Author Archives: gail chumbley

An Offering

  River of January is as much about the emerging entertainment industry as it is about aviation.  In particular Helen, though initially an accomplished ballerina, adapted to dance styles and built up her repertoire and versatility.  Just before the war, due to sudden circumstances, Helen took up ice skating, and through her customary hard work became an accomplished performer on ice.

From 1939 until nearly ten years later, Helen, along with her sister entertained crowds in a multitude of ice shows.  The popularity of the sport, turned artistic expression became especially celebrated following Sonja Henie‘s gold medals at the 1936 Berlin Olympics.  So popular, figure skating lent to rinks cropping up all over the country, and the sport made it to the silver screen with Henie starring in films such as Sun Valley Serenade.  (Not such a great movie, but the Nicholas Brothers rock)

While researching and writing, primarily for the second book, (still unfinished) I realized that my ice skating knowledge was pretty limited.  It had been the same with ballet in the first book, (now with a publisher).  What can a teacher do with such limited understanding?

Ask a kid, of course.
Two girls in my courses stepped up and obliged my request.  One of them is a very accomplished ballerina, and the other a competitive figure skater.  From them both I learned the lingo, the most popular moves, steps, and music–little tidbits to make the story line smoother.

The girl in the picture above was, as you can see, an ice skater.  Shauna was her name and she presented herself as a shy, reserved young lady who demonstrated deep wells of untapped talent and aptitude.  It was a little difficult for her to plop down sideways in a desk and shoot the breeze with me.  She wasn’t that kind of person.  Though full of smiles, it was much easier for her to answer my questions by writing them down on notebook paper.  And she shared all she could think of to share.  And Shauna knew her stuff about figure skating.

It tickled her to see my photos and programs of the early ice shows at Center Theater in Radio City Music Hall.  She shyly smiled at the wide lens portraits of colorfully costumed skaters, posing before elaborate backdrops, reflected again upward from mirrored ice.  Shauna liked the close-ups of the stars, such as graceful Janet Lynn, and comedy skater, Freddie Trenkler, costumed as a hobo.

Shauna wasn’t just a nice girl who enjoyed figure skating, though that was a big part of her heart and time.  She was a dedicated artist, a musician who played the violin (that I stepped over more than once in class) in the high school orchestra.  And it was after an evening orchestra performance a year ago October that we lost a promising, gifted young talent in a senseless car accident.  The pain of her loss ripped an abyss into all of us who knew and loved her.

I would like to publicly thank Shauna for her kind support and good counsel on some of the technical aspects of my book, and know for certain that her sweet spirit lives on in the pages of my writing.

God Speed little skater.

What Are You Waiting For?

I began a routine of driving home from school, entering the house, saying hello to my mother, and crawling into bed with Chad for a nap.  As he lay recovering physically, I needed to begin a recovery of my own, in my mind and spirit.  I had been diagnosed with PTSD, post traumatic stress disorder.  And I felt disordered.  I had order in my schedule, in my classroom, in the care of my husband, but my insides were wasted.  What this girl needed was an existential anchor and a path back to me.

My solution didn’t look like redemption at first.  And that statement requires some explanation.

Prior to Chad’s illness, prior to his father’s death, my husband found himself frequently back in Miami.  The reasons always concerned his father, but sometimes the trip was a medical emergency, sometimes an issue with the house.  Regardless of the errand, my husband packed up boxes and boxes of family mementos and shipped them to Idaho.  We, my daughter and I, enjoyed an archival Christmas each time the mail arrived.  By the time Chad’s father, Chum, had agreed to come west and live closer to us, half of our bedroom was furnished with plastic containers of Chumbley memorabilia.

Here I was, a basket case, and my room was jam packed with historic documents.  I am a historian with an active interest in research.  I teach advanced placement history.  I am operating under deficiencies near a nervous breakdown.  Still I couldn’t add one plus one and see the route to my recovery in front of my face.  It took a student to help me along.

