Engraved: The Upbringing of a Caregiver

By Ron A. Nelson

In his memoir, Ron shares his "engraved" stories about the joys and challenges of his captivating life. Despite life's hard moments, Ron's enduring optimism and faith in humanity shine through. Each chapter is not just a tale of adventures of change but also a powerful testament, urging compassion and resilience, inspiring readers to embr

• Language: English
• Publisher: NY Book Publishers
• Release date: May 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869379993

Book preview

Engraved

By

Ron Nelson

Copyright © Year 2024

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this eBook/Book can be transmitted or reproduced in any form, including print, electronic, photocopying, scanning, mechanical, or recording, without prior written permission from the author.

The author and publisher shall have neither liability nor responsibility to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by this eBook/ Book.

Paperback: 978-1-964289-29-8

Hardback: 978-1-964289-30-4

I would like to thank Lisa and her team at NYBP for their support and collaboration in bringing this book to life.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to all the people who have touched my life and graced it with their presence, kindness, inspiration, guidance and strength.

The Nelson Family

Mom & Dad

Sharon

Jami, Jessica, Chelsea, Nils & Ashley, Curtis & Karina,

Eric & Mindy, Kent & Pam, and Jeff & Janet

Marjorie Anderson - Aunt

Ernie - my trusted puppy

Those I hope to meet again

Andy, My Angel, and all My Angels

Special thanks to Curtis Raymond

and to all the people who have touched my life and graced it with their presence, kindness, inspiration, guidance and strength.

Prologue

He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep, pain, which we cannot forget, falls drop by drop on the heart, until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.

-                      Aeschylus, Greek playwright

There are only four kinds of people in the world; those who have been caregivers, those who are currently caregivers, those who will be caregivers, and those who will need caregivers.

-                      Roselynn Carter

Life gives, and then it always seems to find a way to reverse itself and start taking. This cycle forms a rhythm, sometimes starting in the middle of a single breath. I am writing my story I would have never thought possible, moving into my seventieth year of existence. My life has been filled with numerous memorable learning moments, teaching me those ideas that have helped create my thoughts and actions concerning my life…and those people I love. These experiences are my engraved moments because they are locked only in my brain, saved inside my billions of neurons, no one else’s. Our brains are all wired differently, making us all one-of-a-kind humans. A good book, a moving sermon, or a lecture by the world’s finest and smartest can’t hold a candle to a memorable engraved moment from our own experience that took only a blink in time where true joy was felt or a moment we would like to forget, but can't. As long as we are breathing, life doesn’t stand still, though sometimes we feel stuck in quicksand, having to wait to be rescued. A call to 911 seldom dispatches the help we hope for, like a hasty recovery, a permanent cure, or the ability to hit an erase button and try again. Most of us need a series of lifelines and caregivers during our life’s journey. We all need HELP along our path of living. We need a hand or a push, being pulled out of our own muck from time to time, given one more shot, with a helping hand or a calming voice. The trauma of life we all feel shouldn’t define us, though, for some, it has a lasting, unforgiving grip.  Life is not fair for so many, teaching me that we all are not created equal. Luckily, I’ve been granted my fair share of those helping hands that have kept me hoping and, in the same breath, wondering what more is to come. What more can be lived?

The stories contained in this book come from my own life. I’ve been urged and encouraged to share them by family, friends, political and church leaders whom I cherish, admire, and trust (even though the trust part is hard for me). Have you ever noticed when you lose a bit of trust, you lose a little faith? And the other way around. A good definition of Faith is Complete trust or confidence in someone or in something.Faith is not a constant and should never be stuck. Faith isn’t always tied to religion or God or a higher power, though the term sometimes takes us in a religious direction. Faith needs to be ever-moving.

My expectations of my time nearly stopped years ago when I thought all hope was fading away too soon, too quickly . . . too early. My life could move forward only one minute, then one hour, giving me hope for one day at a time. My dreams were never promised since my next day was never guaranteed. It took time to learn each day is a precious miracle.

One of my engraved moments came when I was critically sick and on my way to the hospital to spend a few weeks. A leader in my church, who became a dear friend and spiritual advisor, gave me a religious and apostolic blessing. His grace was given at my brother Kent’s home, not far from my destination, at the University Medical Center in Salt Lake City. Hold on to your own faith, Brother Ron, he told me. Hold on when you’re weak, both physically and mentally. Hold on when you feel betrayed and hurt. Hold on. I was thirty-three, and my future was on hold as I was grasping, hoping, and praying for a miracle.  He added, Your experiences in this life will lead you to help many others, understanding the many frailties we all have. Having this gift will lead you to help many who are searching for help with a physical, emotional, or spiritual need.  At that moment, I didn’t understand how that was even possible since I couldn’t even help myself.

