Advent II: Peace

"Yeah, uh-huh," says my cynical side. "Peace? In this day and age?"

Hmmm...

As I watched the light of the candle, I decided the Peace of Advent is probably not the kind where one is at Peace because everything is hunky-dory, with smiles all around, at the Happy Unicorn Rainbow Farm up on the hill. 

As I watched the flame flicker, backed by the light of Hope, I figured it's more likely to be the sort of Peace where you are still for a moment; at Peace despite all the things.

It's the kind of Peace I find when I relinquish my efforts to control what's outside of me, and instead turn my attention to controlling my reaction to what's happening in my world. As Viktor Frankl taught me so well, it's the only thing I can control anyways. 

(This is not because of any lack of effort on my part, I assure you. Some part of me is still convinced that if I can just round up all the ducks and get them in the right order, I'll definitely be able to bend the will of the world to my hand. I have not been successful thus far, but there's always tomorrow.)

When I am able to accept those things I cannot change, when I am able to take one more step in the direction of changing those things I can, I, despite all the things, find a measure of Peace.

This is never as easy for me as I think it should be and I've been actively working on it for several decades. I've had to let go of dreams aplenty, say goodbye to too many of the people I love. It's been hard!

Time and again, I find myself focused on clinging, eyes squinched and laser-focused, to my vision of what I want to happen as I travel along life's river. Then, when whatever-it-was I was busy clutching slips from my grasp anyhow, I look up to find I've missed part of my precious journey. There's no going back to claim it.

No, I don't get what I want any more often when I give up my efforts to control the flow of events, but when I let go and allow the water to carry me along, I sure swallow a lot less of it. When I'm not busy fighting the current, I can relax a bit, open my eyes, widen my field of vision, and catch more of the Beauty of my journey. 

I'll keep working on it - if only because those moments of Peace are so comforting.

Advent I: Hope

Poof! It's December!

This year, I knew I would need the Advent Candle tradition to anchor my soul, and so made a point of buying the appropriate tapers ahead of time. (Score one for self-care.)

Last night I tidied up my dining room table (which, despite my best efforts, generally has a collection of whatsit strewn across its surface), dimmed the lights, and put on some quiet music. I brewed myself a cup of tea, lit the first of the Advent candles, and settled in to watch the flame.

Hope. Such a small light. So much darkness.

As I sat and watched, a few tears escaped and trickled down my cheeks. This has been a hard year. Hope feels risky. If I dare to hope, I might hope in vain. And it hurts when a flame of hope gets snuffed out. 

I am afraid. There are so many dark portents whirling in the world's winds - both the larger world, and the world of my life. I was tempted to sink down and let the darkness take over.

But that's the thing about light. Even a small light dispels the dark. Fear wants me to believe the darkness is greater, but it's not. Emily Dickinson's words came to me:

Hope is the thing with feathers 
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all

I took a deep breath. "I can choose," I told myself. 

I can both acknowledge the Fear and know it is not the only Power.

I opened the door to my heart, listened to the song of Hope. 
I watched the darkness wither down, losing much of its power in the light of the candle.

Hope, anyways. 
Yes.

Attitude of Gratitude

 

I once thought the whole "attitude of gratitude" concept was malarkey. But then, in one of my down times, I decided to try noticing things in my day for which I was (or could be, if I was so inclined) grateful. To my surprise, the exercise helped. A lot. 

Noticing the good parts of my day showed the all-of-life-is-black part of me it was wrong. As I kept up the practice, the black lake slowly receded, shrank to where I could easily see it was just a part of life - not all of it; not at all.

I am grateful Kate has been able to apply the lessons she learned in cancer round one to cancer round two. I am grateful she is in a time place of life where she can afford to step back and take care of herself; to help her body to heal as best it can.

She has finished 12 of the 25 scheduled rounds of radiation. (Almost halfway there! Go, Kate!) She tells me she ends each session feeling like someone punched her in the sore spot on her chest; the tissue in the entire area tightens up. She then goes home and spends the next several hours stretching and rolling and repeating until she's regained her range of motion. She then does the whole thing again the next day. (Stretching the scar tissue like this, as it forms, means she will hopefully come out the other end of this wringer still able to breathe freely; able to move her shoulder. Fingers crossed, candles lit.) 

I am grateful morning comes. Every day. So far, at least. Morning comes and I get another chance to have a good day. 

I am grateful Sylvester is here with me. Over the past few years, I've grown to like our 20 minute, morning walk and sniff session. His presence assures I get up and at 'em, then outside to greet the day. Every day. Like it or not. (It's good for me.)

As winter's cold settles in, I am grateful for a reliable furnace. For the delivery of electricity and gas I can (usually) take for granted. I don't have to wonder if today is an electricity-on day, because barring a big storm, all the days are.

I am grateful for you - the You who is reading my words, bringing them to life. Your presence lets me know I'm not alone - not in my struggles, not in my joys. I feel seen. I feel heard. Since Covid, I know how important these things are.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Hot Yoga Lesson

When Kate came into town earlier this year, she asked me if I would help her find a place to do hot yoga while she was here - the discipline is one of the best ways she knows to help her troubled back loosen up. I was happy to help, asked around a bit, found her a place to go, and worked with her to sign up for a class or three.

I had tried hot yoga once a decade or two ago and swore I'd never go back, but when she came home from her class with her back clearly feeling better, I decided to give it one more try. I like to do things with Kate when I can, and perhaps I had changed. Perhaps a different style of class would be better.

So, off we went to class together.

I am not a great fan of hot and sweaty; my goal was simply to stay in the hot room for the entire ninety minutes, to do what poses I could do. I made it. I stayed.

At the end, I laid down for savasana and was pleasantly surprised to find every inch of my skin awake with a pleasant tingle. I am alive, it told me. I did a hard thing, it feels good to have done it.

*sigh* Just like that, I was hooked. I started going to class most Saturday mornings.

I took a break from yoga while I was in California. Still, when I came back to class two weeks ago, I expected to pick up where I'd left off.

Wrong. I barely made it through class. I spent over half my time sitting on the floor, trying to convince my lungs they could relax and take in a full breath. SO frustrating! During savasana, I was discouraged, sad, asking myself why I was there putting myself through this torture. If the magic tingle happened, I wasn't in a place to notice it.

This past weekend, class was a hard sell. WHY did I want to do that again?????

I convinced myself to go to class anyways, and as class got moving, was amazed to find I'd brought a whole new me. Yes, I was hot and dripping sweat, but when we got to the spot where my breathing had locked up the week before, nothing happened. I was able to continue moving and breathing, stretching and loosening all the parts. The magic part at the end returned!

