Operation Do-Gooder: Update

blue skies!

I first wrote about KC - Kevin - last December, shortly after Libby died. He's homeless, but different from the other homeless guys I've met. He's sober and he reads.  Books.  Real books.

I tried to help him out by getting him a phone, but the experiment turned out to be a dud. He never did learn how to use it, and it eventually got lost, in one of his moves between shelters.

He spent much of the winter in a good place in Olathe, KS. There was a group of people there working to make a difference, and they had a temporary shelter set up in a gym while they worked on a permanent location.  Unfortunately, the permanent location fell through just as Kevin was getting his feet back under him, and back on the streets he went.

I've stayed in touch with him since he found his way back downtown in early spring. Since we started working from home last summer, I made a point to stop by the library on the days I was in the office. Sometimes, he'd not be there, but most days, I'd catch him. We'd sit and talk for thirty minutes or so each week.

It's tough to be long-term homeless. Since he's one of the old-timers, he gets shuffled to the bottom of the list a lot; shuffled right back out the door and onto the streets for the night. When this happens, and it happens regularly, he doesn't have a safe hole to retreat to and spends the night wandering the streets with his backpack and his rolling suitcase.

I haven't given up on helping him. As I've gotten to know him better, I've also gained an understanding of why getting him a phone wasn't enough; I know now why he is unable (not unwilling, unable) to make those daily phone calls.

I brought him to another of the social services agencies this past week - Catholic Charities this time. They made some calls and got him on the waiting list for one of their senior affordable housing units. (He's now old enough to qualify for those places...)

I've made a commitment to myself to make the follow up phone calls for him.  I'm going to call every few days (the plan is to call often enough to keep him on their radar screen, but not so often that I'm a pest...) to see where he is on the list. From what they said, it's a list, but a 2-3 month list, not a once-in-a-blue-moon list.

In the meantime, I've got him on the hunt for the documents he needs to get into the place once his name rises to the top. I hope he follows up.

winter is coming.
fingers crossed.

Ready, Set... (reprise)

Acadia Park, Maine

I have one more week left to work.

Last week, I bought a pair of flannel jammy pants and a pile of books. Retirement planning complete.

No?

No. I thought I was prepared, but it turns out that's not quite the case - I was not ready for the churning emotions I'd experience making this leap for the second time. As I did eight years ago, I'm leaving a perfectly good gig, only this time I really, really hope to never NEED to get a paying job again.  (I might do it, but only because I want to. I hope.)

These past few weeks I've found myself in full avoidance mode. I'm filling my days with work; evenings are spent painting the exterior of the house in a race against winter. I go to bed tired, but wake up most nights at about 2AM, my mind roiling with all sorts of doomsday scenarios. Turns out, if I set my imagination loose, that there are all sorts of ways for things to go wrong.

That's OK. I'm doing this anyways.

There are always more ways for things to go wrong than there are for them to go right. When I stop to think about it, I see miracles everyday in the way our bodies mostly don't break. Most days, I don't wake up to find I have cancer. My eyes, ears and fingers all still work. I can think. I can walk and make decisions and ask questions. Food goes in, my body miraculously turns it to the energy I need to make it through the day. Without thought, I breathe in. My capillaries know how to work with my lungs and my heart to trade carbon dioxide for oxygen - good thing, because I sure don't know how to do it. I breathe out.

I am a walking, talking, breathing example of things going right.

I suppose I'm back to the trust thing. (Somehow, my life keeps circling back to the trust thing.)

It's scary to trust, but I'm doing this anyways.

Along with all my fears, somewhere inside, my inner two year-old is stirring. She cares not at all for  doomsday scenarios. She remembers days of freedom, days spent working on the art of being, days spent seeing beautiful places. She remembers the freedom of not having each day tightly scheduled, time spent wandering where the road went.

She's thrilled to be awake again, ready to give this another shot.

She's ready, set...

Pause

I want to be like the bug in the picture.  I want to pause for a minute and enjoy the flower...

