When I was a kid, just like every other kid, I dealt with teasing from the other girls. I created inner dialogue in defense. "They are just jealous," I claimed. As I got older and the offenses escalated to egging my house every weekend of my senior year of high school by girls I had once called my best friends, I scrubbed the garage door at mid-night and said, "They are just jealous. I will be going away this fall to school, and I am doing exactly what I need to be doing for me."
I grew up, graduated and became an art teacher at a high school. Girls would troop into my office after school crying. Tears of disbelief that their so called friends had done some unseen damage to their ego. Mean girls, they are just jealous. I would tell these young ladies my own story. I told them how I left for school in the fall and realized that they just must be jealous that it was pretty easy for me to do my work, be successful in grades and art, and then leave them behind to become an adult. I told them, whether it was true or not, that, "They were just jealous."
This is ego. Ego is a funny little thing in our Human lives. Ego is the little voice in our head that tells us that we are better then someone. Ego is the voice that even identifies how sorry you are for the bum on the street corner looking for a hand out, or pity. Ego tells you also that you are doing something wrong, not with the norm. It is the voice when you are beating yourself up for a perceived failure. Your ego is busted when you loose a job or someone breaks your heart by rejecting you. Ego is the voice that keeps you from trying new things in fear you might fail. Ego is the voice when you are on your yoga mat and you stop breathing because your hip just locked up in a shooting pain and it had never done that before. Or maybe it tells you that you are angry at your child for not getting his shoes tied fast enough so you are always late for school.
The New Age spiritual explorers Eckhart Tolle and Wayne Dewyer both discuss ego in depth in their lectures and writings. One or both, have explained ego as E.G.O. or Edging God Out. Ego is our Human of our Being. God is our Being of our Human. Are you following? By listening to our our ego language we are not listening to our soul, or our God inside of us. However, it is having our ego that makes us not God. It makes us Human. In the understanding of the role of ego in your life, you can therefore become closer to a Being, closer to the God in all of us, closer to the peace of enlightenment.
So what is the role that ego plays when one's Human form is failing this world, is dying. How do you deal with your Human versus Being, no Human and your Being, when you have realized that you just may have to leave this Human form sooner then you planned? Well, you find your Being and become okay with that. You find the peace in the present moment and the awe in the sensations that occur just now as I am. I am. I am. That is it. I am here right now writing and that is an amazing thing.
Yet, ego. What role does my ego play that is almost more profoundly an ah ha moment then finding the inner peace of Being in my soul? My ego, if not edging out God in making myself separate from my Being and the collective conscious of souls is what tells me to stay here. To stay here in this Earth just a little longer in my Human form. I jest and joke about how "freakin' awesome I am. I make these claims, I lie using my ego not to edge God out but to cling to my Human form. I am not bringing anyone else down with my ego disclaimers rather I am bringing myself up. I use my ego to drive hard to keep my Human form simply because I am not ready to be just a Being. Not just yet.
So yes, girls, when someone is picking on you and using their egos against you, they are edging out God. It is okay to brush it off and say, "They are just jealous." Because in doing so, you are letting go of the effects an other's ego has placed upon you by using your own Human ego as a defense for your Being. Ego can be a powerful tool if used correctly for yourself as a Human to keep yourself being a freakin' awesome Human Being for a little longer here on on Earth. Namaste. Amen.
PS Thanks for listening to my super awesomeness. Wink. Merry Christmas.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Not Today
I pass John at the elevators. I am going up to the cancer center, he is coming out. Mr. Black Cloud is smiling. He looks tall, proud, confident. Yes, he is tired, pale and his son, once estranged, is apparently helping him walk. He is happy to see me and asks about my new pirate eye patch. I share that I had a brain metasis which is causing pressure to my left nerves on my left eye. "But," I exclaim before I get the look of pity, "we radiated the heck out of it and are confident today." John hugs me.
This man I have known in the armchairs of the chemotherapy room for nearly two years now. I call him the Black Cloud because when I was new to chemo, when I still had hair, he would come sit next to me and talk about how horrible lfe was. He was angry. With some arranging with the nurses to make sure I had distance from the man and only a few short conversations in the passing of the halls, I watched this man grow spiritually in his journey through treatment. He reclaimed many relationships and found a peace.
That peace is what I saw that day as we parted ways. He told me he was off to a holistic healer because there was nothing that they can do to stop his tumors from taking over his body. In all essence, he is off to die with peace and comfort.
Dying. We all die. We are all born. And we are all going to die. There I said it. The reality is that the human body is in flawed. Some bodies are strong and live a hundred years. Those years are filled with suffering. We all suffer in someway. It is when the suffering comes in the form of pain and from the inside that one has to figure it all out. And in truth, so do all those around that person.
I have found my friends looking for answers in me and what I am going through. I will say first that I wish I could just be blindly naive and simply complaining about how over booked I am as a mom or that I can't find the right nail color and had to fire my hairstylist. Yet, that is not so. The reality is I am not going to live to be the old grandma I had dreamed. So my friends, how do I deal with this reality? How do I, and you, not be angry?
Though I grew up Christian and follow the teachings of Jesus that I learned, my views are more broad then a singular umbrella of format of only one teacher. In the essence of it all, we are created with one source, no matter what your religious label and teaching you practice, it is all one source, or God. Our souls are created and collected with this source which makes us human, it makes us whole. Our soul is born to a body. The body is molecules and all that biology stuff all mixed together. Just like making bread, sometimes the yeast just isn't quite right. Some times the body doesn't come out in the oven as in a miscarriage. Some times it just begins to fail and become sick. Sometimes it is way too early.
Many of you are angry and confused. Many are mad at God. Yet, I tell you that I do not believe that God is up there with some puppet strings doing this to me. There is not a scapegoat to blame. The body is just the body doing its thing. What is the God in all of this is the creation of all the souls how are part of my team. That is the miracle, people. The miracle is the soul that came down to an Earthly body, studied medicine, and created these drugs that will change my human form to fight off the infection of cancer cells in my body. That, my friends, is it.
So please, if you are feeling angry, feel it. Embrace it and say, "I feel angry." Look it right in the eye and then shove it into a duffel bag. Zip it up, And throw it out to sea. Do know that the duffel bag will come find you on the tide. So look inside, feel it, and then toss it out again. In time, it will come on the tide less frequently. The role that angry plays in our lives is to spark our souls to make a change. Through our embracing those feelings, we can see through them to the change, the peace.
I took a yoga class this evening. I needed the cleanse. I had to stop several times and recline into child's pose and even fell right on my bum during an inverted twist. Eagle pose didn't even happen because I couldn't get my brain to figure out how to twist what arm here and leg over there and still be standing. But, I made it through to the good part at the end. So I filled with my breath in pigeon, my mind filled with thoughts. I should tell them why I was on my ass half of class? I bet I looked funny squinting and closing one eye.... Just as if she can read my mind, Ms. Yogi calmly speaks, "Stop the drama in your head. Don't think about how you are doing in this pose; whether it is perfect or not. Just lean into the sensation. Breath. No drama, just sensation."
No drama, just sensation. That is to be each day. Just sensation. There is no need to waste it on anger. t There is no need to waste it being all enlightened and spiritual either. I will live my days as long as I can running around being crazy supermomma. Because that, my folks, is what I want. I want to be bothered by the little things and match my nail color to my hat.
My husband asked what it is that I fear most about dying. Well, of course I don't want to be in pain, but they have good drugs for that. What I fear most is those I have to leave. I know everyone will be okay. But heck, I am freakin' awesome, and I don't like the fact that you might just miss me. I don't like the fact that my children may not get to be naive in the ways of life and death. I wish they could be blind to it and live only worried about the little things.
So how do you look an early death in the eye? You smile and say, "I have some pretty powerful souls on my side who are going to give it their all. And, you are not going to take away the human joy of worrying about the little things. Not today anyway, not today."
This man I have known in the armchairs of the chemotherapy room for nearly two years now. I call him the Black Cloud because when I was new to chemo, when I still had hair, he would come sit next to me and talk about how horrible lfe was. He was angry. With some arranging with the nurses to make sure I had distance from the man and only a few short conversations in the passing of the halls, I watched this man grow spiritually in his journey through treatment. He reclaimed many relationships and found a peace.
That peace is what I saw that day as we parted ways. He told me he was off to a holistic healer because there was nothing that they can do to stop his tumors from taking over his body. In all essence, he is off to die with peace and comfort.
Dying. We all die. We are all born. And we are all going to die. There I said it. The reality is that the human body is in flawed. Some bodies are strong and live a hundred years. Those years are filled with suffering. We all suffer in someway. It is when the suffering comes in the form of pain and from the inside that one has to figure it all out. And in truth, so do all those around that person.
I have found my friends looking for answers in me and what I am going through. I will say first that I wish I could just be blindly naive and simply complaining about how over booked I am as a mom or that I can't find the right nail color and had to fire my hairstylist. Yet, that is not so. The reality is I am not going to live to be the old grandma I had dreamed. So my friends, how do I deal with this reality? How do I, and you, not be angry?
Though I grew up Christian and follow the teachings of Jesus that I learned, my views are more broad then a singular umbrella of format of only one teacher. In the essence of it all, we are created with one source, no matter what your religious label and teaching you practice, it is all one source, or God. Our souls are created and collected with this source which makes us human, it makes us whole. Our soul is born to a body. The body is molecules and all that biology stuff all mixed together. Just like making bread, sometimes the yeast just isn't quite right. Some times the body doesn't come out in the oven as in a miscarriage. Some times it just begins to fail and become sick. Sometimes it is way too early.
Many of you are angry and confused. Many are mad at God. Yet, I tell you that I do not believe that God is up there with some puppet strings doing this to me. There is not a scapegoat to blame. The body is just the body doing its thing. What is the God in all of this is the creation of all the souls how are part of my team. That is the miracle, people. The miracle is the soul that came down to an Earthly body, studied medicine, and created these drugs that will change my human form to fight off the infection of cancer cells in my body. That, my friends, is it.
So please, if you are feeling angry, feel it. Embrace it and say, "I feel angry." Look it right in the eye and then shove it into a duffel bag. Zip it up, And throw it out to sea. Do know that the duffel bag will come find you on the tide. So look inside, feel it, and then toss it out again. In time, it will come on the tide less frequently. The role that angry plays in our lives is to spark our souls to make a change. Through our embracing those feelings, we can see through them to the change, the peace.
I took a yoga class this evening. I needed the cleanse. I had to stop several times and recline into child's pose and even fell right on my bum during an inverted twist. Eagle pose didn't even happen because I couldn't get my brain to figure out how to twist what arm here and leg over there and still be standing. But, I made it through to the good part at the end. So I filled with my breath in pigeon, my mind filled with thoughts. I should tell them why I was on my ass half of class? I bet I looked funny squinting and closing one eye.... Just as if she can read my mind, Ms. Yogi calmly speaks, "Stop the drama in your head. Don't think about how you are doing in this pose; whether it is perfect or not. Just lean into the sensation. Breath. No drama, just sensation."
No drama, just sensation. That is to be each day. Just sensation. There is no need to waste it on anger. t There is no need to waste it being all enlightened and spiritual either. I will live my days as long as I can running around being crazy supermomma. Because that, my folks, is what I want. I want to be bothered by the little things and match my nail color to my hat.
My husband asked what it is that I fear most about dying. Well, of course I don't want to be in pain, but they have good drugs for that. What I fear most is those I have to leave. I know everyone will be okay. But heck, I am freakin' awesome, and I don't like the fact that you might just miss me. I don't like the fact that my children may not get to be naive in the ways of life and death. I wish they could be blind to it and live only worried about the little things.
So how do you look an early death in the eye? You smile and say, "I have some pretty powerful souls on my side who are going to give it their all. And, you are not going to take away the human joy of worrying about the little things. Not today anyway, not today."
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Body Scan
Each night, I put on my moisturizer. I smooth the cool cream over my crow's feet forming at the corner of my eyes. They are there because I smile. I smooth it using upward motions on my neck so it will stay as young as my face. I think, for a moment, "Why?" Why do I tend to my skin and save my youth if I am going to die before I form proper wrinkles and white hair to distinguish my wisdom of a full three quarter century?
I scan my body. My toe nail polish is chipping. It needs to be redone. Under the metallic lavender is a yellow nail, brittle, fighting to grow out the chemo frailty. My ankles are thick from the Herceptin treatment two days ago. They ache as I only imagine they should when I am like 60, not 35. My thighs are fine. They have pounded the pavement in a dire need to slip back into my size six jeans. They do, finally. Yet, they may plump out like a chicken on steroids because, heck, I am on a steroid now. I will trade my six jeans in for my eights so I can see better by reducing the swelling in my brain.
Then I move on up to the battle zone. Stretch marks roam free across my abdomen from hip to hip and pelvis to belly button from to pregnancies. It is marked only by two puncture scars. A third scar from the appendectomy slithers atop the stretch marks. Here, my mucous filled, giant appendix left my body to be discarded in a red bio bag. Somewhere in my middle is the memory of a tummy that was once a prized symbol of my youth. There are four purple dots under each arm marking the drains that hung out of my body like octopus arms four times. A red line reaches across my breasts. They aren't mine. These breasts are too round like a bronze sculpture created by a man whole has no knowledge of the sagging history of a woman's breast. The skin folds funny on the left one and there is a purple scare where there was dime size hematoma.