He then hesitated; silence filled the room for a few seconds as he changed the subject. Dear Ron, you have been through too much grief and experienced a lot in your young life. This will continue. I bless you with health enough, so in time, you will have strength and faith enough to share your story with the world.

I have now lived my second life of thirty-three years and counting. My life and faith have always been in flux. It is always changing, being altered by forces seen and unseen, choices made and avoided. I am finally following that ever-present voice ringing in my aching head to tell my story.

Engraving has been the center of much of my life, focusing on the work I did for over a quarter century. I have been praised and awarded for my creativity, selling millions of unique copper postcards throughout the United States and other parts of the world. I designed and manufactured the Grammy Award-winning, limited-edition CD cover for Madonna's album, Music. I did the same for other artists, including the Grateful Dead, whose album Match Set was nominated for the same award a few years later. These opportunities originated when someone from Warner Bros. Entertainment bought a copper postcard of a coyote while on vacation in Sedona, Arizona. The card sat untouched in an old, scratched metal filing cabinet for a few years until the right person—a creative vice president who oversaw new, ageless projects—stumbled upon it.

Life is full of these unexpected, life-changing moments, good and bad.  Someone paid a buck fifty in the Southwest Desert for something I made. That decision provided me with an opportunity to prosper years later, working my way out of excessive medical debt. It’s impossible to know what is around the next curve of our life or what we will find in the next drawer or box we open. We never know for sure where we will be tomorrow or even an hour or a minute from now. Life changes and moves too fast, though there are many who believe life is moving much too slowly. How is yours moving?

We all have our own unique moments that become stuck in our brains for our lifetime and hopefully beyond. These moments are the ones that will have the biggest impact.Most of our seconds, minutes, hours, and even days and weeks are forgotten like they never happened. We all have lost hours of sleep over something we don't remember today. Days pass, time moves, the heart heals, and those awful or jubilant moments—which were so painful or so joyful—fade away, never to be thought about again. Other moments stick, engraved in our minds and hearts forever, reminding us we have lived.

Chapter 1:

Choices and Decisions

It is our choices . . . that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.

- J. K. Rowling

Service to others is the rent you pay for your room here on earth.

- Muhammad Ali

I awoke abruptly, startled from my sleep. The clock's bright red lights announced it was 2:47 a.m. Connie, Shar’s dear friend and running partner for years, was standing over me in my room, hollering at me to wake up! Was I dreaming? I hadn't seen Connie in months.

Ron, Shar overdosed, Connie said, her words jolting me into action. Without hesitation, I hurried across the hall to find my wife unconscious, unaware of the bewildered thoughts racing in my aching head.

Connie trailed behind, asking, What should we do?

I needed to be more alert. I wasn’t thinking straight.  I needed to wake up…confusion clouded my mind. I can’t let her die, I uttered aloud. My mind was caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. How did this happen? I asked, receiving no clear answer. Unbeknownst to me, earlier that day, Shar had resolved to end her life. The subject of suicide had come up before, but it always endedwith Shar reassuring me: I'm just tired of the pain, I need to sleep, or Don't worry. I’m fine.

For too many years, pain and illness had been her constant companions. She had been dealing with serious, diagnosed illnesses since 2007. She has spent too many days and weeks in the hospital and has visited the Emergency Room numerous times when no relief could be found.  I understand the relentless challenge of pain, regardless of its form – physical, mental, emotional, even spiritual, though I’ve learned everyone’s pain and the way we cope with it is different.

What are you doing here? I asked Connie.

Shar texted me, confessing what she had done, begging me not to come, she replied. Connie knew before I did that Shar had made the decision to end her life.

It was evident that Shar had consumed multiple pills. Her Lortab pill bottle lay empty on the floor next to her bed. I later learned she had taken between eighteen and twenty-five Lortab pills, along with a dozen or so one-milligram Xanax tablets, combined with a scattering of other medications from her personal pill drawer.

Her breathing was strained. I attempted to ask a few questions, but she remained unresponsive, uttering only incomprehensible murmurs. I boistfully shouted at her, What did you take? What should I do? but received no reply. I was struggling to keep my emotions from spiraling out of control.

What should we do? Connie asked, repeating her earlier question. I detested the question because a part of me wanted to honor Shar’s desire and let her go. Though we had discussed suicide, I never anticipated she would choose this path. I felt paralyzed, yet I knew I couldn’t simply sit and wait.

Help me get her to the car, I asked Connie. I didn’t think there was time to call for an ambulance. Call Riverton Hospital Emergency and tell them I will be there in a few minutes.

