Poor Puppy!

He's been here for 3 1/2 years now, and it's taken some time, but Sylvester and I have learned to live well together. 

He almost always uses his inside bark when trying to catch my attention, and it's been ages since he clawed at the back door. (Much.) He is learning not to jump on visitors and to not grrr loudly at the other dogs we encounter on our daily walks. (I do let him use his voice and talk at them, but grr-ing and barking tend to start a conversation I'm sure the surrounding houses don't care to listen in on.)

I buy new toys once he's done extracting the squeaker from the old ones, he encourages me to laugh as we play tug.

He's firmly claimed his place in my heart.

Last weekend, he started biting at his right hind paw. A quick inspection showed it to be tender, but I couldn't see anything stuck in there to cause pain. I enlisted the help of my neighbor, who has much younger eyes than I; he could see a bit of blood, but also no thorns or other foreign objects near the sore pad. 

This was Saturday afternoon. (Of course it was Saturday afternoon, when the vet's office is closed until Monday. This is how these things happen.)

I watched him with concern over the weekend. We pared our walks down to minimize irritation. He got quieter and quieter, spending most of his time lying with his head resting on his paws and his eyes half closed. Poor puppy!

I called the vet first thing Monday morning, and described the issue, only to be told they had no openings that day, but would fit me in on Tuesday morning. If I felt he needed to be seen urgently, I could call an urgent care clinic, but she felt it safe to wait.

I don't know much about dogs, and wanted him to be seen by vets who knew him and his history. I didn't want to (potentially) place his care in callous hands that just wanted to churn him through the system. (I've heard stories.) So, I made the appointment, and impatiently waited. 

By Monday evening he was declining to eat. *worried sigh*

I went to bed, then woke in a panic at 2AM, convinced I'd made the wrong decision, and sure he was in dire straits. I got up to check on him, he was sleeping peacefully. I tried fruitlessly for over an hour to calm myself down, then gave up. I got up, scooped him from his rug on the floor, and put him, against all the rules, onto my bed. I put my hand near his body, so I could feel his warmth and breathing, and finally fell back into a fitful sleep until morning.

The vet, once I got there, was wonderful. He got on the floor to be at Sylvester's level, and checked him over thoroughly. He also couldn't find the cause of the irritation; we figured that whatever had caused the injury had worked its way out, but based on the fever he was running, left an infection behind. I left the office feeling much better than when I'd arrived. Sylvester had gotten an antibiotic shot (thus avoiding the pills which would further upset his stomach) and two types of painkillers.

From there on, he got a little better each day. He started eating a little more; spent less time quietly resting in a corner. The sensitivity in his paw lessened. He became more alert, and resumed his habit of barking at noises which he thinks need my attention. Yesterday morning, when we came back from our walk, he wanted to play for a bit!

I had my puppy back!

I am so grateful the vet spent all those years in school learning how to treat dogs. For the antibiotics which turned a life-threatening infection into a nuisance. For the pain pills which helped him heal comfortably.

So grateful there are people around me who know things I don't, and that I can call on them for aid.

Good Is.

Act As If

I've long been a "fake it 'til you make it" kind of gal.

Back in the olden days, when I was working and raising kids, there were days when I woke up and just. didn't. have. the. oomph. to get the things done.

Not getting the things done was not going to be helpful, nor did I want to show up to my kids and job grumpy and groaning, so I'd put on the best face I could muster and soldier on through.

It worked.

Most days, as I'd go through the day, the smiles would gradually become more genuine, the piles of things less daunting. I wouldn't need to keep faking it, because the stuck-in-the-mire part of me had shaken off her boots and kept going and had made it to a drier part of the path.

It worked. And. It was not the kindest way to treat myself. There's a militant undertone to the phrase; it is stern, harsh, scolding. "Pick yourself up by the seat of your pants and get moving!", it says. It doesn't leave much room for self-compassion.

I've been working on having more compassion for myself and my trials, changing the tone I use when I talk to me. And so, these days, I do a lot less faking it, and a lot more "acting as if".

It's a subtle shift. 

I still wake up without. the. oomph. I need to get the things done. But rather than letting the metaphorical taskmaster, with her starchy uniform and disapproving scowl, out of her room, I seekl out my inner coach; she has her hair in a messy bun and is wearing her workout clothes.

"I know you don't have the oomph to start the day, but how about you get out of bed and act as if you do? You don't need to tackle the whole day, you can take it one step at a time. If you'd like, I'll take some of the most daunting steps with you."

Walk the puppy, show up at today's exercise class. One movement leads to another and usually, the oomph I need makes a belated appearance. And. On the days it doesn't, and I have leeway (which is many of them, given the current givens of my life), "acting as if" leaves room to slow down and take a break. A guilt-free nap, even. 

I work on being kind to others. Perhaps it is time (and past time) for me to know it's OK to also be kind to myself. Worst case, I can "act as if" I am. What's it going to hurt?

She Is Growing Well

She'd come down for a month during COVID - 16 years old, struggling to make sense of the world after her mom's death eighteen months earlier. She was having trouble in school; was in danger of not passing her junior year, not because she couldn't understand the concepts but because she was not completing the work.

I worked with her to set up a schedule of rewards based on some (admittedly arbitrary) milestones. The rewards weren't huge - ice cream, a trip to the bookstore - and they didn't need to be. She just needed a tangible reward for her efforts.

My heart ached as I watched her settle in and work to reach her goals - her troubles had too many parallels to my own too-young goodbye to my mom. I knew I couldn't fix things, but I could provide clear and consistent boundaries and expectations, tempered with the above rewards - and the framework worked as I had hoped. She completed enough work to pass on to her senior year. I was proud of her!

We have kept in touch through phone calls and occasional visits since her return home to Minnesota, but haven't spent any chunks of time together. I have watched from afar as she forged her own path over the next few years. She graduated high school, and since she didn't yet know what she wanted to do, put college on hold. I was concerned as she drifted from job to job over the next few years; was thrilled last year, when she got to a place where she was ready to enroll in college. She's been doing well there. (There's something to be said for taking side roads...)

She came back to visit last week - we spent a delightful few days together. We spent an afternoon as ladies of leisure - sitting by the pool after yoga, just enjoying the afternoon. We shopped some, spent a lovely afternoon at the Nelson art museum. We talked a LOT; I caught up on her life's doings. 

We shared memories of her mom, my youngest sister, Libby. She asked if I thought her mom would be proud of where she is today. Tears spilled from the corners of my eyes as I assured her the answer was yes. I know that yearning - the wish to see Mom's smile of pride, to have her arms hold me securely one more time. I still feel it, and it's been 49 years.

As we stood, and I gathered her into my arms, I swear I felt Libby's spirit flow through me as she held her baby for a precious, healing, moment.

Love Is.

Drug Break

I've been carrying a heavy load of fatigue with me everywhere I go for the last month or two. This is where language fails me - I don't have enough synonyms for 'tired'. I'm tired, and it's not the sort of tired that gets better with sleep. My brain WANTS to work, and it. can't. quite. figure. out. the. next. step. (Eventually, the stuff gets done, but it takes a hot minute.) 

I liken it to floating in a pond of fatigue (from the drugs), depression (in my world, it comes hand-in-hand with the fatigue), and grief (because I have done all the things I know how to do to help with the side effects. What I'm experiencing now will be my life for however many years, and that's a hard truth to accept.)