Pause

Pause before you speak and ask yourself, "what is truer than this"?
Pause before you act and ask yourself, "is this a response to this moment, or a reaction to the past"?
Pause before you eat and ask yourself, "will this make me feel more alive or less alive"?
Pause before you commit and ask yourself, "when things get tough, do I know how to stay"?
Pause before you leave and ask yourself, "am I running away because this is uncomfortable, yet calling me to grow, or am I going because it is simply time to go"?
Pause before you pause and ask yourself, "do I pause too much and is it holding me back from taking risks"?
Pause and search your field of consciousness for old patterns that no longer serve
Pause and savor the moment before a moment
Pause on the bridge between this and that
Pause where life can change
Pause where infinite possibilities lie

-- Coby Kazlowski

My daughter, Kate, had the above reflection posted above her kitchen sink for some years. In these past few weeks, Coby's invitation to pause for a moment beckons.

I want to pause in this moment between this and that. To pull to the side of the road while still on the bridge and climb out of the car. I want to look back at the roads I've traveled to get here, and be thankful for the gifts they've given me. (even the hard gifts. I'm trying to be thankful for those, too.)
I want to look forward to the paths of possibility and enjoy the view of the many options of roads to take in the miles I will soon travel.

I want to explore those paths a bit in my mind's eye. To see where this one crosses that, where that one looks good at the start, but could turn scary once it goes around the bend, and conversely, where this one starts out looking a little narrow and rocky, but is the only road that leads to the flower-filled meadow up ahead on the left.

I am trying to pause, and to savor this moment before a moment.
Infinite possibilities lie ahead.
How wonderful, how scary, is that????

Unknown plants

Since I first planted my butterfly garden five years ago, I've tried to plan what it will look like, and carefully select the flowers I want to grow there. My garden, however, seems to have some ideas of its own. It's my fault, of course. If I'd just pull all the plants I didn't plant as they sprouted, the reality of the garden would come closer to matching the ideal in my head.

But nature plants some interesting things. This year, the entire front half of the garden has been taken over by what is surely a weed. (aka a plant growing where it is not wanted). Its spread has been prolific, but its flowers are beautiful. They open to the morning sun, drinking in its rays, but in the heat of the afternoon, the bloom close tightly, trying to escape from the relentless heat. I can relate.

In the center of the garden is a something with large vaguely-squash-looking leaves. I have no idea what it might be. Just this last week, it started to send up a flower shoot. Maybe, before the end of fall, it'll bloom.

All things in their own time.

Baby Joe was thriving in the NICU, so they sent him home well before his due date. His parents are, of course, thrilled to have him home.

Rita-Marie spends her days caring for him, and wondering how it can be that the entire day is gone and all she's managed to do besides feed the baby is to grab a nap and to start (not finish) a load of laundry. (Hers is a common experience, I assured her - I remember those days.)

Big Joe is still in full-out nesting mode. He's determined to get done the things he wanted to get done before the baby's due date, and by golly, he's going to get there. The minor fact the baby is on the outside of his mother's womb instead of inside where he still belongs hasn't changed his instincts a bit. 

They are learning how to live as a family of three. (seven?)

Cricket, their dog, is fascinated by the new hairless puppy, and makes sure to alert Mom and Dad if he cries even a little and they don't jump up to see what's going on. Fortunately for all, the baby is of the mellow variety, and doesn't often scream. (At least, not yet.) 

The cats sniffed politely, and have decided he's neither good to eat nor likely to feed or pet them, so they're ignoring him.

And so their household resembles my garden. Some parts were planted on purpose, some joined as strays, all are learning to live together. It's not as tidy when it grows that way, but it has a beauty that can't be found in neatly ordered rows.  

Good Is.

Retirement, Version II

Cancer, mine, and that of those I love, has honed my desire to live the days I have. And so, I'm going to retire again next month. Nothing against the job I have now, but I no longer want to spend whatever days I am yet to be given looking at screens.