On our way to the ER, I ran three red lights, finally pulling into the hospital parking lot. Two medical techs stood outside the emergency entrance with a gurney covered in white sheets, ready for my unresponsive wife. Without a word, they swiftly extracted her from the car. She’s not breathing, the taller one said, while the other informed me her pulse was weak. Amid the chaos, I forgot to turn off my car as I followed them into the ER and into an empty room. Within moments of our arrival, nine additional medical staff joined the two techs with a few nurses, along with the lead emergency room doctor. It all unfolded rapidly, resembling scenes from a medical thriller.

Do you know what drugs she took? the doctor asked me.

Lortab for sure, and maybe some Xanax, I replied.

Do you know the quantity?

Not certain.

We need to intubate. Is that okay? he queried.

I nodded.

Is that a yes? he asked sharply as I tried to recall the meaning of intubate.

Does she have a health directive? Do you know her wishes?

One of the techs shouted, She’s not breathing. Hurry!

Do whatever you need to help her. Please, I responded, even though I knew she had a do-not-resuscitate in her advance directive. I pushed aside thoughts of what that meant. She was dying but still alive.

She's critical. She's shutting down, one of the nurses exclaimed.

One of the attending physicians inserted a plastic tube into my wife's mouth, down her throat. It was tough to watch. The doctor applied chest compressions until her pulse was registered on the computerized monitor.

She's back, someone announced.

Her pulse began to slowly rise from 23 BPM. Her oxygen level showed a few digits higher. The monitor displayed thirty-eight. I knew anything under 90 was critical, but the ventilator was helping, slowly raising that number.

***

A few weeks later, my cell phone indicated 7:23 a.m., February 27th, as I arrived early at the University Neurological Institute (UNI) for Shar's court hearing. The hearing would determine her mental stability and potentially ease the restrictive measures imposed since her hospitalization.

A few weeks prior, Shar spent seven critical days in the ICU at the local hospital following her suicide attempt. A team of skilled medical professionals kept her breathing with assistance from a ventilator. They informed me of the need for them to transfer her to a psychiatric unit due to her upgraded, stable medical condition. I was warned that the transition might be challenging. It doesn’t always go smoothly, he cautioned. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best, were daunting words from a doctor whose decisions saved Shar’s fragile life.

The psychiatric unit became a living hell for Shar.  Her mind was continuing to hover between life and death, so she detested the staff's assurance that everything will be okay. She had chosen to end her life, and being confined with what she referred to as a bunch of crazy people worsened her despair, which she made abundantly clear to everyone in the unit. My heart ached not only for her but also for the other patients and their families, all grappling with their loved ones' unpredictable mental stability. Nights were filled with chilling cries echoing from the isolated rooms during each visit.

***

The date engraved in my mind is Sunday, February 2, 2020 – the day Shar resolved to end her life. The idea had been brewing in her mind for months, maybe longer. I remember attending church that Sunday, leaving the service early to visit my brother Eric in Park City. His health had been deteriorating due to a severe neuromuscular disorder, threatening his once-active lifestyle and any hopes for a meaningful future.

Super Bowl LIV was memorable. Eric and I had spent less significant Sundays together. However, that afternoon was different. We enjoyed a meal of hot chicken noodle soup and fresh French bread before the kickoff, watching the PGA playoff and cheering for Tony Finau, a Utah native. After the golf tournament, Eric busied himself on his phone, finalizing some last-minute bets for the game. Muting his cell phone with his hand, he jokingly asked me, Do you want to place any bets?

This question evoked memories of one cherished moment with Eric. He invited me to play golf at the Salt Lake Country Club on a late summer afternoon. Without my knowledge, I was involved in many golfing wagers having accrued thousands of dollars in winnings. I had repeatedly emphasized to Eric that I was a conservative cheapskate, unlike him. Standing on the sixth green, after sinking a fifty-foot putt, Eric divulged me with surprising news – You're up $3,600 bucks, he announced, wrapping up the day with a score of 69. Though I could have pocketed over $6,500 that day, I chose to split my possible earnings with Eric on the seventh tee box, cutting the amount in half.

The memory of that day on the course brought a chuckle as I pulled out my only bill from my pocket, saying, Here’s five bucks. Put it on the 49ers. Eric laughed heartily; his laughter was infectious.

I called Shar just before the first quarter ended, asking, Want me to pick you up for Jami’s? We'd planned to visit our oldest daughter's always festive Super Bowl party. She seemed inclined to go, saying, I think it will be fun. Earlier, I had informed Eric about the plan. Leaving him a few minutes into the second quarter, I told him, You are loved . . . I hope you win some money.