I'm no longer fighting to escape the pool, nor am I drowning in the uncomfortable emotions. Rather, I'm floating in it, working to accept what is, to learn to live within its limits.

Caffeine helps - it is my best friend, gives me the oomph I need to take one more step. Exercise helps - moving almost always lifts the fog for several hours. 

I talked to my oncologist about this when I saw him last month, and he told me I could take a break from my drugs, to see if that would help. I didn't make him offer twice.

I stopped that evening, hoping I'd feel better soon. Define soon. The first week went by, no change in my energy levels. (Dr. Google did warn me it would take a couple of weeks for my system to begin to rebalance itself. Heck of a time for them to be right.) The second week, same result. Last week, I started to see some improvements, just before I was supposed to restart the drugs on Friday. *sigh*

I checked with the oncologist's team - they said I could take another week off without interfering with the efficacy of the drugs. *Whew!*

Saturday morning, I woke up and checked in with myself. Something was missing. I was still tired, but the brain fog had lifted overnight! My head was clear. I had enough oomph to tackle my entire to-do list in one afternoon. (OK, there wasn't much on it, but it still felt good.)

Yesterday, there was a break in the heat, and I was able to get out in the yard for several hours, doing some much-needed maintenance in the flower beds, clearing weeds from both the beds and my brain. And I woke up AGAIN this morning with a clear head. No small blessing, this. 

I know it's a temporary break, and that's OK. Maybe I'll have some residual effect from the break once I restart the drug regimen on Friday. I can hope. I'm going to talk further with Dr. Hu. If I know I can get a chance every so often to climb out of the pool and get reacquainted with my old self, it'll be easier to make it through the days where my best option is to whittle back the doings of my days and focus my limited energy on the "important thing" - whatever that is. 

One step at a time.

Family Reunion

The older I get, the more reasons I find to attend family reunions.

These are the people who knew me when. As 'when' recedes further into the past, I find myself relishing the chances I have to walk down memory lane; to feel the tug of connections still there despite the wear and tear of years; to strengthen those connections by showing up to retrace their lines.

This past weekend found me in Waterloo, IA, to meet up with my mom's side of the family. She came from a large crew - was one of 14 children. She and all of her siblings have gone to the place-beyond; there is one aunt by marriage still around. Aunt Diane, and a good number of my cousins, made it to the annual gathering. Everyone in the cousin crew now sports a healthy amount of gray in their hair. A few people had brought representatives from the next two generations down - they added welcome movement and spice to the group. I mean, SOMEONE has to pop the balloons!

We had the usual abundance of delicious food for our potluck lunch. My conversations swung between 'what's going on with you now?' and 'do you remember when?' There was a quiz to see who could name all of the 40-odd cousins based on childhood pictures - I could only name about half. Then, Karen came up and now the names flew - we started to fill out an answer sheet together. We were still missing a few of the older cousins, people we never really knew, but Chuck came up behind us and filled in the blanks. We put all three of our names on the sheet, fair is fair. I would have thought we'd be eliminated from the competition because we cheated, but they gave us the prize anyways. (My share of the loot was a bag of what I am told is the best popcorn you can buy, grown right there in Iowa. I can't wait to pop it and give it a try.)

I drove up the night before the gathering, and stayed with my brother Tony and his wife, Susan. It's been well over a year since I'd seen them and I enjoyed having a few hours to spend in deeper conversation than can happen at the large family events. (Not to mention the chance to enjoy an ear of the fresh Iowa sweet corn Susan cooked us for dinner. Can't beat it.)

The weeding and mowing and cleaning and laundry, etc. all need to be done, and I do them, but these activities don't feed my soul. Seeing my people, spending a few hours renewing the traces they have left on my heart and in my memories - THAT helps me feel the love. I slept well last night, tired from the drive and cradled in sweet memories. 

On the face of it, it was a lot of driving - about 11 hours all told - for a short event. As I was driving home, my overriding thought was, 'Worth it!'

Teen Week

I got to have Teen Week again this summer!

Lexi came in from California, her cousin Katy from Iowa.

This is the third year I've had the pleasure of hosting these two. One could wonder where a girl from Los Angeles and one from Iowa City might find common ground, but these two got past that minor detail the first summer they were here. 

This year they jumped right into catching up on each other's lives, trading stories about friends and school and parental units and and and. Catching up involves much laughter - the sound carries through the house and lightens my heart.

I love having their energy here. Both are responsible and kind; it's easy to have them around. My biggest job during the visit was making sure we had enough fruit and ice cream stocked. As has become their pattern, they ventured out a little every day, but spent most of their time just chillaxing together. 

They were both looking forward to coming here - I pat myself on the back and take that as a major win. One of my life goals has been to create a home where people feel both safe and welcome - that they want to visit tells me I've done well working towards my goal. (At least with these two - I guess I shouldn't extrapolate to my larger world. I'm sure I could still do better for some of my people.)

Katy went home this past weekend, but I get to ease back into my usual quiet space since I get the pleasure of Lexi's company for another week. With all that happened last year, I wasn't able to get to California, and I treasure the opportunity to spend time with her. Going out some, relaxing some, reading some, cooking some, talking some. 

She is (they both are) growing SO FAST! It's fun to see their soon-to-be young adult selves emerging from their teen chrysalides. They renew my hope for the future.

*happy sigh*

Summer Reading

Ever since I was a kid, I've loved a good reading challenge.

When I was in 4th grade, my teacher had us make little bookshelves out of construction paper, then hung them on the room's bulletin board. (They were quite basic shelves - picture a sideways L on the paper.) She then let us add a book to the shelf for each story we finished. A voracious reader, I was up for the challenge. Once I'd read enough books to fill the little shelf, I read a few more - whereupon she added gold stars to the background of my paper. I have no idea how the rest of the class did, but I still picture my overflowing shelf with a quiet sense of pride.

Sadly, I've gotten older, and reading programs tend to be geared towards the younger generation. No more gold stars for me.

And then, and then! Five years ago I took a closer look at the materials the local library sent out for their summer reading program. They had prizes for adults! If you finish reading five books over the course of the summer, you get a free commemorative pint glass. 

And, bonus, they give you a !!free!! book to get you started. True excitement!!!

I finished this year's challenge last week, and happily stopped in at my local branch to pick up my prize. Yes, I now have a collection of five glasses, one for each year. (You probably could have guessed this part.)

The reading program has been the perfect ticket for me to (re-)break my iPad doom scrolling habit. I'm not going to waste my time on endless feeds when I could be making progress towards a tangible goal.

Part of me still looks for the catch. You give me a free book. If I read five books over three months, I get a prize? No entry fee? No forms to fill out (beyond the one for the library card - still the best bargain around, hands down)? No selling my information to the highest bidder?

Wow. Who'd'a thunk it?

It does my heart good to know libraries still exist; that librarians are still helping people to find the right book, encouraging them to expand their horizons of knowledge. 

Good Is.

Home to Minnesota

The voice of Minnesota has been calling to me this spring. With one thing and another, I hadn't been up there in well over a year, and I needed new shoes, so I headed on up a couple of weeks ago. 

