Read an Excerpt
Percolate
Let Your Best Self Filter Through
By Elizabeth Hamilton-Guarino HAY HOUSE, INC.
Copyright © 2014 Elizabeth Hamilton-Guarino
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4019-4298-4
CHAPTER 1
Discovering Your Inner Aardvark and Platypus
Life is full of choices about how to live and, for some, it includes choosing life itself. In August 2004, my kids, husband, and I moved across the country to Portland, Maine. Prior to the move, we'd spent months trying to decide whether we should move to Maine or Minnesota. Although my parents were living in Minnesota, and it would've been nice to be close to them, we opted for Maine because my husband's job offer there was a bit better. Besides, we figured my parents would love to visit, eat lobster, and take in the gorgeous scenery. Sounds like a great plan, right? Unfortunately, however, life had something else in mind....
On December 18, 2004, with my home still unpacked and boxes everywhere, I found myself boarding a plane from Maine to Minnesota, as my 60-year-old dad had suffered a stroke. He had collapsed in the living room of my parents' house the day before. My brother Shane had, by sheer luck, just learned the symptoms of a stroke a few days earlier. He recognized the signs immediately and called an ambulance. Shortly after the stroke, my dad suffered a brain hemorrhage that was devastating and called for extreme life-saving measures, including a barbiturate-induced coma.
I spent much of 2005 flying back and forth between Maine and Minnesota while my dad fought for his life. During this experience, I also discovered that I needed to help keep my mom healthy. She was completely devastated and stressed out, even sobbing in her sleep. I'd heard about instances of longtime married couples dying together: when one spouse becomes critically ill and dies, the other dies of a broken heart at the same time or shortly after. Having been married for over 30 years, my mother was a prime candidate for this. It felt like we would lose our mom, too, if our dad died or just from the sheer stress from watching him suffer. So my siblings and I tried to do everything in our power to prevent that from happening.
This was an intense period of ups and downs and near-death moments. During this time, my family members and I bonded with the doctors and nurses on staff. My dad's room was plastered with photographs of his children and grandchildren—the positive energy was abundant. It was clear that my dad loved movies, basketball, and other sports, too, as that energy was present in the room. We worked hard to keep my dad's morale up by reminding him of all the things he had left to do in the world: attending weddings, meeting future grandchildren, and so on.
However, at one point, the cardiologist gathered the entire family around. This seasoned professional cried as he informed us that he had done everything in his power to save my dad's life, but he feared the outlook was grim. Everyone in the room could tell he felt intense responsibility for keeping our dad alive, but it seemed so very hopeless. Despite his prediction, we found ourselves offering him hugs during this sad moment. In the midst of this most difficult conversation, the doctor mentioned that he would love to play basketball with Dad and all of us because we just seemed like such a cool, loving family. We cried. We prayed. We stayed positive and never gave up.
I flew back and forth for most of the year. On one occasion with my dad still in a coma, when things seemed completely desperate, while getting ready to return to Minnesota, I found myself alternating between crying and sobbing as I packed black funeral clothes in my suitcase. Then on that miraculous day in the middle of 2005, the phone rang. The call was completely out of the blue.
"Hello," the extremely weak, barely recognizable, and faint voice said, "It's me, Dad. I love you."
Caught completely off guard, with the coat of a black suit in hand, it took me a second to grasp what I'd just heard. It was my dad's voice. I couldn't believe it—my dad was speaking to me! My mom then took the phone because Dad was speaking to me while on a ventilator, a feat that is nearly impossible to do. When he woke from the coma, he'd requested to make a phone call to me. Just typing this makes me feel the warmth and abundance of gratitude.
My dad was alive—and, better yet, he not only came out of the coma, but for some miraculous reason that none of us really completely understands, my dad also had most of his faculties in order. His memory was perfect, and he could move. His speech was faded and weak, but it was clear to us all he would survive.
I packed brighter clothes and immediately flew back to Minnesota. Even today, it is quite difficult to remove that image of my dad when he was so ill from my mind. Many of us kids had nightmares and illnesses of our own that year because of the stress.