??????

I've been pondering these disparate experiences all weekend. How can so much change from one week to the next?

I'm taking this as a lesson in the importance of showing up. A Notice from the Universe to me that life is not static; from week to week, it changes at levels I can't sense. A Reminder to not let failure yesterday stop me from taking a chance on succeeding today.

Take one more step.

Election Blues (Act II)

Man, oh Man!

Turns out over half the voters of this country don't care if their choice for president creeps me out, and has since the moment he stalked Hilary Clinton during their second debate, eight years ago. (Granted, most of those people don't know me from Adam (Eve?), and thus couldn't have meant to upset my apple cart with their choice, but that's not germane to the issue.)

Like the last time he was elected, my gut knew this was going to happen, which is why I intentionally didn't peek at the results Tuesday night. I wanted one more night of peaceful sleep. (Not Yet!)

I've been grappling with depression all week. Good thing I have an impressive array of tools in my coping chest; I've needed every last one of them.

I've looked for, and found, beauty each day as I take the puppy out for his morning stroll.

I've been using my yoga breathing exercises to still my mind when it wakes racing in the night. They help ground me in the here and now, so I can drift back to sleep.

I've been reminding myself I survived, we survived, last time he was elected; we will most likely survive again.

I never did stop giving to my resistance charities of choice - The ACLU, Planned Parenthood, Gabby Giffords' anti-gun group, and Harvesters, my local food bank.

But, since the morning of the election, I can't bring myself to read any news stories touching on politics. This is exactly opposite to my reaction last time, when I began devouring the news, all the news. I'm back to reading just the style section, the advice columns, the comics. The good news part is that I now have an extra hour and more each day to pursue other activities, any other activities. (I've been trying to wean myself from the news-rabbit-hole habit for quite some time - I guess there's a silver lining to this cloud, too.)

I don't know if ignorance is bliss, but for now, I do know a lot less knowledge of what's going on in Washington D.C. will mean a lot less pain in my soul.

So, I am working to focus on the here and the now.

Today, Kate had her first dose of radiation. (So hard!!)

Today, the November sun is shining, the leaves on the trees outside my window are working to outdo one another with their brilliant displays of yellows, reds and oranges.

Today, I went to yoga, and it was warm enough on my way home to drive with the top down.

Today, I'm getting pizza for dinner. (Life is short. Eat pizza.)

Tomorrow, I will work on making it through tomorrow. Today, I just need to make it through today.

One step at a time.

Resetting

While I know my presence in California has been most welcome for Kate and her family as she embarked on this latest detour in life, this past week it was time to come on home.

I need to vote! 

And, as Kate began to feel better, her energy returning and her pain (mostly) under control, I felt the tug of my life back in Kansas City. I missed the dog, my people at the gym, my own bed.

All the same, it's been a bit of a shock to my system. I left town in late summer, then stayed in late summer weather for the month I was in California, thus lulling my body into thinking time had taken a short break. 

Then, on my return to town, I stepped off the plane into a cool and rainy autumn day. Instead of the vista I'd become accustomed to, one of blue sky over brown grass, peppered by the green of the magically resilient trees of southern California, I was greeted by gray skies highlighting the yellow to orange of the turning leaves on the trees. 

Time had moved on after all.

I've been home almost a week, and still, when I wake in the night, it takes a minute to orient myself, to figure out where I am. I'm guessing parts of me decided to take a later flight; they'll arrive any day now. Probably.

My heart is divided. Part of it is back in California, tracking Kate's healing, doing what I can to support her on this difficult path. The other part is here, rediscovering the parts I love about the structure of life I've been working to build since I retired.

The past few days have been a blur of catching up on the tasks left undone while I traveled. Thanks to global warming (silver linings exist), I've had a bit of time to clean up the yard. I've started back at the gym, my body welcoming the return to the stretchiness of the yoga classes. 

One step at a time.

Working to Breathe

Kate has been working on breathing. Both in the literal sense as she retrains her system to work around the missing sections of rib and muscle to breathe in and out, and in the yogic sense of using breath to center and ground one's spirit.

Her oncologist has been doing a hard sell on starting the hormone treatments, like, NOW! Since this is metastatic cancer, she was telling Kate that there are most probably micro-tumors hidden throughout her system and the best way to keep them at the micro level is to start hormone therapy as soon as possible.

Kate was slated to start this week, but then took a deep breath and a step back. No question the doc is right about those little buggers hiding out. And yes - the 'run smack into a brick wall' method of entering menopause is her best bet at surviving, and she will start taking the drugs. But.

The histology report showed her cancer to be both likely to spread (we'd figured that much out...) and slow growing (which means !!no chemo!! Yay!!). Will waiting a few weeks to begin treatment really make a difference in her long term survival? After mulling it over this weekend, she decided the answer is 'probably not'.

But, starting the treatment now, when she is still recovering from surgery and slated to start radiation shortly, could and probably would complicate her recovery. It's hard enough to heal when you've been hit from two different angles. Add in a third simultaneous blow? Ouch. 

So the current plan is to start the hormone treatments near or just after the end of radiation. In the meantime, her chest will have had a chance to heal from the surgery so it should no longer cause pain to take each breath. 

Life is easier when breathing doesn't hurt. No question there.

One step at a time.

Healing Steps

I never thought I'd be grateful Kate found a lump indicating her cancer had returned, but here I am, grateful, because it was only because they were doing all the scans to determine how best to treat the lump that they found the larger spiky blob. 

I never thought I'd be grateful to know Kate might have to undergo another trial of fire via chemo, but here I am, grateful, because the possibility chemo might happen means this bout of cancer can be treated, and either vanquished or banished underground for another length of time. (The alternative would mean it was diffused through her system, and growth could only be slowed down, not halted for any length of time.)

Once the final surgery reports came in we received the wonderful news they'd been able to get clear margins after all. **!!whew!!** Game-changing news. 

With the removal of the last drainage tube last Friday, her energy has come bouncing back. It will still be quite some time before the roughly cookie-shaped hole in her chest will be healed; she is missing two 2-3" chunks of rib, along with the corresponding muscles in the intercostal region of her chest (the part of your body between the ribs and lungs - these muscles help you breathe freely). But. Her pain, while still never gone, is now manageable without the help of heavy duty painkillers and she is doing all she can to facilitate the healing process.