True, I probably don't have to drive quite that far for footwear, but there's this little family-owned shop in Anoka that's been there forever, and they offer a wide variety of acceptable-to-my-aging-feet options. (Only shoes with proper arch support need apply.) It's way more fun to shop there than to go to a store where I need to choose from the only three acceptable styles; "No, we don't actually have the one you settled on in your size."

I had a wonderful ten days, filled with hugs from people I love; a chance to catch up on their lives.

Christie drove down from Grand Marais to see me (and buy shoes for herself). I had dinner with a group of cousins, breakfast with my sisters. I drove to Amery for a long-overdue chat with Rebecca, and got to pick up Lexi at the tail end of her trip to France with her father to see her family there. (The extended family was great; he was his usual confounding self.)

Kate and Edwin were also in town for a few days, and my heart rests a bit easier after seeing her - she continues to heal. *happy sigh*

My head knows I can't go home again, and my heart begs to differ. Every time, shortly after I cross the state border, I look up at the sky, and it's the proper color of blue. Then I hear a clear call - "welcome home." It's a softer blue than the sky in Kansas City. It's the blue of my childhood, of running down to the creek, of swimming in Weaver Lake. It remembers me then, welcomes me now. It exclaims, "Goodness, look at you! How much you've grown!"

I have grown. I don't much resemble the 22 year-old who left Minnesota for Missouri, planning to live happily ever after with her husband and children in the corner house with a white picket fence on a quiet street. Time has required me to leave behind many dreams. Nothing (except for my amazing kids) has turned out as I had expected and hoped, and yet, somehow, it's turned out quite well. 

I am grateful.

Fixed Another Thing

I've been taking a fun art class for the past few weeks, hosted by two of my fellow students in their art studio downtown. 

When we arrived for the final class, one of the sturdy tables we'd been using was in pieces on the ground. It seems their fellow studio tenant had had a big party the night before, and things had gotten a bit out of hand. Let me rephrase that. A LOT out of hand. They'd managed to split a 2x8 - dancing on the table, perhaps?

Looking at Roberta's face as she told the tale, I felt a flash of anger. She was sad. She didn't think the table could be repaired and wasn't sure how they were going to replace it. I hate needless waste, careless destruction, and people who don't take responsibility for the damage they cause.

When class was over, I asked her what they planned to do. She said they'd throw out the pieces of the old table, and live without for a while. 

Still steaming, I went over and looked at the pile of boards. Looked more closely. I didn't see anything I couldn't repair with some glue, clamps and new hardware. So, I offered to fix it.

She looked at me in disbelief. I thought I could fix it? Was I sure?

Yes, I was. I wasn't positive I could fix it, but I was willing to try if she was willing to let me.

She didn't make me offer twice.

Last week, I loaded up my toys and headed over to see what I could see. Two hours, and a half bottle of glue later, I had the pieces glued back together. Yes!

I went back a couple of days later, after the glue had cured, to reassemble the puzzle. A few hours, sets of new angle and corner brackets, and more than a few supporting heavy-duty screws later, the table was as good as new. Jodi and Roberta were thrilled!

I see so many broken things in the world, so few I can do anything about.

I can't fix the world, but, sometimes, I can be one of the people who commit random acts of kindness. Sometimes, I can fix one small thing. 

Sometimes, that's enough to give my heart a bit of ease.

Stop. Breathe. Relax.

More Time??

Last week, Jordan, my treasured yoga teacher, told us she would be leaving at the end of June for a sabbatical. She won't be teaching anywhere, at least for a while. ***wwwaaaahhhh***

I can't say I was totally taken by surprise by her announcement. I've sensed for some time that her teaching role at Woodside had begun to feel confining. She is being pulled in a new direction; is ready to grow beyond what she can do within the structure of the rules of the gym.

When I got home, I looked at my calendar, and realized I would have just one more opportunity to take a class from her. My heart fell - I need more than one more time! I'm not done learning yet!!!!

Jordan has been one of my main teachers for three years. She has taught me SO much about asanas and form and breathing and working with the body I have today. I've carried her words from the mat and integrated them into my life. 

The things I have learned will not leave with her - they are mine to keep. Would it not serve me better to focus gratitude on those teachings, instead of focusing regret on the five classes she will teach where I will not be present because of schedule conflicts? 

I have yet to be ready to say goodbye to my people when they need to leave. It is in my nature to want to hold instead of letting go.  As David Foster Wallace once said, "everything I've ever let go of has claw marks on it."

I am greedy. I want the people I love to stay with me and never, ever, ever leave. I want more time with them - both those who are still here and those to whom I've said goodbye.

Slowly, I am learning to accept the fact that life is movement, life is change. And this time, at least there is a chance the world will turn and our paths will cross again. 

I can hope.

Fixed It!

Last week, I started my dishwasher, and after thinking for a minute, instead of running, it popped up an error code. Something to do with a filter. 

So, I checked the filter inside the machine. It was clogged, but it's been a lot worse without triggering an error, so I was a bit worried as I cleaned it and put it back in. I tried to be sure to hold my mouth right as I re-pressed the Start button.

No luck. I mean, I got a different error code, but the dishwasher still wouldn't run the cycle. It was already late evening, so I heaved a heavy sigh, and gave up for the night.

I had more functioning brain cells when I got up the next morning, so I washed the dirty dishes by hand, then sat down with my computer to see what I could see.

The dishwasher isn't that old, so I went back into my records to see if I could get it fixed under warranty. Nope - it expired in April. Figures. So, I pulled up Google to see what my options were. (This is the part where I love today's version of computing.)

I had the replacement part number within a few minutes, so went on to GE's website to order it. It's only $20, but is out of stock until the first part of July.

OK. Next.

I pivoted back to Google, to see if I could perhaps fix it myself. I mean, I used to be good at this sort of stuff. Sure enough, our friends at Reddit had a thread addressing my exact problem, complete with links to step-by-step YouTube videos showing how to do the repair. Yes!

I am capable of following instructions (though I know some people may find this hard to believe), so I got out my screwdriver and flashlight and got to work. Sure enough, the part was right where they told me it would be.

I popped it off, pulled it apart, cleaned off all the gunk (which, sure enough, was clogging the filter sensor), put it back together, plugged it back in, held my breath, and pressed the Start button. 

The machine ran like a champ.

I am so grateful for the knowledge freely available on the internet; for the people who take the time and trouble to answer questions, to create videos. Because those people exist, I don't have to know a guy I could call to ask for help. I didn't have to wait for the part, nor deal with a repair bill.

Technology has its strong points!

Too Late

For the past several weeks, as I left the house with Sylvester each day for our morning walk, I paused a moment as I passed my neighbor Pat's house. I hadn't seen her out and about recently; we usually catch up on each other's lives when we cross paths out walking. 

"I should call her," I thought. I ran into another neighbor, Michelle, who told me Pat wasn't feeling well; some sort of stomach issue. "I should definitely call her," I thought.

Then I'd arrive home, and life would happen, and I didn't call her. Last night, I got a call. Pat was found dead in her home yesterday. 

She was found leaning back in her favorite chair, eyeglasses in hand, Bible on the table next to her. It looks like she died peacefully.

No need to call her now.

Late this winter, as my rounds took me past the facility where Joie lived, I would think, "I'm feeling better. I need to call Julie (her daughter) and set up time to stop in for a visit." Joie was on the Alzheimer's road. I'd only met her a few times, and I'd quickly learned to love her. She hadn't lost her spunk or her love of life and beauty; she was delightful.