One thing I learned from my parents during this experience is the incredible strength they both showed. During this ICU stay, my dad was on a ventilator and for the most part unable to speak. We all discovered that years ago, our mom and dad had worked out a code to use in case of a situation such as this. If either of them became unable to speak, they promised to blink twice if the sick person could hear and squeeze a hand if they felt extreme pain. Throughout Dad's critical care stay in the hospital, he and my mom used this code much too often for the amount of tears I could cry. It's certainly a code of strength I'll never forget.
Months passed while Dad received treatment at the rehab center. We didn't know whether he would ever fully recover the use of his eyesight, speech, or hearing. There were some extremely dicey moments with fevers, involuntary hiccups, and just overall extreme weakness. These were things that set back the progress one hopes to make in a rehab center. Thankfully, as he began to recover, Dad gradually regained his strength and voice. There were no major issues to the extent of needing to go back to the ICU or hospital, but plenty of close calls and trying moments where continued will to survive was needed.
One day, rather unexpectedly, a gray-haired, spunky older nurse came into his room and told my dad that it was time to get him ready to go to speech therapy. My dad is about 6'4", well over 280 pounds, and at the time, he was in pretty rough shape. I know the last thing on his mind was speech therapy, but as many of us know, cooperation is important while in the hospital. It took several people what seemed like forever to properly maneuver him and his many cords and bottles in order to transfer him from his hospital bed into a wheelchair. He was already exhausted from that process, and despite his lack of energy and enthusiasm, my dad went along for the ride.
Now, my dad is a very smart man. Little did we know, but he was going to teach us a new code. The nurse who wheeled Dad down to his speech pathologist spoke to him in a gentle, baby-talk voice. She asked my dad to say the first word that came to mind when she said a letter of the alphabet. Naturally, she started with A. I suppose the nurse expected Dad to say at or and, words typical from a patient who had suffered such a severe stroke.
Dad looked over at us, rolled his eyes, and said, "Aardvark." My translation of Dad's code: "Do you think I am so debilitated that I've lost my mind, too?"
Dad, draped in fashionable hospital garb, exhausted, barely fitting in the wheelchair, and having now been in the hospital for months, was about to recite the preschool alphabet for all of us in a new way.
The next letter was B.
"Benevolence," he whispered. Mom and I giggled.
Then came C.
"Courage."
And D.
"Definitely determination," he said, smiling.
I'm fairly certain my dad's word selection for the letter F was, well, not appropriate for this book. We blamed that response on the drugs. For M, Dad chose "movies," and from out of nowhere came "platypus" for the letter P. The therapy continued through to the letter Z.
Although the nurse was astounded by my dad's vocabulary choices, Mom and I weren't surprised at all. My dad's mantra has always been I can and I will. Listening to him utter these words brought hope, courage, and laughter. Despite the trauma of a stroke and four brain surgeries, Dad maintained his wit and humor; it was his way of telling us he was going to be okay.
Thinking about the words I can't help me realize that our life experiences teach us what we are capable of achieving. It's easy to lose track of our successes when life becomes overwhelming. Eventually, we start to feel like we can't do something we love, or it's too late to be that writer we've always wanted to be, or that famous painter, or the adventurer longing to visit the rain forests of Costa Rica. We get stuck in the words I can't and give up on these dreams.
This is where percolating comes in and perhaps my favorite word will soon become yours, too.
When someone tells me they can't do something, I immediately think about my dad's experiences at the rehab center. I long to take the can't-sayer on a field trip to this inspiring institute just to show what can be done when you change can't to can. We spent months in this amazing facility, wondering if my dad would ever speak, walk, or see again. My mom and I would go on hospital walks during those bleak and desperate moments. While we wandered the mazes of halls, we'd gaze upon and admire the artwork displayed on the walls. Not until we closely examined the art did we realize who the artists were—blind people painting from memory, children whose limbs were deformed due to the effects of thalidomide, paralyzed patients painting with their mouth, feet, or even eyelashes. These incredible creations inspired us. They weren't just your average works of art—no, these images on the walls were miracles made from determination and the unwillingness to say I can't.
You can. Whenever my mom or I experience a challenging moment in our lives, we talk a lot about what we witnessed at the rehab center. My mom recently called to tell me that one of her friends asked her to speak at her funeral when she dies. I thought that was a strange request because the friend seemed young—just my mom's age. Mom reminded me that many people her age start thinking about their death, especially when they begin to have more serious health problems. Her friend had just been diagnosed with diabetes.