When my course reached the Great Depression era, I always described Chum’s air race.  People did all sorts of activities during those years to make a little money.  I showed the kids the trophy, discussed the drama, and reveled along with my students over Chum’s daring.  In the same vein when we talked about the world’s descent into fascist hell, I shared Helen’s story of dancing across Europe with a backdrop of swastika’s and regimented Italy.  Inevitably one or another student would remark, “Sounds like a movie.”  And I would always agree.

A boy, a junior asked me why I was waiting to commit the story to book form.  My pat answer was not to offend anyone in my husband’s family.  This self-assured young man, Ethan, who thought more of my abilities than I did, looked me dead in the eye and accusingly challenged, “That’s just and excuse.  What are you really waiting for?”

At that juncture, my husband was lying prostrate in bed, a close colleague had died of a similar infection, another colleague’s husband dropped dead officiating a soccer match, and this boy wanted to know what I was waiting for.

I began River of January in May 2011.  The prose was terrible–more venting and judging than describing all the characters.  An editor fired me because the book stunk, and I continued to re-write, a friend helped me line by line, and I continued to rewrite, another editor asked if I was kidding with this book, and I continued to rewrite.

And dear readers, through all that time and uncertainty, Chad grew stronger and I gradually began to recognize myself in the mirror.

Writing has healing properties of enormous power.  I just hope River reflects the strength and the determination that restored my life.

The Team

Preparing for my husband’s homecoming took a bit of pre-planning.  We had airlifted out of the woods and all we owned was still up there, in the mountain cabin.  This situation called for my own impossible mission team, and they quickly materialized.  Headed by my son’s boyfriend, my daughter and a group of their kind friends a late summer Saturday turned into moving day. 

We met at a U-Haul center, rented a trailer, breakfasted at the McDonald’s next door, then off to the mountains.  By the time my mother arrived to care for Chad, the bed was neatly placed in the downstairs living room.  He had access to a bathroom two steps away, and enough room to use a walker to retrain his shriveled legs. 

None of those preparations would have been possible without “a little help from my friends.” 

Even at school all of my students, colleagues, parents and administration cut me huge swaths of slack.  I realized in the midst of the whirlwind that somehow I was living in a state of grace.  Chad was alive, my family provided support, and my school community couldn’t help enough. 

A couple of days before the state football championship, our school’s team came to the house to visit the invalid-football fan.  They signed a ball for him and sat a while, taking pictures and bringing youth and joy to his sick room

It still remained that he was quite ill, and pitifully fragile.  It became my custom to stand over his bed each morning, listening for him to breath, verifying Chad had survived the night.  And we still had a number of hospital runs ahead of us.  An obstructed bowel, a collapsed lung, pneumonia, and finally his bowel resection.  Still, despite my fears, despite all the chaos and confusion, I sensed an element of direction and purpose.

All of us, my parents, my children, my friends, students, and neighbors seem to form a team of our own.  It was a team of humanity, of support, of prayer, of goodness, and of determination.  I wouldn’t go back to that difficult time for anything, but I can savor from the distance of time that miracle of common cause. 

Fifteen Minutes

A number of years ago I attended a seminar on President Lincoln.  The title of the course was “Controlled by Events.”  That name puzzled me when I first read the brochure.  Abraham Lincoln, in my mind, was the most dogged, determined figure in American History. Because of his resolve, the Union was saved.  I later learned that the title came from a moment when the President admitted that he couldn’t manage outcomes once the dogs of war were released, just grapple with the aftermath. Now, after our battle with cancer and my husband’s close brush with death, I realize what our 16th president meant.

Through rigorous exertion Chad, my husband, succeeded in sitting up for fifteen minutes-a significant milestone. Soon after, his doctors determined he was ready for transfer to a rehabilitation hospital. This move was designed to teach Chad how to function again.  Seriously, the man could not lift a styrofoam cup, brush his teeth, shave, or comb what was left of his hair.

The nurse notified us by nine in the morning that he was scheduled for transport to the new facility sometime before lunch. Of course that meant the orderlies arrived around two in the afternoon, and Chad was tucked into his new bed in the new hospital by three. Not too bad for hospital time.  But what we heard at the new facility left me despondent, and Chad frightened and frustrated.