Then I'd arrive at my destination, and I didn't reach out to Julie, and last month, she sent me a note. Joie had some sort of stroke one night a few weeks prior, and never really woke in the morning.

No need to visit now.

I am sad. I am sorry I didn't listen to the voice telling me to reach out to these lovely acquaintances. I do know one more visit with me wouldn't have changed much in the course of either my life or theirs, yet I am mourning the lost chance for one more moment of connection.

As often as I remind myself today is the only day I have, sometimes I manage to forget this is also true of everyone else. I fell into the trap of thinking I could call tomorrow, not knowing tomorrow would be too late.

I hope, if/when I hear the voice again, telling me to reach out, I will remember to listen today. 

Rest In Peace, my friends.

Purpose

This has not been a productive week. I sat down at the computer on Monday to write this, my weekly letter to those who care to read it, and stared at the blank screen for a long minute. I didn't even boot up the machine; just sat and stared.

Then, because there was no one to stop me, I stood up, went into the next room, and got out a jigsaw puzzle, and now you know how I've spent most of the past couple of days.

As I've been puzzling away, my mind keeps circling back to part of the conversation I had with Adam, my onco-psych doctor, last week - he has been helping me (attempt to) keep an even keel as I wend my way through treatment. We were talking about the mental transition from active treatment to living with the aftermath of those treatments. I wondered aloud, "Why am I here? Is there any sort of purpose to my life?"

After we batted this around for a bit, he gently posed the question, "How much of your search for purpose and meaning comes from within, and how much is externally generated; what you've been told by the world what purpose and meaning should look like?"

Dude.

Good question.

From the time I took over managing the household chores, after Mom's cancer came roaring back when I was 15, I've been a do-er. I've done my best to do all the things expected of me, and to do them as well as I could. The world gave me kudos for my efforts. My life had purpose. My life had meaning. They told me it did! And I believed them. 

Like a fish in a pond, I wasn't aware of the water surrounding me; that there was anything more. Then the kids grew up and I retired and my sense of purpose and meaning left with the jobs. Then, cancer dropped a leaf on the surface of the pond, and I realized how little of the world I understood.

I'm glad Adam asked the question. For the first time since I found myself wandering about in the liminal space I landed in after my camper van trip was derailed, my musings have direction. Can I become (more) aware of the limits of the pond? Can I begin to winnow my thoughts, to determine what comes from within, and what I swallowed along with the water?

I like these questions. Eventually, I may even come up with some answers. Who knows?

And Today Is??

I am three weeks into my six-week surgery recovery period. It didn't take long, without my daily routine to give structure to my days, for me to fall into the gray fog of limbo-land.

What day is today? Does it even matter? Let's look at the calendar of events. Hmmm. Walk the dog, morning and evening, and...  Ooh! Excitement! Today I go to the grocery store AND do laundry. Sure hope my energy will hold up! 

The sad part is that, many days, the above thrills do turn out to be about all I can handle. This surgery wasn't major. I am surprised at how much of my energy is still being directed to healing.

Doesn't help that, many nights, I haven't been sleeping well. I know exercise is a healthy addiction, but an addiction it is. And as with any addiction, cold turkey withdrawal can be brutal; my muscles start objecting in the middle of the night. It can take quite a while to get settled back down. It kinda sucks.

Lack of energy and poor rest have led to much brain fog. It frustrates me to have all this lovely free time on my hands, yet not be able to enjoy doing the things. Fortunately, I still have a couple more meals from the food fairies tucked away in the freezer - thaw and eat is much better than attempting to plan and cook.

Soon, I tell me. Soon, this, too, shall pass.

The good news part is, starting today, I got to go back to gentle easy stretchy yoga. The doc's office said I could and everything. I have a long list of restrictions, mostly centered around not using my chest muscles, i.e. no putting weight on my wrists, but that's OK - I've been doing classes long enough to know what alternative poses I can safely do. After this morning's class, my hips and thighs are definitely happier; here's hoping the effects last through the night.

It's already getting harder for me to follow the no-more-than-10-lbs rule. My chest doesn't hurt much at all, and without pain as a reminder, I keep forgetting I'm not allowed to do stuff. *sigh*

I am grateful I get to stretch, because the lymph cords have returned. Those things hurt. At least, this time, as long as I avoid a healing incision or two, I'm allowed to poke and stretch the cords. I hope early intervention will keep them from becoming lingering nuisances, like they did last winter. We shall see.

In the meantime, the world moves on. The sunlight has regained its energy, leaving behind the pallid light of winter. The days are long, the flowers are blooming.

And, this time, *GodWillin'AndTheCrickDon'tRise*, when I get better, I get to stay better. I hope. For a while, at least. 

One step at a time.

Surgery Aftermath

I've made great strides in recovery this past week. The Food Fairies made sure I didn't need to worry about coming up with something to eat for dinner each night, so all I had to do was work on healing.

The first few days home, I walked Sylvester around just one block - and even that was a stretch for my sore legs. Wednesday, I decided it was time to live a little closer to the edge, and walked him around two (!!2!!) blocks. I was exhausted when I got home, but no more sore, so I counted it as a win. Friday, we went back to our normal half-mile morning and evening walks, with the same results. The effort wears me out, but doesn't make things hurt.

You can tell how exciting my week has been, because those are the high points.

They tell me it takes energy to heal, and at this point, I believe them. I have all the energy reserves of a sidewalk puddle in the sunlight. 

Still, I grow weary of being weary. I gave it a WHOLE WEEK! You'd think I'd be better by now!

Only gentle exercises can be done - no sweating allowed - for another week. Then, I'm hoping I can talk the docs into letting me go back to some gentle yoga classes. I am growing restless and I miss seeing people. 

It'll be two weeks after that before I'm going to be able to ease back into my regular workout routine. Sure would hate to go through all this pain only to mess up the doc's good work with my impatience. (From his notes he found several spots carrying a "heavy scar burden", and took out the tissue. His words give me hope - perhaps my shoulder will give me much less trouble going forward.)

To keep myself busy, I've been doing some low-energy projects. The flower beds are cleared of the baby weeds it takes little effort to pull. I actually enjoyed this part - sitting quietly in the cool air, digging my fingers into the dirt, thinking not much of anything at all. 

I've also been taking baby steps on some long-procrastinated-on, but low-energy projects. All right, team! Ready to clear out old files? You know I'll be happier (or, at least better organized) if I get some of this stuff done! True, but, *sigh*

Clearly, it's time to take some drastic measures. Puzzles and Prosecco (minus the prosecco - alcohol and healing are not bosom companions), here I come! 

One step at a time.

Revision Surgery

Once December came, and they cleared me to move after October's DIEP flap surgery, I started working hard to get myself in shape for the revision surgery to come. 

The surgeon did a great job creating my new belly boobs, but like sanding sheetrock, you can only do so much in one pass, even with the best tools. For optimal results, you have to let things sit a bit, then come back with a final layer of plaster and one final sanding.

While my body was sitting and knitting, I was working hard with a team of therapists (acupuncture, Feldenkrais, massage, lymph massage and fascia release) to loosen up what scar tissue I could. I likened my efforts to tidying up the playroom before the housekeeper arrives - if they don't have to spend their time tidying up the toys I could have cleaned up without them, they can spend more time actually getting the corners clean!