Around on my back is a puncture to my spin. And, on up to my arm pit I find the hollow where six lymph nodes where removed. Each time I stretch into mountain pose and look into the mirror at yoga, I can see the deflated skin and the little hairs that I can not shave in the pit. My right arm looks as if it has track marks of a druggie. It is the only arm to give blood and take in contrast for the MRIs due to the lymphodemma in the left. Each open vein was violated and screams in a blue pool of blood under the skin. My finger nails are ripped and peeling. Once my pride and joy and hard as stones, they now suffer in weak attempts protect my finger tips when they feel numb from the treatments.
My clavicle is highlighted with the bump of my infusion port and callous from the hundreds of needles pushing drugs through my veins. The slit scar that marks its entrance into my body reflects the slash where the appendix left my body, same surgeon. Yet, I move up to my neck that is smooth as it is lathered with moisturizer. My cheeks are mine and this hair is on my head. Hair that I am privileged enough to hate how it looks. With hair, I look like you. Hair, how beautiful.
Why should I be this person who in twenty months gained over 15 scars in 9 surgeries and procedures? Is it fair? No. Maybe I am the perfect candidate for the job of staying a live. Here I am someone who studied meditative breathing since high school. True, I used it to quiet my head enough to fall asleep. And now, I use it each time a needle dangles over my veins. I breath in and out. I can rise from sitting using only my legs when my chest was wrapped in the pain of surgery. And, I find joy in the twist at the end of each yoga class as it pulls the violated pectoral muscle that pulls like a rubber band between my shoulder and fake breast. It burns, and I love it.
Who better to fight cancer then someone who can be scared but knows it is going to be okay. I may die before I am grey, but I have given gifts each day. I see my children shine in the gifts of radiance. I am apart from them now so I can rest in preparation for radiation treatments to my brain. I talk with them on the phone and see what they are becoming. I want to be selfish to say that I am the only one who can bring them up to beautiful human adults. Yet, this is a lie. They are umbrellaed in love of so many others. They have a father and grandparents with great gifts. I have set a foundation that is strong in them. Should I not exist tomorrow, they will continue to shine.
Fay, I do not plan to leave you. No, I plan to rub moisturizer on my face every night in an attempt to keep my skin young. At times, I wonder why bother as a tumor grows in my brain. I shake off that thought because today, today, I have too much more to live. Today, I am going to be selfish and say that my kids need me. I will tell myself that no one else can raise up beautiful humans better then me. That is a lie, but it keeps me alive.
Perhaps I can answer the question. Why me? Why not me who is strong enough to acknowledge the world will continue if I am not in it. I give today how I can. I love all this moment and not wait until tomorrow. I clean my kitchen and worry about my pant size as is the human way. I acknowledge the gifts that yoga and meditation have given me this past year. So why not me? I can be a good liar and fake it until I make it like no other.
I just ask you this, tell me I said that should I find the fire burns low in my body before it should. Tell me it is okay because I gave all I could and loved more then I should. Tell me you will raise up my babies into the beautiful humans they already are. And remind them that each day I will be there to listen if they still themselves long enough to listen. This is only a body. It failing me. Yet, it is stronger then even I know and is full of surprises. I love you.
I scan my body. My toe nail polish is chipping. It needs to be redone. Under the metallic lavender is a yellow nail, brittle, fighting to grow out the chemo frailty. My ankles are thick from the Herceptin treatment two days ago. They ache as I only imagine they should when I am like 60, not 35. My thighs are fine. They have pounded the pavement in a dire need to slip back into my size six jeans. They do, finally. Yet, they may plump out like a chicken on steroids because, heck, I am on a steroid now. I will trade my six jeans in for my eights so I can see better by reducing the swelling in my brain.
Then I move on up to the battle zone. Stretch marks roam free across my abdomen from hip to hip and pelvis to belly button from to pregnancies. It is marked only by two puncture scars. A third scar from the appendectomy slithers atop the stretch marks. Here, my mucous filled, giant appendix left my body to be discarded in a red bio bag. Somewhere in my middle is the memory of a tummy that was once a prized symbol of my youth. There are four purple dots under each arm marking the drains that hung out of my body like octopus arms four times. A red line reaches across my breasts. They aren't mine. These breasts are too round like a bronze sculpture created by a man whole has no knowledge of the sagging history of a woman's breast. The skin folds funny on the left one and there is a purple scare where there was dime size hematoma.
Around on my back is a puncture to my spin. And, on up to my arm pit I find the hollow where six lymph nodes where removed. Each time I stretch into mountain pose and look into the mirror at yoga, I can see the deflated skin and the little hairs that I can not shave in the pit. My right arm looks as if it has track marks of a druggie. It is the only arm to give blood and take in contrast for the MRIs due to the lymphodemma in the left. Each open vein was violated and screams in a blue pool of blood under the skin. My finger nails are ripped and peeling. Once my pride and joy and hard as stones, they now suffer in weak attempts protect my finger tips when they feel numb from the treatments.
My clavicle is highlighted with the bump of my infusion port and callous from the hundreds of needles pushing drugs through my veins. The slit scar that marks its entrance into my body reflects the slash where the appendix left my body, same surgeon. Yet, I move up to my neck that is smooth as it is lathered with moisturizer. My cheeks are mine and this hair is on my head. Hair that I am privileged enough to hate how it looks. With hair, I look like you. Hair, how beautiful.
Why should I be this person who in twenty months gained over 15 scars in 9 surgeries and procedures? Is it fair? No. Maybe I am the perfect candidate for the job of staying a live. Here I am someone who studied meditative breathing since high school. True, I used it to quiet my head enough to fall asleep. And now, I use it each time a needle dangles over my veins. I breath in and out. I can rise from sitting using only my legs when my chest was wrapped in the pain of surgery. And, I find joy in the twist at the end of each yoga class as it pulls the violated pectoral muscle that pulls like a rubber band between my shoulder and fake breast. It burns, and I love it.
Who better to fight cancer then someone who can be scared but knows it is going to be okay. I may die before I am grey, but I have given gifts each day. I see my children shine in the gifts of radiance. I am apart from them now so I can rest in preparation for radiation treatments to my brain. I talk with them on the phone and see what they are becoming. I want to be selfish to say that I am the only one who can bring them up to beautiful human adults. Yet, this is a lie. They are umbrellaed in love of so many others. They have a father and grandparents with great gifts. I have set a foundation that is strong in them. Should I not exist tomorrow, they will continue to shine.
Fay, I do not plan to leave you. No, I plan to rub moisturizer on my face every night in an attempt to keep my skin young. At times, I wonder why bother as a tumor grows in my brain. I shake off that thought because today, today, I have too much more to live. Today, I am going to be selfish and say that my kids need me. I will tell myself that no one else can raise up beautiful humans better then me. That is a lie, but it keeps me alive.
Perhaps I can answer the question. Why me? Why not me who is strong enough to acknowledge the world will continue if I am not in it. I give today how I can. I love all this moment and not wait until tomorrow. I clean my kitchen and worry about my pant size as is the human way. I acknowledge the gifts that yoga and meditation have given me this past year. So why not me? I can be a good liar and fake it until I make it like no other.
I just ask you this, tell me I said that should I find the fire burns low in my body before it should. Tell me it is okay because I gave all I could and loved more then I should. Tell me you will raise up my babies into the beautiful humans they already are. And remind them that each day I will be there to listen if they still themselves long enough to listen. This is only a body. It failing me. Yet, it is stronger then even I know and is full of surprises. I love you.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Prolouge
There are a handful of times in my lfe I thought I might die. At age 15, I slumped down on my bedroom floor against the antique dresser that now lives in my daughters bedroom. I felt a lone even though I had a lot of friends. I even had a boyfriend named Chris. He was Greek. My girlfriends and I had checked out a bunch of books on palm reading and toret cards from the library. In our novice chatter, we read each other's future. My line life was short. About half way, it just stopped. Nobody else's stopped. 35, I decided I would die of some horrible disease at 35. So sitting there in my bedroom, depressed, lonely, I traced the line that stopped with my thumb and thought of how I might kill myself. Not pills, I wouldn't do that right and someone would save me. Then the aftermath of dealing with having had tried to kill oneself would be more torture then the moment I stopped breathing. Gassing? No disgusting. Hanging I not stomach. Diving off a bridge? Maybe. But, would it be the most horrible pain? So, no, not today. I wasn't ready. I wrote a poem, instead, about a bottom drawer whisky jar. Not that I even knew what whisky tasted like. But, I knew on the cop movies that the detective pulled out a jar of whisky every time he saw a brutal murder. That must be what adults do when it is too hard.
I thought I would die a second time my senior year of high school when I had my first asthma attack. I was a lone in the chemistry lab doing a titration lab. I was horribly frustrated and my lab partner had not showed up. All the natural gas from the Brunson burners had been escaping into the room all day and begun to fill me lungs. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see. Mr. Pimentel with his giant grey Einstein-style fro finally walked back into the room and took me out in the cool afternoon air, had me sit with my head between my legs, and breathe. I got a C on the lab and weekly visits to an allergist.
My asthma got me again during my first birth. Julia came five weeks early. Though my water broke, she was so stubborn and wouldn't come out. We had to induce the labor to prevent her getting an infection. I remember holding Scott's hand and trying to listen to Nurse Lisa. Breath, breath, push, gently, push, stop. At some point, my ears stopped hearing. I could see everyone, and I began to not be able to breathe. In panic, I look up at Scott and he said, or someone said, “Push anytime, let's get her out." Okay, I didn't really think I was going to die. I thought my baby might be dead or have something very wrong with her. I had never been so scared.
The fourth time I thought about dying was the moment I sat in the freezing April air on the front steps of the CSU new art gallery in Ft. Collins. I closed my cell phone. Someone on the other side of the steps who was smoking with a friend came over and asked if I was okay. I can't remember if I said anything audible, but probably yes. I was just told I had three cancerous tumors in my left breast. My girlfriends came out to find me, Picked me up, we hugged and then went inside to clean up my red stained face. I brushed it off for the night and continued to socialize. "I can do this," I thought,”This is going to be hard, but I can do this." It wasn't until after the biopsy that I started to think that maybe I couldn't do it. Each week, I had a test. First the biopsy showing that I was ER and PR negative. I remember Dr. Mark's eyes when he walked into the exam room to tell me that my cancer is possibly untreatable. Then there was the PET scan and liver biopsy pushing my odds of survival further down the toilet with a stage IV label. This was days before my 34th birthday. The plan was set, I would have surgery after my birthday and them enter the cancer-land with chemo in June. At this point, though strong as a bull, I thought I might die. Of course, all that changed when we learned from the surgical pathology that I was HER2/neu+ and then showed great response after my third round of therapy. I could do this. I am doing this. I will prevail.
So here I am with a recurrence in my brain just 9 months after my label of NED, no evidence of disease. I am 35 years old.
I thought I would die a second time my senior year of high school when I had my first asthma attack. I was a lone in the chemistry lab doing a titration lab. I was horribly frustrated and my lab partner had not showed up. All the natural gas from the Brunson burners had been escaping into the room all day and begun to fill me lungs. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see. Mr. Pimentel with his giant grey Einstein-style fro finally walked back into the room and took me out in the cool afternoon air, had me sit with my head between my legs, and breathe. I got a C on the lab and weekly visits to an allergist.
My asthma got me again during my first birth. Julia came five weeks early. Though my water broke, she was so stubborn and wouldn't come out. We had to induce the labor to prevent her getting an infection. I remember holding Scott's hand and trying to listen to Nurse Lisa. Breath, breath, push, gently, push, stop. At some point, my ears stopped hearing. I could see everyone, and I began to not be able to breathe. In panic, I look up at Scott and he said, or someone said, “Push anytime, let's get her out." Okay, I didn't really think I was going to die. I thought my baby might be dead or have something very wrong with her. I had never been so scared.
The fourth time I thought about dying was the moment I sat in the freezing April air on the front steps of the CSU new art gallery in Ft. Collins. I closed my cell phone. Someone on the other side of the steps who was smoking with a friend came over and asked if I was okay. I can't remember if I said anything audible, but probably yes. I was just told I had three cancerous tumors in my left breast. My girlfriends came out to find me, Picked me up, we hugged and then went inside to clean up my red stained face. I brushed it off for the night and continued to socialize. "I can do this," I thought,”This is going to be hard, but I can do this." It wasn't until after the biopsy that I started to think that maybe I couldn't do it. Each week, I had a test. First the biopsy showing that I was ER and PR negative. I remember Dr. Mark's eyes when he walked into the exam room to tell me that my cancer is possibly untreatable. Then there was the PET scan and liver biopsy pushing my odds of survival further down the toilet with a stage IV label. This was days before my 34th birthday. The plan was set, I would have surgery after my birthday and them enter the cancer-land with chemo in June. At this point, though strong as a bull, I thought I might die. Of course, all that changed when we learned from the surgical pathology that I was HER2/neu+ and then showed great response after my third round of therapy. I could do this. I am doing this. I will prevail.
So here I am with a recurrence in my brain just 9 months after my label of NED, no evidence of disease. I am 35 years old.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Arg...I am a pirate
So here is the story folks. Me, the one who finds gold earrings in the sand and Lego pieces on the Oriental rug before I step on them. Me, who loves the month of September on the Front Range because the air is just right to make the Flat Irons a certain shade of blue against the gold corn fields and fading green trees. Me, the one who stops her children to look, just look, at the sunset, the moon, or who the mother bird is feeding her babies in her nest. Yes, Me can't see.