She won't know exactly what followup treatments will be recommended until the oncotype testing of the excised tumor is complete, which will be another week or two. She does know she has radiation and hormone therapy in the offing. The medical teams are still saying 'treatable' - no small blessing.

Treatable or not, this is scary stuff to contemplate, too scary. So for now, when we talk, we focus on the best steps to take to begin to heal her current set of bodily traumas. 

One step at a time.

Today, we are here. 

Goodbye, Duane

Duane is - *sigh* - was - my cousin. Three or four years younger than I, I can't recall I'd ever had a real conversation with him until we met up at a family reunion in Virginia a couple of decades ago. 

He opened the conversation by telling me how much he'd LOVED my green Schwinn ten-speed, which I'd saved up to buy when I was a teenager. I was surprised he'd remembered the bike; as we talked it quickly became clear he'd paid a lot more attention to me as we grew than I'd paid to him. (sorry, Duane)

Since then, I've talked to him a lot more. When I took off in my camper van, I stayed for a few nights with him and his wife, Tracey. One fine Saturday, they took me to Wisconsin and introduced me to the sport of Watercross. (For the uninitiated, this is where you wait until summer, find a good shallow pond somewhere, and see if you can drive a snowmobile across it. You just know the sport started with a couple of guys saying, "Here! Hold my beer and watch this!") I still chuckle when I think about that day.

I admired how Duane had worked to do well in life. He once told me he was a slacker in high school, went to college just because he was supposed to; had no idea how to succeed there. But once he got there, he took a look around, figured out how to study, kept working, and ended up as a chiropractor. Not an easy trick to pull off. 

He married young. Somehow, he and Tracey managed to work through all the things they needed to work through to stay and grow together all these years. Again, not easy to do. They had three boys; raised a group of fine young men.

I last saw him just a few weeks ago at yet another family reunion. There were quite a few people there, and though I said hello, I didn't get a chance to catch up with him. I texted him after I got home, telling him I was sorry I'd missed him. He texted back, said he felt the same, and he'd catch me on the next go-around.

The next go-around won't happen - he died from a sudden heart attack earlier this week.

Damn margarita truck!

I am in shock. Regretting my lost chance to talk with him, to find out how life was treating him. It's not like I think the conversation would have been consequential. I just hate it when I don't get a chance to say goodbye to those I hold in my heart.

So, goodbye, Duane. 

I hope you are where the fishing is good and the mosquitoes (mostly) leave you alone. When winter comes, I hope you and whichever buddies you have there (you'll probably add some new ones to the crew, knowing you and your charismatic ways), will be able to ride free on your sleds, flying though the snow, out in the wilderness you loved so deeply.

Peace.

Cancer Sucks. Still.

Man! This is some tough stuff!

Kate's surgery was last Friday afternoon. The first part went well - they were able to get the lump in her armpit out with clear margins and no difficulty. Her implant also came out cleanly, but then they started digging into ol' spiky; the mass that had been hiding behind the implant.

Although I'm told the surgeon was pleased with the final results, I'm not sure in what context that should be taken. I'm guessing it was that she was successfully able to plug up the holes in the two ribs she had to cut into to get the tumor out, because at the end of the long evening, she removed the biggest parts of the mass, then had to call it quits. Kate's chest wall was too compromised to dig further even though they still hadn't gotten clear margins. Because of the extensive cutting, they were also unable to insert a new expander - which means reconstruction will require a lot of creative effort.

(Beyond radiation, which was a given, clear margins or not, I haven't yet heard what treatments they will use to follow up now she's made it through surgery. I'm guessing they'll wait to decide until they get the detailed pathology back on the tumor, which will take a bit.)

Lexi and I ventured in to see her on Saturday. (She's not been alone there - Edwin, her partner, has been a rock.) She looked OK when we got there, but then took a sip of water. As soon as it hit her stomach, you could see the nausea rise, which made her cough, which made her pain levels spike.

We didn't stay long - she'd gotten to see her baby, I got to see mine is still breathing - because what she needs most of all is to rest and get better, not to stay awake to talk. 

She's made incremental improvements since then. They took out her chest drain yesterday, which instantly helped with her ability to keep her pain under control. She was able to eat most of a popsicle last night and keep it down. I'm hoping she'll be well enough to come home tomorrow.

I've been doing what I can to keep Lexi's life on an even keel, helping her get to and from her daily activities. 

I've been in an odd state of denial. My head and heart don't want to believe Kate is hurting so badly, and since she's not here at home, I find myself acting as if she were just off on a trip - that she'll come back soon, safe and sound.

Then the image of her in the hospital, pale and hurting, comes to mind, and I cry for a minute, trying to feel my feelings instead denying they exist and stomping them down. Then, I stop and breathe.

I remind myself of my hard-learned lessons and resolve once again to not let fear run roughshod over my day.

I can breathe.

I can Be. Here. Now.

I can rest for a moment in the beauty and lean on the love which has been SO in abundance already during this trial.

I will not let fear win. Not today.

*Not* Stressed

I'm not feeling stressed.

I often pretreat a couple of shirts to try to get some stains out, then start the washer - without putting the shirts into the machine. (I was, perhaps, a bit puzzled when I opened the machine at the completion of the cycle and found it empty.)

Fortunately for my shirts, Shout can safely sit on the fabric for a while, and the grease stains came right out when I re-ran the cycle.

OK. Maybe I'm a little stressed.

Mostly, I'm glad to be moving on this Kate surgery thing. Getting to this week has been a too-long process. Too much time to think and stew. I am scared, and my subconscious knows it. Time and time again, I've had to turn my thoughts away from the doomsday scenarios my imagination so easily conjures up when I let down my guard. 

So many unknowns. 

Soon, they will be resolved.

I've been busily nesting, getting my place ready for winter, so that when I return home at the beginning of November I can snuggle in without having to fret about all the fall chores I left undone. 

Truth be told, this is one of those times when it's hard for me to picture an 'after'.  Probably because I know surgery is just the first line of defense against her cancer, and getting through the follow-up therapies will be one long and hard slog.

Back to one step at a time.

What can I do to help her take *this* step? Don't worry about all the hard next steps. Just take *this* one.

It's worked for me, for us, before. I am pretty sure it'll work again.

Getting Real

Kate texted me this afternoon. She said her upcoming surgery is getting more and more real by the minute.

Yup. I'm there. "Not Yet"is quickly becoming "This Is Real".

My vacation in Minnesota was lovely. Lots of driving (*ugh*), lots of good family time and some quiet time to myself (*happy sigh*). There was a lovely wedding (*awwww, my heart!*) and I bought some new red boots (*bonus!*).