My therapists did a great job - with their help, over the next three months, I completely regained range of motion in my right shoulder, got a lot of scar tissue loosened, and figured out how to minimize the effects of the lymphedema on my chest wall. (The issues were caused during my radiation journey - it did a number on my innards.) When I finally got in to see the surgeon a few weeks ago, he gave me an A+ on my rehab efforts. He thanked me for giving him a good slate to work with, then looked me over and came up with a sketch of a revision plan. 

Tuck this here, take out scar tissue there and there and there, even out this profile. Ready? Ready!

I was less than happy when they called the night before the operation and switched my surgery from morning to afternoon. I tried to take it like an adult, but failed miserably. Surgery scares me. Afternoon surgeries add a level of anxiety because I don't function well when dehydrated. Friday afternoon surgeries add yet another layer - because everyone, including me, is worn slick by then. 

After I hung up the phone, I cleaned the house and worked in the yard and washed the dog and cleaned out the car - everything I could think of to help dissipate the cloud of nervous energy surrounding me. I managed to empty the energy tank enough to climb into bed around 11, where I stared at the ceiling in tears and frustration for a long while. (As long as the surgeon got some sleep, I knew it didn't matter if I did.)

By the time morning came, I'd run out of resistance. I couldn't sleep, so got up and resignedly piddled around the house, whiling away time until it was time to leave. I'd just poured myself the allowed cup of coffee when the hospital called. Could I come in early? They'd had an opening pop up in their schedule. 

Could I? I could! I excitedly dumped the coffee and ran.

I called my ride, Lisa, who dropped everything to come bring me in; we got there 30 minutes after they called. I checked in with high hopes, then we waited. And we waited and we waited. My hopes dwindled, my grumpiness levels climbed. Three hours we waited, until they called me back at the original check-in time. 

I have no idea what got messed up where; they didn't tell me. I've come to the conclusion the whole thing was a plot to keep me from getting my daily caffeine fix. It's the only logical answer.

Fortunately for me, that was the biggest glitch of the day; it was smooth sailing from there on out. (Though it'll be a hard sell to get me to agree to elective Friday surgery ever again. I had many questions the next morning, and the on-call team was impatient with my wish to not wait until Monday for answers. I decided their impatience was Not My Problem.)

The post-op crew got me stable enough to stand, and sent me home around dinnertime. Once I got there, and could collapse because people finally quit talking at me, I fell asleep on the sofa until I woke at bedtime. (Lisa and Joe rightfully didn't trust me to be stable, so they tag-teamed the evening. Lisa spent the night, just to make sure I'd be OK.) Still dizzy when I woke from my nap, I crawled my way up the stairs to bed, where I re-collapsed and was cradled peacefully in the arms of the good drugs until morning. 

I woke up feeling MUCH better. I was a bit concerned by my continued light-headedness, but then it occurred to me I'd gone a good 36 hours without food. You think? Sure enough, a bowl of oatmeal and my too-long-delayed coffee had me feeling better in no time once I stumbled down to the kitchen.

Two days later, I'm on the mend; these are not deep wounds. I'm tapering off the heavy-duty painkillers today; the aches are, thankfully, receding quickly.

I'm not allowed to move enough to sweat for the next two weeks; I need to avoid most exercise for four. We all know I am NOT GOOD at remaining still. Since it looks like I will not be in pain, I can see this becoming a problem. I laid in some books and a jigsaw puzzle to help tide me over. Surely I have some other hobbies I can dust off and dig into.  

Wish me luck!

Yoga Church

My favorite yoga teacher, Jordan, has a gift of teaching class in such a way that I leave refreshed in mind, body and spirit; I've long thought of her classes as yoga church. Earlier this year, she started leading actual yoga church once a month. (She calls it that and everything.) I've been wanting to go, but have been out of town; was finally able to make it to yesterday's meeting. 

We started with a meditation on compassion, which, sadly, I can remember very little of because that's how meditation works when you're me. I do know I loved the message, which mostly bypassed my brain to settle into my heart: Be kind to yourself. Be kind to those you love, even and especially when the relationship is struggling.

By the time she'd finished speaking, I just wanted to stay in my peaceful place there on the floor. And she would have been ok with that. But asana also called, so I joined in the next hour or so of gentle flowing movement, the kind which eases the aches in my joints without my body having to work very hard. It allowed my body to join my mind in the peaceful place. 

We finished church by gathering in a circle to raise our voices in melody. Christine took over leadership; she first taught us a simple melody, then ways to harmonize with the melody. Far from the structured hymns of the formal church services I'm used to, we were free to sing any part we wanted - or none - or any other note that followed the harmony. The sound flowed, organic and free, until it was complete.

One of the songs comes from an ancient Hawaiian tradition seeking forgiveness and reconciliation. The melody escaped my memory, but the words remain. 

Ho'oponopono: 

I'm sorry.
Please forgive me.
Thank you.
I love you.

The chant hung heavy in the air, and also floated free. Weaving a pattern, inside and outside my heart; touching my yearning to heal. To heal my relationship with myself. To heal my relationship with those I love, have loved; my soul sent out a beacon of hope beyond hope - may they hear my prayer, my wish to set things right.

Amen.

Counting Sheep

I've been fighting fatigue for a long time; it's gotten predictably worse since I started taking aromatase inhibitors last year. (They purposely stop my body from using the estrogen it produces, which makes more of a difference than I'd think, given I'm several years past menopause).

So, I was heartened, rather than dismayed, when the results of my recent sleep study test came back showing I have mild sleep apnea. Finally, something, anything, which might be able to be fixed!

Now, I've known I shouldn't sleep on my back for the past decade, since my first sleep test. They wired me up, watched me try to sleep in the lab, then told me not to sleep on my back anymore because I was having trouble breathing there.

And so, for the last decade, when the question came up, I answered that yes, I'm aware I have trouble breathing when sleeping on my back, and no, I no longer sleep there. The recent test, done in the comfort of my own bed, made a liar out of me. Turns out, I do sleep on my back. 31% of the time, the night in question. So much for those delusions of control. Hmph.

Clearly, my sleeping position is on the list of things I cannot control, and I decided to follow up on the sleep specialist's recommendation to get help. In the written summary, she said one of those dental appliances would be a good option, so I called their office to make an appointment so I could find out what I need to do to get one. They're a bit backed up, but gave me their first available opening, in May. 

Of 2027. *sigh*

I'm thinking waiting a year won't be helpful, so I called my dentist's office to see if he makes the appliances. He does, but insurance needs pre-authorization and a prescription before they'll help with the cost. (These appliances are not cheap, so having help with the cost IS my preferred route.)

I turned back to the cardiologist's office to see if they could write the prescription. Nope, but my PCP should be willing to help. So, I called my PCP. Nope, the cardiologist ordered the test, the cardiologist needs to follow up. Neither is willing to budge. 

I'm beginning to think these doctors don't actually care about my health, because they gave me no useful guidance; just kept tossing the hot potato. (Is this supposed to be this hard??? I'm beginning to think I'm doing something wrong!)

Frustrated, I called my insurance company again. They said the dentist can PROBABLY file the paperwork for the pre-auth, depending on what the doctor's notes on the sleep study say. I crossed my fingers, and sent his office (what I think is) all the required documentation this morning. Here's hoping.