That is a bit of an exaggeration, but that is not an exaggeration of how it feels to me to loose control over my eyes. A week ago, during the last performance of the Nutcracker, I sat in the left wing watching the little angels flutter across the stage and thought they looked a little blurry. I went home and chalked up my not-so-awesome vision on ultimate fatigue. I was up late trying to pick up the house and then again on Monday cleaning it. My eyes just felt soar and a bit unclear. I still thought a nice 12 hour sleep (which is not going to happen) would be the cure. But, by Thursday, I found myself closing one eye to see better. I made an appointment with the eye doctor. I don't wear glasses and hadn't been to one in many years. Thursday night I had an awesome time with some girlfriends at a Mexican restaurant. Thankfully, my friend Homa drove me as by the time I was ready to head out for the night, there was two of everything. I put back on authentic margarita and figured, heck, I am already seeing double. I continued on through my weekend closing one eye to see right.
Sidebar: The weekend was awesome. We took the kids to Disney on Ice in Denver. Then we stayed at our favorite hotel, the Westin at the Tabor Center. I love the bedding there, and the kids love sitting in the bay window on the 16th floor room and looking at the city. Julia kept asking why Denver was so fancy. She was pretty fascinated by the architectural details. We walked to the Civic Center across from the Capitol Building to see the lights. It was so beautiful and it plays chimes to Christmas songs on the hour. Then, we went swimming in the heated indoor/outdoor pool. I just wish it was a little warmer! A fun staycation.
So back to my eye issue. By this morning, Monday, I could barely see. Never mind the fact that I feel totally seasick with this double vision. I get everyone to school and my mom takes me to the eye doctor. It is a good thing I went to a full service eye care center as I was passed around the ranks in an attempt to figure out what is wrong.
The good news is I have nearly 20/20 vision in both eyes! Yeah! Finally, I end up with a retinal specialist who explains that I have left 6th nerve palsy. From what I can understand the teeny tiny capillaries the supply blood to the tiny little muscles that control my eye are not getting blood flow to allow them to control the movements. Basically, it is partially paralyzed. I was given three options for this. One is a blood or nerve issue. But, I don't have diabetes or high blood pressure. The second is trauma or an aneurysm. And, the third is a tumor.
Okay, don't freak out just yet. I had an MRI this evening. One thing I love about being in a smaller town is that I get the privilege to have my neighbor be my MRI goddess. I have HER-Fusion tomorrow and will see Dr. Mark, my oncologist. So hopefully we will figure something out tomorrow. I am voting for option A as I am told it should clear up after a couple months and the nerves heal, blood is restored, or whatever. Sorry, it was a lot to absorb so it may not be too accurate. For now, I am trying to decide if it is sexier to be a pirate or go around winking at everyone. Should I bedazzle this beautiful black eye patch? Seriously, doesn't it come in beige or something?
That is a bit of an exaggeration, but that is not an exaggeration of how it feels to me to loose control over my eyes. A week ago, during the last performance of the Nutcracker, I sat in the left wing watching the little angels flutter across the stage and thought they looked a little blurry. I went home and chalked up my not-so-awesome vision on ultimate fatigue. I was up late trying to pick up the house and then again on Monday cleaning it. My eyes just felt soar and a bit unclear. I still thought a nice 12 hour sleep (which is not going to happen) would be the cure. But, by Thursday, I found myself closing one eye to see better. I made an appointment with the eye doctor. I don't wear glasses and hadn't been to one in many years. Thursday night I had an awesome time with some girlfriends at a Mexican restaurant. Thankfully, my friend Homa drove me as by the time I was ready to head out for the night, there was two of everything. I put back on authentic margarita and figured, heck, I am already seeing double. I continued on through my weekend closing one eye to see right.
Sidebar: The weekend was awesome. We took the kids to Disney on Ice in Denver. Then we stayed at our favorite hotel, the Westin at the Tabor Center. I love the bedding there, and the kids love sitting in the bay window on the 16th floor room and looking at the city. Julia kept asking why Denver was so fancy. She was pretty fascinated by the architectural details. We walked to the Civic Center across from the Capitol Building to see the lights. It was so beautiful and it plays chimes to Christmas songs on the hour. Then, we went swimming in the heated indoor/outdoor pool. I just wish it was a little warmer! A fun staycation.
So back to my eye issue. By this morning, Monday, I could barely see. Never mind the fact that I feel totally seasick with this double vision. I get everyone to school and my mom takes me to the eye doctor. It is a good thing I went to a full service eye care center as I was passed around the ranks in an attempt to figure out what is wrong.
The good news is I have nearly 20/20 vision in both eyes! Yeah! Finally, I end up with a retinal specialist who explains that I have left 6th nerve palsy. From what I can understand the teeny tiny capillaries the supply blood to the tiny little muscles that control my eye are not getting blood flow to allow them to control the movements. Basically, it is partially paralyzed. I was given three options for this. One is a blood or nerve issue. But, I don't have diabetes or high blood pressure. The second is trauma or an aneurysm. And, the third is a tumor.
Okay, don't freak out just yet. I had an MRI this evening. One thing I love about being in a smaller town is that I get the privilege to have my neighbor be my MRI goddess. I have HER-Fusion tomorrow and will see Dr. Mark, my oncologist. So hopefully we will figure something out tomorrow. I am voting for option A as I am told it should clear up after a couple months and the nerves heal, blood is restored, or whatever. Sorry, it was a lot to absorb so it may not be too accurate. For now, I am trying to decide if it is sexier to be a pirate or go around winking at everyone. Should I bedazzle this beautiful black eye patch? Seriously, doesn't it come in beige or something?
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
All that stuff.
I had this draft post going about my two days of cleaning a house left to fend for itself for three weeks. Well, can we say...boring. So here is my number one hint for taking on a big job you don't want to do but want to get done as soon as possible: top down. Start on the top in the cleanest corner and move the dust, dirt, junk and other things that just don't belong down like squeezing toothpaste out of the tube. Wait, you squeeze the middle of the tube? Everyone knows that to get the very last little drop of paste one has to squeeze from the bottom and roll as you go. Hum, can the government use this tip?
Not going there.
On another note, I have to say again how awesome it was to be a backstage mom for my prima ballerina during the Nutcracker. The rehearsals and performances for seven nights in a row was pretty hard on me, but worth ever minute of lost sleep. The last words of my little crew was: "Do you really mean it is over?" I can't wait to get the DVD so I can watch the performance with Julia. She was pretty upset to see all the characters backstage but not the entire show. And, what was the funniest moment? When the male Arabian came out in the wings bare chested, the girls all gasped and then giggled. "He's naked!"
And, in the end, I am still trying to recover from the intensity of last week. And, there is no better way to do that then some intense yoga classes. Tuesday night was filled with inversions that found a few muscles I didn't know I had. They were talking to me a bit today. So how do we recover from an intense class? Go to another one. Tonight was pretty gentle and easy flowing. Perfect. On Wednesday it is an hour flow vinyasa and then a 30 minute hip opener. During the hip openers, the room was candle lit and calm. We sat in double pigeon for long intervals. Some where during my second side, my mind fluttered away. That is when I saw my Papa. He'd gone on to heaven in October when Grandma Ann passed away. He helped his wife through. He came here tonight to tell me to tell you that he is still here when you need him, you just have to listen. Everyone has a spirit guide. Some you know and others you may not. But, when things are hard. Be silent. Silent your mind and listen. And, even when you can't, or won't, hear them, know they are listening to you.
Not going there.
On another note, I have to say again how awesome it was to be a backstage mom for my prima ballerina during the Nutcracker. The rehearsals and performances for seven nights in a row was pretty hard on me, but worth ever minute of lost sleep. The last words of my little crew was: "Do you really mean it is over?" I can't wait to get the DVD so I can watch the performance with Julia. She was pretty upset to see all the characters backstage but not the entire show. And, what was the funniest moment? When the male Arabian came out in the wings bare chested, the girls all gasped and then giggled. "He's naked!"
And, in the end, I am still trying to recover from the intensity of last week. And, there is no better way to do that then some intense yoga classes. Tuesday night was filled with inversions that found a few muscles I didn't know I had. They were talking to me a bit today. So how do we recover from an intense class? Go to another one. Tonight was pretty gentle and easy flowing. Perfect. On Wednesday it is an hour flow vinyasa and then a 30 minute hip opener. During the hip openers, the room was candle lit and calm. We sat in double pigeon for long intervals. Some where during my second side, my mind fluttered away. That is when I saw my Papa. He'd gone on to heaven in October when Grandma Ann passed away. He helped his wife through. He came here tonight to tell me to tell you that he is still here when you need him, you just have to listen. Everyone has a spirit guide. Some you know and others you may not. But, when things are hard. Be silent. Silent your mind and listen. And, even when you can't, or won't, hear them, know they are listening to you.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Angelrific
Although exhasted after only three nights, life is angelrific as a backstage mom. Julia is an angel in all three performances of the Nutcracker with Longmont Dance Theater. We completed a two hour practice this evening. I am exhausted. As a backstage mom, three other ladies and myself are in charge of entertaining, calming, taking to the bathroom, fixing hair, taking to the bathroom, dressing, entertaining, lining up, calming, walking, keeping quiet, handing out candles, preparing, focussing, and releasing 12 angels onto stage. I have stage right for the 7 pm show on Saturday. I had no idea how much these little ladies steal the show. Can we say I am pretty proud of all these gals as they pranced out with "slow tippy toe steps" to hit all their marks in the dark with bright spots, costumes, and all the other dancers fumbling around them. I will be attending the first show in the audience with the grandparents. But, the other moms asked if I would please help them backstage as the former preschool teacher. Well, no. But, what I will do is teach you to constantly count heads, set up a routine, make the worst behaved angel (I know they are all perfect angels...not) the leader, and how to play simple word games (they can not sit down, eat, or go potty once the costume is pinned on.) My feet are killing me and I can't believe I am still awake watching The Tonight Show. I told all the little girls to request a nap afterschool tomorrow right before I instructed the parents how to glue their daughter's hair down into a performance bun for four nights in a row startng with dress rehersal tomorrow. I have been told we were brave to take on this role. Another friend asked me why would I do it and shouldn't I be home resting or something. Well, it is all angelrific to see the glimmer in your daughter's eye when the Sugar Plum Fairy spins in front of her and listen to her recount each moment in her third night of rehersal week. I rubbed her legs and feet as I listened. She owes me $50.
PS The toothfairy best get up there and collect some little girls' third tooth.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Last
Live today like it will be your last. I have heard this over and over through out my life. What does it really mean? I have been thinking a lot about my Grandmother Ann as the holidays approach. I never really cared much for the whole turkey feast and weird overly sugared foods at the table. But, the thought occurred to me the other day, I don't know how to make a turkey. I never paid attention to what my Grandmother was doing in the years of her making of a feast. I took that all for granted and sat at her table eating her food. Now, I can't ask her how to make a turkey. Now, I get it.
Friday, November 19, 2010
It's About You
There has been some confusion about whom I write. Yes, I write about you. And, let me tell you why. In an advanced art history course at Colorado State University, a professor led us through an intense week-long discussion on how to look at art. What does art mean? Why is it created? What does a viewer see? There are two levels of the viewing of art. First there is the intuitive emotional level. A viewer walks by a piece and loves it, hates, wants to look at it longer, feels angry, feels impassioned....
The second level comes mostly to those who have studied art and critique. Standing long enough in front of a piece and knowing at least a basic foundation of the elements and principles of art, a critic viewer can begin to define why the art piece creates the first level of reaction. The combination of the elements and principles are intertwined both intuitively and purposely by the artist to evoke the emotive values. One of the most obvious elements of an artwork that creates an emotive response is color. A dark piece makes the viewer feel one way while a lighter value creates another. Red evokes passion and anger. Blue evokes calm.
The artist creates art about you in that he is evoking what you bring to the piece through the collective use of design. A few nights ago, I went to a lecture by Carol Shin at the Front Range Contemporary Quilters Guild. She is a free-motion embroidery artist who creates photo realistic images with millions of tiny thread stitches. She jokes, "I took up embroidery on my machine because it was quicker then mixing paint." Of course, as a painter, I have to chuckle imagining changing all those threads as being quicker then mixing a dash of a color of paint. What was interesting about her talk through her life story in textile images is her use of chairs. Throughout her artist life span, she has made images of chairs. Some are symmetrical, some sit diagonal in the composition looking as if they will fall over, some are turned away, and others are facing you in a very confrontational manner. No, the viewer doesn't suspect the purposefully placed chair in the composition is evoking an emotional response of the artist's choosing. Shin explains that a chair is a way of putting a person in your work without limiting the image to someone specific. The viewer places themselves in the chair or they place someone they know in the chair. Therefore, Carol Shin create images about you.
Now, think also about the other arts. Music. Surely the songs are written specifically about one person and one experience. Or are they? Is Taylor Swift really having a Romeo and Juliet romance at the same time she is a nerdy teen sitting on the bleachers dreaming of Mr. So-and-So who is dating some hot cheerleader? Maybe. But, I bet you a dollar every teen listens to these songs and puts themselves right there in the picture the words create. Heck, my six year old daughter knows all the words to Love Story and can tell you her interpretation of Aura and Prince Philip seeing each other at the dance and secretly meeting on the steps. Or was that Cinderella? And, when I listen to the song I hear it differently having studied the original literary Romeo and Juliet inspiration by Shakespeare in several formats of live play, text, and Moonlighting episode with Bruce Willis and Cybil Shepard (wait, that was Taming of the Shrew.) And, I bet my daughter's dad, trying to pretend he isn't really listening to this feminine teen Pop idol of course, hears quite a different interpretation. He may even be projecting in the future what it will be like to have a love sick 15 year old daughter because goodness knows she is definitely one for the drama at age six.
