andrews (and many others, including Jennings Mill), and spent precious hours playing with and cooking incredible meals for relatives and friends. His heart was in Dornoch and the Scottish Highlands, where he and Sally made every day a romp, an adventure of discovery, awe, and capturing the light with their cameras.

A memorial service was held on Monday, December 13, 2010, at Rex’s church, Oconee Presbyterian, 2601 Hog Mountain Road, Watkinsville, GA 30677. Rex was interred at South Lawn Cemetery, Coshocton, Ohio–his wife’s hometown. In lieu of flowers, the family invites friends to make donations in Rex’s name to Oconee Presbyterian Church, the Mason House at Emory University (a home for transplant recipients and their families, 1555 Shoup Ct., Decatur, GA 30033), or the Cancer Foundation of Northeast Georgia (P.O. Box 49309, Athens, GA 30604). Also, please, donate life. Be an organ donor.

Lord and Stephens West, Athens, is in charge of arrangements.

* NOTE: Transplant date is incorrect in the newspaper obituary. The correct date is May 20, 2005.  Obituary published in Athens Banner-Herald on December 12, 2010.  See and feel free to sign guest book at  http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/onlineathens/obituary.aspx?page=lifestory&pid=147095036

Rex, Tybee Island

Rex & Sally, Maine 2009

To wait or to live?  That is the question for today.  As a cancer survivor and now a caregiver across many years, I’ve learned just how short and precious this life is.  And while I support my husband as he works back toward health, I’ve come to recite a mantra: there are two lives here! I have a life too!  It’s so easy to forget myself in the midst of crisis.

But I have learned to live every moment that I’m given.  As caregiver I spend countless hours sitting in waiting or examination rooms, cafeterias, and hotels.  Usually, I have no idea how long this wait will be.  I can’t plan ahead to know how comfortable the chairs will be.  I may not be wireless or even get a phone connection, or cell phones may be banned altogether. My husband may not feel well, be in another room, or just be focused on himself or his I-Pod.  In fact, in emergency / ER situations, I don’t even know that I will be waiting soon!

My life is too short for emptiness!  So I am always ready to read a book!  Click to READ more…

Open Book

For six years, our dear friend, Letty, could not move a muscle.  She was confined to her bed — physically — as a result of ALS,  Lou Gehrig’s disease.  But she was never confined mentally or spiritually.  Letty experienced the world as she read two books at a time.  On one side of her tray was a science book; on the other side, the NY Times Book Review, or a novel, or a missive from a friend.  Those of us in her Share the Care group were honored to turn pages for her.  We usually read in tandem, turning pages of both texts when she was ready to move on.

One day as I enjoyed our shared silence, Letty asked me, “Sally, is it enough to be a reader?” Is it enough to be a reader?  Her question stunned me, and still does.

There are times in life when reading is the most convenient and the most exotic pleasure.  As Rex has undergone chemo, suffered from anemia, been in and out of the hospital, and then had great days of vigor and delight, I’ve found that being a reader is not only enough, but also essential. I can BECOME a reader at a moment’s notice.  I can re-enter life just as quickly when needed.  As a result, my life as care-giver is never on hold.

Recently I’ve found myself hooked on books about women travelers of the 1920s and 30s.  I owned a book, The Gobi Desert,  by Mildred Cable about her missionary travels over many decades in the Gobi Desert.  And then friend Michelle recommended Freya Stark.  (I read one of her many travel books, Valley of the Assassins, and her biography by Jane Fletcher Geniesse, Passionate Nomad).   This brave and bizarre British woman grew up in Italy, learned Arabic at 14, and then traveled the Middle East for years–often alone with just a guide and a mule-driver!  She partied in Cairo during WWII, and she lived to be 100, passing away in 1993!  Who knew!?

So yes, I’ve been there for Rex all the way. But I’ve also walked across the deserts of the world, peaked into living spaces of commoners and leaders, sat stunned at incredible vistas (both of these women were photographers!), and come to know two amazing women.

Yes, Letty, sometimes it IS enough to be a reader.   (I’ll share more about reading in the coming days….)

See REFERENCES for Amazon links to books cited.

You’ve read the wonderful stories here about Rex’s excellent lung transplant in 2005.  If not, click HERE.