I'm back home and looking at my calendar and what was AN ENTIRE MONTH away is now the end of next week.

The idea of the upcoming surgery is frightening, but also oddly reassuring. She'll finally be able to GET IT OUT!!!! EEEWWW!!!! and know what she's dealing with. She'll be past the interminable waiting of the last few months, and moving on to whatever it is that comes next.

She will be in good hands. She has a team of three surgeons scheduled and ready to go a week from Friday. The plastic surgeon will remove the implant. The oncology doc will take care of lump #1, and then work with the thoracic surgeon to go in to see what that other scariness in her chest wall is up to. 

Nothing can change the fact these upcoming months will be hard for Kate and everyone who loves her, but I have a lovely group of friends at my back, ready to support me as I do my best to support her. They know there's nothing they can do to help, but they offer anyway. I know they'll be there when I need them. 

One friend has set us up for a pre-surgery pedicure later this week. (Pretty toes make things just a little better, it's true!) Another stopped me before my exercise class this morning to give me a box of my favorite butter cookies (the secret is in the touch of salt!) she'd picked up just for me.

One of my most enduring lessons from my cancer journey 12 years ago is that I am loved. 

I don't have words to describe how much it means to me to know this is still true; to know I don't walk life's paths alone.

Good Is. 

A Moment to Breathe

 

It seems the Universe is not vested in my martyr complex after all, and so I’ve been able to go on my long-scheduled trip back home to Minnesota this week. (Part of my heart still thinks of Minnesota as home, and I find that funny - it’s been 40 ??!!! years since I last lived here.)

It’s a chance to leave my to-do lists behind and pause in the Not Yet before Kate’s surgery at the start of next month.

Stop.
Breathe.
Relax.

Yes.

Welcoming Myself

In yoga the other day, the instructor invited us to settle onto our mats. Then, she asked us to envision a time when we felt welcome. Once we captured one such time, could we break it down just a bit, probe the feelings underlying the moment? Perhaps acceptance, perhaps joy because someone felt joy in our presence?

Then came the kicker - could we welcome ourselves to that room at that moment? 

I gave it a shot - and, I could! I envisioned myself opening my arms to me, pulling me into the space. I felt a frisson of the joy I feel when I am welcomed, and was able to carry that bit of self-acceptance into my movement practice.

That night, as I settled into bed, reflecting on my day, the moment came back to me. It made me realize how I take my presence in my life for granted.

I'm a good show-er up-per. I keep a list of things to get done each week, and usually make a good dent in the pile of tasks. I realize I can be a bit hard on myself, chastising me when I don't make sufficient progress in checking things off the list (using whatever arbitrary scale I'm using to define sufficient this week).

What I don't habitually do is welcome myself to my day.

Even the concept has a ... I dunno ... braggadocious flavor. (my word of the day!)

*sigh*

The message I once received to not think too much of myself is clearly deeply ingrained in my psyche. Be humble, put others needs first, don't be needy (God forbid!), work to blend in with the crowd, don't toot your own horn.

Hmmmm....

Perhaps, just perhaps, welcoming myself to my morning isn't showing off. I mean, it's not like I can avoid my presence anyways. What would it hurt if I greeted me with a pleasant 'Good morning. Welcome!' ? 

Perhaps this is a facet of the message I received while on the Camino last year - that my life would be easier if I relied on my strengths.

Perhaps.

The Grass Is Greener

Ah, September!

Many of my life's changes in direction have had their launch in late August and early September, and they've left their mark on my psyche.

My soul remembers all those first day of school moments, fresh supplies and at least one new outfit at the ready. Mom died in early September. I launched into motherhood one late August, started my camper van journey that same time of year several decades later. Last September found me walking across Spain.

The sun gets up a little later, the quality of the light shifts towards the softness of fall, and I'm ready to go. I woke up this morning wanting to explore beautiful places, to head off into the wild blue yonder, to transplant myself to new surroundings in anyplace that's not here, to start afresh.

Ain't happenin'.
Not this year.

I mean, I do have an important task on the near horizon. (All Kate's scans are done, the doctors are in agreement about what needs to happen in the operating room, and we're back to waiting for them to find a date on their schedules when all three surgeons will be available.) And while there's no place I'd rather be when the time comes, I'm sure you understand I'd just as soon not have this particular trip on my calendar. 

Perhaps now is a good time to remind me that this, too, shall pass. God willin' and the crick don't rise, I will have other Septembers for fun adventures. In the meantime, I have today to enjoy the beauty present in my life here and now. 

The summer heat has broken for today; we're having a fall preview in these parts. It's cool enough this morning to have windows open, to feel the fresh breeze. The sun is shining, there are still some late season flowers blooming in my yard. 

Beauty Is.

Say Yes??

For all that has been, thanks.
For all that will be, yes.
-- Dag Hammarskjöld

For ALL that has been???  For ALL that will be??? Really????

I am working to say yes to ALL that life is bringing me.

I don't want to say it. My heart is still screaming, "NO!!!!"

As I crest a hill and see this new section of the path unfolding before me, I have been reminding myself I can choose my reaction, my reaction is the only thing I can choose. (Thank you, Viktor Frankl.)

Life is going to bring its gifts and burdens whether I say yes to them or not, and, most probably, the path will be easier if I am not dragging my feet as I walk along it, resisting every step of the way.

so, "yes"?

I'm not there yet, but I'm working on it.

Waiting...

Kate's visit to the thoracic surgeon last week left her impressed with both the good skills the doctor brings to the table, and the inefficiency of our medical system. One of the first things out of the surgeon's mouth was that she needed to see more scans (from a different angle), along with a pulmonary function test, to know how best to proceed with the surgery. From what Kate said it sounded like she'd decided how best to proceed before she ever walked into the room. My question is this: the scans couldn't have been done in the weeks Kate was waiting for the appointment because, ????

So now, we wait some more. The scans are scheduled for this coming Friday. (?? Happy Birthday, Kate ??) She meets with the doc a second time the following Friday.

The basics of the information haven't changed - they won't be able to begin to formulate a treatment plan until after they can get in there and see what is lighting up the scan.

In the meantime, I am encouraged by words I hear them using, still. 

Operable. Treatable.

These are good words. Words of hope. Words helping me to keep a sense of balance, of center.

Already, as this storm comes in to land, I am held in the arms of love. It's the same sense I felt in 2012, when I found my lump. In 2015, when Kate found her lump. In 2017, when Libby found her lump. (You women out there reading this, you ARE checking for lumps regularly, yes???)

