Fire Drill

Shortly before my alarm would have gotten me out of bed last Tuesday morning, the house fire alarm went off. (I have four interconnected hardwired detectors.)

I was kinda-sorta awake, but groggy, and stumbled into the hallway to silence the detector there. It took a minute, but I got it to quit screaming. The other units were still sounding off, so I continued on my search for silence, downstairs to the dining room, and pressed the button to silence that unit. The basement unit was still sounding its warning and I started on down, then stopped myself. 

What if there was actually a fire? If I started down the basement stairs and smelled smoke, what was the plan? I was in my PJs, barefoot, no phone, no glasses. Had I noticed it was winter outside? Did I perhaps want to go back upstairs, put on my glasses and a robe, and grab my phone?

I did perhaps want to do so.

After properly outfitting myself, I went down to the basement to silence that alarm. It was the one which had tripped the system, so I spent some time checking the furnace and water heater, sniffing suspiciously for traces of smoke. 

No smoke odors detected, I took a quick turn out to the garage to make sure I hadn't missed something out there. Everything looked good. The alarms remained silent, and after one more trip to check the basement, I decided it had most probably definitely been a false alarm. 

I headed back to bed for another precious fifteen minutes of snuggling in the warmth of my blankets. As I lay there, wide awake, I mentally reviewed the past few minutes and realized what an idiot I'd been. My smoke alarms have never triggered because of an actual fire, and I've come to view them as a necessary nuisance.

If there had been an actual fire, I wouldn't have had time to go back upstairs once I'd gone down. I'd have been out on the curb, barefoot, cold, practically blind, and without means to call for help. And, in this scenario, the dog was dead. No way he'd come downstairs with all that scary noise going on.

I've grown rather attached to the dog, so took this as a warning. I now have a mental evacuation plan.

Next time the detectors go off, I will pick up my phone first thing. (That IS why it lives next to the bed - in case of emergency! Duh!) There will be a leash nearby and I can grab Sylvester as I pass by him on my way to retrieve my glasses, slippers and robe.

Only then will I (in the absence of obvious smoke) silence detectors and investigate the cause of the alarm. The reluctant dog will be in tow.

I'm sheepishly rather grateful for the test. Better to fail now, when the only harm was to my pride. 

Talk about a wake-up call!

Turning Within

I want to be a tree.

I want to be able to shed my leaves, withdraw to my inner core, trust the outer world to take care of itself for a bit, and sleep until the longer warmer days of spring cause me to stir.

Morning has been a hard sell these past few weeks. "Are you SURE I have to get up? It's still dark out. And, it's cold. Did you notice it's cold out there? Tell me again why I need to stir?"

The national news hasn't helped. We've done WHAT? To WHO? And WHY???? Really????

I've gotten more practice than I'd like at holding conflicting truths.

I am afraid. The national news is dark, still and again. And. Outside my window there is beauty, and the trees are calling to me. Both are true.

I like walking around in the winter, looking at the bare branches of the trees. Without their covering of leaves, I can more easily see their squiggles and turns. I note the bare spots where branches have been lost. I marvel at the way they grow up and around the scars. I wonder how some of them can still be alive, their cores partially hollowed out by time.

Sometimes, I stop to lean against one of their trunks. Even in the winter, I swear I can feel the sap moving. Slowly, with deliberation, but moving. "Rest", the tree tells me. "This season is for rest, for turning inwards." 

I've been listening.

I spent some time last week with a series of questions guiding a reflection around the events of the year just past. List ten good things that happened, five bad. Three game changers, three areas where I spent my time, three things I forgot to do.

I've done the meditation the past several years running - the answers to the questions framing my experiences of the year just past help me form a vision of how I hope to spend my time in the coming year. What can I change so I will have the time to do those things I had wanted to do, but didn't get around to doing? Is it 'just' lack of time holding me back, or am I avoiding the thing because something something? Or did something unexpected, like, say, recurring cancer, upset the whole apple cart?

The meditation helps refocus my energies. Time is the currency of my days. Am I spending my minutes today - this day, the only day I have - the way I want them spent? When I climb into bed and look back at my day, will I be able to say, "Yes! I lived this day well."? 

I hope, this year, I will often be able to say, "yes". 

Acupuncture

I've been dealing with neuropathy in my toes and the balls of my feet since my first bout of cancer fourteen years ago. Over time the problem eased. The pins and needles went away, I slowly started to regain feeling.

Last year, a few months after I started back on an aromatase inhibitor - the drug I need to take for the next umpteen years to try to keep my cancer at bay (again) - I started losing ground in my toes. The nerves started buzzing, and my big toes, which had been spared in round one, started to go numb.

