Donna's Job--A Short Story

 People often ask me about that Mennonite novel I've wanted to write for years. It isn't written yet. In fact, I've written very little, fiction or non, the last five years.

However, sometimes I write a bit of fiction just for fun, like this story I wrote the last time I had Covid. I think that was my fifth round of it. So parts of this story may have been based on fact.

Donna's Job

Donna had to keep everything alive. It was her job, and they were counting on her. But her body weighed far more than she could lift off the bed. Fevered dreams swirled around her--parakeets in a cage, listless and thirsty. Hungry children. Cats prowling, scratching at cupboard doors, finding nothing.

She woke up slowly, her head full of a fevery fog and her eyes watering. She glanced around the room–desk, curtains, easy chair, the clock on the wall. No bird cages, thank God. That was just a dream.

But still. Were Mark and Amanda keeping the cats fed? Did the chickens have enough water on these hot days? And her precious straw bale garden with the radishes just beginning to sprout. Was anyone remembering to water it?

Donna glanced at her nightstand. A fluffy pile of kleenex, a glass with an inch of water in the bottom, and a tube of ivermectin. She needed food and water, but Mark was at work and Amanda was busy. She hated to bother them. Surely she could find her way to the bathroom and get fresh water. She considered this monumental task until she fell asleep again.

This time, she was still in her room in the feverish dreams, but a bird hopped out of its cage to bring her a cracker, the cat tucked a thermometer in her mouth, and Amanda appeared with a pot of tea that smelled minty and refreshing.

“Mom! Are you ok? You look terrible!”

Was Amanda real? Donna opened her eyes. Amanda set a tray on the nightstand and threw a wad of tissues in the trash.

Had she really brought tea? Yes, she had. Amanda poured a minty stream from the little white pot and handed it to her mom.

Donna struggled to sit up, motivated by anticipation. She took the cup in both hands and took a sip. The refreshing fluid rinsed her dry mouth and went down her raw throat in a wave of life and hope.

Maybe she’d be ok after all.

“Did anyone water the garden?” Donna croaked.

“Dad did, this morning,” Amanda said. “And he took care of the chickens. I fed the cats. Everything is taken care of.”

Donna felt a rush of relief. She swallowed another gulp of tea.

“Stop worrying and get better,” Amanda commanded. “And let me know what to bring for you.”

“I hate to bother you,” Donna whispered. “You have enough to do, and I feel so bad for not doing my work.”

“Right now, your work is to keep yourself alive!” Amanda turned and left the room, softly closing the door.

Donna lay down, the pillow welcoming and soft. Everything was still alive! She just needed to keep herself alive. That was her job.

In her dreams, the parakeets hopped onto the nightstand and reminded her to take ibuprofen. A chicken marched in and poured her another cup of tea. The cat straightened her mangled covers.

“All right,” Donna told the cat, “I am going to try to keep myself alive.”

“Good for you,” said the cat.

Five D’s: Doctoring, Diet, Disappointment, Determination, and Daughters

Like my November 2nd update, this is going to read like a letter from my Amish aunts. If you’re not into details of poor health, quietly move along.

The Yoders used the word “doctoring” a lot—actually “doctoring for.” It meant they were repeatedly seeing a doctor, usually for a specific ailment.  “Jonas has been doctoring for his arthritis.”

"Jonas is doctoring his arthritis," would mean he was rubbing BenGay on his joints every night.

I am becoming more Yoder as the years accumulate, not only perfecting my grandma’s sharp look that tolerates no foolishness, struggling with my Yoder lungs, and taking frugality to ridiculous lengths, but also, more recently, doctoring.

Last fall I not only dealt with my constant low-key Yoder cough, but I also fought a series of respiratory infections that really scared me.

In November, desperate, I abruptly changed my diet, eliminating dairy, wheat, and sugar. Within weeks, the constant hacking was less than half as bad and kept improving.

However. The diet didn’t improve my immunity to the respiratory infections that followed one another like blizzards in The Long Winter. In December, sick and exhausted,  I announced to the family that I couldn’t “do” Christmas for the first time in forty years. Jenny came home from Virginia for a week and made not only the traditional Kenyan dinner on Christmas Eve, but also whipped up an astonishing Christmas dinner of Cornish game hens stuffed with butter and lemon and rosemary, plus mashed potatoes and much more. Meanwhile, I lay on the couch and drank tea, too miserable to feel guilty.

And I agonized over a big decision. I was committed to a big trip in January involving speaking at two women’s retreats plus attending an Open Hands staff retreat and enjoying an anniversary getaway in Belize.

How could I scrape together the energy to take this trip? And yet, how could I not? It felt unthinkable to cancel. All that work already put in by the committees, and all those women expectant and planning to come. I have done harder things than this; I would just do it.