One by one, therapists visited us until six that evening. They introduced themselves, and gently informed us that sitting up for fifteen minutes was only the beginning. His relearning would test his endurance, reaching new levels of exertion. Critically frail, Chad grew deeply stressed because what they were asking seemed impossible. I vicariously felt his fears, and could do nothing to allay them.

I couldn’t do anything about anything.

I bumped along the currents of endless medical advice. After all, he couldn’t come home until he reclaimed something of his former body.

There he lay, bag of feces on his belly, an open, seeping surgical cut, from his naval to his groin, and the hospital was forcing him to get up and live again.

The looming deadline ahead for me was school starting again. There was no question that I had to work. We had to have the insurance, and the income if we were to survive this disaster financially. The medical bills were piling up, and I had no choices but to accept my nightmare. Then events, for a change, turned for the better.

One of my students lived behind our home, and I had hired her to tend our dogs while I spent days at the hospital. It turned out her mother was a registered nurse, who, just steps away, could be at our house within minutes. Wow, what a miracle for when he came home. Secondly, my seventy eight-year-old mother informed me she was coming to care for Chad so I could return to work. Honest to God, I didn’t want to bother other people, but had no other options. And both our neighbor and my mother assured me it was no bother, and they were glad to help. Both parties kindly offering the gift of their time and skills.

After two more excruciating weeks in rehab, I got to bring him home.  That night my mother chauffeured by my brother arrived at our door. I was sure my husband looked so much better after four weeks of hospitals and treatment. But when the both of them came in, and their faces betrayed shock by his poor condition.

In the end, unlike Lincoln, my husband survived our intense, little war. Trapped in the maelstrom, careening from one disaster to another we had no future.

Events controlled us.

Gail Chumbley is the author of “River of January,” and “River of January: Figure Eight,” a two-part memoir. Available at http://www.river-of-january.com and on Kindle.

gailchumbley@gmail.com

Five Minutes

The following was written in August, 2010

Our days crawled by slowly, his recovery measured in increments.  Transferred from the ICU one day earlier, a new face appeared in his hospital room, a physical therapist.  With a breezy air he introduced himself, shook my hand then turned toward Chad. He fulfilled his efficient entrance in one smooth motion.

Medical people no longer inspired reverence for Chad.  He had become weary of the abysmally slow institutional routine, the new faces everyday.  Still despite his disillusion he was never rude to any of the medical staff, but I received a good run down when we were alone.

This particular therapist seemed to have arrived with a plan to rebuild my husband’s ravaged, broken body and depleted endurance.  The regimen, the PT announced would start by having Chad sit up in a chair for five minutes.  And though that sounded harmless enough it quickly became one of the trials of Hercules.  With the help of the nurse, they diverted or unhooked the multitude of attachments to Chad’s body, now including pressure socks to prevent blood clots.  The two then hoisted his body to a chair by the bed.  Though bobbled around, he said nothing while the two stuffed and padded blankets around him like a newborn.  Once he seemed balanced, the PT and nurse left.  They left.

Five minutes can be a very long time in certain situations.  The last five minutes in class. The last five minutes in a dryer cycle. At this particular moment my husband immediately began to sweat, and fretted that he would faint if he didn’t lay down. I scrutinized his movement with the vigilance of a gymnastic spotter, ready to catch him if he toppled.

Wasted muscle covered by white hosiery was all that remained of his legs, his exhausted head bowed in agonizing surrender begging me to help him back into bed. Where was the therapist? Why didn’t he stay?

I waited, searching for words of encouragement, but growing equally anxious. Poor Chad grew visibly physically anguished, swaying forward.  Still no therapist.

“I can’t sit like this any longer,” he wailed.  Panicked, I resolved that if the PT didn’t come back in sixty seconds, one minute, I would press the button for the nurse.  I slowly began to reach over to the bed, for the call button pinned to his sheets.  And that was when the therapist materialized, sweeping briskly into the room followed by the nurse.

“How did that go?” he inquired brightly.  We didn’t answer, as he swiftly bent over Chad,to assess his condition.