I turned in my notice last week, and instantly panicked. There is a part of my gut that's convinced retirement causes cancer. After all, that's what happened the last time. (as if somehow, if I only kept working, I'd live forever?)

The fear has been surprisingly strong. I've been ignoring it, to the point where my skin has broken out in rashes to make sure I understand the fear is there.

I understand.

But I've traveled a challenging road since I was first forced to take a detour on my camper van trip. I have learned fear will always be there - but to look beyond its dark whispering to see the beauty that Is, even on the darkest of days.

And so I'm retiring again, anyways.

My road has taken so many twists and turns while I was on my detour, I no longer know if there's another camper van trip on the map. (It'll have to wait at least a year if it's going to come back into the path of my journey.)

In the meantime, I'll be baby-watching through much of the winter; those days will fly quickly by. I have no definitive plans for my days once he moves on to regular day-care, and I've decided I don't necessarily need them. I'm trying to pause in this liminal space. To listen and just be, instead of trying to plot the path ahead.

After all - when I jumped into the camper van the first time, I had no clear map of where I wanted to go. No plans, no agenda other than to try to refresh my weary mind, body and soul. My next destination was guided only a vague sense of the direction I was going, and by the desire to see more beautiful places. It worked well enough that I'm ready to try it again.

I have three weeks yet to work. Somewhere, underneath my fear, my long neglected inner two year-old is beginning to stir.

Free???  FREE!!!!!

Soon, my dear, soon.

Class Reunion

My mumbletyth class reunion was this past weekend. As the date approached, I had sixty-three good reasons not to go. I was going to skip it this round, but then I looked at the list of people who'd already RSVP'd.

Sandy Kincaid's name jumped out at me.

For years, I've wondered what happened to her. In those first tentative days, back in 7th grade, we'd started to become friends. But then, she became the target of the class bullies. Her sin? Growing from four foot nothing to 5'8 in about six months, and developing a full woman's chest along the way.

I'm ashamed to say I backed away from her when the others started to torment her. I'd come out of a school where I was bullied myself, and had hoped to be able to get lost in the new school, which is a large, regional, junior high school.

And then - my memory blanks out. My mom died when I was in high school, and there's a large swath of time where I have few memories. Except for a few stutters, my memory paused shortly after the start of seventh grade, and picks up again partway through my senior year. (I presume it's a form of PTSD.)

Sandy has drifted in and out of my musings for years. I hoped I'd just backed away. Surely, I hadn't joined in the teasing, in a vain attempt to move the gaze of the bullies on from myself. Had I? (If I had joined in, trying to avoid her fate, it hadn't worked. Turned out they could pick on more than one kid at once.)

I've wanted to know the answer to that question for years, wanted to believe I had been kind. I'd even tried to track her down on Facebook once upon a time, but hadn't had any luck. Seeing her name on the reunion list, I added my own. It was time and past time to get my question answered.

I got to the event shortly after it started. Within five minutes, Sandy and her husband walked in the door. I hadn't seen her since graduation, but I knew her face in an instant; confirmed my knowledge with a glance at her name tag. (The event organizers created the name tags with their audience in mind - the font on the tags was big enough to read without having to pull out reading glasses. I wasn't the only one grateful to them for their foresight and thoughtfulness.)

I gathered my courage, walked up to her, and told her she was the main reason I'd come to the reunion. Much to my relief, she looked up, greeted me with a big smile, turned, and introduced me to her husband as a long-ago friend.

** whew **

We chatted of our current lives for a bit; where we live, numbers and ages of children, what we'd done in the world of work. I then turned the conversation to those long-ago days. I told her of the holes in my memory, I asked her how long the 'teasing' had continued. I asked her if I'd ever joined in the catcalls.

Much to my relief, she promptly said, "No. You never joined in. You were never one of them. They kept it up for a while, but I steadfastly ignored them, and they eventually tired of me and found other, more reactive, targets." Once she said that, the mental picture returned - I can see her striding purposefully down the hallway, face flaming, but head held high, ignoring the taunts as they deserved to be ignored. I remembered we never became good friends, but it was mostly because we didn't share many classes, not because I'd dropped her cold.

