Who Gampa USED to be - Kathleen Gibson

Ah, fresh air. Standing outside the house with then six-year-old Dinah Jane one pleasant evening, I took a deep breath. And inhaled at least three mosquitoes.

“Oh, brother,” said I, “let’s get back in the house before we catch West Nile!”

“What’s West Nile, Nana? Can we still play with that when we catch it?” she asked.

Her questions startled me. Not until then did I realize that our grandbeans, as we call our grandchildren, have little understanding of my husband's ongoing struggle with neurological West Nile Disease. In many ways, we’ve moved past the 2007 invasion of what we called “the pirates.” We seldom name it in their presence. Life is full, God keeps sending daily strength and our blessings far outnumber our troubles.

But perhaps it’s time to explain to the little ones just why their grandfather can’t run and play like many other men his age. Why he uses a walker, a cane or a scooter. Not even the eldest, four years older than Dinah, can remember when Gampa could chase a ball, shingle a roof, swim a hundred lengths, climb down into a cave or slam a shuttlecock over a net. If he could suddenly do those things, they'd welcome them – but perhaps they’d also miss the grandfather they know and love now. 

To them, Gampa's the grey-haired, bearded mountain of a man who gives them rides on his walker, and lets them drive his scooter. The gentle giant who quietly slips from the room when they get too noisy. The Candy-man who adores giving gifts and watching kids’ shows. The man who takes frequent naps, and stays home while Nana goes to work.

Of course, he does far more than that. That’s the kid’s eye view. And that’s how they love him. How we all love him.

Every summer, the media reports West Nile statistics, along with the usual warnings: Eliminate standing water. Stay inside between dusk and dawn. Wear repellant. (And no, certain well-known linaments, mouthwashes, and body oils cannot substitute for Deet). But nothing warns better than a personal story.

Rick, then 54, contracted WND in 2007. He spent six months in hospital and rehab centre, battling his way back from not knowing his own name or the names of his vegetables to remembering both. From paralysis in three limbs to limited mobility. Except for our faith in God and supportive family and community, we could not have endured the upheaval the mosquito injected into our lives.

My book, West Nile Diary, One Couple's Triumph over a Deadly Disease, details our journey. It's a journey that carries on today, as WND-related complications spiral Rick's health slowly downward, just as the long-term research indicated it would. We grab the happy moments and the opportunities to share God's faithfulness -- in spite of our particular pirate.

As we've watched the reporting on West Nile Disease, we've noted that a greater percentage of people – almost half – who become ill from WND, contract the more serious neurological form. In 2007, it afflicted only a small minority. This means there's even greater reason to take mosquitoes seriously. Worldwide, the bug still kills more people than anything else.

We thank God for what remains. We count our blessings. We swat mosquitoes. And sometimes, we still tell our story.

Kathleen Gibson is a writer, broadcaster and newspaper columnist. She and her clergyman Rick Gibson, have shared their story widely. This Sunny Side Up column was previously published in various Western newspapers.

No More Good Samaritans? -- Gibson

Monday, September 24^th. An exquisite afternoon in my parents' city--until my father discovered something had gone missing.

Daddy set out on his mobility scooter to visit a friend in the hospital almost across the road. En-route home, his scooter tumbled off a curb and he tumbled off the scooter, hitting his head on the concrete.

Old man, silver hair tousled. Cast down. And in one of the busiest sections of town, too. I wonder how many people passed him; but not one good Samaritan.

Pouf! Here one century, gone the next.

Somehow Dad managed to right his little machine and climb back on.

“I wasn’t hurt, Kathleen,” he told me later, over the phone. “And the scooter wasn’t damaged. But something really bad happened in my head. I got all turned around.”

It should have taken Dad less than five minutes to scoot home. Instead, he wandered around town for over an hour trying to find his way home. Asking for directions. A few people pointed this way and that, he said, but by the time the words had left their mouths they’d rushed away and Dad, who had increasing memory challenges even prior to his fall, had already forgotten what they’d said.

(“My memory?” he often answers when I ask him how his brain is doing this week. “Great! Good as new! Hardly ever used it!”)

And so it happened, that after helping others all his life, Daddy found no one to help him. To take five minutes and guide him home. That he arrived there eventually, and recognized the place, could only be thanks to the Father who has guided him all his life.

Forget “state of the nation” speeches. Nations consist of "state of the heart.” These days, (generally speaking): petrified of strangers, disrespectful of elders, afraid to touch anyone we’re not related to or in love with and too self-centered to get involved. And even if we weren’t all that, in cases like Dad's most of us assume everyone carries a cell. Not Dad. Never has. Never will.

He told me about getting lost a few days after it happened, when I called from two provinces over to wish him a happy 89^th birthday. It took a few days for his head to clear, he said.And that’s when I learned about the disappearance of the Good Samaritans.

I’m not pointing fingers at one city. Things like that happen where I live too. I’m not pointing fingers at anyone at all. I’m doing what my darlin’ dad told me he was doing, after he noticed my long pause at the other end of his story.

“I’m okay, Kathleen,” he said, worried about me now. “Really. I guess I just needed to cry on your shoulder awhile.”

Forgive me. I guess that's what I'm doing on yours. Good Samaritans shone rather beautifully in the world, you see. I already miss them.

Among other places, author, newspaper columnist and broadcaster Kathleen Gibson ponders faith and life in Sunny Side Up and on Simple Words.