In the meantime, I've been turning myself into a pillow sandwich at night, which, since there's a wall in the way, lessens the chance I will roll onto my back while deeply asleep. It's a bit hot and claustrophobic but I've been waking up fewer times during the night, so I think I'm onto something. 

One step at a time.

Happy Easter!

Alleluia! 

As happens more and more lately, especially around holidays, I am struck by the many versions of myself living within.

There is the child, thrilled by the chance to eat lots of candy and look for eggs and wear a pretty spring dress. The church songs on Easter were happy ones - they tried to kill Jesus, but it didn't work, and he came back to show us "The Way To The Father".

There is the teenager and college student, going to church mostly out of habit, buying my own chocolate rabbit and jelly beans. I found the ritual of mass comforting, echoes of a time when I trusted the world to take care of me.

There is the young mother, working to pass the story of death and resurrection to her children, right there along with the eggs and the chocolate and the Easter Bunny; the happy mass and the pretty clothing.

There is choir-member me, immersed in the beauty of the Triduum - the three long services commemorating the Passion of Christ. The music lingers in my soul. On Holy Thursday, Jesus implores God to let this cup pass from him; asking his people to stay with him to pray. On Good Friday, stark and barren, death and darkness loom - Jesus is broken on the cross. On Holy Saturday, we sing songs telling us death is not the end. Jesus has risen, triumphant!

I heard echoes of these three days a lot last year, as I traveled again down cancer's scary road.

There is post-camper van me. The version of me who believes the arc of the story, but not the literal words. There are days when I miss the certainty of my childhood faith. I wish I could lean on it as I once did, trusting in The Way.

And.

The current version of me knows only that there is much I don't know, and a few things I do.

I know last year would have been SO much harder without my people. I know that sometimes, for some people; this time, for me; death and darkness back away and we are given more todays to live. I know that sometimes, for some people, death comes and they go ...  away. Their leaving leaves holes in the fabric of my life.

I know when spring comes, and the flowers come back to grace my garden, the leaves to feed the trees, my heart believes in resurrection and redemption; in the chance to grow anew.

Alleluia!

No Kings!

I wasn't sure what had me leaving the house last Saturday just after noon to join the No Kings Rally down near the Plaza. I had plenty of excuses not to go. Since I hadn't made plans to meet anyone there, no one would miss me if I didn't show up, and I was already tired from my earlier exercise class. Besides, I was already late - the rally was half over.

But the voice in my head wouldn't quiet down, so I got my keister out of my chair, put on some sunscreen, and walked out the door and down to the rally.

The weather was perfect; the crowd filled a good portion of the park and lined the nearby sidewalks. There was almost a carnival atmosphere; the people watching was fascinating. People had put a LOT of thought and work into their signs. Some words were just angry, but most displayed the sort of barbed humor I like. 

I made my way about halfway through the park to the edge of the crowd, then sat down to give my feet a rest and took a look around. While the crowd leaned heavily to the side of older, white-skinned folk, like myself, there were also a lot of younger adults. A few teens, very few children. I saw no counter-protesters, which didn't really surprise me - though Missouri leans red, I live in the middle of a blue bubble.

There was a tent with a speaker off to my left. I couldn't quite make out what they were saying - but the chants from those in the crowd better positioned to hear than I assured me I agreed with the gist of what was being said. I saw no need to give up my vantage point to hear the actual words. 

In front of the platform was a line of putative handmaids, dressed in their trademark red dresses with white bonnets. Even though I knew they were free to remove their costumes, I found the sight chilling. The story spooked me back when I first read it, and still does today. 

Even separate from the crowd as I was, I was glad I came. Everyone there had many choices of ways to spend their time, and chose this one. It was good for me to be there; to see I have so much company when I say, 'there is a better way.' 

I joined the crowd when the time came to march around the Plaza, but slipped out and turned aside when I came to the street which would take me home. I was tiring quickly, my stamina is still not back where I'd like it to be.

While part of me still thinks marches like these are not good for much except creating a bunch of noise, another part of me begs to differ. There was a LOT of restless energy in the air - I can only hope someone will find a way to harness and direct it for good. 

I do hope.

Celebrate Anyways

My birthday was last week. I was in California as the day approached, and Kate asked me how I'd like to celebrate. One would think this is an easy question, but it stopped me short. I started crying. I realized how deeply I am grieving the many days these last two years I lost to cancer treatments - mine and Kate's.

I didn't have it in me to want to celebrate the passing of that particular set of days.

And.

As I pondered my reaction to her simple question, I realized that, even though I couldn't quite find it in me to celebrate this birthday, I DID want to BE celebrated. 

I wanted my people to tell me they are glad I am still here. I wanted to hear they saw my struggles last year and cried with me. I wanted to hear my continued presence in this life matters to them. (I did know this already, but needed to hear it again.)

Somehow, my people heard my wish.

I was still in the midst of figuring out all the above when my phone dinged. Diane and Gary wondered, "Would I like to join them for a happy hour celebration the day of my birthday, once I got home?" Yes. Yes, I would.

Before I left California, my family there celebrated me with candles and my favorite ice cream and some pie (instead of cake. because, Pi Day!) As they sang the familiar birthday song, tears came to my eyes, triggered by the love I saw reflected in theirs.

I flew home Sunday, and my body was still figuring out time zones when the doorbell rang on Monday. It was Karlie. "Here, I brought you flowers! I don't have free time today, and wanted to help you celebrate."

Happy hour later that evening was filled with warm kindness and delicious food. I came home to find Joe and his family had stopped by with cake while I was out and left it in my fridge. (They came back the next day to help me eat it...)

All day, my phone pinged with messages from people wishing me a Happy Birthday.

A package of chocolates arrived from Jane, one of my oldest friends, with a note telling me that even though I'm not 64 any more, she still needs me and is happy to feed me next time she sees me.

And so I start another year of life with my grief gently eased a bit.

Knowing tomorrows are not guaranteed. 

Knowing I am loved today.

Wedding!

Kate and Edwin met shortly after they started working together some eight, nine years ago. There was a definite spark, and after a while, they decided to see if the spark could be ignited into a flame.

It could. Oh, yes, it could ignite. But there were irreconcilable differences, and so after a time they broke up.

then the spark. then the differences. repeat.

I called them the reluctant couple.

Several years ago now, they decided it was time to put up or shut up, so gave it a more serious try. They went to counseling to see if their differences could possibly be worked through, and did the work to meet on common ground. 

He moved in three-ish years ago - has provided amazing support as she's grappled with cancer a second time. They've been getting along well. 

One of their points of agreement was that they saw no need to formalize their relationship with a wedding. They showed their commitment to one another in other ways.

Then, in early February, Kate lost her job. She needs to have decent health insurance, and this tipped the balance - they decided to get married (!!!) so she could join his plan. The catch was that the wedding needed to happen soon, before she officially went off payroll.

They wanted to get married at the Santa Barbara courthouse - because it's pretty - and three weeks ago, Kate found an open slot where someone had canceled for last week. Planning went into high gear. 

They had a bit over two weeks to pull it together, and pull it together they did. They found rings. Kate tried on about a thousand dresses; managed to find the right one. Edwin went to one store and found a coordinating shirt. (That's how things work in this world.) They gathered a few family members to celebrate with them, and made reservations for dinner after the ceremony. (Numbers were limited both by courthouse rules and the short notice.)