I can't tell you how much better that made me feel. I may not have had the fortitude to stand up to her tormentors with her, but at least my sin was one of omission - I'd not committed the sin of joining in. We talked a bit more, then were pulled apart by the dance of the crowd.

I enjoyed the rest of the evening more than I'd anticipated. Turns out I've become the kind of person I wished I was back in the days when I was being ignored by the cool girls, back when I carried my own 'bully me' target with me through the halls.

I can walk into a room where I don't recognize anyone, introduce myself, start a conversation, and enjoy the interaction. I know which clothes are the right ones to wear - not too much, not too casual, and I know to pick comfortable outfits. Perhaps more importantly, I am comfortable in my own skin.

I talked to anyone whose name sounded vaguely familiar, and as the evening wore on, I found some of my memories returning. I caught up on the joys and sorrows of several old friends, I found smiles and welcome every way I turned. There were a few of those bullies there - I walked right past them, taking inordinate glee in noting they really had not aged well.

As the evening grew late, and my feet grew sore, I realized the conversations had soothed some raw spots I didn't know existed in my soul. As I said my goodbyes, I turned to look for Sandy one more time, but she'd already slipped out.

I am glad to know she's made a good life, found love, raised a great group of children.
I am greatly relieved to know I was one of the good spots in her life during those tough years.

Sixty-three good reasons not to go - I'm glad I listened to the voice telling me there was one good reason to show up.

Wait, Nana, Wait!

I'm trying so hard to be patient.

Baby Joe is still a NICU rockstar.

His IV is out, he's now getting all his nourishment from his feeding tube and the bottle.  (He's working on learning how to breastfeed - he's almost got the concept down, but doesn't have enough energy to sustain the feeding. All in good time...) He's still in the incubator, but each day, he does better at regulating his body temperature. He's graduated to wearing itty-bitty clothes.

I still haven't seen him again. I ALMOST made it out there last week while I was in the area for another appointment, but my stupid boss scheduled a stupid meeting, and so I had to run home. And then, and then! I got back to work to find he'd pushed the meeting back an hour. I had time to stop by the hospital after all! major disappointment.

But that's OK - I'll see him this weekend; there's plenty of room in my days to be able to spend some time with him. Even if I can't hold him - at the rate he's growing, it won't be too much longer. Another week or so. I can wait.

In the meantime, summer is moving on.

Already, the mornings are dark, the sun is gone by eight in the evening. We'll have a few more days of heat, but according to the forecast, cooler weather will be ours by the middle of next week.

I see the early signs of fall. The mint blooms are past, the stalks already turning a dusky green. In the last two weeks, I've started to see Monarchs on the bright orange and yellow flowers of the volunteer plants around the edges of the yard - the ones who are supposed to be in the butterfly garden, but have decided to, instead, grow where they want. The trees have not yet begun to turn colors, but I know it won't be long.

I am restless, as I have been each year since 2011, the fall of my camper van journey. My heart remembers, and yearns for the freedom of those unforgettable six months. (though, it can do without repeating the way it ended. I'm not ready to face cancer again; not sure I ever will be.)

But still.

My days are good. I love being able to work from home most days. With the time and frustration of my commute out of the picture, I actually have some energy at the end of my workday, and have slowly started to catch up on my household todo list.

OK - some days I work around the house. Some days, I sit on my porch swing and contemplate the state of my mini-kingdom, aka: the back yard.

I enjoy the beauty of the flowers; watch for the hummingbird who lives nearby to fly by for dinner. I review my day, try to suss out my plans for the day when my days will again be mine to schedule as I wish. I stop for a minute, remember to breathe.

Stop.  Breathe.  Relax.

I don't have to be in the camper van to remember the beauty of that lesson.

Grow, Baby, Grow!

Welcome, baby Joe!
19"  4 lbs  15 oz

The baby waited through Monday, but by Tuesday morning, it was clear he wasn't going to wait any longer. Rita's labor pains became steady, the baby was on his way!