As I drove through Parley’s Canyon into Salt Lake City, Shar called. I don’t think I can make it. Why don’t you go to Jami’s and call me when you get there? she said.

Are you sure? I asked. Thirty minutes later, watching the entertaining halftime show, I rang her again. Want to come over for the second half?

I was taken aback when she replied, I’m at Costco picking up a cake for the party. Shar’s health issues had kept her from driving for weeks. Be careful, I cautioned. I’ll see you soon. Call me if you need me.

After the Chiefs pulled ahead in the game, Shar called me, saying, I’m lost, Ron.

Where are you? I asked.

Right by the big IHC hospital by the freeway.

Can you find your way home?

Yeah, I’ll be home soon. Don’t worry. I’ve wasted a lot of time. I’m heading home.

Can I meet you? Are you safe driving? I inquired, anxious, but I chose not to press her.

I’m fine, just tired. I’ll see you at home. Have fun with the kids.

Worry gnawed at my gut, making it hard to enjoy the game's second half. My anxiety peaked when I arrived home, and her car wasn’t in the garage. I called her; it went straight to voicemail. Where was she?

An hour later, I heard the garage door opening. Relief flooded over me; she was home! I hurried outside but noticed she didn’t have her required oxygen tank.

Are you OK? I asked.

I need to get to bed. I’m tired and not feeling well. I never made it to Costco, she replied. I wanted to ask further questions but stayed silent. Helping her into her PJs and bed, I made sure she was connected to her oxygen, settling her agitation. She asked about the game, but her interest seemed fleeting. She inquired about my time with Eric.

He’s fine. I’m glad I went up. It was fun, I answered. Shar was already snoring before I finished my reply.

The rest of the late-night passed peacefully. After taking our puppy, Ernie, for a walk and getting ready for bed, I settled in our basement family room to watch the game highlights. Thirty minutes later, I was getting into bed while picking up a book from my nightstand. I started reading but dozed off minutes later without removing my glasses from my face.

Then, just over two hours later, it happened. Connie was trying to wake me.

Later, at the hospital, realizing Shar’s life was out of my hands, I settled into an armchair outside her emergency room. Connie joined me as tears streamed down both of our swollen, tired cheeks. We watched the medical staff, our minds racing with unanswerable questions. Exhausted, I wondered if I had done the right thing. I needed sleep, but kept praying intently for Shar to be OK.

An hour passed, and Connie hinted she needed to leave to catch a few hours of sleep before work.

Do you have the text she sent you? I inquired. When she nodded, I asked if I could read it.

I’ll send it to you, she told me.

Thank you. If she makes it, you saved her.

Five minutes after Connie left, I received Shar’s text.

***

"Well, Connie, it's time. Tonight later, when Ron is fully asleep, please, please don’t call the police, my family, or anyone else, crisis line, etc. It’s been 15 years of sickness, but the worst, by far, is the last 5. Everyone, truly everyone, thinks I am ‘psychotic and delusional.’ And the thing that breaks my heart the most is because of everything Ron has or hasn’t said. I just can’t live like that anymore. The longer it goes on, the worse it’s gotten, and Ron can’t talk to me anymore without me or him freaking out. So, I don’t. Every day, I find more and more. But the common denominator is this yellow stuff that starts out sticky then goes rock hard. I often wonder if it could be the tailings from Bingham Pleasantville our home is sitting on. We are smack dab on top of a spring, river, whatever. When I’ve studied Bingham, this place never should have had the OK to build. Also, looking at the giant landslide they had yrs. ago, the ground is a gross yellow color. I also think my silicone implants from 34 years ago that have ruptured all play a factor. All that glue stuff is just chilling through my body. At least the saline absorbs. But not one of my docs says that could be a factor. How can it not be?

On and on I could go, but I say a picture says a thousand words. And I have at least that many stored in my phone! Please tell my family how sorry I am to do this to them. Hopefully, they’ll find some peace knowing I finally am (emojis…heart then another heart). But mostly I want them to know I was never delusional. They’ll have to do some sleuth work or hire someone.

Much love forever and always. And I’ll see you at the starting line. And I will kick your butt! This stuff even gets in my pill bottles, so I guess it was meant to be. Oh, forgot to tell you I’ll have my phone in my cupboard above my toilet, wrapped in a towel. Just nonchalantly come and use my dog pee smelling bathroom.

The family knows my wishes of donating my body for study, or just to make the med students’ day by observing such perfection! And I’d love to donate my squished implants too.

My wishes for my funeral are for it to be 2 days long with an intermission. All music, including the Tab Choir – for the Beauty of the Earth…hahaha, I was always so funny.