My daughters protested. “Mom, you would rather die than let someone down!”

Well, yes. Isn’t that the good Christian way??

They didn’t think so.

All right. I would make a decision by December 28th, the last day to cancel on the condo on a Belizian island.

I chose a definable metric: my ears. They had been stuffed and inflamed since I flew in October, and I shouldn’t  fly until they were better. If the doctor pronounced them clear, I would fly. If not, then not.

The doctor said they were not ok. So I made the wrenching decision to cancel everything and stay home.

It’s hard to describe the disappointment. Missing the Belize segment was especially painful—the tropical island getaway with Paul and also the retreat with the most eager and welcoming women I’ve ever spoken in front of.

So I stayed home, rested, and doctored. My primary care doctor and chiropractor were very helpful. The ENT specialist was not, taking the word of a fancy machine over what he actually saw in my ears, nor was the dismissive functional medicine doctor I saw, hoping to get to the root of my issues. "I think you'll be fine in a month."

Doctoring is always a gamble, one of many approaches to finding a solution to a stubborn problem. You might have more luck with sage tea from your sister than with a multi-degreed physician. You never know.

I improved slowly. Paul started making happy comments about how much less I was sleeping during the day and how much more energy I had. But I still rationed my spoons very carefully. If I went to an event on Saturday, it meant I couldn’t go to church on Sunday. If I went to church Sunday morning, I couldn’t go in the evening. Shopping was out of the question. Paul picked up what we needed.

Last Saturday, almost four months after the Christmas crash, I impulsively decided to attend a children’s concert that a friend’s children were involved in. It didn’t wipe me out. The next day, I went to church. Things are looking up.

I’ve cut back on the doctoring, but I continue to perfect the diet. While milk still triggers a coughing fit, I discovered I can have high-fat dairy products. Once I could have butter on my popcorn I decided life is worth living after all. I cook big batches of rice and Thai soup or taco fillings or roast beef and baked potatoes, and then I eat the same thing for days, and it works very well.

Paul is grateful not to have to cook for himself and insists that he’s fine with repetitive meals. He doesn’t want me to cook separate foods for him, so it’s tacos or beef for both of us.

The daughters have been my sternest monitors, insisting that I need to quit traveling because I always catch some terrible virus when I fly and then spend a month or two recovering. So I meekly obey, most of the time, and even stayed home last week when Paul flew to his niece’s wedding in Wisconsin.

In addition to doctoring as needed, I am determined to do all the healthy things: diet, sleep, walking, vitamins, and so on, hoping to eventually grow a healthier version of myself.

Mostly, this season is teaching me the fine art of saying No. It is a far harder skill to learn than baking without wheat or using coconut milk in cooking. Saying No means changing patterns, breaking old ways of thinking, and letting people down.

When I was debating about going to the two retreats in January, I asked someone for advice.

“Will you be bringing your best self to these events?” she said.

“Definitely not,” I answered.

“In another year, if you take care of yourself, you will bring a much healthier version of yourself. I think they deserve that.”

So do I.

Maybe I even deserve it myself, just for me.

I would like to add that I already had this title chosen when I read my friend Anita Yoder's post about winter seasons, so relevant to my experiences the past year. " Spring is hard-won. Winter seasons are intensely difficult, demanding, distressing—how many other D words?—dangerous, depressing, debilitating, dark, depleting, deserted."
All true. But Dorcas and her Daughters are Determined that she will make it to spring.

A New Venture and a New Column

 I am happy to introduce you to my new column in a new online newspaper, Lookout Eugene-Springfield. I will be writing twice a month and sharing my stories, reflections, and ideas. Topics will likely include gardening, sustainability, family, retirement, travel, and much more. I welcome you along for the ride.

You can read three articles per month on the Lookout website at no cost.

Since the "paper" is online, I won't be able to reprint and share my articles here until a few months after they first appear on the website.

The longer version of this story is that after many years of writing a column, that door closed when the newspaper was sold to a big soulless corporate entity. In the following years, many more doors in my life closed, disaster struck, and disappointments accumulated. It was very much a trek through the wilderness, and I didn't know if or when I'd ever come to green pastures and still waters.

And then, when the time was right, this door opened. So this story about waiting for things to take their course is about much more than mushrooms and gardens.

Lookout itself is a sign of new growth, and I'm excited about it. Eugene is a city where people engaged with their newspaper and when it was sold and became a shell of itself, people missed it. Lookout is a new venture with a goal of delivering an online "paper" with the high standards of past newspapers. Here is the link to my article: Lessons from a Pair of Straw-bale Mushrooms

And here's my author page.

I'd be honored if you checked it out.