The ceremony was short and sweet and beautiful. They looked SO happy as they said their vows. 

I cried. Of course, I cried. 

Love Is.

Spring!

The weather has been a bit schizophrenic around here these past few weeks; temps have ranged from the upper teens to the upper sixties - once, all in one day. I was still in winter mode, but then walked outside a couple of days ago, looked up - and then smiled, inside and out.

My favorite couple of weeks of the year are here! It came!

If you look casually, the trees are still bare, resources pulled within to withstand the winter weather. But a closer look shows Someone has taken a smudge stick to the tips of the branches, blurring their crisp edges. The leaves are *just* beginning to unfurl. In the sunlight, I can see a faint halo of green on some of the trees. 

It's Spring! (The calendar will catch up soon. It always does.)

On the heels of the arrival of Spring comes my birthday, and I'm a bit sad about it this year.

Last year, just before I turned 64, I had the Beatles on repeat. I was ready to embrace the moment, ready to send myself Valentines and bring me boxes of chocolate and bottles of wine. As it turns out, I did my best, but cancer kept knocking me down, and I didn't get to have nearly as much fun with it as I'd hoped I would. And now, time has again done the thing time does, and the moment has passed.

*sigh*

When I'm sixty-five just doesn't have the same rhythm.

*sigh*

And.

Here I am. Well enough to pout about missing out on so much fun last year. Well enough to get out and notice the changing of the season. 

Well enough to stand up one more time, brush off my backside, and begin to take some steps without cancer treatments looming on the horizon. (OK, there's one more surgery, but it's a little one and shouldn't set me back much at all.)

Maybe (maybe?) this will be the year for chocolates and wine. Maybe I will have time to celebrate in gratitude for the days past - both those which brought good memories and those which brought me learning experiences. And (no guarantees, of course) maybe I'll get more todays to live. I can hope.

Happy Spring!

And

Last week, the news scared me. We are at war in the Middle East? Didn't we learn anything last time we tried this?

And

Last week we had a taste of spring. The highs were in the upper 50s and lower 60s, the sun peeping through the clouds to say, 'Daylight is returning! Spring will come!'

Recently, I've struggled to get out of bed. I find it depressing when I sleep tolerably well, and wake up with my joints aching, surrounded by a miasma of fatigue - a side effect of the medication I need to take for as long as I can tolerate it. Argh!

And

Recently, I've been religious about sticking with my exercise schedule, which is heavily weighted towards yoga classes. While I start most classes tired and achy, somewhere in the middle of the session magic almost always happens, and by the time it's over, movement has relieved most of the aches, the fatigue has ebbed a bit.

It seems it is my season to work to hold competing truths.

And.
Both are true.

I've spent a good portion of my life using the word 'but' instead of 'and.
It's spring, but the news is scary. I'm achy, but yoga helps.
'But' negates one part or the other of my truth. 
'And' says to me, 'Yup. Suckiness and loveliness are co-existing in your days.'

I'm working to do things differently this round. By working to hold these competing truths, I avoid veering into either deep pessimism or false cheer. Cancer is complex. Life is complex. 

Turns out black and white are mostly only good for line drawings. Depth requires shades of gray.

And it is in the depth of life where I am finding beauty. The beauty of grit and resilience and healing.

The reminder that today is precious. Today is the only day I have.

I am here!

Trading Places

There was a time in my life when I was a grass-is-greener kinda gal. I'd look at my life, then look around at what I could see of other people's lives, and wish I could trade places. Their problems looked smaller than mine, their gifts greater than the portion I was given.

As I've gotten older, and my world has gotten larger, I've changed my mind.

Somewhere along the line, I started to listen to people's stories. I found that having the money and the job and the house and the car suddenly didn't matter when their child fell ill, when her husband was badly injured in an accident, when the surgery went wrong and she woke up to find she would never walk again, when their son committed suicide, when the lump came back as cancerous.

Money helps, don't get me wrong, but it can't buy health or joy or friends or love. It can't buy peace of mind or bring purpose to life. It doesn't stop trouble from knocking at the door.

It amazes past-me to know this, but I've not yet met a single person with whom I'd trade lives once I listened to their stories.

It turns out the gifts and problems I've been given have been the right ones for me. I am one of the luckiest people in the world, because I've been given enough. Each time I've stumbled into a heap of trouble, I've found I have also been given just enough gifts to find my balance (eventually) and make it through to the other side. (so far.)

The grass right underneath my feet is as green as it gets. 

Who'd'a thunk it?

Happy 14th Cancaversary to Me!

Last year, my cancer came back. I wasn't shocked; even though it's been over a decade. At some level I'd been afraid of this all along. The part of the recurrence I hadn't expected was that I would ever again be NED - that there would be No Evidence of Disease. It was not an easy journey, yet, here I am. NED. So grateful to have more todays.

This year, Kate and I celebrated our anniversary together at a yoga healing retreat in Chelem, Mexico, along with my niece, Juliann. I wasn't sure what to expect when I set up the adventure with Carol, my fascia release therapist, who has a second home there, and that's probably a good thing. It was lovely to be able to let go and take each day as it came.

We started each morning at 7:30 with yoga on the terrace, followed by a leisurely breakfast, then a session of bodywork for each of us. The closest I can come to describing fascia release work is a targeted deep tissue massage. She finds the spots where I'm out of alignment or achy or stuck, and works on the connective tissue there to persuade it it's safe to let go and move again. Usually, when I see her, I just pop in to get my problem hip realigned. To have five treatments in a row, to be able to work on parts of my body in sequence, was a treat. She couldn't fix all the things in a week, but she did manage to get my hip and shoulders speaking more kindly to each other and to me - no small gift.

That breakfast I just breezed past deserves a closer look. Carol had hired Connie, who runs a restaurant in Michigan during the summer, to provide our meals. I did expect we'd get good food, but hadn't dreamed of the curated, plated, delicious works of art placed before me three times a day, each day we were there. No having to decide what to eat. No cooking, no cleanup. I felt coddled in a way I haven't since my teens, when Mom got sick and I was designated the new family cook. Delightful.

We spent our afternoons leisurely; reading and catching up on each other's lives. It's been too long since we'd been in one place and I treasured the chance to have deep conversations. 

Dinner was followed closely by bedtime. Turns out part of healing is a need to sleep; to give my body a chance to reknit its raveled core. I slept deeply, awakening each morning to the dawn bird chorus. "Wake up! Another day has come!"

We took a day in the middle of the week for a field trip to the Mayan ruins at Uxmal, with a stop at a cenote on the way home.

The ruins were awe-inspiring. I tried to catch a sense of the people who built the structures without benefit of modern heavy equipment, but there were a few too many tourists milling about, so I contented myself with walking about and marveling at the weight of history. Nothing in the US is so ancient.

I'd not heard of cenotes before this trip - they are natural groundwater-filled sinkholes in the limestone. The Mayans considered them to be holy places, and after getting to swim in one, I am in full agreement. We parked in the dusty heat, got out of the car, and walked over to an undistinguished hole in the ground; the only notable feature, a sturdy staircase heading down into the depths. The descent was a bit intimidating, but we didn't let that stop us from gingerly making our way down to the water. 