Whether it is a visual art piece, music or text, it is all about you. You, the audience, project yourself into the art piece whether you know it or not. Yes, maybe I type in response to an actual conversation. Maybe I am just thinking about a movie I just saw or having a memory from my youth. Maybe I am really mad at someone or maybe I just had a conversation with a friend who was really mad at someone. Maybe it was you who hurt my feelings. Or, Maybe not. Does it really matter? As an author (I can't believe I just said that) I toss out thoughts and images. It is up to you to decide if I am writing about you. Chances are I am if you think I am. But, do keep in mind, I am also writing about that gal over there, my friend from ten years ago, a boyfriend I had in college, and the childhood cat who scarred my knee with her tiny claws. Please feel free to sit in my chairs. But, I do warn you that sometimes they might be a little uncomforable.
The second level comes mostly to those who have studied art and critique. Standing long enough in front of a piece and knowing at least a basic foundation of the elements and principles of art, a critic viewer can begin to define why the art piece creates the first level of reaction. The combination of the elements and principles are intertwined both intuitively and purposely by the artist to evoke the emotive values. One of the most obvious elements of an artwork that creates an emotive response is color. A dark piece makes the viewer feel one way while a lighter value creates another. Red evokes passion and anger. Blue evokes calm.
The artist creates art about you in that he is evoking what you bring to the piece through the collective use of design. A few nights ago, I went to a lecture by Carol Shin at the Front Range Contemporary Quilters Guild. She is a free-motion embroidery artist who creates photo realistic images with millions of tiny thread stitches. She jokes, "I took up embroidery on my machine because it was quicker then mixing paint." Of course, as a painter, I have to chuckle imagining changing all those threads as being quicker then mixing a dash of a color of paint. What was interesting about her talk through her life story in textile images is her use of chairs. Throughout her artist life span, she has made images of chairs. Some are symmetrical, some sit diagonal in the composition looking as if they will fall over, some are turned away, and others are facing you in a very confrontational manner. No, the viewer doesn't suspect the purposefully placed chair in the composition is evoking an emotional response of the artist's choosing. Shin explains that a chair is a way of putting a person in your work without limiting the image to someone specific. The viewer places themselves in the chair or they place someone they know in the chair. Therefore, Carol Shin create images about you.
Now, think also about the other arts. Music. Surely the songs are written specifically about one person and one experience. Or are they? Is Taylor Swift really having a Romeo and Juliet romance at the same time she is a nerdy teen sitting on the bleachers dreaming of Mr. So-and-So who is dating some hot cheerleader? Maybe. But, I bet you a dollar every teen listens to these songs and puts themselves right there in the picture the words create. Heck, my six year old daughter knows all the words to Love Story and can tell you her interpretation of Aura and Prince Philip seeing each other at the dance and secretly meeting on the steps. Or was that Cinderella? And, when I listen to the song I hear it differently having studied the original literary Romeo and Juliet inspiration by Shakespeare in several formats of live play, text, and Moonlighting episode with Bruce Willis and Cybil Shepard (wait, that was Taming of the Shrew.) And, I bet my daughter's dad, trying to pretend he isn't really listening to this feminine teen Pop idol of course, hears quite a different interpretation. He may even be projecting in the future what it will be like to have a love sick 15 year old daughter because goodness knows she is definitely one for the drama at age six.
Whether it is a visual art piece, music or text, it is all about you. You, the audience, project yourself into the art piece whether you know it or not. Yes, maybe I type in response to an actual conversation. Maybe I am just thinking about a movie I just saw or having a memory from my youth. Maybe I am really mad at someone or maybe I just had a conversation with a friend who was really mad at someone. Maybe it was you who hurt my feelings. Or, Maybe not. Does it really matter? As an author (I can't believe I just said that) I toss out thoughts and images. It is up to you to decide if I am writing about you. Chances are I am if you think I am. But, do keep in mind, I am also writing about that gal over there, my friend from ten years ago, a boyfriend I had in college, and the childhood cat who scarred my knee with her tiny claws. Please feel free to sit in my chairs. But, I do warn you that sometimes they might be a little uncomforable.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Growing Pains
When I was 16, I watched my grandmother grow up. It was a typical end of a Christmas day in the Homer Broers household. The women folk had just settled down to tea and watching Grandma scrub every last inch of the kitchen floor. It must have been about 10 pm and the men folk were watching some sporting thingy in the living room. (Yes, Mom, this is the year I partook in the sipping of Grandpa's God awful home-made wine with the cousins and threw up in the sink. Grandma, I am sorry you thought it was your cooking that made me so sick. I promise I had only a cup or so of that horrid grape juice. Promise.) So here was this little four foot nine inches tall woman bending over the mop and telling some tale when Papa yells some command over the sound of the TV. I don't recall what the loud request was. What I do recall is my bitty Nanny yelling back: "Get your own dam...." And, then she went back to her business.
She said a swear word! We couldn't believe our ears. Now, this scene set the tone for the next twenty years of my awry Grandma's life. I had never heard this woman, a woman who bent over to please, a woman who did it all right and still had time to make you waffles in the middle of the night. Here she was saying her peace and ignoring the replications.
Now, it is true that my aunt and cousin may recall this incident differently, but they will recall it. What I saw in my young mind, trying to make all the pieces fit together in preparation for my adulthood, was this woman was finally standing up for herself. She was growing up.
I watched another woman grow up. I didn't know her well at the time. I stayed a weekend in her home with her husband and spent most of the time out in the garden reading my book, Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingslover. The fighting was so bad one evening after dinner that I escaped to the curb outside of the house. I sat there reading with the cool fall breeze and pondering what it was like to be fighting like that. I had not grown up with people who fought nor did I know how to fight.
The house grew quiet and the woman slipped out the front to slump by my side on the curb. She was silent for a long time. Then she said she was sorry. Later that weekend, I watched this woman grow up. She couldn't stay. All these years she had been taken care of by a man. And now, she had to go. Now, she had to learn to take care of herself. And she did.
Growing up comes in a lot of ways. Before you are twenty, the growth is obvious. There are markers like the first giggle, first step, potty training and learning to read (the awesome growth step both my children are currently mastering...I say very proudly.) But, as the years go on, the growth becomes less obvious. We move into our careers, become parents, change careers, and even learn new talents. There comes a time in every one's life when a huge growth becomes essential. For Grandma, she was in her sixties. For my friend, it was her mid-fifties. And for me, it is my thirties.
I am asked all the time what was the gift., the lesson, the growth that cancer gave me. I really can't tell you just that, yet. But, I can tell you that I went to battle and am still dealing with post traumatic stress disorder. There are the ups and the downs. And, on the ups I can see how I feel different. Like both of the women in my life, I don't want to be the pleaser anymore. I don't want to loose myself nor tell myself it is okay to not be happy about something and shut up and take it. No, I do not intend to be some mean grump. I do intend to please. But, now, I intend to bring pleasure to others in the radiance of my own well being and not because I am bending over a mop to clean up after you. I am not perfect. I am fallible. And, I love it. Well, sort of. Be patient, I am still growing and trying to make sense of it all.
She said a swear word! We couldn't believe our ears. Now, this scene set the tone for the next twenty years of my awry Grandma's life. I had never heard this woman, a woman who bent over to please, a woman who did it all right and still had time to make you waffles in the middle of the night. Here she was saying her peace and ignoring the replications.
Now, it is true that my aunt and cousin may recall this incident differently, but they will recall it. What I saw in my young mind, trying to make all the pieces fit together in preparation for my adulthood, was this woman was finally standing up for herself. She was growing up.
I watched another woman grow up. I didn't know her well at the time. I stayed a weekend in her home with her husband and spent most of the time out in the garden reading my book, Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingslover. The fighting was so bad one evening after dinner that I escaped to the curb outside of the house. I sat there reading with the cool fall breeze and pondering what it was like to be fighting like that. I had not grown up with people who fought nor did I know how to fight.
The house grew quiet and the woman slipped out the front to slump by my side on the curb. She was silent for a long time. Then she said she was sorry. Later that weekend, I watched this woman grow up. She couldn't stay. All these years she had been taken care of by a man. And now, she had to go. Now, she had to learn to take care of herself. And she did.
Growing up comes in a lot of ways. Before you are twenty, the growth is obvious. There are markers like the first giggle, first step, potty training and learning to read (the awesome growth step both my children are currently mastering...I say very proudly.) But, as the years go on, the growth becomes less obvious. We move into our careers, become parents, change careers, and even learn new talents. There comes a time in every one's life when a huge growth becomes essential. For Grandma, she was in her sixties. For my friend, it was her mid-fifties. And for me, it is my thirties.
I am asked all the time what was the gift., the lesson, the growth that cancer gave me. I really can't tell you just that, yet. But, I can tell you that I went to battle and am still dealing with post traumatic stress disorder. There are the ups and the downs. And, on the ups I can see how I feel different. Like both of the women in my life, I don't want to be the pleaser anymore. I don't want to loose myself nor tell myself it is okay to not be happy about something and shut up and take it. No, I do not intend to be some mean grump. I do intend to please. But, now, I intend to bring pleasure to others in the radiance of my own well being and not because I am bending over a mop to clean up after you. I am not perfect. I am fallible. And, I love it. Well, sort of. Be patient, I am still growing and trying to make sense of it all.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Fans
I got a call today. I didn't know this woman. She had seen my work at Cafe Luna and "just had to call." It was a bit of an interesting conversation. She apparently reads Mayan calendars. She said that today was a day of earth connections, and then she walked into Cafe Luna and there were all my mountain paintings. She went on and on about how surprised she was at how young I am. She said she assumed in the depth of my work that I was more "wise in my years" then I am. Mainly, I think she was referring to my latest peice...sorry, I forgot what I titled it. Earlier, I had received an inpromptu critique of the piece. The critic talked about the faces that make up the mountains. She discussed how they felt trapped yet seeking. Like a journey. Yes, my pieces, when I just let them be, are my insides on a canvas. It is fun to hear what others say about your work. My son says there is a firgure in the piece and there are two suns. My daughter says there are only three moons. Mom says she sees a fiure too. What do you think? What I think is that I need to write it all down starting with Luna Nina painted in 1997. Oh, and I will let you know what my Mayan birth order says if I meet up with Karen for coffee later this month.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Lessons in Meditation
Went to yoga. Reaped great rewards in body and mind. Ms. yogi talked about practice. I thought about practice. All that is important is practice. A practice is a living organism in which you move in and out like a breath. A moment of ease and continuity and a moment of struggle dance in the realm of the practice.
I recall a swim meet my junior year of high school. It must have been November as it was the air was filled with chill. On hundred meters freestyle, not my best race (No, that would be the 100m breast stroke and 50m fly,last leg of my IM relay team) I still remember the dive, glide, the continuity between my body and the water. It was like I was flying just and inch above the water. I don't recall the time and I know I didn't place any better then maybe third in any race. But, I recall that feeling. Practice. A moving in and out of easy and struggle like a breath.
Yogi talked about flexibility building strength. Yet, when the strength was built, in practice, one had to put to mind to relax to move back into flexibility. In turn moving into flexibility created more strength. Strength becomes inflexible. So you have to put into to mind to move into to the feasible. This thought cycled in its abstracted through out the entire 30 minutes of hip-openers. In and out. Push and release. Build and knock it down to build it again, only better,
Savasana. Ah. The room slipped away like the water of my youth. I saw a cloudy sky, dark, silvery. It opened and a hand reached through in a light and pulled. It pulled out all my insides that were rotten. The hands rinsed me. It started in my belly and moved to my chest. My chest felt like it was burning yet hollow. Into the throat and seeped out my eyes. Tears, cold, slipped quietly down into my ears. Then it changed. The hands wanted me to come with them. No, I said. I a not ready. There is much to do before I die. So I sent my innards swirling in a cloud to the light between the silver clouds. Take it, take it all, for, I am well. Rinsed. I sigh and wiggle my toes. Amen and namasta.
I recall a swim meet my junior year of high school. It must have been November as it was the air was filled with chill. On hundred meters freestyle, not my best race (No, that would be the 100m breast stroke and 50m fly,last leg of my IM relay team) I still remember the dive, glide, the continuity between my body and the water. It was like I was flying just and inch above the water. I don't recall the time and I know I didn't place any better then maybe third in any race. But, I recall that feeling. Practice. A moving in and out of easy and struggle like a breath.