*sigh*

Such a "choice". To lose my sense of balance because I can't feel the ground beneath my toes, or to give my cancer a good shot at returning. I didn't care for either option, though I continued on the drug because if I'm dead, I'm pretty sure my sense of balance becomes a moot point.

My oncologist suggested I try acupuncture, to see if it might help.

I figured it definitely wouldn't hurt. I asked around, found a doctor not far away, and started seeing him back in November. When I first saw him, he sat me down, sighed at my messed up shoulders, and asked what brought me in. When he heard, he shook his head sadly and told me he MIGHT be able to help, but neuropathy is a tough one to fix. 

He put me on the table and started sticking needles here and there in my lower calves and feet. (Most of the needles don't really hurt, and if they do, the pain eases after about 30 seconds.) He put heaters over me to keep me warm, and left the room, telling me to nap. When he came back thirty minutes later, he asked which foot was worse, then after taking out the existing needles, used a fresh one to lightly prick the toes on that foot. It ouched a little - but given the neuropathy, I didn't feel much.

I went home and to bed with the nerves in my feet buzzing, not sure what had hit them. When I woke up the next morning, I leaned down and tested the feeling in my toes. 

Huh. The left - the one he'd pricked - definitely had a wee bit more sensation than the right. ???!!!??? I felt a stirring of hope. Maybe I wouldn't have to choose after all. Maybe he could stop the progression of damage.

I've seen him quite a bit since then - twice a week for three weeks, then once a week for the last five.

Just before Christmas I woke up one morning, got dressed, sat down to put on my socks, and felt an odd sensation beneath my toes. It was my socks! For the first time in a decade, I could feel my socks touching my toes!

For the past few weeks, I have taken a moment to stop every now and then to check in. Sure enough, every time (so far), my socks have been touching my toes. (The nerves are still buzzy; I think they're confused about what's going on.) 

I wasn't sure I believed in the power of acupuncture to help. I am most relieved to know its power to help did not rely on my level of belief.

Since the aromatase inhibitor will continue to try to mess up my nerves, I do hope the power of the needles will continue to push back against the damage. It might not, but... For now, it's working. 

The ability to feel my toes touching the ground is a lovely Christmas gift.

Good Is.

Puzzles & Prosecco

I have had several years since my kids left home to be functioning adults where I've found myself alone on Christmas with no plans. The first year it happened, quite some time ago, I (somewhat predictably) had me a good old-fashioned pity-party-for-one.

Since pity parties aren't really all that much fun, especially on repeat, the next time I found myself staring at a blank space on the calendar, I took a step back. I wasn't going to be alone because I was not loved. I was going to have a chance to celebrate the holiday with my people, just not on THAT day. So, I thought, 'what can I do to celebrate? What would I like to do with my free day?'

Well, I do enjoy putting together a jigsaw puzzle, so I started there. I don't often pull them out because I find them addictive. NOTHING else gets done until the picture is complete. When I'm working on one, the time passes quickly as I ponder and place pieces. Since I was going to be alone, I wouldn't have to share; no one else would be finding MY piece before I had a chance to spy it on the table. I wouldn't have to take breaks to take care of others or to socialize. Hmmm. The idea had merit.

Next, a good party has good food, and I decided to assemble an array of easy-to-fix and not overly messy finger foods, so I wouldn't need to stop puzzling for long.

And I do enjoy a glass of sparkling wine when I'm celebrating. I mean, I don't normally day-drink, but once in a while I figure it's an OK thing to do.

When Christmas Day came around that year, it found me unboxing my puzzle shortly after breakfast. I popped the Prosecco with lunch, then spent the rest of the day sipping and puzzling, stopping for snacks whenever I wanted. I had Christmas carols on repeat, lights on the tree. I was snug as a bug in a rug, not a shred of pity to be found.

It was a lovely day. So much so that these days, when I do have Christmas plans, I look at my calendar to find a substitute day for Puzzles & Prosecco. (When I come up with a good tradition, I do like to carry it on...)

This year I spent Christmas Day with friends, who gathered a small group of Christmas orphans. We had a lovely dinner and a warm fire, good conversation and much laughter. And there were presents! I couldn't have asked for more.

I scheduled Puzzles & Prosecco for this past Sunday. The day started warm, but shortly after breakfast, the wind started blowing and the temps plummeted. I didn't have to care. I was snug in my dining room, busy sipping Prosecco while assembling a snow field.  

Lucky me, this year I got to have my Christmas, and Puzzles & Prosecco, too! 

Happy Holidays!

