Step 30: Break some barriers.

It is said that love is no great thing; it's a million little things. The same is true of the many small steps of coming back from near death. All those little things are adding up to some significant changes in Jim's health journey. And so is love.

On May 23, 2024, my husband, Jim Gallagher, entered the E.R. he worked in for 15 years, this time as a patient.  Within days he was fighting for his life as an infection that began in his foot raged throughout his body, and on June 4th, his leg was amputated below the knee in order to save his life.  This is an ongoing log of our journey.

The lowering sun lit the trees afire as we wound our way down familiar roads into the Ochoco mountains. Familiar, but so surreal that I kept wanting to pinch myself.

First, the Oregon roads were so remote we had seen perhaps one car in the last two hours; the world was ours alone.  Second, a rainbow had emerged out of nowhere in the distance, like a gift, a reminder of the presence and promises and grace of God. And third, I was riding shotgun. 

Shotgun, I tell you! 

After months of being in the passenger seat, Jim had driven, with his left foot, the five hours to our old hunting grounds, and I was free to ogle at the scenery and snap photos to my heart’s content.

Over the past sixteen months our work had shrunk to a small, familiar radius.  But now we were breaking out of the box. It felt like we were kicking the ends out of a coffin.  It was thrilling, exhausting, joy-filled, and just a bit terrifying.

It was a taste of normal.

Our roots in the Ochocos go way back.  Jim had the good fortune to be invited to the Wantland/Berger hunting camp in 2002, back when we still lived in California.  From that moment on, that family enfolded the Gallaghers into their clan.  Molly was three years old when she first began building forts in the woods with dear Jamie.  In the 20 years that followed we graduated from pup tent to trailer, and then to a giant canvas wall tent with a woodstove, missing a year here and there, but always welcomed back like family.

The sun had dropped below the horizon and a chill was sweeping in when we pulled into Mud Springs camp. Duane and Dawn stood ready with hugs and energy, knowing we would need their muscle and legs to get the truck unloaded and the heavy tent up in the waning light.  Jim, who knows the old canvas tent like the back of his hand, directed operations from his wheelchair, and soon we were shivering in our sleeping bags, marveling at the tiny, incremental changes that have added up to new strength and old hunting grounds.

What changed?

While pain and mobility became our primary focus after Jim returned home, a number of other physical issues quietly limited his life in the background.  Sepsis, when it rages through your body, causes blood vessels to become permeable.  Fluid leaks into surrounding tissue, compromising blood flow, and as oxygen decreases, tissue begins to die.  Amputation and great care turned the tide and saved Jim’s life, but we still deal with compromised nerve function and the impact to his kidneys and heart. The lack of oxygen even made cataracts grow quickly in his eyes, and he was unable to read.

Jim slowly rebuilt his ability to walk with his new prosthesis, and now, with the help of a walker, can navigate short distances safely.  His pain, too, has mostly abated, removing the need for the pain-killers that kept him from being able to legally drive.  And cataract surgery put the last piece in place. “Once I was blind, but now I can see!” Jim crowed the day following surgery.

Jim has also had three separate procedures to place stents in three blocked arteries (the last of these after our return from hunting camp), increasing his cardiac function significantly. He now has more color and energy, and even his kidney function is beginning to rebound.  One more heart procedure, an ablation to correct an arrhythmia, is scheduled for a few weeks from now.

All the small steps of the last sixteen months added up to new freedom and courage, and unbelievably, we found ourselves breathing in the familiar air of hunting camp as we shivered and burrowed lower into our sleeping bags.  It was, in the words of Patrick McManus, “a fine and pleasant misery.”

It takes a village.

Jim has been making progress with one hard step at a time. But even more, our story is one of a large and loving community who sees and loves and lends muscle, skill, insight or legs, helping us along the way.  This was the case with hunting camp, too.

Weeks before hunting camp, Duane and Dawn didn’t ask, just announced they were coming to Oregon the week before the opener.  Duane knew that loading a hunting camp of Jimbo proportions into the truck required more patience and muscle than Kathy possessed, and their cheerful camaraderie made our yoke easy and our burden light.  This kindness landed us here in camp, with yellow aspens shimmering in the afternoon light and family and friends drifting in and out, gathering around a communal campfire/inferno so large it could only have been crafted by old loggers.

To our great delight, Molly and Nate and the delicious Baby Theo also joined hunting camp this year!  Soon Nate was chopping wood with the rest, and Molly was teaching a new generation of young campers how to make an epic woodland fort, while Theo contentedly practiced his crawl in the dirt or teethed on sticks.  Our dog and theirs, Oakley and Mongo, romped together in the meadow by day and nested with us in the tent at night.  Jim would open up his sleeping bag to welcome Oakley in as a bed-warmer, and later she would rise and tip-toe under my cot, where I would welcome her presence by petting her black fur in the night. 

I did, however, mistake Nate’s blanket-covered feet for Oakley, and petted them instead one night. 

Okay, maybe three nights.

Hunting with a disability means mostly hunting from the truck, stopping now and then to spot.  I enjoyed driving with Jim through the gorgeous mountains, stopping to glass for deer.  Other days different party members travelled with him, giving me the freedom to go on nature walks to gather dried flowers and moss, or sit painting with the younger girls, or play games around the campfire.  Dawn and I climbed the Wolf Mountain fire lookout one afternoon for some unforgettable views. I also joyously popped a scrumptious little boy into the front pack for a hike, he humming as I trudged, which delighted me and gave his parents the freedom to wander as well. 