This road is a tough one, no question. But I do not walk with her on my own, and that makes it oh-so-much easier. As I've spread the unwelcome news, I've heard SO many times, "I'm pretty sure there's nothing I can do to help, but if there is anything I can do, please ask." 

I've begun to plan my trip to be with Kate for the surgery, and I have heard 'yes' from every person I've asked for help. There is someone to walk the dog, to pick up the mail. The lawn will get mowed, the plants tended. And, there is someone to take over Fairy Wren duty while I am gone - a child's imagination is important ground to keep watered!

Take one more step...

Waiting Some More

I hit my uncertainty limit last week. Not knowing when the next chance would be to know something had me spinning my wheels. Other than checking my phone every fifteen minutes, making sure I hadn't missed an important notification, I got NOTHING done. I wasn't able to get off square zero until I heard they've found a thoracic surgeon and have an appointment set for this coming Friday to discuss what surgery and the next steps will look like.

While I was busy wringing my hands, I had someone upstairs working on my long-delayed shower repair. This is the first time I've ever hired someone to do a job, and then just sat back and let them do the work. Weird!

They finished up last Friday, there were several problems with the finished project. I texted them - they are back today, not arguing, just fixing the issues. I guess this is why I went with the expensive crew. They stand behind their work.

And, on Saturday, the problems gave me something to be mad at. I needed something to be mad at. I stewed. I fussed. I obsessed. I took pictures. I rehearsed arguments inside my head. And then, finally, I let it go.

I wasn't really mad at them anyways. (I was pretty sure they'd come back and set things right.) I'm mad at cancer for messing up Kate's life once again and it's so hard to be mad at cancer. It's such an amorphous target - no known cause, no guarantees it can be banished to the ether where it belongs. Its appearance is so unjust unfair unkind unreal unwanted. 

And despite everything, I still want life to be fair. I don't want to acknowledge my inability to control anything but my reaction to what happens in the world around me. 

I'm grateful for my yoga classes. I arrive scattered and spinning, then somewhere in the breath and movement, I get a glimpse of balance. By the end of class, I'm remembering to breathe; have been reminded my center exists, even if I can't always find it.

Be Here Now.

I'm working on it.

More Hard News

For Kate, these last three weeks have been an exercise in patience and scheduling as she both tried to maintain some semblance of presence at work, and show up for the many diagnostic tests needed to determine what it will take to stop the spread of her cancer.

Last week, with all but one test result in, they still thought this would be a relatively simple surgery, outpatient even. Remove the implant, cut out the lumps, close up the cut.

I heaved a sigh of relief. Too soon.

The results of that last scan show the second spot is a spiky blob growing behind her implant, where it had eluded detection by other means. It's between her chest wall and her lung, has wrapped itself around one of her ribs.

Yikes!

Surgery is on temporary hold while they find a thoracic surgeon to add to the surgery team.

Until surgery is done, we won't know any more about the makeup of the blob - the medical team isn't able to sneak their biopsy needles past the implant.

I am so afraid.

I didn't sleep much the night after she called, but then my hard-learned lessons from this past decade bubbled to the surface.

I'm now in 

"Eeewww! Get it OUT!", 
Good Is, 
Remember to Trust, 
Take one more step anyways, 
Be Here Now 

mode.

It still sucks, but I refuse to let fear and despair steal my days.

I've found myself grateful for the small lump of cancer; the one she found that started this whole train rolling. If not for that piece, the larger mass would have grown and spread and... I don't let myself go there. 

I'm starting to put my ducks in order so I can go on out to help her recover from surgery, whenever it's going to be. (I am so grateful my schedule is flexible.) Working on doing the breathing thing.

One step at a time.

Hot Water Appreciation Week

 

I mean, I didn't plan for Hot Water Appreciation Week to overlap Teen Week, but sometimes, stuff happens.

The water heater started going out while I was in California earlier this month. It randomly quit heating water a couple of times for the friend who was house sitting and dog watching. (Fortunately for me, she is willing to go with the flow. pun intended.) Both times, I called my brother Ted, who came over, glared at the unit, flipped the switch a couple of times, and, *poof*, it came back on.

They were replacing the gas lines on my street that week, so I thought perhaps a glitch in delivery caused the outages, especially when it worked just fine the first week I was home.

Then, the week before my granddaughter and niece came in to spend some time with each other and with me, it quit working again. This time, all the glaring and incantations and switch flipping we could muster didn't do the job. *sigh*

After several hours on hold, waiting to talk to the people at Rheem - they'd started using a new system the day the heater broke, and it took FOREVER to get through - a new part was on the way. Except, because the system wasn't working, the part came by truck instead of air, which means it arrived here the same day the girls did.

No big deal, Ted came back on over to install the control valve. It took him about an hour, aaannndddd... we got the same error code we'd gotten with the first part.

Back on the phone, back on hold - you'll have to return the unit to the place of purchase and buy another one to have it covered under warranty. No big deal, except it's a special order kind of unit. This was a week ago, the replacement is slated to arrive in a couple of days, just in time for Lexi to head on home. (Katy was already picked up last Friday.)

Oh, well. I tried.

It's been quite an adventure. 

I am so grateful:

• It's summer, not winter, so cold showers are MUCH more bearable.
• I have friends willing to let us use their showers on the days Lexi needs to wash her long hair.
• I have Ted, willing and able to install the new unit as soon as it arrives.
• It wasn't the air conditioner which broke. It's been mighty warm outside.

The girls and I didn't let the lack of hot water interfere with our time together. We went swimming, made cupcakes, and went to the store every day to replace the magically evaporating fruit. The girls spent several days giggling together on the sun porch over teenage things, just hanging out. (I did offer to take them to see the local sights, but they were ready to just chill for a while. I get it.) I've loved having them around for a bit - they bring good energy with them.

And, I have a renewed appreciation for the wonder of hot water coming from the faucet on demand. It'll be a while before I step under the flow of a warm shower without taking a moment to thank the clever minds who designed and built heaters to effortlessly dispense hot water, and Ted, who both knows how to install the things, and is willing to lend me a hand.

Things could be a LOT worse.

Not As Planned

I'm learning, still and again, to go with the flow.

This past Friday, as Ted and I were getting in the car to head to Waterloo, Iowa, for a family reunion, my phone rang. It was my brother Tony, who we were supposed to stay with for the next two nights, calling to let me know he has Covid. Yowza.