Prayer Opening song/Crocker sisters (like my mom’s) Remarks: Kate date then cello

Linda and John obit

Speaker   I hope the kids will want to say something.

Speaker

Music if Curtis will sing You’ll be in my heart with Kelly DeHaan helping

Speaker Krissy childhood memories.

Speaker Tolman and Addi (if they want to)

Brother Steve

I don’t want Ron to speak. I’m afraid of what he would say.

Oh, I need an incredibly big hug thank you to my dermatologist at the U. Stephanie and the biggest of all hugs to my Dr. Zimmerman of about 20 years, poor man. Oh good! Now I don’t have to go in for my blood transfusions tomorrow.

If I go to all this work and don’t die, ask Kim (Connie’s husband) to finish me off."

***

Shar’s text left me speechless and heartbroken. As I thought about her words, I walked outside to find my car still running, idling for hours. Sitting inside the car, tears began anew, struggling to grasp the last few hours. Suicide! I grappled with reality, unsure if it had happened or if it was just an almost.

***

The afternoon, following the UNI judge lifting the tight sanctions on Shar, I sat and wrote. This chapter hurts. I am unsure how to move or breathe. The news keeps pounding in my head, causing nightmares, yet my brain and the rest of me feel numb and disoriented, like my aching feet. Shar’s action has left me numb, with no actions or words to express except showing up.  I’ve tried to talk to friends, but my focus is vacant. I have no expectations. I keep busy, but I'm not sure how. Unplugged," I responded to a friend asking how I was handling it.  I was unsure if the two of us knew what I meant.  My actions each day are routine and directionless. My heart and head have moved to a lonely place – unfamiliar. I pray for grace from God and my angels to fill this desolate place.

Suicide has always been a prevalent topic in my mind. Many of my friends acquiesced to that dark moment, and each time, I tried feeling their pain, yet absent, not knowing how to react. Shar’s situation has frozen my humanity while boiling my exposed senses. This hit delivers a more conflicted impact, gripping in its intense suffering. I feel stuck in her unwanted life, knowing she chose death over her family and another day. My rock, Shar, has always been there for me, but on 2/3/2020, my rock disappeared, making that date my new 9/11.

I’ll fight for her as much as my heart and head allow, but the path ahead is blurry. It's been three weeks, and the view forward is more distant. A hospital therapist told me, You need to work through your own trauma. It will take time. Shar’s current situation in the psych ward is not equipped to help her mend. She doesn't want to be there. Her doctor seeks a better facility, hoping for finer conditions to aid her healing. Shar needs peace and space. I'll strive to get her moved, but it's tougher than expected. Our mental health system is badly broken, and throwing more money at the problem- may not solve the issue, as I've learned from this experience.

Escaping my own feelings seems impossible. I tell myself to step away from the pain, even for a few hours. It hasn’t worked yet, as I can only escape the sting in my restless sleep. Changing is hard. Today, I’m not sure if it is possible to erase the hurt. The only way to fix the way I feel is to go back in time, maybe way back. Wishing for the impossible gives peace in an instant but disappears in the next.

***

I signed up to bring Eric dinner on Saturday, March 7. Eric heard about Shar, so when I called him on Friday afternoon, the sixth, to plan our evening together, he wanted to know how I was doing. News moves fast. Bad news always travels faster. He had been calling me almost every day since he heard Shar’s story.

Ron, you don’t need to come up. I have enough food to last me a month.

I told him I was coming and that I was going to heat up some chicken soup. I added, I’m making you a couple of my special grilled cheese sandwiches.

That sounds good, he told me in his raspy voice.

I will try to bring Shar, but I'm not sure yet. She’s only been home for a few days. She wants to see you, but she is embarrassed. We have therapists coming to see her every day, I told him.

She should be, but don’t tell her that. I still don’t understand how she would want to kill herself. He had repeated those same words before. If anyone should want to kill themselves, it should be me, but I couldn’t do it.

How are you holding up? he asked. We can talk about it while we watch the Jazz play tomorrow, I told him. We both were excited. We had another game to watch.

When I got to Eric’s home on Saturday, putting soup on the stove, a friend of Eric’s walked in his front door without knocking.

Eric, dinner is served. I heard the voice coming from the front entry. Soon, the three of us were in conversation. Eric’s friend took two meals from a nearby upscale restaurant out of a paper bag. The scent that filled the front room was divine.

I was going to sit with you, but why don’t you and your brother enjoy these? Eric’s friend said. He was so gracious. Eric thanked him, and he was gone. As we enjoyed our delicious meal and watched the basketball game, we talked about Eric’s upcoming trip. It was two days away. Two of his friends were flying him back to Rochester, Minnesota, to the Mayo Clinic so Eric could get a third opinion about his medical condition. The Marriotts, other dear friends, had arranged for him to stay at their hotel next to the hospital. The planned trip gave Eric renewed hope for better days ahead.