Advent IV: Love

I had to dig a bit to see the Hope, Peace and Joy of Advent this year. I wasn't surprised; it's been another year full of learning experiences. In contrast, once I lit last night's candle, it didn't take me long at all to find where Love has been hanging out.

Love has been a quiet current underpinning my days and nights. It has helped to carry me through the hard days, it's been a source of comfort and strength.

I had no need to go searching for it, it came to me.

My people have been there, all year. Julia came to town twice to help me get through the aftermath of my surgeries. When I didn't ask for help as I neared the end of radiation, my neighbors brought food anyways. When I organized the meal train because I couldn't lift more than 10lbs after this latest surgery, all the slots were filled within a couple of days. And no one forgot about me; I didn't go hungry even once! All the food was delicious, prepared (or ordered in) with love. 

People have sent I'm-thinking-of-you-hang-in-there texts, notes and small gifts. Their care has made this unwanted path easier to walk. I know I am loved. 

I am SO grateful.

The 4th Sunday of Advent was also this year's solstice - the longest night.

A couple of years ago, I checked the schedule showing the time for sunrise and sunset this time of year. I was a bit surprised to find that, while, yes, the days do grow longer from here on out, the increases in daylight are incremental for the next couple of weeks - today we have just 2 more seconds of daylight than we did yesterday.

I took that as a sign, and since then I've taken time to pause a bit myself, mostly between Christmas and New Year's. I've come to like the quiet darkness. I light candles and more candles, rekindling the lights of Advent. I take time to reflect on the happenings of the year that was, on my hopes for the year to come. 

I give thanks that I am here to see yet another year begin. (So far, so good...)

Happy Winter's Solstice!

Advent III: Joy

Some years, there just isn't a lot of Joy hopping out from around the corners of my life. This has been one of those years. I have many memories of grateful moments this year; a few memories of moments of Peace. 

But Joy? Sadly, not so much.

Fortunately for me, my memory extends back past this year of trial, and somewhere in there, a bit dusty and hard to find because the index pointing to their location is rusty and disused, exist my memories of Joy.

Joy is fun. Its effervescent bubbles are stored right there with the memories, and when they come to mind, a few of the bubbles float to the top and pop on the surface, bringing a trace of Joy with them.

*bubble*pop*bubble*pop*

The moment when I first looked into the eyes of my newborn babe(s).  

*bubble*pop*bubble*pop*

Reaching the end of my Camino walk at Finisterre.

*bubble*pop*bubble*pop*

The first time I kissed him. 

*bubble*pop*bubble*pop*

Sitting in the dark, watching the flames flicker and dance, meditating on Joy, I reveled for just a moment in the reflected glow of the memories which slowly, creakily surfaced. I like these memories. They're proof Joy exists, and not just in the abstract. Joy exists for ME. 

And since it has existed in the past, I have no reason to doubt its future appearance.

This thought brings me great comfort.

This, too, shall pass. 
Joy will come again. 
Amen.

Advent II: Peace

Peace sure seems to be in short supply these days. The world has not stopped waging war at any point in recorded history, but in recent years its drumbeats strike louder, closer to my heart.

My learnings tell me it is my choice to seek Peace anyways.

No, I can't affect the outcome of the struggle in Ukraine or the many official actions in my country which trouble my heart. I do not have the money or the contacts or the standing in this world.

But maybe. If I can work to create even a small puddle of Peace in my world, it'll water a bit of ground and some Beauty will sprout. If you'll allow me to change metaphors, perhaps it'll work like the light of the candle, and snuff out a small area of darkness.

I can Hope.

What is Peace anyways?

To me, it is embodied in those moments when, despite the turmoil and challenges of my days, I stop and breathe long enough to listen to the quiet voice. It often quotes Julian of Norwich:

All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.

Turmoil, anxiety, stress. Oh, my! (Sorry, Wizard of Oz moment there.) 

Let me start again. Turmoil, anxiety and stress aren't going anywhere - but as large as they loom in my days, they are not the whole of my days unless I permit them to be so.

I can choose to accept their existence AND to know Peace also exists somewhere within.

Peace lives in my memories of quiet moments in beautiful places.

Peace lives in my memories of arguments resolved and relationships transformed.

Peace lives in my memories of working in the living soil, connected to the life within its depths.

Peace lives in those moments when I am too tired to continue on, but hear a voice of reassurance, encouraging me to pause and rest for a moment - and to then take one more step.

Peace.

Advent I: Hope

After I sat down on Sunday night and lit the first candle of my Advent wreath, I just sat and watched the small flame flicker for a time. Such a small light. So much dark. Somehow, the small quietly overcame the much, and reached my soul and reignited a flicker of Hope.