Rex has also now survived an aortic heart valve replacement (open heart surgery, 2007) and 2 hernias and a hip replacement (2009).  This year, 2010, it’s the year of the BIG “C”.  Rex was diagnosed in February 2010 with bladder cancer.  As of this date (8/7/10), he has completed 3 of 4 rounds of chemo; just one more three-week cycle to go!

As always, he’s been amazing.  His attitude is positive: “let’s get ‘er done!”  His wit is the same as ever: “I don’t like them taking something out and not replacing it.”  (NOTE: Removal of the bladder is the next step in the protocol.)  His compassion for others is never ending; he still mentors other transplants, lunches with friends (he has his own lunch ministry), counsels with others via phone on quieter days, and entertains those who bring meals!  On good days, when the Georgia heat abates, he’s even out putting and chipping, getting ready for the next autumn round of golf!

People often say to us, “I’m so worried about Rex, about you….”  My response: NEVER WORRY!  Just PRAY.  Worry does neither you nor me any good.  Prayer brings peace that passes understanding.  So thanks for your prayers.

I’m eager to get back into writing from the caregiver role as our new experience unfolds.  Prayers — and comments via the blog — are welcome!  Thanks.  Sally and Rex

“A little personal background. Some of this may sound like I’m bragging. I’m not. I am just sharing some of my life’s experiences.  I played sports, football, wrestling, baseball, and rugby. I was a Captain in the US Army and served 8 years. I was a Ranger…. My lung transplant was my first experience with a medical illness…”

Author, Rex Ross, suffered for six years on oxygen.  When he hit 14% of one lung, he received a double lung transplant on May 20, 2005.  To read his amazing story with photos:  Click on LUNG.

Rex: Pre-Transplant 2004

Rex in New Zealand, 2007

May 20, 2005: A story in 5 parts….stay tuned!

MAY 20, 2005: PART 4 (of 5):  BACKGROUND: My husband, Rex, has been on oxygen for 6 years, the result of 35 years of smoking and emphysema.  He’s down to 14% of one lung, and he’s been on the list for two months.

When we left off…Midnight and into May 21, Saturday.  You are in 4a, ICU, resting well … You’ll sleep tomorrow and take out the ventilator on Sunday unless you are really super tomorrow….  I get to see you briefly asleep, covered, with oxygen and ventilator in ICU. Then I go and pass out at Mason House.

Saturday, May 21 (YES, SATURDAY!)

9 a.m. Dr. Pelaez calls me to say they are going to bring you around!  Already??? I rush to shower, take a muffin, and get to the hospital on time!  Your eyes flutter. The ventilator is still in.  But I tell you it is JUST the next day and your eyebrows go up in surprise!  (Later I learned that you feared they hadn’t done the surgery.)

I quickly find the Golf Channel for you so you’re all set there!  (NOTE: Rex was frustrated on a ventilator earlier when he couldn’t ask me to find the Golf Channel in his hospital ICU bed!)   You manage to communicate a couple of requests, but have to write KOFF in my journal.  You have muscle spasms of pain in your stomach randomly.  They put in a standard epidural for pain.  You are foggy all day.

By afternoon, they take out the ventilator!  Wow!  Less than 24 hours.  Your new lungs are working with 2 litters of supplemental oxygen.  You can suck up to 500 on your new rehab toy.  Only ice allowed—no coffee.

I take off and walk to Everybody’s pizza—1/2 a small pizza and a beer while I called folks.  Get a take-away Greek salad for later.  So I got in a small walk.  Back to sit and read my novel and nap from the chair with a pillow at your side.

5:30 – 9:30 p.m. I left.  Got a few things at Publix (turkey, cheese, corkscrew, Tide, Kleenex, Bayer. Took an hour on screened porch at Mason House to read the paper (searching for obits of young person near ### Hospital—can’t help myself) and sip red wine.  Lovely.  Then an hour’s nap and back to your side.  Left you ready to sleep at 9:30.  I read, ate some salad, and fell hard asleep.

Sunday, May 22,  9:00 a.m.

You had a lot of pain last night and had to argue with a nurse to get pain pump. Then it wasn’t right.  Took three hours and you were frustrated, but at least you could talk and get what you needed. Control is yours!

This morning they had you up in a chair and you were carrying on in your booming voice when I arrived.  Full of teasing, getting tomatoes and strawberries for nurse Ann, even ate scrambled eggs, toast, and milk from someone’s unused breakfast!  You are fully you!  You tell me you are breathing very well. Ann says you won’t need your green blower—cough will come naturally.  Dr. R.  and others are all just tickled with your progress!  You are deservedly proud of all your hard workouts that make you strong now.