I’m excited to hear what you find out next week. Will you call me? I asked.

Monday afternoon rolled around. I had been thinking of Eric all day, wondering if he had checked in at Mayo. My brother Kent called me towards the end of the day.

Have you heard about Eric? He’s at the University of Utah hospital in their pulmonary unit, Kent said.

My heart sank. What happened? I asked.

Kent wasn’t sure of the details, but he said, His doctors think he will be ready to go home in a day or two.

I didn’t rush to the hospital as I wanted to. I told Kent, I will get up tomorrow to see him.

Tuesday came and went. Shar’s doctor appointments took up the day.

Wednesday was different. I saw Eric early that morning. He was lying in his hospital bed looking better than he had a few days earlier. He told me they were going to let him go home later that afternoon.

What about your trip? I asked.

My friends are working on rescheduling. I am hoping to go in two weeks, he told me.

Later that afternoon, I made a second visit to see Eric. He was sitting up in a chair with EKG wires hooked to his chest. His voice was hoarse, but I could understand every word. I’m getting out of here in the next hour, he whispered. My nieces, Eric's daughters, were there, agreeing with every word. They were nervous but eager to get him home.

I left the hospital before they were ready to wheel him out. I told him, You are loved, Eric. I will come up to Park City and see you tomorrow. I’m glad you get to go home.

Back at you. I’ll be OK, he told me.

Two hours later, Summer, his oldest child, called and told me her dad was still at the hospital. As he was being discharged, Eric told the nurse and his doctor that he wasn’t feeling right. With that information, they decided to hold him one more night.

I told her, I will see you tomorrow. Call me if you need anything.

I showed up at the hospital on Thursday around noon. Eric had been placed on a ventilator and was unable to communicate. Summer and Abby, Eric's daughters, let me know their dad had an episode earlier that morning. His oxygen saturation dipped to 21. He was not getting enough oxygen needed to survive, and he had a heart arrhythmia that lasted a few minutes. He might not make it. My heart felt sick.

On Friday morning, the news came that couldn’t have been worse. To keep Eric alive, he would need to stay hooked to machines for the rest of his life. His kids knew Eric wouldn’t want to live like that, so with the help of the doctors (since their mother died from cancer four months earlier), the kids determined the ventilator would be removed later that afternoon. Eric didn’t want to die; he was always afraid of death, but I know he didn’t want to live with a machine living for him, unable to do the things he loved. He communicated that wish in his advance directive.

The doctors said, He will probably go quickly, maybe a day or two, but he could pass in a few hours. We don't have control of when.

I hated the doctor's communication that my big brother, whom I adore, was possibly going to leave me that day. Tears alone couldn’t define the hurt, my loss. The news was the end of hope.

I held Eric’s hand when the doctor removed him from life support as he administered medicine to make him comfortable. I left for thirty minutes to get a drink, taking some time to settle my grief and give Eric’s kids time alone to say their final goodbyes. I didn’t know he would be gone in less than half an hour. I wasn’t there when he took his last breath. After his children left, I got to sit with him, his body, just him and me for 90 minutes. I talked a lot as he lay there. I asked him all the questions that I wanted to know when someone dies. I asked him, through my tears, to find a way to show up to tell me at least a few answers. I wanted him to let me know if Mindy, his wife, was there when he drifted from life to what I hope is heaven. I wanted to know if Mom and Dad were there and if God greeted him with a smile and his love. When it was time for me to leave the hospital, I gave him a long kiss goodbye and told him I loved him. It is the only time I remember kissing my brother.

As time passes, the forty days between Shar’s suicide attempt and Eric’s passing have become a singular, etched moment in time, forming a set of memories in my constantly changing, now deteriorating brain.

Was this experience with Shar and Eric part of God’s plan for me? It's a constant question that I don’t have a reliable answer to, but one I will keep asking. On the day my dad died, he and I had a conversation. He told me, Never stop asking your questions, son. You never know when you will be led to find a helpful answer. In his last hour, my father was still communicating. His mind was sharp until he took his last breath. He had 100 questions he wanted answers to. Minutes after Eric passed away, I hoped his questions were starting to be answered. I hoped my dad was there to greet his oldest son and help answer Eric’s feared questions. It’s a soothing thought.

The absence of Eric was challenging in those first few months until Shar came home again after spending too much time in the psychiatric hospital. Instantly, my focus needed to change. I became my wife’s full-time caregiver.