Ted and I looked at each other and shrugged. The car was packed, the dog was loaded. I was looking forward to catching up with cousins I hadn't seen in the better part of a decade. We got into the car and took off anyway, figuring we had five hours to figure things out. (Fortunately, Covid is not as scary as it was, but it's also still not fun. I would not want to have houseguests while nursing a bout of the bug.)

An hour later, plans had been changed - since we clearly were not going to spend Saturday evening catching up with Tony and Susan, I called my niece in Iowa City to see if they were free for dinner after the reunion. They were! I easily found a couple of pet-friendly hotels with available rooms, and we were back in business.

We had about twenty people, with food for forty, show up for our potluck lunch on Saturday. (Yum!) I have a big family, and have come to treasure these smallish gatherings; they give me a chance to have deeper conversations about the paths life is leading us down. I saw a meme last week - "I knew I'd get old, I just never expected it would happen so quickly!" - which neatly summarized many of the discussions my suddenly silver-haired cousins were having around the table.

After lunch wound down around three, we stopped by Tony and Susan's place to see how they were faring. While they were both yet not out of the woods, neither were they flattened by the virus, so we were able to spend thirty properly masked and distanced minutes on their back patio catching up just a bit before a rain squall brought our meeting to an abrupt end. (Just as well - they were starting to look a bit tired. Covid is a bear.)

Off to Iowa City we then went for a delightful dinner with my niece and her family. We also snagged a tour of their Victorian work-in-progress. (You KNOW how much I love a tour of a good house renovation in the making!) 

Sunday morning we grabbed her daughter Katy (we'd originally planned to meet up in Des Moines to do a kid swap), and headed for the Kansas City airport, where we arrived just in time to pick up my granddaughter, Lexi. I get to host the two of them this week! (Which, I think, mostly involves making sure the fridge stays full and playing chauffeur.)

I am so grateful for all the things, but I'll only make you read the top four. 

For the mindset which led me to calmly accept the detour, then just change my plans rather then cancel them when things went south. 

For cell phones and widespread wireless coverage, which made it possible, even easy, to change our plans on the fly. 

For the chance to touch base with my past - I always learn something new about the reasons underpinning my reactions to life when I show up for reunions. The lessons I learned from my family of origin matter. 

For the energy of the young people who will share my space this week. 

A full weekend, it was wonderful despite and because of the detours. Good Is.

Waiting, Hoping Anyways

It made logistical sense for me to stick to my original schedule and come home last week as planned, but you won't be surprised to hear I left a good portion of my heart in California, despite knowing Kate has good people there. She was able to schedule in all the recommended tests over last week and this, and is now waiting for the results to trickle in. 

Not much further planning can be done until she knows more about her cancer recurrence - all the things depend on how far it managed to spread before she found the lump. All that is known is that her path for the next year (and longer??) will not be an easy trek.

It seems somehow wrong for my life at home here to be so normal as I wait to hear the test results. I'm back to exercising, trying to get the weeds in the yard back under control. All my projects are right where I dropped them when I left town. I've been diligently picking up the threads and working to make progress on them.

There's a part of me that just wants to curl up and cry. Or shout and throw things. Or both. 

I am angry - she was doing so well!!! Cancer is SO UNFAIR!!!! 

I am sad - I don't want her to have to walk the cancer road again. 

I didn't want her to have to do it once, and it seems grossly unfair that she has to walk it again, especially since my cancer hasn't (as far as we know) resurfaced. I mean, aren't I supposed to go first, since I went first last time??? *sigh*

Back to the basics.

Today is the only day any of us have. Tomorrow is guaranteed to no one, and the margarita truck has been known to strike without warning. Cancer is not punishment, everyone dies at some time of some thing.

Evil wins when I let fear stop me from living today.

So, I take the next step, and the next one. I am afraid to hope she caught her cancer early, but I hope anyways, because I can. I remember to look for Beauty, because every time I remember to look for it, I find it in my day.

And I remember the overarching lesson I learned from my own cancer journey - I am loved. 

And so is she. She has to walk this road, but she doesn't have to walk this road alone. She has a team, walking along the edge of the route and supporting her along the way. I, as part of the team, am supported and carried along by my own (overlapping) network of people. 

Love Is.

Soon, But Not Yet

A few weeks back I wrote about the Not Yet space - the space between life as I know it today, and life as it will look once it changes directions because a something happens.

I've been back in that space this week, and I am NOT happy to be here.

Kate found a lump; her biopsy was a week ago. Last Friday, she was told the test results came back as positive. After nine years, her cancer is back. 

It's an eerie feeling, like watching a thunderstorm gather on the horizon. The storm is headed this way, you can feel the change in the air, but it's not here yet. And, to my surprise, instead of immediately getting mired in the weeds-of-doom, I've managed to hold on to my hard-learned lessons about living the days I have. Don't let tomorrow, with its unpleasant tests and sure-to-be unwelcome news, ruin today. It will come soon enough.

We didn't ignore the diagnosis this weekend, but neither did we dwell on it. We got the laundry done, went to yoga, ate yummy food. Yesterday, as is our tradition when I visit, Lexi and I kicked Kate and Edwin out of the house for the afternoon to fend for themselves, so we could indulge in a movie and some popcorn.

These ordinary moments were made precious by my heightened awareness of the coming storm.

Not Yet.

This Is Why I Have Gray Hairs

My granddaughter's birthday is today, and as we celebrated yesterday, my mind went back thirteen years (How did that happen???) to the day she was born.

I was at the tail end of my at&t career that hot July day. I'd already sold the house, and was staying with a friend while I tidied up the loose ends of my life before taking off in the camper van. I was working from home that ordinary day...

The phone rang, it was Kate. She was alllmmooosst at her due date, so I jumped on the call. Sure enough, she was calling to let me know she thought she was in labor! It didn't take but a few words for me to know it was the real deal, so I told her to call her doctor, and to keep me posted, please.

I pretended to go back to work, but you know I got nothing done as I waited for the phone to ring again.

When she called back, it was to let me know that she was already at the hospital, and the process was rapidly moving along. As I was talking to her, I saw Joe calling in, so asked her if she could hold on for just a moment, and switched the call over.

"Mom?? I just had an accident. I hit a cop car. It had its lights and sirens on."

What??? "Hold on - I'm talking to your sister, I'll be right back.

"Kate? Can I call you back? Your brother is having a bit of trouble."

"No, no, I don't think you can. I'm headed for the delivery room in a few minutes."

"Oh?? Oh!! OK! Call me when you can."

I closed that connection and switched back to the call with Joe.

"What happened???"

