*Lighthouse
Highland Light
watercolor by Tom Stringe
Lighthouse
Day 29 — March 9
Among the hundreds of cards in a box saved from 2008 were quite a few with a lighthouse theme. That was the year that Elizabeth suffered a stroke and underwent a brain tumor surgery. She needed all the light she could muster—each card a little folded lighthouse.
2019 into 2020 was like that, too. I cannot begin to express my gratitude and name everyone who was a light bearer and cared deeply for Elizabeth, for me, and for my family when she underwent a heart transplant and six months later we learned that she would not recover. It was as if the lighthouse had gone dark during those most poignant and painful days. A village of people kept it lit on our behalf.
For that I am grateful. Because a lighthouse promises hope and safety when sailors first glimpse the faint light, glinting in the distance. Lighthouses have long symbolized strength and security as they are built to withstand powerful waves and turbulent waters. The lightkeeper’s job was to see that the light was unwavering—as a beacon of light and hope for others.
Elizabeth understood that, as she was so often a bearer of light for others.
She knew the gal at the grocery store seafood counter by name and appreciated her. She gave holiday gifts to her favorite dental hygienist and to the mail carrier. She chatted with the dry cleaner. She provided friendship and encouragement to people she had never met in various Facebook support groups. She asked our financial advisor about his family—every time they spoke. She talked with the plumber or the tree trimmer as if she had known them forever. She asked the grocery clerk if he wanted a ride when she saw him walking home. She made the effort to express verbal compliments to musicians. She showed respect for everyone in her world.
When she was an attorney, she worked on behalf of children as a guardian ad litem. And as a consequence of that work, she left a bequest to start a scholarship fund for youth in the foster system in Warren, Ohio (her hometown), to help provide for their education at Kent State University Trumbull County Branch.
She did all of these things because she was deeply relational. How many people would say that their cardiologist was counted among their best friends? Dr. Thomas Crisman will forever be treasured as one who cared not only about Elizabeth’s heart, but about her health and well-being, visiting often in the hospital and hospice—long after there were any medical questions left to answer. For years, he scheduled extra long appointments with Elizabeth, just so they could shoot the breeze and ponder life’s deeper questions.
As both a cardiologist and a Buddhist monk, he integrated an approach that cared for the whole person. The chants and chimes he shared with us in hospice were deeply meaningful, bringing light to our unknown pathway into the future.
Another gift of music was shared by Kari Epstein who brought her viola de gamba to the hospital and to hospice so that we might find peace in her healing harmonies. What a gift.
These are a representative two of the many who were lightkeepers for us—assuring that we were safe and cared for. Bringing light to our sorrowing hearts.
Day 29: the art of love and loss
view all posts at kentmueller.com
February 10, 2020, was the day my wife, Elizabeth Izant, entered the hospital. She and I were on a hopeful journey following her heart transplant five months prior. On March 1, she entered hospice and died March 11. This series is not about her medical journey. This is about sharing stories and reflections about our life together. In our 29 years of marriage, we collected a piece of art or two each year, often in celebration of our marriage anniversary. Each day from February 10 to March 11, I will be sharing an image of that art. And a story.