Life carries no guarantees. None for me. None for my family and friends. None for the world.

Nobody ever said "treatable" meant this repeat cancer journey would be easy.

But I have today.

I can't undo what radiation has done to my system, but today, I can work on easing the long term damage. Today my mind works. Today my body is allowed to move again. No small blessings, these.

I am grateful to the parts of the Universe which have been working together to ensure I don't lose sight of Hope this year.

Time and again, my burdens feel heavy, and I just want to curl up on the sofa underneath my white fuzzy blanket and make it all go away.

Time and again, when I reach this point, someone unexpectedly reaches out to me, with a text or a card or a small gift or a letter or a phone call, and lets me know I am not forgotten. I am loved.

These gestures make a difference. They give me the oomph to take one more step. 

They are my light in the darkness. 

Such small lights.
Such great power.

Thanksgiving

It seems a bit counterintuitive, but these past couple of years, filled with news I'd rather not hear (both personal and out in the world), have heightened my awareness of all the good there is in my life. And so, I give thanks.

I give thanks for my people. The meal train page I set up to get me through the six-week recovery period from my latest surgery filled up immediately. Everyone who signed up delivered. It was a parade of delicious food, chosen and prepared (or, ordered and picked up) with love.

My people have walked my dog, cleaned up my leaves, and sent me 'hang-in-there-you've-got-this' gifts. They keep reaching out to let me know I'm missed and to make sure I'm doing all right.

I give thanks for the beautiful neighborhood where I get to live. I walk with Sylvester twice a day, and every time I set foot out the door, Beauty waves, trying to catch my attention. He likes to walk in the park that's just a few blocks away, and when time permits, I like to let him. 

There is a tree there, an oak that was mature before I was born. When we walk by, I try to take time to stop and lean against her trunk for a few minutes. I breathe. I listen. She is old and wise and gives good counsel. She doesn't speak in words, but when I straighten back up to continue on my way I always stand a little taller; my problems are cut a tad bit smaller.

I give thanks for lattes. Worth getting out of bed for.

I give thanks for all the researchers who came up with the medical advances and treatments that let me say "treatable" when I tell people my cancer and Kate's have both returned to set us on a new path. Treatable is huge, and most people whose cancer returns don't get to use the word - my heart aches for them. Their path could be mine. It might very well one day be mine. But for today, it is not mine.

I give thanks for the art class I took fourteen years ago. It woke up the inner voice that convinced me to jump out of my comfort zone and into my camper van. I gave up my routines, my job security, and the house I'd worked so hard to restore. In return, I gained a storehouse full of memories of beauty. They can't be tallied in an accounting book, but I've not regretted the tradeoff. Not for a minute.

I wouldn't have thought the blog I started then, as a way to let the people at home follow along on my adventure, would still exist, an ongoing chronicle of my days. Yet, here we are.

A story isn't truly a story until it is shared, and so I am thankful for you, the person reading these words - you complete the circle.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Frustration

I'd really hoped that by now, in this breast reconstruction surgery journey, I'd be leaving behind the "what the h-e-double-toothpicks was I thinking" camp and be well on my way to "this was a great idea".

Unfortunately my progress has been stalled by swelling on my right side. I'm guessing radiation side effects strike again. (My left belly boob is doing great, no small consolation.)

I've let the medical team know, several times, about the aching and itching associated with the swelling. Sadly for me, the doctor who did my surgery is out for a few weeks, and his nurse is in the wait and see camp of life. Clearly, the achy, itchy, heaviness doesn't bother her nearly as much as it does me. Go figure.

From a strictly medical point of view, I suppose I agree with her - waiting a week or two before telling me what is going on and if there is anything I can do to help healing get back on track isn't going to change the long term course of healing. Most probably. 

From the point of view of my right belly boob, however, I really, really want to tell her where she can stick her wait and see attitude. 

But, once again, on this journey, I don't get what I want. There's still a part of my brain thinking clearly-ish, and I do know sharing my feelings would NOT be in my long-term best interests. I will keep the 'stick it' part to myself.

But. I am SO disappointed. I thought, by following instructions and doing all the things, I would heal well.

No guarantees.

Not in the large things, not in the small.

My spirits have been falling all week. Can't SOMETHING in this god-forsaken journey go smoothly?? Please???

One more week. I will see her in one more week.

And in the meantime, I can take one more step. I can go for a walk, to help release some anxious energy. I can do the few stretches I am allowed to do, to give my tight muscles a bit of ease. I can stop and breathe and remind myself that this, too, shall pass.

Treatable doesn't mean the path is smooth or easy. 

But at least the path exists.