"I had the green, and didn't hear the sirens over the noise of the air conditioner, traffic noise and radio."

"Where are you?? Do you want me to come to you?"

"Yes, please."

He told me where he was; just a few minutes away. I hopped in the car to join him. 

Despite the damaged front end, he'd somehow managed to move the car from the center of the busy intersection, and one of the cops stayed to wait until we could get it off the street, so we didn't have to worry about it getting hit again. 

As we waited, he filled me in on the details. It turned out, because he had the green, the cop car should have yielded the right of way, so they didn't give him a ticket. *whew* (Though they did bill our insurance for the damage to their car - I didn't dare protest at that point.)

We fortunately were able to find a spot of shade, because we got to wait there on the street for almost two hours before the tow truck arrived. The car was repairable, Joe was unhurt. My heartbeat returned to normal-ish levels, my concern-o-meter steadied over the delivery room four hundred and fifty miles away. Clearly, it was not in the cards for me to get there in time to welcome this new life into the world, so I let that hope go.

The tow truck eventually came, and from there time started moving again. We dropped the car at the repair shop and headed back to Sharon's for a well-earned shower and a glass of wine for me. 

Just a few hours later, Kate called back. Miss Alexandra had arrived in a hurry, and was happily beginning to learn to nurse.

What a day - highs and lows and hopes and fears and happy endings all around! From such afternoons, gray hairs come forth, I am sure.

Hot Already

Summer officially just arrived last week, but this year, the heat beat the solstice to town - we've been baking in temps more typical to late July and August than mid-June for the last couple of weeks already.

I've lived here for 40 (???!!!??? how did THAT happen ???) years now. You'd think somewhere in there I'd have adjusted to the climate, but every year, these first few weeks of heat and humidity have me wilting like the flowers outside when I forget to give them their daily drink of water.

The sun comes early, it comes hot. 

I have to admit - beneath my main coping strategy, which is whining to the dog about the heat, I am fearful. I read the news about the warming planet, the changing weather patterns, the intense storms. Pictures of flooded towns and stories of people dying in the heat are commonplace in my daily news feed.

I've been hearing warnings about the coming upheaval my entire adult life, now it is here. I want to throw up my hands in despair. We didn't listen and now it is too late.

Fortunately for my sanity this past week, I've been able to talk myself into getting up with the sun. I've come to rely on my time outdoors with the dog each morning to anchor my day, and if I get up and at 'em, it's still cool enough to take him for a real walk. 

I step outside into the quiet, where the loudest sounds are the morning song of the birds and the hiss of the neighbors' sprinkler systems. I breathe.

I'm not ready to give up just yet. (Not yet.) Alongside the stories of gloom, I read stories of hope. People can and do change their ways. I have today to live; today is the only day I have. I can choose to not let fear rule the day.

Trust, anyways. I'm working on it.

Extra Credit

I sure hope that Someone, Somewhere is keeping a ledger of my extra credit points.

I mean, I try to be a good person, to live a good life. And. I often don't live up to my own ideals, let alone the expectations of the greater world.

Having despaired of making great changes in the world, I work to change small things. I pick up trash as I walk, I toss the neighbor's papers from the sidewalk up closer to their houses, to save them from having to walk the flight of stairs down to the street. I pull the tangleweed within three feet of the walk from all the beds along my walks. (Hmmm... Does it still count as a good deed if I take inordinate pleasure in the task? I harbor an irrational dislike for the choking vine, which can and does grow over 6" a day, and I love interfering in its progress.) These things come easily to me.

But to convince myself to go above and beyond (still on my small-w world scale), I need extra motivation. 

"None of the other people out walking think they have to stop to pick up the bits of broken glass from the sidewalk in the park!" "Do I really have to pick up this pile of SOMEONE ELSE'S doggie doo from the middle of the sidewalk??" "Who throws their bag of dog poop in the sewer grate? Do they think the fish somewhere downstream would like a toxic plastic snack? No, I don't want to pick it up!!!"

I grumble, I whine, I pout. But, I usually do the deed anyways, telling myself I get extra credit points for completing the task.

I'm not sure why this works to motivate me. I'm not a believer in the Santa Claus version of God - the bearded dude up high keeping track of when I am naughty and when I am nice. I don't think my doing good but distasteful deeds will get me into the harp-playing section of heaven.

But I do believe in Good, and in Evil. My world spins ever faster; it feels as if the center is a bit wobbly and out of control. I seek balance in my life. I seek, on my small scale, to contribute to the presence of Good in the world. 

And if a few cosmic extra credit points are what it takes to get me to contribute to Good, so be it. There are worse motivators.

James Taylor Concert

I have to admit, in recent decades my concert-going has been limited to assorted classical venues. I'm no longer comfortable with huge crowds and overly loud noises, but when a friend asked if I'd like to go to the James Taylor concert last week, it sounded like a wonderful way to forget about my cares for an evening.

It was a lovely evening for the sold-out show at Starlight, Kansas City's outdoor theater. The sky was blue, the breeze refreshing, the temperature perfect. Our seats were well-placed - about halfway back, and directly in front of the stage.

I've been listening to James Taylor songs since I was a teenager, and clearly, so had many of the other concert attendees. But a few gray hairs didn't lessen our enjoyment of the music one bit. And, probably in deference to the age of the crowd, the sound levels were not at all overbearing; the remains of my hearing were not in danger. Bonus!

The show started with a video montage of a young James Taylor singing one of his classic hits. We got to watch him age before our eyes, to listen to his voice change across the years, until the song ended with a live shot of the man himself, singing before us on the stage.

He is in his seventies now, his voice has lost some of its range and power (duh!), but since I was listening with my heart as much as I was with my ears, that didn't matter. Music can effortlessly transport me to a place in-between, and it worked its magic that night. For a few hours, I was young again; growing through my teens, listening to his songs on the car radio.

I walked again my own path through the years. The current version of me walked beside my young self, carrying with me the life lessons I've gathered along the way. I smiled at the high points, winced, still, as I watched me stumble on the road. 

The evening highlighted how long and winding my road has been. I have come far. I have learned much. 

I've seen fire, and I've seen rain....

Goodbye, Bob - Take Two

In his will, Bob requested there be two services held to celebrate his life. The first I wrote about back in March - it was the pomp and circumstance service he knew was inevitable because he was a priest. The second was this past weekend; this was the service of his heart. He'd asked for his favorite readings to be read, accompanied by songs he loved (he didn't list those - he knew Estelle knew what he loved) and testimony from a number of his friends.