They called me at noon to let me know they'd moved down the hall to the labor and delivery rooms. I was at work when they called, on my way down to lunch.  I reversed direction, packed up my toys and went home. Now I think back on it, I didn't even officially let the office know I was leaving.  Oh, well.

After a quick stop at home to grab my toothbrush, I was at the hospital by one.

I walked into the hospital room to find Rita looking tense, green. It seemed odd to me that she'd be in so much pain, since she wasn't that far along in labor, but I didn't spend much time on it - all labors are different. Shortly after I got there, they gave her an epidural to help with the pain, then checked to see how she was progressing. Fortunately for her pain levels, they didn't do it in the other order. If they had, she wouldn't have been given the epidural; she was too far along. She'd gone from 5 to 10 in just a couple of hours.

I wasn't going to need that toothbrush after all.

She gave me permission to stand where I could see all that was going on. I wish I could fix the next two hours as a detailed film in my permanent memory. As she pushed, I could see the baby's head crowning, then disappearing back inside. After about thirty minutes, she managed to push that little head past her pubic bone, the next few minutes were going to see that baby born.

At this point, we were still alone in the room with Taylor, the amazing and empathetic labor and delivery nurse. Her voice went up a good octave as she told Rita to stop pushing for now, and got on the phone to request the doctor and neonatal team in the room, stat.

It took them about three minutes to get there, and they got there none too soon. The next contraction after the doctor came into the room, his head popped out, followed immediately by the rest of his body.

He came out blue, but quickly started breathing and turned a healthy pink. They laid him on Rita's stomach just long enough to let Joe cut the cord, then whisked him away to the waiting baby warmer for evaluation. It wasn't long before the team over there started laughing and talking easily, dropping from high alert mode to routine care. He was breathing well on his own (not always a given for 32 week babies), and needed no supplemental oxygen. He was holding a decent core temperature. He was going to be just fine. They let Rita hold him for just a few minutes before taking him up to the NICU with his dad to do the rest of their tests.

Rita came home after two days, and is bouncing back quickly from the trials of the week, but baby Joe is still there. It'll be several weeks before he's big enough to come home. He currently knows how to suck, to swallow, and to breathe, but is still learning how to do all three at once.

It's Nana torture. I could go up there to see him, but I can't hold him until he graduates from the incubator to a crib. Which means, if he started crying when I was there, I'd have to stand there and just watch until the nurses found a moment to comfort him. I'm not strong enough for that. I'm not. I understand the reasons behind the rules, and agree with them, but will stay away until I can hold him in my arms. It's easier on my heart. It won't be too long - he's a NICU rock star, growing and learning and eating more each day.

I wish I could find better words to describe the wonder and beauty of the experience. It was an honor, a joy, a privilege to witness a liminal moment in the circle of life. For a moment - after he came out, and before he started breathing - I swear the Universe paused with us, sending him encouragement and warmth.

Grow, baby Joe, grow!!!!

Wait, Baby, Wait!

It's been a busy few weeks, and I've been away from home for the past three weekends in a row, but this past weekend promised a reprieve. I went to bed Friday night reveling in the thought of my blank weekend calendar, looking forward to having some time to catch up on my household chores.

Somewhere, the gods were laughing.

My phone rang before seven on Saturday morning. It was my son Joe. He and his wife, Rita-Marie, were at the hospital; her water had broken. He was shaken, and rightly so. It's too soon - she is just 32 weeks along. The first hospital gave her the first of two steroid shots, then immediately transferred her to a larger, regional hospital - one with a team of specialized pre-term baby doctors.

I quickly got dressed, and hopped in the car to join them at the hospital. The doctor came into the room shortly after I got there, took some measurements of the baby with a portable ultrasound machine - and looked pleased. He said, given the givens, baby Joe's chances of coming out all right are excellent. ** major sigh of relief **  Rita-Marie's job now is to stay still and get bored.

And so we started the waiting game.