It took me a bit to ease my way in (brrr!!!), but once I got there, it was magical. The sun streamed down through the hole in the roof of the cave, its light turning to a milky green as it penetrated to the bottom of the clear pool of water. Along two edges of the cave roof, nature had created wavy pleats in the rock, framing the picture. In the central portion of the cave, a number of long stalactites reached to touch the water. (I could have reached up to touch a couple of them, but it seemed wrong to disturb their growth.) Such beauty.

The trip was a time away from time, time away from my daily cares and worries. It was a chance to step back and look back along the difficult road I walked last year. A chance to pat myself on the back because I managed to keep taking one more step, and together, those steps have carried me through and beyond the worst parts of treatment (for now. no guarantees.) and onto a road where I have begun to heal.

Stop. Breathe. Relax.

Yes.

We Are Here!

Kate, Juliann and I have been planning a trip to Mexico for a yoga healing retreat for several months. We could all use a break from our real lives.

Even as our travel date, last Saturday, approached, I was having a hard time believing we’d really get to pull it off. When the trip hadn’t been canceled by Friday, I went ahead and packed. When no winter storm arrived to bollux things up, I got up at god-thirty and to the airport in good time Saturday morning.

My trip to Dallas was uneventful, as was Juliann’s, but Kate’s plane had a couple of maintenance issues, and was delayed for two hours. Which happened to be the exact time allotted for her layover. 

Thanks to the miracle of modern WiFi, we were able to keep in touch through the delay. When we realized she was likely to miss the second flight by less than fifteen minutes, I just about cried. So close, yet so far away.

I went up to the gate agent, showed her the string of texts and the flight status to plead my case. “Please? Can the flight be held for just these few minutes?” “Sorry, no, we can’t hold the flight for one person. But I will hold the gate open for an extra five minutes, just in case she can get here.” The agent had done what she could.

With heavy hearts, Juliann and I boarded the plane. Kate’s flight was on the ground, but they wouldn’t let her deplane early. With the added delay to get off the plane, there was no way she’d be able to get through the terminal on time. I went to the flight attendants, to see if they could tell me when they thought Kate would be able to catch up with us. (American has just one flight to Merida each day, and Sunday’s flight was not available for booking; it was full.) They looked at me sympathetically, and said the airline would do what they could to get her on the flight; offer cash to someone willing to be bumped.

But she was so close!!!!!

I sadly returned to my seat, and tried to find the silver lining in all this. She’s been under a lot of stress and is quite tired. Perhaps a night in Dallas to rest wouldn’t be the end of the world. My logical brain was not wrong, but my heart was still on the floor. So close!!!

The gate agent was true to her world; it was just five minutes before we were scheduled to take off before the door closed. Experience tells me that once that door is closed, that’s it. You’re not going to be allowed to get on the airplane. *sigh*

I let Kate, who had almost reached the front of her plane, know. “The door is closed. It’s too late. Please let us know when you know what the airline will do to help you get the rest of the way to Mexico.” I leaned back, closed my eyes, and a few of those tears leaked out.

Then, then. The travel gods saw my tears, heard my prayer, and took pity on me.

On came an announcement from the flight deck. It seems five of Kate’s fellow passengers were also supposed to be on our flight, and they were going to reopen the door. 

???What??? !! ???? 

My heart jumped from the floor to somewhere near my throat. I texted Kate the news, told her to RUN! With my phone gripped as some sort of magic talisman between my folded hands, I stared at the entrance to the aircraft. I don’t know to Whom I directed my prayers, but pray I did, with all my might. I kept my gaze fixed on the doorway for a small eternity, willing her to arrive.

Then magic happened. The tip of her pink carry-on suitcase appeared in my view, and she followed it around the corner. It was her! It was really her! All the fear and frustration of this past year of cancer-dictated separation came bubbling up, spilled out my eyes, then rolled down my face and into the ether.

I jumped out of my seat with joy, and held her closely as the tears continued to fall. We stood there for a long minute, laughing through our tears, letting the moment become real.

She is here. I am here. We are here!

So Much Fear

I know I have a lot of company when I say I wish the news this past month was fake. But it's all too real.

I can get on the bandwagon of those who want to deport imported criminals, don't get me wrong.

But. Not this way. Not using these tactics. Not with this sort of intentional damage to the innocent.

Our people, with the blessings of our government, are carrying combat weapons and absconding with legal immigrants who have done nothing illegal.

Our people, with the blessings of our government, are carrying combat weapons and shooting our people.

I read comments that say, 'but they should have listened." When did execution become an acceptable reaction to "s/he didn't listen to me????"

I saw the photos of the adorable little Liam in his bunny hat. When did our government start to arrest children?  CHILDREN!!!! and use them as bait? It is NOT OK to harm the children!!!! We used to know this.

I cry, and I wonder, "Is this who we have become?" I am afraid, very afraid.

Then I follow the advice of Mr. Rogers' mother, and look for the helpers. I read the stories of the people of my home state, Minnesota, and their protests. And it helps, it helps just a little.

They are standing together, protecting their neighbors. By their actions, they are saying, "No. This is not who we have become."

I am so proud of them. 

Last week, I was wearing the same Minnesota sweatshirt I've worn for (literally) twenty years. This is the first time it was a political statement; one I was happy to make. 

I'm not sure where I direct my prayers these days, but I haven't let that stop me from praying with all my might. 

Please. Make the madness stop. ??Please??

Mystery Socks

A week ago Saturday, when I poked my head out the door to get the mail, I saw a package sitting on my doorstep. All of my Christmas purchases and people have been accounted for, so my first thought was that it was a mis-delivered item; a something intended to land with one of my neighbors.

I picked it up, and peered at the address label. Nope, it was addressed to me. Puzzled, a little excited inside because I love surprise presents, I took the bag in the house and slit it open.

Inside, I found three lovely pairs of alpaca wool socks. In my size. (My feet are a little longer than the average bear's, and one-size-fits-most often doesn't.) Clearly, whoever sent the gift knows me and my weakness for soft wool. Pleased, I looked inside the bag for the shipping slip which would tell me who had sent such a lovely surprise.

There was nothing in the bag but the socks.

The return address label was no help, it just showed the address of the shipper.

I called the first four most likely suspects. No, they hadn't sent me anything.

Still puzzled, I left the socks on the table for a few days. I smiled every time I walked by. Here I had visible proof that somebody loves me. I figured someone would contact me to see if their package had arrived, but, crickets.

I eventually took the socks upstairs and happily wore them, their warmth and softness providing an all-day hug for my toes.

A week later, I've still not heard anything from anyone about the gift. ???? 

I thought about contacting the company to see if they'd tell me who placed the order, but thought better of it. Once upon a time, I'm pretty sure they'd have been happy to assist, but in this age of scams and bots, such requests are out of line. 

I'll admit, I like the mystery; the not knowing who was so kind. It leaves an aura of love hovering in the room.

But. If whoever sent the socks thinks I know they sent them, they might be wondering if perhaps I have lost track of my manners. I hate to appear to be an ungrateful wretch.

If the person who sent the sock happens to read this, please know I am most grateful for your gift.

(It just now occurs to me I COULD contact the company and ask if they usually include a shipping receipt, and it was just left out of my box. I will do this later today.)

I am saddened, horrified, angered, and frightened by what I've read in the news this week. Is this really happening here? In my country?

The socks have provided much-needed counterbalance.

Good Is. Anyways.

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!