Lesson learned: Take time to reach out to everyone you know and love. Every day is a gift.

Chapter 2:

My Angel

For he will put his angels in charge of you, to guard you in all your ways.

-                      Psalm 91:11

Your life is your story.  Write well.  Edit often.

My Beginning:

The sun wasn't shining on the first day of winter in 1953. Years later, after I asked to hear the story again, Dad told me about the day I was born— it was cold, windy, and it snowed most of the day, with temperatures dipping into single digits.  I was told. Mom was excited as my birth approached, but when the day finally arrived, she felt unexpectedly sad and anxious because her baby boy wasn’t perfect.

A few days later, on Christmas morning, my parents brought me home to meet my two older brothers. In an old picture, they're giving me a kiss on my chubby cheeks. But soon after, I was forgotten. After a diaper change and a quick bottle feeding, I went back to sleep in Mom’s used but festive crib while Christmas gifts, including a new red tricycle, waited under the tree. Unwrapping those presents was more exciting than playing with their new little brother.. Later that afternoon, I was back in the hospital.

In the following years, Mom worked hard to hide my newborn legs, which were deformed because of a condition called Talipes Equinovarus. She told her friends I had hip dysplasia, not revealing the whole truth. Both my feet pointed the wrong way, with one curled almost backward. Mom covered me with extra blankets to hide the plaster casts molded around my legs and feet, up to my waist. I went through seven or eight casts because I was growing so fast. If I wasn't in a cast, I wore Denis Browne splints. This early story became Mom’s secret for reasons I never really understood.

My name is Ron A Nelson. I didn't like being called Ronald because of the association with McDonald’s. Mom got away with calling me Ronnie, but that stopped when I became a teenager. Mom liked short names with few syllables. Eric, Kent, and Jeff are my brothers. Frank Victor and Jean Anderson Nelson are my parents. My middle name only has an 'A'—short and precise. The 'A' has taken on many names over the years, rarely Anderson. It reminds me I'm related to Mom, though there were times when I didn't want to be. In eighth grade, I weighed 182 pounds and was 6 feet 5 inches tall, making me the tallest in my class. People often said I had the perfect body for swimming, but they regularly asked if I played basketball.

I don’t recall my parents talking to me much, except a bit during meals and when they insisted I go to bed at night. I always wanted to stay up and read late into the night. We discussed school and the nightly news during dinner, but I can't recall any specific conversations. Saying the wrong thing could lead to a whack or two or even a whipping with the thick black leather belt hanging in Mom’s closet. In my adolescent years, my opinions, thoughts, and feelings didn't seem to carry much weight. I absorbed much of my life from friends and their families, observing their words and actions. They taught me possibilities for how I wanted to live my life. I learned what to do and what to avoid accordingly. Dad attempted to teach his sons, doing it great, but Mom's stringent rules were the only way to safely exist at home. I always prayed for a different reality when Mom had a bad day, which was most days. My brothers had similar experiences.

I grew up in a loud home where Mom ruled the roost. Her screams would stop me in my tracks, making me afraid to move. Her words were like scripture, often trumping Dad's opinions. You better do what I say, she'd declare, passing judgments without explanation or warning. Dad tried to be calculated when he spoke up, telling Mom she had gone too far—though not always successfully. The decibel levels in our home created a sonic boom, sending us all for cover during Mom’s lengthy attacks on Dad. Don’t ever contradict me in front of the boys! she'd command, pointing the finger at Dad as if she was ready to pull the trigger. Dad pretended to hold his own, trying to be protective during Mom’s verbal lashings, but his sons couldn't. No one likes hearing their mom criticize their dad, especially when her voice carried so far that neighbors and friends would often hear it. It was embarrassing when people would ring the doorbell, asking if everything was okay.

On a few occasions, I remember leaving our house and hiking up my mountain, which was across the street to the east, seeking solitude and a bit of peace in my own silence. As I climbed, I would pause, looking down on my home from my makeshift heaven, anticipating the moment when our home would erupt from the toxic atmosphere.

Two days after Christmas, just days after I turned eleven, Mom was taken from our home for reasons I didn’t understand at the time. I stood at the end of our dark hallway outside my bedroom, sobbing, witnessing Dad, his eyes misty, helping Mom into her long tan coat with a fur collar—an engraved moment. There was no hug goodbye for me, no verbal communication. Mom couldn’t face the pain, her guilt. I guess she and Dad thought it was best. She left me and my brothers with too many unanswered questions. That night, I retreated into my dark room, said my prayers, and cried myself to sleep.