Yogi talked about flexibility building strength. Yet, when the strength was built, in practice, one had to put to mind to relax to move back into flexibility. In turn moving into flexibility created more strength. Strength becomes inflexible. So you have to put into to mind to move into to the feasible. This thought cycled in its abstracted through out the entire 30 minutes of hip-openers. In and out. Push and release. Build and knock it down to build it again, only better,
Savasana. Ah. The room slipped away like the water of my youth. I saw a cloudy sky, dark, silvery. It opened and a hand reached through in a light and pulled. It pulled out all my insides that were rotten. The hands rinsed me. It started in my belly and moved to my chest. My chest felt like it was burning yet hollow. Into the throat and seeped out my eyes. Tears, cold, slipped quietly down into my ears. Then it changed. The hands wanted me to come with them. No, I said. I a not ready. There is much to do before I die. So I sent my innards swirling in a cloud to the light between the silver clouds. Take it, take it all, for, I am well. Rinsed. I sigh and wiggle my toes. Amen and namasta.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Coming Home
I sat there today. I sat right there. Right in the middle of me. There around me was my artwork. I began to look at the nine pieces hanging up at Cafe Luna for the month of November. I spoke with a young lady who I once taught at Longmont High School. She is nearly 25, now, and getting married. She spoke to me about how she had not created art since high schoool. My two time Advanced Placement Studio Art scholar had not worked for six years. She said she was ready and wanted to take up her tools to create.
So, I took her down my path. I told her about my first piece I created out of the classroom, on my own, for myself, out of my own head. I was 25 and living on my own right here in my first apartment duplex in Longmont, Colorado. I was getting married the next year. This piece, titled Luna Nina, is now retired in bubble wrap under my son's bed. Interestingly, the cloud formation in Luna Nina shows a striking semblance to the one in Mt. Meeker and Long's Peak from Airport Road, the one with the echanecia In fact, I began to look around and there they all were.
One shared the color pallet of the next one which shared the bits of map with the next one. And, that one shared the horizon line with the one next to it. There is a story with each. I talked with my student about how each time I had something happen to me, a graduation, a miscarriage, a birth, a cancer diagnoses, I had to claw my way back to my home. I pulled out a bright white, new canvas and begun. I stumbled. I hated what I made. I doubt myself. I hated myself. I doubted that I was ever what one would title an artist. Yet, I painted over that ugly mess, turned on my music and stopped thinking. I made art. I doodled. I flowed. No, those first pieces aren't my favorites. These pieces are about coming home. And, once there, wow!
Come home
my lovely.
Turn off your head.
Let loose
of binding
strings.
Be free
in the dance.
Come home.
Welcome.
Home.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Girls' Night Out
I just had the best night out with my favorite girl. She is not quite four feet tall and can read Biscuit Makes a New Friend. Her eyes are bright and can flash you a smile with just a mire thought of joy. Her hair is a mess from dawn to dusk, and she still spills crumbs all over the floor when she eats even though she is six. Yes, my beautiful, and I don't mean just on the outside, my beautiful little girl and I went out to dinner. We took a friend of hers. A friend who is roughly six months older and has known my girl for exactly six years and six months of her life. Yes, we had a blast.
We took Little Brother to a birthday party where he enjoyed his own brand of fun tumbling around with his bros. Then we went to a pizza place on Main and decided on exactly the same toppings: mushrooms, olives and ham. This pizza parlour has games so the girls giggled over Connect Four. Then I taught them Jenga. Neither had played before and just loved it! Of course some of that may be due to a mother who over exaggerates the effort of pushing just the right block out of its spot and just barely not knocking the tower over as I gingerly place the piece on top.
Yes, I think I am going to enjoy my gal as she creeps up slowly in her years. She may be a little sassy these days and not wanting to get dressed to go to school morning after morning, but she sure can light up a room and make me giggle. I love you my little jewel.
We took Little Brother to a birthday party where he enjoyed his own brand of fun tumbling around with his bros. Then we went to a pizza place on Main and decided on exactly the same toppings: mushrooms, olives and ham. This pizza parlour has games so the girls giggled over Connect Four. Then I taught them Jenga. Neither had played before and just loved it! Of course some of that may be due to a mother who over exaggerates the effort of pushing just the right block out of its spot and just barely not knocking the tower over as I gingerly place the piece on top.
Yes, I think I am going to enjoy my gal as she creeps up slowly in her years. She may be a little sassy these days and not wanting to get dressed to go to school morning after morning, but she sure can light up a room and make me giggle. I love you my little jewel.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Cheers
I have to share something pretty amazing. (And, by the way, Big Sis, I will post this at mid-night, but I was already in bed exhausted from my day while my brain kept running it's little cartoon of life. So I am writing to shut off my computer in my brain.)
Back to amazing. I went to a the Center of Integrated Therapies today. I walked in the door and there stood five of the practitioners. They cheered for me. Like a real excited, smiles across their faces, arms pumping in the air, real live cheer. Over come with a blush and a rush of joy, I felt amazing. So that is my goal...to organize a spontaneous cheer for you.
I laid there in my acupuncture appointment rambling on like she was my bartender or hairdresser and I was thinking about my buddy Dane. Dane, 14, is just walking in the door of the cancer world. I read these posts written by his mom, my friend, and his dad and am just blown away with the young man he is. Boy, I thought I was a youngster, but to be a teen and loosing your hair....
So, I dared him to dress up as Harachrishna (not sure how to spell that one) and run silly down Pearl Street Mall (Not from Boulder, Colorado? You could run naked in January down the street and wouldn't be out of place. Arrested, maybe, but not odd.) I was joking, of course, but was envisioning people cheering him on as he ran down the street. In the end it is all about the cheering. It is pretty amazing.
I thank everyone who cheered for me. I thank everyone who came to my birthday party just days before my surgery and laughed as I showed you the surgical maneuvers of Dr. Heartthrob on my ample breast cakes with cherries on top. I only now realize how hard that must have been for you. So thank you for laughing with me....maybe I wasn't really all that funny as I was pretty doped up on painkillers...but you laughed and smiled hugged and cheered anyway. And, I know at least one of you went home to bawl her eyes out with her husband who in turn shared some pretty important words with me later.
Thanks for coming to my next birthday party and gratitude celebration. I know how your lives were all taking big hits at the time too. But, you came, you cheered. You stood for "another one of Sara's silly group pictures that she will probably want to post on Facebook." And maybe more importantly, shared a round of cosmos with me. Mark your calendars now because I am going to have a party every year. Yes, it will be around my birthday which just happens to mark my years with cancer. But, I want my party to be your party. A party of gratitude that we are all still here cheering for each other. Oh and my 40th...you betcha it is going to rock! Who is going to help me plan? Six years cancer free.
As I am getting really excited with all this gratitude sharing, in the back of my head is the haunting image. It is the image I see every three weeks as I settle down in a recliner at the Rocky Mountain Cancer Center for 2 hours across from some old bald guy. Okay, not everyone is bald and not everyone is old. But, some days, it feels like that. I feel like the elephant in the room as I come skipping along trying my best to not let my reality get the best of me. A friend who I have met recently asked me what an infusion was. I tried to explain the science of it in a short manner. You know, the analogy that I have these immature Jedi cells running around all over my body. The cells may become strong with the Force. Others, probably in my liver again, may turn into Anican Skywalkers and go to the Dark Side at any minute. At any minute. The Herceptin helps to shut down these cells by attaching to them so my body can go in to destroy them before they go to the Dark Side.
Whant an infusion means is that I sit in a chair feeling drowsy and sort of anxious at the same time for a couple of hours and then go home to pass out asleep for three hours or so. It means that I wake up totally clueless and foggy in my brain, feet tingling, headache and nauseated up in my throat. I am hungry but not. I am sleepy but not. If and when I go back to sleep, it will get better in 24 hours. My feet and left arm may swell up like balloons and feel very heavy whether the swelling is visible or not. I feel a bit of a rush feeling in my chest, short of breath, and thirsty. And yes, I am going to say it, then there is the diariah for a couple of days.
An infusion means I am siting next to a woman with thin hair, in her 60s, who is going through her third recurrence. It means I begin to worry about recurrence. I don't want to loose my hair again. It means looking at her giant swollen arm and having her tell me that she just stopped taking care of her Lymphadema and lives with the pain day in and day out. It means remembering my cancer.
Yes, I am strong again. Yes, I can get my brain to work right most of the time when I am not tired or too much is going on around me. Yes, for two weeks, I take my kids to school, bake bread, and clean my toilets. Heck, I may even carve out time for myself to paint...the only true time I feel like Sara Lynn. But then, in three weeks, I schedule, I plan, I prep the house, the kids, and my life. I stop everything for cancer. Yes, it is only maybe 48 hours. But for those 48 hours, I remember. I remember over and over and over and over again.
So yes, thank you Michelle, Karen, Megan, Michelle, and Jane for cheering for me today. Thank you! Now, I think I can pull up my britches and set out upon the world as Super Mom Sara Lynn Broers Brown...well, for the next two weeks anyway.
I honor you.
Sidebar: I decided today that what I am doing now, where I am on my path, is paving my road. I have been bull-dozer, reaped, and the jungle grew back all wild and ugly. The last few months I have made big leaps in my mind to come to terms with what is to be my life. Now, just now, I am ready to pave my road. What I mean is that I am educating myself with what to eat, not eat. How to prevent the nausea (hoping to do pressure seeds before the appointment.) And continuing to maintain the Lymphadema. From what I have collected from doctors and patients is that once the Lymphadema gets out of control, it is too late. It is very difficult to maintain and very painful. So as long as I can keep up the Manual Lymph Drainage Massage (and it feels great too!) and wearing my compression sleeve even if the swelling isn't much, then I can keep it at just that, not much. I don't want to look like that swollen 60 year old woman ten years from now. Here is to hoping.
And to close with a funny: So I go to the bathroom like every 15 minutes during infusions because of all the fluid and probably a little to do with nerves. I go, come out, and stop by the nurse's desk. "Shelly, um, I don't think it is quite right; I mean it seems odd; is there maybe a break room close to the bathroom?" "What do you mean exactly?" "Well, the bathroom smells like smoke, like cigarettes, and that is a weird thing in a cancer center, right?" So she goes in to check and emerges laughing. "Oh my gosh, you are right." Fast forward to waiting for the valet to retrieve my car. There is this women with crooked teeth there sort of on edge. She is going on and on about the valets screwing up something with her truck. I see her truck. She almost totally crashed into me when I was trying to find a parking spot; before I gave up and left it with the valet. She was going on and on about this to top off a bad day because her husband just got busted at the cancer center for smoking in the bathroom. Narc. I sure hope he doesn't have lung cancer.
Back to amazing. I went to a the Center of Integrated Therapies today. I walked in the door and there stood five of the practitioners. They cheered for me. Like a real excited, smiles across their faces, arms pumping in the air, real live cheer. Over come with a blush and a rush of joy, I felt amazing. So that is my goal...to organize a spontaneous cheer for you.
I laid there in my acupuncture appointment rambling on like she was my bartender or hairdresser and I was thinking about my buddy Dane. Dane, 14, is just walking in the door of the cancer world. I read these posts written by his mom, my friend, and his dad and am just blown away with the young man he is. Boy, I thought I was a youngster, but to be a teen and loosing your hair....
So, I dared him to dress up as Harachrishna (not sure how to spell that one) and run silly down Pearl Street Mall (Not from Boulder, Colorado? You could run naked in January down the street and wouldn't be out of place. Arrested, maybe, but not odd.) I was joking, of course, but was envisioning people cheering him on as he ran down the street. In the end it is all about the cheering. It is pretty amazing.
I thank everyone who cheered for me. I thank everyone who came to my birthday party just days before my surgery and laughed as I showed you the surgical maneuvers of Dr. Heartthrob on my ample breast cakes with cherries on top. I only now realize how hard that must have been for you. So thank you for laughing with me....maybe I wasn't really all that funny as I was pretty doped up on painkillers...but you laughed and smiled hugged and cheered anyway. And, I know at least one of you went home to bawl her eyes out with her husband who in turn shared some pretty important words with me later.
Thanks for coming to my next birthday party and gratitude celebration. I know how your lives were all taking big hits at the time too. But, you came, you cheered. You stood for "another one of Sara's silly group pictures that she will probably want to post on Facebook." And maybe more importantly, shared a round of cosmos with me. Mark your calendars now because I am going to have a party every year. Yes, it will be around my birthday which just happens to mark my years with cancer. But, I want my party to be your party. A party of gratitude that we are all still here cheering for each other. Oh and my 40th...you betcha it is going to rock! Who is going to help me plan? Six years cancer free.
As I am getting really excited with all this gratitude sharing, in the back of my head is the haunting image. It is the image I see every three weeks as I settle down in a recliner at the Rocky Mountain Cancer Center for 2 hours across from some old bald guy. Okay, not everyone is bald and not everyone is old. But, some days, it feels like that. I feel like the elephant in the room as I come skipping along trying my best to not let my reality get the best of me. A friend who I have met recently asked me what an infusion was. I tried to explain the science of it in a short manner. You know, the analogy that I have these immature Jedi cells running around all over my body. The cells may become strong with the Force. Others, probably in my liver again, may turn into Anican Skywalkers and go to the Dark Side at any minute. At any minute. The Herceptin helps to shut down these cells by attaching to them so my body can go in to destroy them before they go to the Dark Side.
Whant an infusion means is that I sit in a chair feeling drowsy and sort of anxious at the same time for a couple of hours and then go home to pass out asleep for three hours or so. It means that I wake up totally clueless and foggy in my brain, feet tingling, headache and nauseated up in my throat. I am hungry but not. I am sleepy but not. If and when I go back to sleep, it will get better in 24 hours. My feet and left arm may swell up like balloons and feel very heavy whether the swelling is visible or not. I feel a bit of a rush feeling in my chest, short of breath, and thirsty. And yes, I am going to say it, then there is the diariah for a couple of days.