11:00 a.m. Dear Ronnie has come–with six-week-old wedding pictures of her new husband and her–to give you a healing touch massage.  I know you are sleeping deeply and pain is flying out of your whole self, making room for pure healing.

I find your living room down here on second floor of Emory Hospital—leather, rugs, bird paintings.  I sit in the sunshine listening to Gordon Lightfoot—thanks to your I-pod.  Chat with three people: a man’s wife with pancreatic cancer in ICU three weeks.  We are so blessed!  Ah, what life do we have ahead, my love? What a miracle?  I don’t even dare to dream past today—this is enough for now!

11:15 a.m.   I come back to your room.  Dr. Pelaez removes the canula from your nose and says, “You don’t need this any more.”  And you didn’t! That’s all there was to it!  Your oxygen stayed at 95-99 all by itself! Blessedly Ronnie is there for the experience too.  How special to share it with her!  You tell us of how you’d beat death flying in Vietnam, but when Stacy (6th floor nurse in Athens) told you you would die within a year, you beat through your denial, and you thought, “I can’t beat it this time….” But you are here!  I have the 6th floor number at Athens Regional Hospital and just left a message for Stacy.  I love sharing our joy! Unfortunately, there won’t be anyone for you to tell (sorry).  Pastor Pam called from Chicago; Angie L.  made the announcement at church.

You’re resting while I have lunch downstairs—salad, banana earlier during your massage.  I’m finding I like frequent small things versus a meal.  We’ve talk of my going to Athens for a doctor’s appointment and to get stuff tomorrow.  You may get into a room as early as today!  Things are moving fast!

2:30 p.m. Peg, Jim, and Bob F.  stop in as they leave Atlanta meeting today.  You call me as I drive Jim and Peg to airport: room is ready!

5:00 p.m. You move to 586 B South!  Wow!  Talking a mile a minute and loud, you think because you have so much more oxygen.  You call Aunt Jere, Uncle Ken, and brother Steve.

6:00 p.m.   Beeper says your pain meds are low.  Only one IV left and 4 tubes to drain incisions.

You are calling everyone: Bill and Betty both are in the hospital: she with heart problems, Bill with broken ankle trying to help her.  So try Susan.  Then Dan. It’s such fun to share!  Then Steve D.…

6:15 p.m. We share our first un-oxygenated dinner: turkey and gravy for you, ham and cheese sandwich and chili for me.  I still keep staring at your nose: when will I ever stop being amazed?

Amen!

May 20, 2005: A story in 5 parts….stay tuned!

MAY 20, 2005: PART 3 (of 5):  BACKGROUND: My husband, Rex, has been on oxygen for 6 years, the result of 35 years of smoking and emphysema.  He’s down to 14% of one lung, and he’s been on the list for two months.

Preparing for Tramsplant:

2:30 p.m. I get to see you, Rex, as the doctors put it, “four beers high.”  You joke with one nurse that you looked better in tie-die than he does, and you had a better ponytail before he was born!  With another, you learn that you can put a DVD into an I-pod.  I get to follow you through the halls.

3:00 p.m. Dr. Force recognizes me and comes over in the hall.  He reports: The lungs are young and healthy.  He’s pleased.  I meet Mike, your super nurse.  He calls me exactly when he says he will all night, every hour or two.  What a tall, dark, kind, and businesslike man.

4:01 p.m. Doctors begin.  Lungs are on the way, but there are storms and traffic.  (A moment of panic for me…but every time I consider visualizing your situation, I stoop myself.  I have no idea what you are doing or what this looks like.  Let go and let God and Dr. Force and Mike…

5:00 p.m. Dan, dear friend Dan, arrives and stays with me until 9 p.m.  So kind, but I can also sleep.

6:00 p.m. Mike reports that you are awaiting your lungs.

7:00 p.m. Mike reports that the lungs arrived at about 6:40. The transplant has begun.  (The Merritt family here waits for a liver/kidney for their mother.  Karline, the receptionist, and I wonder if it’s the same donor…it is.)

7:15 p.m. Dan and I have dinner downstairs and learn that the cafeteria closes at 8.