Every evening three generations of family and friends indulged in some exceptional communal meals, cooked over the fire or on the camp stove, exquisitely choreographed by the amazing Jamie Berger, who dared such feats as popping popcorn inside tinfoil on sticks over the fire, or baking home-made cinnamon rolls baked in a Dutch oven, also over the coals.

Like an Olympic torch drawing crowds into the arena, the eternal flame of our giant campfire drew us together day and night--in 2’s and 3’s, in 10’s and 16’s, the men-folk tossing huge rounds onto the perpetual coals, the ladies adding more modest logs, and the children teaching us that Aspen leaves crackle like fireworks when you throw them into the flames.  Chairs were moved closer or further depending upon the size of the inferno or the chill of the air.

Some of those around the campfire were adults who used to be our “children”, living with us in The House That Jim Built for a time as they grew into amazing adults.  That fact sprinkled special magic dust into our gatherings, and love and laughter and stories floated in smoky currents of air.  The generation that once taught us to build the fires was missing, and it gradually became clear that we ourselves are now the Old Generation. I often slipped off to bed before the rest, falling asleep listening to the soft sounds of laughter and chatter as the next generation took their rightful place around that fire.

While Jim did not harvest a deer this year, four others of our party did, and on the day that our camp family deftly helped us squeeze our gear back into the truck, we left with full hearts and a generous gift of venison in our cooler. 

But we headed east instead of west.

What love looks like.

Eastern Oregon is pretty remote.  “Bring your own gasoline” remote.  "Drive for hours through stunning scenery and 6-house towns" remote. 

We stopped, fortunately, at a rusty old gas station in a tiny town with a pump so ancient the dollar numbers flipped over like a vintage slot machine.  I told the cashier what my total was (she trusted me), and then I squeezed sideways into the combination coat room/cleaning closet/restroom to answer the call of nature.

It was a good thing we stopped, for I’m pretty sure the next gas station was in Boise, 250 miles away.  The hours, however, flew comfortably by, the scenery was unforgettable, and we listened to tales of Daniel Boone and munched snacks all the way to Boise, where Siri guided us into the distinctly upscale and un-campy neighborhood of Jim’s cousin’s house. 

The occasion that drew us there was the celebration of Jim’s great aunt’s 100^th birthday later that weekend, but family drew us, too, making sure we knew we were wanted, missed, and longed for.

We pulled our filthy truck, gas cans and wheelchair strapped to the back, into his driveway, and unbending old muscles, I coaxed stiff Jim (who had again driven the whole five hours there) up two stairs and into Cousin John's house. To our surprise, it was crowded with people!  One by one, family members we had not seen in years enfolded us in tight hugs or wiped away unbidden tears, and it slowly dawned on us that this evening they were all here for us!

Thus began four days of witnessing what love looks like.

It looks like effort.  Like setting aside your plans to say, “You’re important.” Like making room and food and beds.

It looks like hugs. Like strong arms and big smiles and tears that say, “I nearly lost you, and that you’re here is beautiful.”

It looks like forgiveness.  Like old wounds mended, forgiven and forgotten.  Like old stories told with love, not shame.  Like laughter where tears could have been.

It looks like food and stories and photos and cards.  Like memories retold and milestones celebrated. Like multigenerational singing and laughter.

It looks like Jesus.  Like lives upended and futures reversed, as humans--lost humans--one by one were found by the Mender, Jesus, and began opening their arms to enfold the next one, and the next one, and the next, no matter who they were or where they had been.

It looks like time.  Room on the sofa, or at the kitchen table.  The right questions. Listening, hearing, bearing witness. Bearing burdens.

It looks like muscle. Stepping in when a man can’t load his trailer or raise a tent or get to the restroom fast enough.

It looks like remembering. Like lifting others up to the Father when they are no longer near, remembering their need, interceding with the Mender.

I’m still pondering all this.  The huge strides for Jim and Kathy.  The support.  The community. And what love does.

This dynamic, this selfless care and service and welcome and community that we experienced both at camp and in Boise, are actually God’s idea, and a work of his grace.  He calls it “the body of Christ,” the in-the-flesh communal expression of what Christ would do if he were here.  Cousin Kathy Wilson recounted to me the brokenness of their family when not one of them yet knew Jesus.  She was the first to come to Christ.  This rebel teen couldn’t wait to return home and tell the stepfather she once hated that she now loved him. Soon he, too, was transformed by the love of Christ.  This uncle passed along the good news of Jesus Christ to countless others, including a lost nephew named Jim Gallagher, and Christ began transforming his life along with many other family members. 

I sat in wonder, watching this now large, extended family love one another and draw each one in, tendrils of God’s grace mending all with slow certainty, and binding us together in love.

Home.

Eventually we did drift home, nestling back into yet one more community of long-haul support and acceptance.  These are the strong backs and willing arms who helped ready our home for the sale that hasn’t yet happened, the ones who pick you up when you literally fall, help you up the stairs, listen to you over coffee, or come over to play cards on a Sunday night.

I’m guessing that most of those reading this are part of one of the communities of support that have held and healed us over the past year and a half. Thank you, friends, for pushing us.  First over the starting line, and then around the track, over the hump, or up the mountain. 

You, my community, have taught me so much.  Anything I do right, I do because you showed me how.  You are the reason I’m writing with tears in my eyes.

Let’s keep stumbling in the right direction.  Let’s keep showing up for each other, cheering each other on, urging each other toward the right goal.  Let’s let the Spirit of Christ transform us.  There’s still time to gather a few more into the magical, fire-lit circle of love, acceptance and grace. Each one reach one. Use your arms, say the words, whisper the prayers, bear the burdens, take the time. 

Dare.

One step at a time.