Six quiet months later, Mom returned home with no explanation of where she had been. We never broached the subject of her time away and her ongoing battle with deep depression and high anxiety that never truly fades. With support from Dad and doctors, she sought help. I believe a conversation would have been beneficial, but I learned early on that her kids weren’t included in many adult discussions. Too many painful things were kept secret in our family. Mom could be loud, but I discovered that it was the silence that was hardest for me. We never delved into difficult, personal matters. It wasn't until a few years before she passed away that she and I were able to discuss the day she left home, including her experience at a psychiatric hospital in California. My heart ached for her in those moments when there was nothing I could do except listen with tears in my eyes.

It was painful for me to hear and then imagine her being beaten and verbally abused when she was a young girl. This knowledge provided me with valuable insight, but it came years too late. She treated her children the way her dad treated her, as one of Mom’s sisters later confirmed. She parented the same way she was brought up, emulating her father's temperament. I wondered if Mom understood the harm she was causing to my brothers and me, but understanding sometimes comes too late.

When I was eight years old, Mom convinced me to sing a solo in front of our entire congregation at church. I sang a children’s song about Jesus. It is a beautiful song, but I was singing a complete contradiction of what was happening at home.

Jesus once was a little child,

A little child like me;

And he was pure and meek and mild,

As a little child should be.

So, little children,

Let's you and I

Try, try to be like him

Try, try, try,

He played as little children played,

The pleasant games of youth;

But he never got vexed when the games went wrong,

And he always told the truth.

So, little children,

Let’s you and I,

Try, try to be like him,

Try, try, try.

I kept trying, but pleasing Mom was a constant challenge. She always sought perfection in her young boys, and none of us could meet that high standard. I wasn’t Jesus, although there were times when I genuinely tried to be. Anything less was usually met with her wrath. This lesson was tough to learn, revealing a challenging path forward. It took years for my young and gentle heart to understand that Mom often wanted the impossible.

The most peaceful and beautiful moments with Mom were our walks on a Southern California beach. We did it for almost 12 years during one or two weeks of summer vacation. The sound of the sea, the feel of sand on our feet, and the scent of the salty ocean in the brisk morning air were heaven to her. Prayer was never her thing. Instead, she found peace listening to the surf, occasionally engaging in conversation with the ocean. She told me that was her chosen way to communicate with God.

Our family never established the habit of morning and nightly prayers, unlike many families in our neighborhood. We prayed at mealtimes, using the same prayer almost every time. At an early age, I was taught at church that prayer would connect me to God and Jesus. They would always listen, even when parents and others had tuned out or connected to a different frequency. Ask God through Jesus, and they will hear you. You shall receive. I began saying my own personal prayers at night, lying in bed under my soft, checkered bedspread with matching sheets. The prayers started because I was scared—afraid of Mom and fearing that God and Jesus were going to do something to me. My fear of death began when my childhood friend Steve Gloden, who had just graduated from kindergarten, succumbed to nephroblastoma or Wilms’ Tumor, a rare kidney cancer.

I met Steve in the boys’ bathroom as he was draining his nephrostomy catheter bag. I was curious and asked him about it. He shared that he was sick and needed to drain the bag a few times a day. I didn’t think it was fair, and I tried to become Steve’s protector after learning part of his story. His parents were divorced, and he was born with only one working kidney. Doctors discovered his cancer as he started his first few weeks of school. Learning about his death a few months later brought me to my first-grade knees. For reasons unknown, I thought I was going to be next. The fear of death was hard for me, starting at the age of six. Cancer meant nothing to me, but dying did. There were nights when I would wake up in the morning, still kneeling or lying beside my bed on my braided orange and brown carpeted floor.

On some sleepless nights, I would wake my parents. However, at 1:00 or 4:00 in the morning, they weren't eager to engage in lengthy conversations. I can't recall a middle-of-the-night chat with them lasting more than a few seconds. Their responses were consistent, Ron, it’s way too late. Everything is fine. Go back to bed. The silence in the darkness of my room was too much to bear, leaving me with nothing but fear, so I prayed, believing that God was listening.

My nightly prayer was almost always the same— Please, Heavenly Father, please don’t let me die tonight. Nearly a year later, on one of those challenging nights, after desperately pleading with God, I was left with an intense fear that engulfed my entire body, making it impossible to sleep. I tried to be brave but couldn’t settle myself enough to doze off. Once again, I found myself climbing into my little brother’s bed, which had become a familiar routine. We shared our early American, wood-paneled bedroom. I was seven, and he was four. My prayers continued as I lay next to Jeff, my head tucked into the corner of the wooden walls, praying for sleep and not to die.

Suddenly, my room began to fill with an indescribable light. Terrified, I prayed even harder, begging God, Not now, please don't take me now. I turned hesitantly toward the brightness