9:00 p.m. Mike always calls right on schedule!  The right lung is IN.  Not need (yet) for heart/lung support.  They are beginning the left lung and will call me in an hour and 20 minutes or so, then they will scrub etc.  They are very meticulous.  So that takes time.  Then Rex will move to ICU.

I take calls from Stacy/Lisa, Jill, Shelly.  I call Steve, Mom—all is well.  I’m trying to sleep again.  I feel very at peace and fully trusting God and these incredible doctors.

11:00 p.m. Mike calls.  My hero!  Both lungs are in!  They’re cleaning up, and Dr. Force will be here to answer any questions. Then Mike will take me to ICU waiting room and let the nurse know to contact me when you, my love, are ready!  Hallelujah!

Midnight and into May 21, Saturday. You are in 4a, ICU, resting well with nurse Beatrice, according to your extremely handsome tall nurse, Mike, who walked me to 5th floor to rest an hour or so before seeing you.

Dr. Force says that all went really well.  No surprises.  No problems.  Two new lungs!  This donor also contributed a heart (Dr. V. did), kidney, kidney/liver (a mom of family I met, age 61), and more!  Busy place tonight all thanks to one donor.

You’ll sleep tomorrow and take out the ventilator on Sunday unless you are really super tomorrow. Dr. Force and Dr. Pelaez are to take you off the Dilantin because it disrupts anti-rejection drugs.  Will replace with another drug.  So again, I wait, but closer and closer to my new husband!  Wow!

I get to see you briefly asleep, covered, with oxygen and ventilator in ICU. Then I go and pass out at Mason House.

May 20, 2005: A story in 5 parts….stay tuned!

MAY 20, 2005: PART 2 (of 5):  BACKGROUND: My husband, Rex, has been on oxygen for 6 years, the result of 35 years of smoking and emphysema.  He’s down to 14% of one lung, and he’s been on the list for two months.

11:00 a.m.       Barbara stops in.  Laurie is moving to another unit so Barbara will see us through post transplant too!  Yeah! We   really like her!

11:20 a.m. Chest X-ray in room.  EKG in room.

Noon Rex has been peacefully sleeping for 45 minutes. He got scared on the way and surprised both of us I think.  He threw up or tried.  He’s really pale, short of breath, quiet.  They’ve promised anti-anxiety drugs, but not brought them yet.  But he did ask for and got an extra blanket, and he sleeps so peacefully: open mouth, sweet white beard, curly blond hair so soft to the touch (sweaty as we checked in), his good, strong arms covered with scabs from lack of oxygen, furry brown lower arm, strong, sturdy hands I love to hold and feel.  This is my man, his last day on oxygen I pray.  My man, the best (and only) husband I’ve ever had for 17 years, and he’s about to be reborn!  Hallelujah, Lord, thank you for all that’s gotten us here!

1:00 p.m. We moved you (I begin to address, Rex himself as he goes into surgery) by stretcher to pre-op.  I get to tickle your back.  The lady next to you is waiting for a leg to be amputated.

1:30 p.m. Dr. W., very young anesthesiologist explains what he’ll do.  I go to waiting room.

2:00 p.m. 05/20/2005: a magical lucky Chinese number I hope!  I’m new to this ICU waiting room on 3rd floor.  I crave silence, but everyone chatters.  Now and then someone is pulled into the hall to talk with doctors.  Magazines, Bible, near empty Cokes, bags full of just what someone needs to sit like this for hours.

Rex is getting IVs from the anesthesiologist, Dr. W.  Blood gas one in wrist, pulmonary/heart monitor in neck.  If Rex can’t stay ok on one lung during the transplant, he’s likely to need to do a by-pass (what’s that?  I think a machine to do heart and lung motions for him.)  If so, they’ll also do a blood transfusion.  But only one in 100,000 chance of hepatitis; one in a million for HIV.

I wait.  My needs: journal, 2 newspapers, Gilead (book), shawl, Diet Coke, water bottle, and food journal.

Sharon T….  is called. Room goes dead silent.  She leaves.  Who is in mourning tonight, having lost their beloved who has used these lungs?  Who decided to donate that my guy can live?  God, be with them today and grant them the peace of knowing one’s passing means another (maybe many?) gain hope.  Mine.  Ours.  His.  That person: will he be declared dead after his organs are taken?  At what point will he pass on like my dad did? What will this family want to know about us?  Amen.  I wait.

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