An infusion means I am siting next to a woman with thin hair, in her 60s, who is going through her third recurrence. It means I begin to worry about recurrence. I don't want to loose my hair again. It means looking at her giant swollen arm and having her tell me that she just stopped taking care of her Lymphadema and lives with the pain day in and day out. It means remembering my cancer.
Yes, I am strong again. Yes, I can get my brain to work right most of the time when I am not tired or too much is going on around me. Yes, for two weeks, I take my kids to school, bake bread, and clean my toilets. Heck, I may even carve out time for myself to paint...the only true time I feel like Sara Lynn. But then, in three weeks, I schedule, I plan, I prep the house, the kids, and my life. I stop everything for cancer. Yes, it is only maybe 48 hours. But for those 48 hours, I remember. I remember over and over and over and over again.
So yes, thank you Michelle, Karen, Megan, Michelle, and Jane for cheering for me today. Thank you! Now, I think I can pull up my britches and set out upon the world as Super Mom Sara Lynn Broers Brown...well, for the next two weeks anyway.
I honor you.
Sidebar: I decided today that what I am doing now, where I am on my path, is paving my road. I have been bull-dozer, reaped, and the jungle grew back all wild and ugly. The last few months I have made big leaps in my mind to come to terms with what is to be my life. Now, just now, I am ready to pave my road. What I mean is that I am educating myself with what to eat, not eat. How to prevent the nausea (hoping to do pressure seeds before the appointment.) And continuing to maintain the Lymphadema. From what I have collected from doctors and patients is that once the Lymphadema gets out of control, it is too late. It is very difficult to maintain and very painful. So as long as I can keep up the Manual Lymph Drainage Massage (and it feels great too!) and wearing my compression sleeve even if the swelling isn't much, then I can keep it at just that, not much. I don't want to look like that swollen 60 year old woman ten years from now. Here is to hoping.
And to close with a funny: So I go to the bathroom like every 15 minutes during infusions because of all the fluid and probably a little to do with nerves. I go, come out, and stop by the nurse's desk. "Shelly, um, I don't think it is quite right; I mean it seems odd; is there maybe a break room close to the bathroom?" "What do you mean exactly?" "Well, the bathroom smells like smoke, like cigarettes, and that is a weird thing in a cancer center, right?" So she goes in to check and emerges laughing. "Oh my gosh, you are right." Fast forward to waiting for the valet to retrieve my car. There is this women with crooked teeth there sort of on edge. She is going on and on about the valets screwing up something with her truck. I see her truck. She almost totally crashed into me when I was trying to find a parking spot; before I gave up and left it with the valet. She was going on and on about this to top off a bad day because her husband just got busted at the cancer center for smoking in the bathroom. Narc. I sure hope he doesn't have lung cancer.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Awesome Fun Halloween
I love my costume this year too! I was in Kansas for my grandmother's funeral. My family went down to Ft. Scott and hit a few antique stores downtown. And there, in a backroom, was this great 1960's hand sewn dress just my size! And, it was only $6.50 plus tax! I primed and prepped for about an hour curling and applying make-up. But, it was cool. I can't even imagine how women used to do all this prepping daily, and think I might prefer the all natural look, even if everyone is forced to enjoy the heavy bags under my eyes. But, the costume lasted all the way through a school party, cooking dinner, cleaning up, getting kids of to bed, reading books, and a quick kiss goodnight. A real 1960s momma. Jack said, "You don't look like my mom, but I like it." The costume only needed a little freshening as I headed out the door for party number one, MOMS Club Moms' Night Out Costume Party.
Saturday was a whirl wind of events starting with cleaning the house. Then it was off to soccer for Jack and Nutcracker practice for Julia.I remembered the snacks for the soccer game but forgot the costume for the ballet practice. However, thinking fast, I wiped off the tears off my ballerina's cheeks and pulled together a pink tutu and gold tiara from the lost and found box. Score!
Then it was home for an early shrimp, guac, and sweet rice dinner before heading out to a party. Fashionably late we show up on time to the party. I haven't been to such a rockin' party since the kids were born (Well, Anna, I am not including your Christmas parties, of course. I mean one were the kids were invited.) We stayed out until 9:30. I think it is slightly funny the dopey faces of kids staying up two and a half hours past bed time. Well, until they come in my room at mid-night crying with nightmares.
Sunday wasn't much more quiet. I jammed around in my jammies until 3 pm getting ready for a dinner with neighbors, finishing house cleaning, and working on a painting I wanted to hang in the show I was to hang on Monday. I sent the kids bed at 1:30. They were crying and protested. But, once I got them snuggled under their covers, they were out like a light until 3 pm. And, thankfully they did rest. At 3:50, ten minutes before our guests were to arrive, I pulled their hot bodies out of their beds and yanked on their costumes. And let the treating begin! I served bloody brains infested with worms (spaghetti) and our guests brought bread, broccoli, roasted chicken, and mellow balls. Needless to say we totally licked the plates. and rushed out the door at 6 for our treating. My kids were a little upset at the skeletons next door. But, we finally made it around the block. I tell you, this is the way to do trick-or-treating. We looped around to the other family's home and stopped in for warm tea. It was a good way to end the evening. Of course, it was hard to get the girls to part ways so we could get them to bed. After all, there was school on Monday!
But, my evening wasn't over as the Midnight Housewife. I had a painting to finish after all. I climb into bed at a minute after 12 with a shaking swollen left arm. I have been working hard on painting and getting back into my world as an artist. The only problem is my body is changed. I hold my palette in my left hand. Though it is light, the holding causes my Lymphadema to activate.
Yet, life keeps going, and I am NOT going to let cancer stop me until it stops me completely. Monday, we make it to school only five minutes late. And I run off to Cafe Luna to hang my show. I am exhausted and my muscles are fatigued. So I tiger-up (Brown family code word for grabbing all your inner courage and roaring loud at your challenges) and hang a pretty awesome show. Well, sometimes you do have to compromise. So instead of taking Jack back to the cafe to finish putting up labels, we head home for a nap. AWESOME! We pick up Julia at 3:35. A friend offers to host a play date which works out great so I can rush over to finish hanging and then bop through the grocery store.
I am laying in bed soar after cleaning the house again from the festivities of the weekend. (Thank you Scott, Mom and Dad for doing most of it while we were out trick-or-treating.) Life comes at you sometimes like a turtle and other times it is a spinning fast ball. The fact that I am a stage IV cancer patient slapped me in the face. But, you know what, it was worth it all the way. I had so much fun this weekend.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Papa and Ann
ODE TO PAPA
By Sara L. Broers Brown
July 2, 2009
Papa, Papa,
Your garden keep
Irises, roses, veggies
Let’s eat!
Rows of strawberries
Garden snakes keep.
Papa, Papa,
Teach me garden’s keep.
Build a birdhouse,
And oil my car.
Run a business,
And, antique cars.
Swing your lady,
On Fourth of July.
Do -see- do,
Stepping high.
To my Papa
I hear you now,
Call me soon,
Heaven’s phone.
“No tears my child,
I am calm.
I will greet you,
When you come.
And, find me sittin’
Here at my home.
I love my children,All as one.”
Amen, my Papa
Amen and peace.
See you later,
And rest in peace.
I wrote this poem after my grandfather died last year. It was easy as I sat on my porch in a chemo-induced stooper. The drugs of the therapy left my body weak and my mind often confused. But, my brain had wonderful room to create as I often sat in silence, too weak to do anything else.
After my grandmother died last week, I tried to find my silent moments to write a poem for her. But, my head was clouded. The over-cast skies only allowed me to see an image of large white snow flakes failing up around irises. My grandmother came to me in a vision but did not speak a voice.
She has risen on to what is next. My grandfather spoke to me these past 15 months. I heard his voice as I wrote this poem, as I sat at home thinking about my family who attended the memorial and funeral, and when I felt afraid I would die too soon. He spoke to me and sat as I made my achy chemo-heavy bones walk up the road to see the summer sun set over Long's Peak. He spoke to his wife too, and he waited.
When she was ready. Well, maybe not totally ready, but her body was done, she left our Earthly beings holding hands with her husband. She left. She did not linger. So she showed me a vision.
I tried to write a poem for the funeral today. But, there weren't words. So I thought all night last night about what I remember about this woman I called Grandma and who called me her little doll baby.
Vanilla and 7-up floats in pewter mugs with glass bottoms.
Love in the Pan and when she mailed me the recipe when I was in my first apartment so I could make it on my own.
Green bean casserole with those crisp onion things on top.
Turkey and those candied yams I thought looked totally gross with the marshmallows on them.
Dinner at 2 pm with everyone including any "lost sheep" looking for a place to eat.
Two or three card tables stuck on the end of the dining table and stretching out through the living room so we could all eat at the same table.
Leftovers, even if it was just one bite left, it was put in a bowl with Saran wrap over it.
Waffles with honey and cheese toast.
Cleaning up after every meal.
Deciding we were all done cleaning up for the night and sitting at the bar to watch Ann continue to scrub the counters and floor for another good two hours before she decided she was done.
She was always the last to go to bed wrapping her hair in toilet paper. I never did quite understand what the toilet paper was all about. I think it was to keep her curls from being crushed.
She got her hair done once a week.
J.C.Penny's. If you didn't like your Christmas present, we knew she got it from Penny's because she worked there many, many years and got a discount.
Pink. She loved pink, and she loved buying her doll babies pink. I hated pink when I was little...little rebel.
Pearls. She always bought my sister and I jewelry with pearls, from Penny's.
Cushions in the driver's seat because she was only 4' 9". They had the Oldsmobile with a bench front seat. I always thought it was so funny that the driver's side half was pulled forward more then the rest of the seat. It was navy blue.
Square dancing. I loved her fluffy skirts and watching her and Papa turn on the floor.
PCA picnic. What does that stand for again, Dad? Carnival rides, cotton candy, square dancing, battle of the bands, and getting to stay up extra late.
Houseplants and gardens. They were always growing stuff.
Sledding down the deep back hill and ending up in the creek (said with a Kansan short e, of course.)
Dressing up in the hundreds of my aunts' dance costumes and making up plays with the cousins in the basement. Putting on the Nativity for Christmas for the parents. I was always Mary.
Grandma giving us girls a bath and getting mad when the boy cousins were teasing us.
Hummels, coins, miniature iron figurines in a shadow box, photographs of the grand kids, birds, bird feeders, olive green, bright yellow, cream, and his and her chairs.
When she was excited, she jumped up and down. And, when she had a good hand of cards or rack of dominoes, she wiggled in her seat. But, her 'tell' wasn't a handicap as she almost always had the winning hand.
Ann cried all the time because she was happy, sad, frustrated, or mad. I do that too. She cried the moment she saw us pull in the drive way. And, she cried as we pulled away to go home.
I could go on and on. Yes, there were many memories at the Broers' in Eudora, Kansas. I only hope that my own nephews and my own kiddos develop such fond memories of their Broers grandparents.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Speaking of the Dahli Lama
So I am on the plane flying out to Kansas from Colorado and decide to plug in to the Dali Lama. I slip off my worn-out black Dansko clogs and pull my sock feet up into a half lotus. I am thankful to be short and that the middle seat is empty. Ping. Ping. Ping, I shuffle through to Playlists, Books on Tape, The Meaning of Life. Close my eyes. I am flying to be with me family for my grandmother's funeral. My mind is easily distracted, but I pull it back to the monotonous tone of the voice with strength of meditation. A wheel, ignorance, a monkey eating the tail of a pig, and something about a man in a boat representing the name and the form.
Form. Our body in this life. The voice speaks of a room full of copulating couples. The soul walks among them and lays in the womb of a chosen mother. This is conception. Your form is a mass of jelly-like cells. We move on to this and that thorough life, age, and sickness. What caught my interest here is the analgesic reference to letting go of the form in death.
Imagine one dying, she is scared of that which is unknown. The person becomes more scared as his family weeps over stories of what has been. She resists the fading of the body form as it fades back into the jelly mass-form of conception. Imagine, explains the Dali Lama, if those close to the dying said instead: You had a wonderful form in this Earth. Now you will let this life go and move on to great things. Thank you for sharing your form with me. Or something like that.
Both of my father's parents have now died. My grandfather died in the summer of 2009. I was in the middle of my chemotherapy so was unable to fly and attend the memorial. I wasn't there when my grandfather died. My dad was. Dad told me that Papa explained, before he closed his eyes for the last time, that he was tired, it was time, and he was ready. I feel he left in peace. His spirit was beautiful. As a spirit, the man whole was bent over at nearly a 90 degree angle was standing tall and could dance a jig. I say "was" because his spirit is no longer here. He waited for his wife and now they have gone to another existence may it be called Heaven, Utpopia, or Shamiyam.
My grandmother's presence felt more conflicted then my grandfather's sense of peace. She missed her husband of over 60 years. His spirit waited for her. And now they both have risen to what may come next. I suppose my cousin would have more insight in how she felt her last few weeks as he sat with her quite a bit.
At any rate, death is on my mind. I find myself with the reality that I will die. Before cancer I was ignorant giving me the bliss of mental immortality. I moved in and out of my life never thinking forward to my death. Never. Not once. Okay, maybe a minute when I slammed my brakes on in the car nearly ending up in a six car pile up on the Diagonal.