The first goal was to make it 48 hours, so the steroid shots could work their magic, and give little Joe a boost up the baby development timeline. I spent all day Saturday there at the hospital, waiting with Rita. (We sent Joe off to work on the projects he'd had slated to finish before the baby came. He really, really needed to move; to work off some of his nervous energy.)

The day passed uneventfully. We talked of everything and nothing. We looked up baby names (no middle name has been decided upon yet). We tried not to worry - willing a whole lot of 'stay put' energy towards the baby.

I called my family members who had delivered premature babies - how far along were they when the babies were born? Turns out I have two nephews and one niece who were born at 32 weeks gestation. They've turned out just fine; have suffered no long-term effects from their early arrivals. This news helped me to breathe more easily.

I went home, exhausted, around 7, when Joe arrived back to spend the night. (I find hospitals exhausting, but am not sure why this is so. How can I get so tired when all I've done is sit all day??)

Sunday morning, I got up, did the required minimum of my chores, and went back to join them shortly after noon. We waited and waited some more. Since things were quiet, we sent Joe off again, for the sake of everyone's sanity. I waited for him to get back around dinnertime before I left - we'd followed the doctor's orders, and had had a second uneventful afternoon.  (Who knew I'd be so happy to sit around, a bit bored???)

I woke this morning and checked my phone as soon as I rolled over - there were no messages, which meant we'd made it to the magic 48 hour mark.  (Way to wait, baby Joe!)

The day is gone, night is here, and she has not yet started labor. Each day, each hour, even, is a chance for him to develop further, for his lungs to mature, for his brain to finish developing.

Wait, Baby Joe, Wait!!!!

Family Reunion

blurry, but better than nothing

As I came to the Minnesota border on my way to the family reunion in Minneapolis last week, I could see a storm system building ahead. It was in my line of vision as I drove - the best hour and a bit of cloud-watching I've had in eons. I got to watch the cloud tower form, then flatten out into a classic anvil shape. The clouds were sidelit by the setting sun, beautiful pinks, oranges, reds. I was driving by myself, and though I pulled off twice to try to take a picture, the terrain did not cooperate - by the time I reached a spot where I could safely take the shot, the view was obscured by clouds.  **sigh**  I'm just going to have to remember it in my head. Fortunately for the integrity of the body of my car, I never did catch up with the storm - it skirted just north of the Twin Cities with its hail and strong winds.

By morning, the storm had passed, and we had a lovely afternoon for the 35th annual gathering of my dad's family. Sadly, the group gets smaller every year. My uncles are getting older (though all three who can still travel were there), my cousins have scattered to the winds. Our days of overflowing a picnic shelter are over.

But thinking about it, there was still a good representation of cousins. It was the children and their children who were underrepresented. There wasn't a baby in sight. Young adults, busy with their own lives - I can see why most of them don't have time to take a summer afternoon to hang out with a bunch of old relatives.

We still had about fifty people there. In some ways, I like the smaller gatherings better - they leave room for better conversations. We are a diverse group and try to respect each other's differences. Thus, politics were avoided by one and all - unless, of course, whatever small group I was part of agreed with me on the state of the country, in which case, we touched on the topic for solidarity's sake. And yes, I do know who is in which camp, so the strategy worked well for me.

It was good for me to be with family on a no-stress occasion. Pack up your favorite pot-luck dish, show up for lunch, talk for a few hours, and head out again by mid-afternoon. Spend time with cousins, catch up on their lives. Reminisce about childhood days, compare memories of gatherings past. Gather stories from the uncles while they still are willing to share them.

In some ways, it's a long way to drive for a short occasion, but I try to get up there at least every other year. These are the people who knew me when, who share my memories of Libby and Maria, of Mom and of Dad, of Grandma and Grandpa John.  They share my sense of disbelief at the passing of time. (Could so many years really have passed already??) They are an important part of my roots.

I'm glad the gathering is still held.
I'm glad I was able to make it there.
And, I got to watch the clouds.
It was all good.