Getting by

I think that perhaps my cover has been blown by now, but to clear up any confusion I must admit that I’m not who I say I am. My mother’s name was Freida Marie Bradbury and with her permission I stole a portion of her name when I began writing my newspaper column some 35 years ago (printed the past 17 years in the North Missourian). Mom didn’t mind except when a store clerk would question her signature on a check, asking if she’d stolen the name from that lady who writes the paper.

In any case, it’s been my joy to send the news of Poosey your direction for these many years. As you may or may not be aware I was visited by cancer last year . . . cancer of the esophagus. Nine months of surgery, chemo and radiation later we seemed to have whipped it, but recent tests have brought me the ugly news that the cancer has popped up again, this time in my hip.

The lineup this inning is surgery to reinforce the hip, then radiation, then chemo for the hip and a couple other spots. I write to simply send greetings and thanks. If I were to ever fall down in my prayer life I’d never hit the ground for I’d be surrounded by so many friends there’d be no room for me to plop. I’m quite serious about that. No man could be so blessed.

So I write to thank you for your prayers. Last year’s cancer had a 20% survival rate and I survived. As to this year’s battle I’ve stopped looking at odds. God never figures into odds.

I have little idea when I will be able to start writing new material but I hope that day comes. Freida Marie gives me joy as well. We don’t always agree, but we enjoy each other’s company. I will be sharing my journey on a site called Caring Bridge if anyone cares to follow, at https://www.caringbridge.org/visit/kenbradbury.

Okay . . . enough of that. God is good, I’m just confused. Thanks for holding my hand.              Ken Bradbury aka Freida Marie

Editor’s note: We have been blessed to feature Ken Bradbury’s column for the past 17 years in this newspaper. He graciously allowed us to rename the column as “The Poosey Digest” which we thought most fitting — a column penned by an Illinois man using a woman’s pseudonym as if written from a mythical community in northeast Daviess County. Although certainly now facing discouragement and even confronting depression, Ken’s wit and outlook on life are still evident in this journal post, reprinted here with his permission.

Do you live alone? Journal entry — Tuesday, Oct. 16, 2018

I don’t blame the lady for being confused. “Okay,” she said. “When you get out of the hospital do you have someone who can take care of you?”

I said that I did.

“So you don’t live alone?”

“No, I do live alone.”

“But I mean full-time care of some sort.”

“So do I.”

She just didn’t get it. She didn’t get the fact that I was about to be driven home by my brother where a lady was making a house call that afternoon to give me a haircut in my living room, and yesterday a guy came over to haul my trash bins to the road and back, and just after he left a friend brought me supper while the week before two different folks stopped by to do some gardening work even though I had time because someone else had already stopped by to see what groceries I needed. The physician’s assistant didn’t have room to write all that in the tiny box they’d allotted her anyway.

Bottom line: I continue to be so very blessed. Yes, there’s danger that I’ll run folks like my brother and a lady down the street ragged, but so far no one’s threatened to quit. And I suppose that immediately following the surgery I may have to find alternate housing or something for a while… perhaps an abandoned Motel 6. I don’t know. But until then God has once again shown me how such blessing can come from such an ugly diagnosis. Indeed (if you’re old enough to remember) …silk purses from sow’s ears.

I once led a group through the Orthodox churches of Moscow where the priests claimed to have absolute proof of God’s presence in the icons lining their walls. Then our guide through the Vatican told us that God spoke directly through Michelangelo. Every other church in Italy claims to have a holy relic … Mary’s sandal, St. Luke’s fingernail, Eve’s grocery list. It’s not my job to judge those claims, but I told the physician’s assistant that I had proof positive of God’s love in the clippings of gray hair on my floor, the soup bowl in my sink, the newly tended flowers outside my door, and a wrinkled crayon drawing on my fridge with the scrawl, “Our class is praying for you, Mr. Bradbury.”

“Do you live alone, Kenneth?”

“No.”