I will die. I know this now. I have to fight every day with my form and name to stay in this body long enough to raise my two beautiful humans and whatever else is written in my script. When my sickness overcomes this body, I pray that it is beautiful. I pray to be released with ease. I pray for this in part because I want you, all of you that I will leave, to know that it is okay. I lived a good life. I over come much and laughed a lot. I leave you and release you to live your beautiful lives with zest and love. For if I loved you today, I will love you again. Oh, and wear purple to my memorial. Play your melodic songs you need to fill your heart. But then, please, kick off your shoes, turner up the stereo and JUST DANCE. Celebrate me and let me go. Yes, for my funeral, wear purple and dance.
Form. Our body in this life. The voice speaks of a room full of copulating couples. The soul walks among them and lays in the womb of a chosen mother. This is conception. Your form is a mass of jelly-like cells. We move on to this and that thorough life, age, and sickness. What caught my interest here is the analgesic reference to letting go of the form in death.
Imagine one dying, she is scared of that which is unknown. The person becomes more scared as his family weeps over stories of what has been. She resists the fading of the body form as it fades back into the jelly mass-form of conception. Imagine, explains the Dali Lama, if those close to the dying said instead: You had a wonderful form in this Earth. Now you will let this life go and move on to great things. Thank you for sharing your form with me. Or something like that.
Both of my father's parents have now died. My grandfather died in the summer of 2009. I was in the middle of my chemotherapy so was unable to fly and attend the memorial. I wasn't there when my grandfather died. My dad was. Dad told me that Papa explained, before he closed his eyes for the last time, that he was tired, it was time, and he was ready. I feel he left in peace. His spirit was beautiful. As a spirit, the man whole was bent over at nearly a 90 degree angle was standing tall and could dance a jig. I say "was" because his spirit is no longer here. He waited for his wife and now they have gone to another existence may it be called Heaven, Utpopia, or Shamiyam.
My grandmother's presence felt more conflicted then my grandfather's sense of peace. She missed her husband of over 60 years. His spirit waited for her. And now they both have risen to what may come next. I suppose my cousin would have more insight in how she felt her last few weeks as he sat with her quite a bit.
At any rate, death is on my mind. I find myself with the reality that I will die. Before cancer I was ignorant giving me the bliss of mental immortality. I moved in and out of my life never thinking forward to my death. Never. Not once. Okay, maybe a minute when I slammed my brakes on in the car nearly ending up in a six car pile up on the Diagonal.
I will die. I know this now. I have to fight every day with my form and name to stay in this body long enough to raise my two beautiful humans and whatever else is written in my script. When my sickness overcomes this body, I pray that it is beautiful. I pray to be released with ease. I pray for this in part because I want you, all of you that I will leave, to know that it is okay. I lived a good life. I over come much and laughed a lot. I leave you and release you to live your beautiful lives with zest and love. For if I loved you today, I will love you again. Oh, and wear purple to my memorial. Play your melodic songs you need to fill your heart. But then, please, kick off your shoes, turner up the stereo and JUST DANCE. Celebrate me and let me go. Yes, for my funeral, wear purple and dance.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Too many cards
Recently, I have heard a couple people say something along the line of, "Boy, you sure have been dealt a lot to deal with lately." So I was just pondering, is this not how everyone else's life is like? Okay, take big-C out of the picture. Doesn't everyone deal with all these things going on, falling apart, needing to be done, sleepless nights of trying to organize the next day, and dreaming of time to just do what one wants (I did get to paint for six hours today...it's been months since I have had a block of time like that to myself. Happy dance!) As I procrastinate typing up the detailed spread sheet that is supposed to clearly define my routine as a mother and housewife for my father-in-law to follow as I fly out to be with my family for my grandmother's memorial, I am overwhelmed into a headache. And on top of all this, I am supposed to be working on training my son to sleep dry. Is this what all mothers are doing? Surely they are.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Feel it Again
There is a strange moment I encountered today at a counter (teehee...playing with my Dr. Suess words.) We were out at Cold Stone getting ice cream and sorbet after an afternoon of soccer game, Nutcracker ballet practice, and art class* at the Old Firehouse Art Center when Jack accidentally turned his head right into my lower tummy and incisions. I instinctively winced and doubled over holding my tummy. It was firm and round in my hand. The clerk asked if I was okay. Yielding a deep breath, I answered, "Yes, he just hit my stitches."
The odd thought came later as I preceded to monitor the area around my tummy. Later, it came as I arched my back and held my bloated tummy as I rose from sitting on the floor reading the kids bedtimes stories. I felt pregnant. Like a wave, the memory of the joyous and cautious protective gestures I took to my tummy when I was not pregnant enough for anyone to notice but enough to start wearing the "big pants." There was an oxymoron of joy and grief. A feeling I never thought I would feel again in my life. Never really wanted it. A brief joy in the memory. And, a brief sadness that the nurturing gestures to my abdomen were not due a little life swelling in there. A passing train of thought.
* The art class drew amazing fruit still lifes today. But, we are bummed the teacher said she decided to up the age to 6, Jack is sad. He said it is hard when he is tired from soccer but wanted to go when the season was over. Maybe she will make an exception. The other teacher was a sub and had no problem adapting to work with my young Rembrandts. I hope we can talk this teacher in letting him attend maybe 30 minutes of the class or something. I love to see him applying himself like he is.
The odd thought came later as I preceded to monitor the area around my tummy. Later, it came as I arched my back and held my bloated tummy as I rose from sitting on the floor reading the kids bedtimes stories. I felt pregnant. Like a wave, the memory of the joyous and cautious protective gestures I took to my tummy when I was not pregnant enough for anyone to notice but enough to start wearing the "big pants." There was an oxymoron of joy and grief. A feeling I never thought I would feel again in my life. Never really wanted it. A brief joy in the memory. And, a brief sadness that the nurturing gestures to my abdomen were not due a little life swelling in there. A passing train of thought.
* The art class drew amazing fruit still lifes today. But, we are bummed the teacher said she decided to up the age to 6, Jack is sad. He said it is hard when he is tired from soccer but wanted to go when the season was over. Maybe she will make an exception. The other teacher was a sub and had no problem adapting to work with my young Rembrandts. I hope we can talk this teacher in letting him attend maybe 30 minutes of the class or something. I love to see him applying himself like he is.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Best Kiddos
In all the slum, glum, and pep talk, I forget to share my joy. I am joyful for my two pretty great kiddos. Today, they came home after being gone nearly a week at their grandparents to create fair homes. Cardboard boxes, tape, markers and great ideas Scott and I helped with the architecture. The plan is to pull out the hot glue gun and glue leaves and branches all over the homes so that real fairies will want to stay in them if we place them outside. I am blessed with their creative minds, and they are blessed with an environment ripe for growing. Symbiotic.
Oh, and I love how they dance and sing to the music as they create their masterpieces. True right brainers.
Oh, and I love how they dance and sing to the music as they create their masterpieces. True right brainers.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Knowing Too Much
I lay awake. Eyes closed. Awake. I allowed my Vicodin to wear off to just check in with my body and see where it was on the fantasy road of recovery. I had been feeling pretty good, stiff but good, exhausted but good. I needed to know if the narcotic was masking pain or creating exhaustion. So I let it wear off.
And, I lay here with stabbing pain in my belly. I take another Vicodin so I can sleep in peace. My mind races. Knowing too much. My mom said that a couple of people told her lately that they were sad for me because I have to know so much for my age.
The thirties. I set out in my thirties thinking it would be pretty terrific. I had suffered a date rape and two miscarriages in my twenties so the thirties were going to be fabulous. I had two healthy babies, a family, a home, and a promising art career. My body had a good decade before it was scheduled to start aching and falling apart. Or, so I thought.
And here I am contemplating all that I know about narcotic medications and how to effectively use them to balance pain control without the risk of addiction and side effects. I take a bite of banana and sip of water to avoid nausea. I have dealt with a mild pain sensation that, sure, would not exist if I upped my dose or took the Percasat or even the Oxycontin. Alas, I know that the stronger opiates make my mind crazy and tummy do somersaults if the pain is not severe enough. I know that the Oxycontin and morphine are effective pain killers for extreme situations. But, once the pain receptors begin to calm a bit, they start attacking the brain or something, and I begin to trip. I remember when the pain started to reduce with my mastectomy. I woke in the middle of the night with this horrible dream so bad that I won't detail its graphics other then it had to do with millions of flies. My mother called the on-call nurse who told her it was time to step down to the next, lesser, rung of pain medicine.
This surgery, I left the hospital with this knowledge but not because I was instructed by the nurses of this procedure. No, I didn't even have a prescription. I had told them I had left over pain pills and would like to use those first. But, I mused for a moment to the fact that I knew too much. What if I didn't know anything about pain control? What if I was up all night with a stabbing pain, no three stabbing pains, and no idea how to soften the blow to get some sleep and heal? Or what if quite the other side, and I took too much or too strong a medicine and started to freak out?
Really? Is this what a thirty-five year old is supposed to be up at night worrying about? I know too much. Maybe other thirty-somethings know too much. But, why is it that way? Didn't I earn a break, a time of my life? Maybe that is yet to come. Maybe I will have the freedom of forty. Because, heck, my body has already fallen apart. Thinking I should schedule to have my tonsils out, ovaries removed, and...is there another useless organ I can dispose of before I am forty? Then maybe I can walk around in a bikini with all my scars and show off my wonderfully still alive forty year old body.
PS I can tell you all kinds of things about how the reproductive system works, temperatures, when to conceive, and how I can have a pretty good idea if you are carrying a boy or a girl by how high your belly is on your frame. Maybe I need to go into the medical field; a midwife, maybe. Now, if you know me at all you would be chuckling and thinking: well, dear, I guess that Vicodin you took ten minutes ago is starting to work.
And, I lay here with stabbing pain in my belly. I take another Vicodin so I can sleep in peace. My mind races. Knowing too much. My mom said that a couple of people told her lately that they were sad for me because I have to know so much for my age.
The thirties. I set out in my thirties thinking it would be pretty terrific. I had suffered a date rape and two miscarriages in my twenties so the thirties were going to be fabulous. I had two healthy babies, a family, a home, and a promising art career. My body had a good decade before it was scheduled to start aching and falling apart. Or, so I thought.
And here I am contemplating all that I know about narcotic medications and how to effectively use them to balance pain control without the risk of addiction and side effects. I take a bite of banana and sip of water to avoid nausea. I have dealt with a mild pain sensation that, sure, would not exist if I upped my dose or took the Percasat or even the Oxycontin. Alas, I know that the stronger opiates make my mind crazy and tummy do somersaults if the pain is not severe enough. I know that the Oxycontin and morphine are effective pain killers for extreme situations. But, once the pain receptors begin to calm a bit, they start attacking the brain or something, and I begin to trip. I remember when the pain started to reduce with my mastectomy. I woke in the middle of the night with this horrible dream so bad that I won't detail its graphics other then it had to do with millions of flies. My mother called the on-call nurse who told her it was time to step down to the next, lesser, rung of pain medicine.
This surgery, I left the hospital with this knowledge but not because I was instructed by the nurses of this procedure. No, I didn't even have a prescription. I had told them I had left over pain pills and would like to use those first. But, I mused for a moment to the fact that I knew too much. What if I didn't know anything about pain control? What if I was up all night with a stabbing pain, no three stabbing pains, and no idea how to soften the blow to get some sleep and heal? Or what if quite the other side, and I took too much or too strong a medicine and started to freak out?
Really? Is this what a thirty-five year old is supposed to be up at night worrying about? I know too much. Maybe other thirty-somethings know too much. But, why is it that way? Didn't I earn a break, a time of my life? Maybe that is yet to come. Maybe I will have the freedom of forty. Because, heck, my body has already fallen apart. Thinking I should schedule to have my tonsils out, ovaries removed, and...is there another useless organ I can dispose of before I am forty? Then maybe I can walk around in a bikini with all my scars and show off my wonderfully still alive forty year old body.
PS I can tell you all kinds of things about how the reproductive system works, temperatures, when to conceive, and how I can have a pretty good idea if you are carrying a boy or a girl by how high your belly is on your frame. Maybe I need to go into the medical field; a midwife, maybe. Now, if you know me at all you would be chuckling and thinking: well, dear, I guess that Vicodin you took ten minutes ago is starting to work.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Surgery 101
Here is what I know about surgery:
-Your mother knows best. At least my mother does so you can borrow her if you need some good advise and hugs.
-A clean bathroom and bedsheets are essential, but the dusting can wait.
-Stock up on BRATS. That is the BRAT diet of apple sauce, mild soups and juices.
-Stock up on movies you don't have to think too hard to watch. And, skip ones that make you laugh too hard if you are having abdominal surgery. Ouch.
-Shave your legs with a nice new razor in your shower just before you go into the hospital.
-Paint your toes a cool color. If anything, it gives you something to talk about with the nurses when they are putting on your surgical stockings.
-Have friends on the nursing staff looking out for your best interest. (You rock, Allison)
-Be totally cool when you are getting checked in so the nurses want to give you extra help. Sort of like you don't want to be mean to your waiter at a restaurant or they might spit in your ice tea. I wonder what nurses spit in when they have nasty patients.
-Don't be afraid to elevate yourself to movie star status with the nurses with your cool survival story.
-Don't forget to gossip about Dr. Heartthrob with the staff...get them laughing.
-Thank the check-in nurse for asking the question: "Do you feel safe at home?" This is very important. A lot of times a person doesn't feel safe. And, this is the first time they were ever asked and will begin to get help. So it is a great question to be asked.