“That was five minutes?” Chad gasped.  “Seemed longer.”

“He didn’t do so well,” I added, feeling it my duty to tell the truth. The therapist and nurse didn’t reply as they hoisted him back to bed.

He then spoke up.  “Well, the doctor wants him up to fifteen minutes before the hospital can release him.”

With that, the two blew out of the room, on to other matters, other patients.

Neither of us spoke. After a few moments Chad drifted back to sleep, lightly snoring.  I stared ahead, drained.

Gail Chumbley is the author of the two-part memoir “River of January,” and “River of January: Figure Eight.” Both books are available at http://www.river-of-january.com, and on Kindle.

gailchumbley@gmail.com

Biscayne Bay Syndrome

After eight long days in the ICU, days that included an excruciating extraction of his oxygen tube from his throat, grasping to remember his name, the president’s name and mine, the doctors agreed to transfer him to a regular room.  However, when the medical staff says move, they don’t actually mean it.  “Move” is code for “prepare for an unfulfilled expectation.” 

Teams of orderlies had to be placed on reserve, much like medication, liquid food, or a lab procedure.  As a part of hospital protocol, a regular room also had to be requested on the floor where cancer patients were treated.  So, again, we waited.  Chad, severely weakened, barely with the strength to move his head, drifted into and out of sleep.

To pass my time, and with some effort, I tried to read the new “Time” magazine. It was a special issue commemorating American history, featuring Benjamin Franklin on the cover, (a step in the right direction from the crap I usually consumed).  My comprehension skills limited, I looked at the pictures, and read the captions. 

After an anxious five or six hours, my husband finally moved into his new room.  Promptly a nurse’s aide came in with a bottle of something brown in her gloved hands.  Heavy set, tattooed, and very young, she cheerfully announced Chad’s bath time.  Now I wasn’t sure what I expected, but in one casual, shocking motion she unsnapped his gown and there he lay, naked, emaciated, emasculated and thankfully unaware of his condition.  Jesus taken from the cross.  Horror, shock, embarrassment, pick a word, froze me in place.  Callously robbing him of his modesty felt too much.  My poor Chad was too weakened for the embarrassment I felt for us both.

A regular in the hospital now, my face became familiar to the nurse’s station and cafeteria.  The halls antiseptically bare did feature artwork from former cancer patients.  I noticed underneath the framed pieces were the names of the artists, and their death dates.  I shuttered each time I walked by.  Another source of anguish came from watching other patients creeping along the halls, getting out of their rooms, ambulatory.  Chad’s door had caution signs saying wash your hands, wear gloves and a mask.  Another notice stated “Fall Risk.” 

Daily, the medical staff quizzed him with questions such as, “do you know where you are?”  He often answered, “Miami.”  He warmly told his oncologist that he could come along fishing on Biscayne Bay with him and his son.  Studying the nightmare from my front row seat I repeatedly despaired, “we’re never getting out of here.”  When the room finally emptied, I would try to explain to him that he lay in a hospital bed in Boise, to which he’d yell “knock that off Gail!  My son will be here soon.”

Are You Hungry?

When all of this cancer mess began, my husband weighed in around 180 lbs.  By August, after a summer of radiation and chemo, he pushed the lighter side of 150 lbs.  I blamed myself because I couldn’t seem to squeeze enough nutrition: yogurt, baby food, or canned formula through that little peg tube in his stomach.  On once occasion I pushed so hard on a feeding syringe loaded with strained carrots that it exploded over his torso.  Orange blobs hit the covers, the walls, me, the lamp.  It should have been funny, but instead felt more like a crisis.  In retrospect, I wonder if any food made it through that stiff, plastic obstacle course into his belly.

In the throes of this new catastrophe, I sat beside his stainless steel bed fretting not only for his life, but for his nutrition.  I pleaded with the nurse to find some way to get liquid food that fit his tube.  It had been over twenty-four hours since he had taken in any nutrition, and much of that he had tossed up with the colon perforation.  I realized that I was obsessing, but this issue was the one thing I could help, maybe.