Rather than agree to the request, Mom surprised her friend by suggesting some dietary and exercise changes to help manage her illness and prolong her life. Despite this newfound knowledge, my mom's friend struggled with the diet changes and felt quite sad and hopeless.
I see this as an opportunity for her friend to awaken, to feel love and compassion for herself, and to begin to make changes. The pain and sadness provide an opportunity, and maybe even a chance, to become a medical wake-up call. Mom offered to help her friend adhere to the new diet and exercise regime, and she ended their conversation by assuring her that there would be plenty of time to discuss her funeral plans.
In contrast, my mom has another friend who is 83 years old. My mom's friend is so excited about her daughter's second wedding that she keeps sending my mom pictures on her cell phone of the new dresses that she is considering wearing to the special occasion, as well as jewelry and shoe choices. In fact, her friend has gone on a diet in preparation for her daughter's big day. Now, that's living. After telling me about her two friends, Mom said, "You can spend all of your time dying, or you can live. It's your choice." I don't know about you, but I choose to live.
Let's face it: For the most part, life isn't predictable. I know—that just seems so unfair, but since we have no way of knowing when or where we will draw our last breath, it's important to begin embracing life now. If you're reading this, smile. You can even giggle or laugh. After all, you're alive. Some mornings, it might not be that easy to just roll out of bed full of gratitude, plant those feet on the floor, and feel tremendous love for the day ahead. I get it; I'm usually fumbling around for my glasses that have fallen on the floor or socks that I've kicked off in the middle of the night, but if you think about the alternative, it makes the task a whole lot easier. You might have to learn how to do it, but it's an important lesson to master.
Here's an idea: Try spending some time reviewing your day and giving thanks for all the great moments—and yes, even for the not-so-great ones. Do this each night before you fall asleep, and ask yourself the following:
• Are you able to maintain a positive sense of yourself?
• Are you still positive to those around you under these wearisome circumstances?
How do you give thanks for a difficult moment? Perhaps it makes you appreciate the good ones all the more. This practice becomes especially important when life gets tough and throws you a curve, twist, or fireball.
Despite any challenge, with thought and reflection, you can focus on the positive and not drown in a pool of negativity, stress, or anxiety.
Percolate.
Be determined.
CHAPTER 2
Bold Beginnings
The alphabet is one of the first things we learn in life and one of the first ways we express ourselves as children. From ABC songs to Dr. Seuss books, there are all sorts of games we played as kids to learn our letters.
If you have children, think of the time invested in teaching them to write, memorize, recite, and learn the alphabet. It's the foundation of our language, so much so that when I say the letter A, most people would respond with the word apple and not aardvark. Well, my dad inspired me to play a new alphabet game. Let's say that the first word that comes to mind for the letter A isn't apple. What if it's attitude? Would it be as catchy? Could your brain reeducate itself to think of attitude as the most dominant A word? What if we taught our kids this type of vocabulary from the start? What if we used those precious hours of early learning and taught life lessons using the alphabet?
The first step is to realize that the ABCs of life begin with positive thinking. You can retrain your brain to think positively; it's as important as learning the alphabet. Consider the words you use daily or even moment to moment, and think about what you say around others. Before you do this though, it's important to stop believing that everyone else has it better than you. You know it when you think it—it's someone who has a cleaner car, more cash in the bank, a bigger shoe collection, a higher-paying job, a book deal, a better body, or whatever you might perceive is true of someone else's life. You think that everyone around the world has a perfect life ... except you! There are days when you might catch yourself glancing at the marks on your kitchen walls thinking the house across the street is perfectly unscathed.
But whose reality are you really seeing? Upon closer inspection, you'll likely discover that nobody has the perfect life, and for the cleanest, best waxed car that ever existed, there is most likely a crumb or two somewhere inside. Therefore, it's important to focus on yourself and only yourself with respect to your life and to only evaluate how you are doing in it. I keep the word perfect out of the vocabulary at Best Ever You. After all, it says Best Ever You, not Perfect Ever You.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Percolate by Elizabeth Hamilton-Guarino. Copyright © 2014 Elizabeth Hamilton-Guarino. Excerpted by permission of HAY HOUSE, INC..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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