-Don't always trust the Marine field medic gone nurse when all the other nurses keep popping in to see if he is doing alright. He might have a nice smile, but the IV stick is another story.
-Tears are good if it hurts; gets you some sympathy.
-Don't forget your birthday.
-Don't forget what surgery you will have and make sure to ask the staff if they don't ask you over and over.
-Make a list of all allergies and memorize it so you can repeat it over and over.
-Get pictures of your insides so you can post them on Facebook and gross out your friends.
-Have someone with a good memory present when the surgeon comes to tell you how the surgery went because either he talks really fast or you listen very slowly.
-Don't get in the car to go home until you are sure you will not throw up.
-Pillows!
-Cozy blankie.
-Stool softener.
-Crackers and water.
-Dairy free smoothies rock.
-Kleenex and barf bag...just in case.
-Lotion for feet and hands.
-You won't be able to talk clearly for a couple of days.
-NeilMeds Sinus Wash helps with the bruised throat from the tube so you can talk because we know you are dying to chat.
-Warm tea.
-Lay elevated because it is easier to sit up.
-When sitting up, bend your knees into you chest and use the weight of your legs to rock yourself up instead of engaging your solar plex muscles which hurt.
-Keep expensive pain meds until they expire in case you can use them again. Then dispose of them at your hospital for safe handling. Apparently, raccoons go through the dump and think they are food. We don't our rascals trippin' on Oxycontin, now do we?
-The pain of passing the gas they blew up your tummy with is more painful then the stab wounds you know yield.
-Bed-side prenatal stretching and hip openers can help to relieve said gas issue and lower back discomfort from laying in bed. Go bedside down dog and supta konasana!
-Watch temperature and for red/rash skin.
-Know it will get a bit worse before it gets better. But, it will get better.
-Sleep!
-Your mother knows best. At least my mother does so you can borrow her if you need some good advise and hugs.
-A clean bathroom and bedsheets are essential, but the dusting can wait.
-Stock up on BRATS. That is the BRAT diet of apple sauce, mild soups and juices.
-Stock up on movies you don't have to think too hard to watch. And, skip ones that make you laugh too hard if you are having abdominal surgery. Ouch.
-Shave your legs with a nice new razor in your shower just before you go into the hospital.
-Paint your toes a cool color. If anything, it gives you something to talk about with the nurses when they are putting on your surgical stockings.
-Have friends on the nursing staff looking out for your best interest. (You rock, Allison)
-Be totally cool when you are getting checked in so the nurses want to give you extra help. Sort of like you don't want to be mean to your waiter at a restaurant or they might spit in your ice tea. I wonder what nurses spit in when they have nasty patients.
-Don't be afraid to elevate yourself to movie star status with the nurses with your cool survival story.
-Don't forget to gossip about Dr. Heartthrob with the staff...get them laughing.
-Thank the check-in nurse for asking the question: "Do you feel safe at home?" This is very important. A lot of times a person doesn't feel safe. And, this is the first time they were ever asked and will begin to get help. So it is a great question to be asked.
-Don't always trust the Marine field medic gone nurse when all the other nurses keep popping in to see if he is doing alright. He might have a nice smile, but the IV stick is another story.
-Tears are good if it hurts; gets you some sympathy.
-Don't forget your birthday.
-Don't forget what surgery you will have and make sure to ask the staff if they don't ask you over and over.
-Make a list of all allergies and memorize it so you can repeat it over and over.
-Get pictures of your insides so you can post them on Facebook and gross out your friends.
-Have someone with a good memory present when the surgeon comes to tell you how the surgery went because either he talks really fast or you listen very slowly.
-Don't get in the car to go home until you are sure you will not throw up.
-Pillows!
-Cozy blankie.
-Stool softener.
-Crackers and water.
-Dairy free smoothies rock.
-Kleenex and barf bag...just in case.
-Lotion for feet and hands.
-You won't be able to talk clearly for a couple of days.
-NeilMeds Sinus Wash helps with the bruised throat from the tube so you can talk because we know you are dying to chat.
-Warm tea.
-Lay elevated because it is easier to sit up.
-When sitting up, bend your knees into you chest and use the weight of your legs to rock yourself up instead of engaging your solar plex muscles which hurt.
-Keep expensive pain meds until they expire in case you can use them again. Then dispose of them at your hospital for safe handling. Apparently, raccoons go through the dump and think they are food. We don't our rascals trippin' on Oxycontin, now do we?
-The pain of passing the gas they blew up your tummy with is more painful then the stab wounds you know yield.
-Bed-side prenatal stretching and hip openers can help to relieve said gas issue and lower back discomfort from laying in bed. Go bedside down dog and supta konasana!
-Watch temperature and for red/rash skin.
-Know it will get a bit worse before it gets better. But, it will get better.
-Sleep!
Monday, October 4, 2010
Nesting
When I was pregnant with my first child, I attended a prenatal class with my husband at the hospital. Kim, the nurse educator and later friend, began to explain the signs for the husband to watch to predict an impending labor. She explained that the soon-to-be-mom will begin to nest. She will clean the tile with a toothbrush, fold baby clothes and sort them by color, and other orderly activities in preparation for the baby's arrival.
My hubby raised his hand and honestly asked, "What if our wife already does those things on a regular basis?" In the end, Scott didn't need to watch for warning signs as my delivery arrived five weeks early when my water broke expectantly.
As I prepare for yet another surgery, I nest. Yes, I have had enough surgery in the past 18 months that I skipped the dusting coining it good enough to last two weeks. But, yes, I vacuumed and mopped. I will not be able to do these things for a month so I had to do them well enough to last. Of course, the irony always lies in the fact that my dear son is always first to soil a fleshly mopped floor. Like a good boy, he removed his shoes when coming inside from the backyard and the floor was still wet. Yes, he tip-toed across to the bathroom in his bare feet, very dirty, wore sandals all day, bare feet. And, the funny thing is that I left these little muddy prints on my kitchen floor. They make me smile. Maybe this slightly OC housewife is growing up a bit.
So here we are on the night before my laparoscopic appendectomy. My house is cleaned and mostly organized, the bags are packed, the scheduled outlined, and the magazines set out by the couch. I think I am ready. My colon is all clean, and I have new blade in my razor for a fresh shave in the am. I will sip one more Vitamin Water and take my regular morning pills before the mid-night absolute fast, not even water. And, the last thing I have to do, as it has become a ritual, is to paint my toes with a fresh lacquer of pearly lavender. Hey, if I am going to lay in my birthday suite, at least I have something on my toes.
Yes, I nest. There is something quite sane about order. There is a distraction in the action and comfort in the clean. Good night as I rush out as I just remembered I forgot to pack my advanced directive and charge my i-pod.
My hubby raised his hand and honestly asked, "What if our wife already does those things on a regular basis?" In the end, Scott didn't need to watch for warning signs as my delivery arrived five weeks early when my water broke expectantly.
As I prepare for yet another surgery, I nest. Yes, I have had enough surgery in the past 18 months that I skipped the dusting coining it good enough to last two weeks. But, yes, I vacuumed and mopped. I will not be able to do these things for a month so I had to do them well enough to last. Of course, the irony always lies in the fact that my dear son is always first to soil a fleshly mopped floor. Like a good boy, he removed his shoes when coming inside from the backyard and the floor was still wet. Yes, he tip-toed across to the bathroom in his bare feet, very dirty, wore sandals all day, bare feet. And, the funny thing is that I left these little muddy prints on my kitchen floor. They make me smile. Maybe this slightly OC housewife is growing up a bit.
So here we are on the night before my laparoscopic appendectomy. My house is cleaned and mostly organized, the bags are packed, the scheduled outlined, and the magazines set out by the couch. I think I am ready. My colon is all clean, and I have new blade in my razor for a fresh shave in the am. I will sip one more Vitamin Water and take my regular morning pills before the mid-night absolute fast, not even water. And, the last thing I have to do, as it has become a ritual, is to paint my toes with a fresh lacquer of pearly lavender. Hey, if I am going to lay in my birthday suite, at least I have something on my toes.
Yes, I nest. There is something quite sane about order. There is a distraction in the action and comfort in the clean. Good night as I rush out as I just remembered I forgot to pack my advanced directive and charge my i-pod.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Faith in Star Wars
As I am cleaning up the dinner dishes, my children run off to play. I hear my son say to my daughter, "There is no one invincible in Star Wars, not even Yoda." I am washing half consumed penne pasta noodles down the drain, turn on the garbage disposal and contemplate this insight from my little Jedi.
There is no one invisible in Star Wars.
"Cancer just down-right sucks. But, occasionally facing the “dark side,” as I like to call it – yes, I am prone to Star Wars analogies myself – has its value. When you can identify and name that which is the least desired event, it provides the mental weaponry to focus against it and work for health and enjoyment of everyday. After all – none of us truly know what is about to happen," states Dr. Ginger* in her pep talk after a major reality check that my life will continue to play out on the battle field of cancer.
Everyone has a Star Wars. Some wars are visible. Some are silent. Some are galactic. Others are civil. With all wars, we have to envision the big picture of reality. We identify and name the worse outcome. And with this knowledge, we are not blind. We can take that wisdom and spit at our foe right in the face. There is a fine line between being overcome in our wars and believing in the ultimate victory. With stage IV cancer, the line is very fine indeed.
I have had several conversations lately about war. One friend battles to get his bipolar brain to think straight so he can feel normal, be normal, and be a father. Another continues to fight silently to gain acceptance with her parents and family as she faces one of the biggest decisions in her life. And, yet another fights cancer and is told the future isn't long. With each circumstance, there is another, someone else offering a road block, a wall. Someone actually asked if I would make a bet on when one of these friends would fail in their quest to conquer life as they know it. A bet. Absolutely not. Why would I loose faith before the person even steps foot on the battle field?
Faith. As those around us fight their battles, we only have one thing to offer, faith. By believing in the victorious outcome of the quest either in silent prayer or vocalized in support, the war can be waged. Faith, is ours to give. And, it is free. Do you remember Mr. Black Cloud in the infusion room at the cancer center? He was loosing faith, and rightfully so as he body began to weaken and tumors began to blossom. Though I had to guard my own mental state and avoid this man during chemo therapy, when I was strong, when I knew I could handle his burden, I offered him faith. And, you know what? He reflected my gift and rejoined his church to find a community again. He stopped pushing away his grown son and wife and they now all dine together as a family again once a week. Yes, his condition improved. He is hanging in there. Yes, his body may eventually poop out, but for now, he found peace in his war.
Everyone has a Star Wars. Some big and some small. Knowledge of our enemy provides us with the necessary weaponry to give it our all. Once we loose faith in our victory, we begin to loose the war. Yet, especially with the big wars like physical or mental illness, we need some soldiers on our side. We need you to have faith in us. We need you to share your faith in the victory. Yes, there is no one invincible in Star Wars. But, it is FAITH, young Jedi, that pulls us through to defend ourselves from the Dark Side. Don't loose faith in your brethren. Rather, lift him up with faith.
There is no one invisible in Star Wars.
"Cancer just down-right sucks. But, occasionally facing the “dark side,” as I like to call it – yes, I am prone to Star Wars analogies myself – has its value. When you can identify and name that which is the least desired event, it provides the mental weaponry to focus against it and work for health and enjoyment of everyday. After all – none of us truly know what is about to happen," states Dr. Ginger* in her pep talk after a major reality check that my life will continue to play out on the battle field of cancer.
Everyone has a Star Wars. Some wars are visible. Some are silent. Some are galactic. Others are civil. With all wars, we have to envision the big picture of reality. We identify and name the worse outcome. And with this knowledge, we are not blind. We can take that wisdom and spit at our foe right in the face. There is a fine line between being overcome in our wars and believing in the ultimate victory. With stage IV cancer, the line is very fine indeed.
I have had several conversations lately about war. One friend battles to get his bipolar brain to think straight so he can feel normal, be normal, and be a father. Another continues to fight silently to gain acceptance with her parents and family as she faces one of the biggest decisions in her life. And, yet another fights cancer and is told the future isn't long. With each circumstance, there is another, someone else offering a road block, a wall. Someone actually asked if I would make a bet on when one of these friends would fail in their quest to conquer life as they know it. A bet. Absolutely not. Why would I loose faith before the person even steps foot on the battle field?
Faith. As those around us fight their battles, we only have one thing to offer, faith. By believing in the victorious outcome of the quest either in silent prayer or vocalized in support, the war can be waged. Faith, is ours to give. And, it is free. Do you remember Mr. Black Cloud in the infusion room at the cancer center? He was loosing faith, and rightfully so as he body began to weaken and tumors began to blossom. Though I had to guard my own mental state and avoid this man during chemo therapy, when I was strong, when I knew I could handle his burden, I offered him faith. And, you know what? He reflected my gift and rejoined his church to find a community again. He stopped pushing away his grown son and wife and they now all dine together as a family again once a week. Yes, his condition improved. He is hanging in there. Yes, his body may eventually poop out, but for now, he found peace in his war.
Everyone has a Star Wars. Some big and some small. Knowledge of our enemy provides us with the necessary weaponry to give it our all. Once we loose faith in our victory, we begin to loose the war. Yet, especially with the big wars like physical or mental illness, we need some soldiers on our side. We need you to have faith in us. We need you to share your faith in the victory. Yes, there is no one invincible in Star Wars. But, it is FAITH, young Jedi, that pulls us through to defend ourselves from the Dark Side. Don't loose faith in your brethren. Rather, lift him up with faith.
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