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!