Kindly, the ICU nurse listened to me, the wife, and not just medical notations.  He promised to talk to the doctor about getting some kind of sustenance up to the room as soon as he could.  But despite his intentions, it was easily another six or seven hours with nothing to feed him.  Hospitals make Congress look fast. 

The doctor first had to approve the nutrition, then order the food.  The pharmacy had to fill the order, the bag had to be transported to the floor and the nurse had to find a moment to hook it up.  To make this endless process short, the nutrition finally arrived, and honestly, I was a little chagrined.  The bag was filled with a yellow, clear, liquid, and looked to have no bulk at all.  The liquid was called TPN, and was none too impressive to behold.  But the nurse assured me that it had the substance to keep him going.

Now look, I know that healthy people can go days without food as long as they remain hydrated.  But Chad was so below the norm from the summer, that my fretting turned to anguish.  He hadn’t much to go on when this disaster began. The little bit the hospital provided only slightly took the edge off my dread.

Oh, and the new bed sore.  A spot had appeared at the base of his back and became raw and nasty fast, from lying in a comatose, prone position.  The doctor ordered a new bed, an air bed, with the idea of taking the pressure off his lower back.  Honestly, that order took another seven hours to materialize.  In the end, (no pun intended), his tailbone still bore too much pressure and the sore remained a pestilence until Chad was up and walking weeks later. 

One of nurses happened to remark to me that everyday spent in the ICU costs the patient two weeks of muscle loss.  That meant that for each day Chad lay there, his body deteriorated  fourteen days of lost mass.  Weird, but true.  He remained eight days.  His body grew ravaged and skeletal by the time he was transferred to a regular room.

I showed no physical effects of my own growing depression except I too, couldn’t eat.  After leaving the hospital each afternoon, I floated home in some cloud, fed the dogs, and buried myself in romance novels.  I read the same ones over and over.  Funny, I didn’t feel any hunger pangs either.  Both of us were equally immobilized, equally shut down.  The only difference between the two of us–I could physically leave the hospital. 

Delirium

To maintain that we fell back to sleep after talking to the oncologist, would overstate the minutes until the next phone call.  Our rest was uneasy, more trance-like accompanied by surreal images.  Soon the strained quiet shattered, when the anticipated second call arrived.  This time my sleep had been thin, and finding the phone a simple matter.  It lay where I had placed it no more than forty-five minutes earlier.  Again, for a second time that night, my girl and I lurched straight up in bed.  And for this call my voice flowed clearly, warmed up from the previous conversation.

“Hello.”

“Mrs. Chumbley?”  I am Dr. blah blah.” (Sorry)  “Your husband requires emergency surgery on his colon as a life saving procedure.  I can’t perform the operation without your permission.”

“Yes, of course.  You have my permission.  Thank you doctor.  Should I come down to the hospital?”

“This surgery can take hours.  The morning should be soon enough.”

“Thank you again, doctor.”

“You’re welcome.  Someone will call if there are any problems.”  My silent translation, “if he dies.”

I hung up the phone, and lay back down.  We both silently thought our thoughts, worried our worries, until lightly drifting off.

A thin sleep resumed.  Mine was filled the strangest dreams of the classroom, childhood friends, my parents.

Promptly, at six o’clock, I opened my eyes, just to roll over and see Catherine’s pretty blues looking straight back at me.  “We should get down there,” she whispered.

Quickly dressing, she drove me back to the hospital.  And though still very early, the day promised to be another scorcher.  She asked, “Do you want me to come up with you?”

I thought for a moment and then I told her no.  Not yet. I needed to see how he looked and what the surgeon had to say about his condition.  “You go back to bed, honey,” I encouraged.  ” I will call when I know something.”

That decision proved to be a good one.  When I found the ICU, his nurse explained to me that though he had survived colon surgery, Chad was still dangerously septic, in critical condition.  When I pulled back the turquoise curtain to his room, the body in the bed bore little resemblance to the guy I married.

This ravaged body bore testimony to his own hellish night of scalpels, staples, and anesthesia.  Now under an induced coma, his bloated and distorted figure would have better suited my earlier, anxious dreams, than the cold reality of morning.