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.

Autumn Walks

While Sylvester has enjoyed having me home most of the time these past weeks, I could tell he was missing the routine of our daily walks. Sure enough, last Monday afternoon, when the neighbor lad showed up to walk him, Sylvester went about a block, then sat down and declared, 'enough is enough'.

Even given the lure of treats, he wouldn't go any further. When Wyatt tried to tug him along, Sylvester just laid down in the grass. As soon as they turned for home, however, he jumped up and willingly followed along. 

I get it, my puppy, I get it. I started walking with my dog walkers. Problem solved.

I continue to heal, am a month out from surgery. Sylvester doesn't pull on the leash, so I was able to start walking him myself a few days ago - turns out he wasn't the only one missing our daily outings. (It just wasn't the same with someone else holding the leash.)

Today dawned clear and cold. I grumbled a bit to myself as I pulled on a jacket, hat and gloves, not wanting to leave the warmth of my cozy house. But the longer I walked, the less I minded the cold. 

Beauty won.

Last night's cold snap brought down a carpet of leaves; I hope I never get too old to scuff my way through them as I walk. There's something about the feel of their light touch on the tops of my shoes, the dry rustle of the sound they make as they scatter before me, that ignites a spark of happiness to lighten my mood.

So precious, these short days of beauty. For most of my adult life, my enjoyment of these days was limited to a quick appreciative glance through the windshield as I picked up and dropped off on my way to do all the things.

These days, I am grateful to have the time to be able to pause for a moment and take a long walk !IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY!, where I take mental snapshots of the vibrant colors to hold as a buffer against the day when all the leaves will be down, their hues quickly dimming to a tired brown.

I'm working to stay in the moment, to see what is before me. I want to savor the taste of the air, the chill on my skin, the feast before my eyes. I don't want to waste it by mourning its impending passage. Yes, all things pass, but...  today.

Today. Today, I am here. Today, there is beauty.

Today is the only day I have.

Still Healing

Three weeks in, I am healing well, but am also restless and grumpy. Good thing I live alone.

After I got the last drainage tube out, my doctor said I could walk as much as I wanted, as long as I didn't sweat, but to check with a physical therapist for specifics. So, I went back to Katie, who has been helping me counter the effects of radiation. 

She said, "that's right, you can walk as much as you want - as long as you stay in the house. Walk all you want from the kitchen to the living room, from the living room to the bathroom, from the bathroom to the bedroom... Outside, limit it to 2 miles a day, max."

She also made sure I knew to minimize all overhead reaching motions before giving me a limited set of allowed exercises.

*sigh*

Exercise has been my antidepressant of choice for a long time now, and don't-break-a-sweat walks, even when done daily, don't come close to giving me the balance I've gotten from my usual exercise routine these past few years. It's better than nothing, but.

Without structure, my days have been blending one into the next. Rather than tackle the things I want to get done, I've found myself spending too much time dozing and/or mindlessly scrolling on my devices. The more I sit, the less I want to move. The less I move, the more my body aches when I lie down for the night.

Back to my toolbox of coping mechanisms. Good thing I've kept it handy.

Future Janice has been helping a lot. When I find myself avoiding getting started on whatever-it-is because I'm caught in inertia, I try to remember to check in with her. "When bedtime arrives, how will future-me feel if I've stayed stuck vs jump-starting myself into doing the thing?" Not surprisingly, the contrasting mental pictures have been enough to get me started. And once I've started, it's not so hard to keep going.

The bright sunshine of the last three days, contrasted with the cool gray drizzly mist of the preceding couple of weeks, has also helped. I wasn't disliking those gray days, but they did have a way of convincing me to stay put on the couch. (Which, from a healing perspective, was perfect timing - I NEEDED to not move for a while.)

Those misty days jumpstarted the colors of fall. Instead of just going from green to brown, the trees have paused to dig out their mantles of red and orange and luminous yellow. The beauty calls to me; makes it easy to get outside for walks. The cool air makes it easy not to sweat. 

Three more weeks. Three. I can do this.

Starting to Heal

My surgery was successful - turns out the belly fat I've been carting around all these years is good for something after all.

Recovery, as advertised, has not been a cakewalk. The first 24 hours after surgery, they woke me up every hour to check on my new boobs. The whoosh, whoosh of healthy blood flow soon became a reassuring sound. All is well, all is well. 

The next day, it was every two hours. Needless to say, I was happy to get released to home the third day, where I could begin to think about getting some decent sleep (in between doses of pain meds). 

The drains were a bit less painful than I remembered from 13 years ago - medicine has figured out better ways to anchor the tails in place, and if they don't move, they don't hurt as much. Still, I was thankful for the assistance of modern pharmaceuticals the ten days they were in place. 

The last one came out last Thursday - which meant I was free to go back to sleeping on my side, where I normally sleep. I came home, and immediately fell onto my bed and into the sweetest 90 minute restorative nap I can remember. I woke up thinking I might make it through this after all. 

Julia, my sister, stayed with me the past two weeks; her presence made everything easier. She took care of dog walking and dishes, floor cleaning and laundry. All I had to do was to work on figuring out how to heal. 

She's gone home now, but the neighbors have taken over dog-walking duty, and I'm able to do dishes and laundry on my own again. The floors are just going to have to be dirty. 

The Meal Train has been oh-so-reliable, and oh-so-helpful. It'll be another month before I can lift more than 10 lbs, and having dinner show up every other night saves me from trying to figure out what I can safely cook. (On the off nights, leftovers rule!)

The surgery left me hurting in odd places. I expected the pain in my lower stomach, the fat donor site, and my chest, where whatever portion of it was grafted into place. What I wasn't expecting was the tightness across my mid-section. Everything from my ribs down is drum-tight. There are odd points of pain as my body attempts to sort out just what happened; my nerve endings don't know how to interpret the sensations. Today is two weeks out, and I am just now *almost* able to stand up straight. 

I am off the prescription pain meds, just need the occasional dose of Tylenol or Advil to quiet my poor jangled nerves when I've coughed too hard or moved wrong (still figuring out what that means!). My energy is limited, but that is to be expected.

I miss moving, I miss yoga. But I can walk, as long as I don't sweat - so am grateful I didn't have the surgery in July - and walking is better than nothing.

I'm not yet quite past "what the h-e-double-toothpicks was I thinking" phase of the healing process, but I'm getting there. Already breathing is easier; my chest can move more freely without the implants stretching my pec muscles 24x7. That, in itself, is huge. 

If I squint, I can almost see the "this was a GREAT idea" phase on the horizon. Assuming I can keep from messing up the surgeon's good work for the next month, I'll be left with warm, living breasts - belly boobs someone called them. I like that. 

One step at a time. I'll get there.