I was honored to be selected as one of those speaking, but it was a tough assignment. I didn't know how to say what he'd meant to my life; how to distill our complex, long-term relationship into words. I spent several days beating my head against the keyboard. I'd write a few things, but the words wouldn't flow. The sentences were stilted. disconnected. forced. shallow. Argh!

I finally stepped back for a minute and asked myself why he'd asked me to talk, and what I'd say if I only had five words instead of five minutes to speak. The answer came quickly. 

I miss my best friend.

With this thought in mind, I went back to the computer. I had it written in an hour. 

I found the service to be beautiful. 

Song. Reading. Testimony. Repeat. 

I really hope he was somewhere listening; knows how deeply he was loved.

=================

“Be compassionate, as your Father is compassionate.  Do not judge, and you will not be judged.  Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned.  Pardon, and you shall be pardoned.  Give, and it shall be given to you.  Good measure pressed down, shaken together, running over, will they pour into the fold of your garment.  For the measure you measure with will be measured back to you.”  Matthew 6: 36-38

 

Friend

 

Bob has been one of my closest friends for several decades, and since he died, I have missed him; missed him something fierce.

I miss his laugh. His hearty, uninhibited, inviting, laugh. If we were in a group of people, and I heard his laugh from across the room, suddenly, no matter how interesting the conversation I was currently having, his was the more enticing. Whatever they were talking about, it had to be better than whatever I was talking about, to have brought forth that joyous sound.

I miss the dinners we shared. He loved to cook. I love to be cooked for. It was a match made in heaven. As he cut and chopped and seasoned and stirred, I would sit and watch, helping as needed, but mostly just keeping him company as we talked about life. Politics, religion, the books we were reading, family, work; we covered all the bases.

I miss his hugs; I know I have a lot of company in this room when I say this. When I was having a hard day, he’d give me a hug – not a half-hearted, a-frame, shoulder-patting pretense of a hug, but the kind that, as I’m held, makes me feel like a precious child of the God Who Loves. And I’d begin to feel better.

I miss just talking to him. One of the cruelest parts of his dementia journey was that it took his words first. My eloquent friend, the one who used to say he was overly fond of two things – his own cooking and his own words – lost first the ability to express himself.

I didn’t meet him until he was middle aged, so I didn’t know him as he went through his life’s ‘firsts’. But I was honored to walk with him as he tallied up his lasts.

Many here know furniture refinishing was his avocation. He loved nothing more than to find a neglected piece of solid wood something at an estate sale, haul it home, and then spend hours restoring it to its former beautiful self. He would then either give the item to someone he loved or donate it to a church auction. I helped him to refinish his last piece. He had a workshop set up in my garage after he moved to the city, and he came over several times. He no longer knew what steps he needed to take, but he was willing to follow my direction (for once), and together we sanded and applied the finish to a tall, beautiful, walnut plant stand.

I was there last spring when he took his last walk outside. As we were making our way back to the door of the facility, after our usual stroll around the neighborhood, he had some sort of a mini-stroke, and almost couldn’t walk. As I began to reach for my phone to call for help, the nurses inside saw us and came running out to assist. We made it safely inside, where he took two Tylenol, a long nap, and woke back up with little knowledge of the incident, seemingly (though I know this isn’t true) no worse for the wear.

I was there for his last mass, last summer. It was for a congregation of four. A lot of his words were missing by then, but when we got to the consecration, he had all the words he needed. I swear I felt the Spirit come into the room and settle down behind him, holding his shoulders as he blessed the bread and the wine, turning it, one last time, into the body and the blood of Christ.

I remember the last conversation we had when his mind was almost all there. It was late last September, and he was talking about the wedding of one of his favorite people, his niece, Colleen. His voice was alive with the memory of how he’d worked with Colleen and Don to create a service which met both the requirements of the Catholic Church and the desires of their hearts. His eyes twinkled, his laugh rang loudly in the quiet courtyard where we sat and talked. My heart was full.

I wasn’t there when he took his last breath, but I was there the day before. I’d been sitting with him for some time, and shortly before I was ready to leave, the nurses came in to tend to his care. As they worked, he woke, grabbing the air in alarm. I held his hands, so he had something to grab onto. Once they finished and we were alone again, he quickly calmed down, then met my eyes. At first, there was no one inside that vacant gaze. But then I saw his awareness return. He didn’t know me, but he knew he was not alone. Then, recognition dawned, and I could see he knew who I was. I spoke softly to him. I told him of my love. I told him it was time for him to fly free of his gilded cage, time to find out what lies on the other side. I smiled. He tried to smile in return, then closed his eyes.

Bob, I hope your words and your lost memories have caught back up with you. I hope you have found your people and are laughing with them, freely and often. I pray you have met up with the Christ Jesus you served so long and so well; that he told you, “Welcome home, my worthy servant.”

Bob, I miss you. 

Not Yet

This past week, I've been mulling over how time has changed my approach to the space between. You know the one. The space between the time you take the all-important test and when you find out if you made the grade or, not. The space between the time your period is late and when you find out if you're pregnant or, not. The space between the time you find the lump and when you find out if it's a problem lump or, not. 

The space between, when you're waiting to find out if your life is going to change directions or, not. A Schrodinger's Cat sort of space; both things are true until you look and find that one is not.

When I was younger and found myself in the space between, the entire time I was there I'd endlessly fret over the truth I didn't want to be. I'd worry, make plan Bs, set my mind to accept failure, worry some more.

When I find myself there in recent years, while I still spend some time mulling over both truths, I spend most of my time working to stay in the moment. It hasn't happened, and I don't want to lose precious days to what is not yet and might not ever be. 

When I found the lump in my breast, it was early December. I hoped it was just a cyst (ignoring the fact I'd found zero cysts before then), but if my dream trip was going to get disrupted, I didn't want to know it just then - so I made my appointment for the first week in January.

I didn't tell anyone what was going on. I didn't want to mess up their holidays - or my own - by sharing my discovery and wallowing in worry. I consciously didn't dwell on what might be, though it, of course, was an undercurrent to my waking thoughts. In those days between, I remember the feeling of being suspended in time. It sharpened my vision. I took less for granted; treasuring the normality of the moments.

In retrospect, I'm glad I was able to maintain my denial (or whatever you want to call it). By waiting to face the moment until the moment arrived, I was able to enjoy several weeks of precious time between - Joe's graduation from college, the holiday season. And, there was still plenty of time to plan and fret and worry after the biopsy results came in, so I lost nothing by not shifting focus and direction until I had to.

Not Yet.