Waiting, Hoping Anyways

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back to the basics.

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

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

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

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

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

Love Is.

Soon, But Not Yet

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not Yet.

This Is Why I Have Gray Hairs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What happened???"

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

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

"Yes, please."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hot Already

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

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

The sun comes early, it comes hot. 

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

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

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

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

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

Trust, anyways. I'm working on it.

Extra Credit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

James Taylor Concert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goodbye, Bob - Take Two

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

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

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

I miss my best friend.

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

I found the service to be beautiful. 

Song. Reading. Testimony. Repeat. 

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

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

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

 

Friend

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob, I miss you. 

Not Yet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not Yet.

 

Graduation Season

I went to a graduation party this past weekend - my eldest nephew's eldest son has somehow managed to finish growing up when I wasn't looking, and when the invitation arrived, I welcomed the chance to get back in touch with him and his family.

It was quite a ways to go for dinner - they live in central Iowa - but I've driven further. When I showed up, they were more grateful for my presence than I could have anticipated, which made my heart cry a few happy tears. I am SO glad I went. These days, I can use all the love I can get.

Saturday and Sunday were perfect days to drive. Big, white, fluffy clouds. Temperate weather. Turns out a bit of time to think road thoughts was just what the doctor ordered.

I used to dread driving trips, found them tedious, boring; especially when I was driving alone. But that was before my camper van trip, before I learned to appreciate the beauty of the plains. The gently rolling hills, the fields sporting the sprouts of the crops which help to feed the nation. The cows, horses, and one herd of buffalo contentedly grazing, young ones in their midst. The random wildflowers in the ditches smiled for me. I found hope in the windbreak trees which, despite showing the stress of the change in climate, have unfurled the leaves on their surviving branches to the sun and rain.

I am not the best person at staying in touch with my feelings, so as I drove, I found a classical station to serve as background noise, then poked around inside to see if any of them would talk to me. Turns out, there's lots of feelings slushing around in there. 

Mostly what turned up is that I miss Bob. I miss my kitty. The drive gave me the time and space to let some of my banked up tears fall. 

Once the tears had run their course, I found my mind and heart wandering through the years, pulling up random memories of moments with the people and pets I've loved. It was almost as if I'd dumped a box full of pictures onto the table, then spent time picking up one photo, then another, laughing, crying, musing about the passage of time and how quickly all I know has changed. (Wasn't it yesterday when they were small?)

These days, I am acutely aware the currency of my life is time. This weekend was time well spent.

Try, Try Again

I crossed my fingers as I stepped into the shower after the caulk cured a couple of weeks ago, hoping against hope my line-of-caulk defense had fixed the problem. I stepped out, pulled my test cloth out of the damaged portion of the wall, saw it was wet, and heaved a disappointed sigh.

Back to the drawing board.

I had Joe bring over the magical Fein MultiMaster tool, which makes it easy to cut a fine line into wood and plaster, so I could dig into the wall without causing any more harm. While he was here, I had him take a look at the damage. I mean, what good is it to raise your own engineer if you can't take shameless advantage of his knowledge now and again?

He studied the area for a few minutes, then pointed to the corner where the door meets the shower curb as the likely culprit. It was a good theory.

I do my best critical thinking before noon, so got up the next morning, got out the Fein tool, and carefully cut away all the rotten lumber. Once I got everything cleared away, I was able to get my fingers up into the wall where the damage had started. Immediately, I felt a gap in the liner. 

I switched to the shower side of the wall, poked for just a moment at the line of grout, and it fell away. I could now see daylight inside the damaged portion of the wall. *WHEW* I've found it's MUCH easier to resolve an issue if you have some idea where the problem originates.

I caulked the hole, then added another blob of caulk as insurance. I let it cure, then took a deep breath and tested the repair. This time, my test cloth was dry, the problem found, the leak stopped.

I started to raise my heart in celebration, then paused, took a deep breath and stepped back a ways.

Yes, my caulk job fixed the leak. But trusting a line of caulk to permanently repair a build problem is a lot like taping a piece of plastic over a broken window to keep out the rain. It'll work for a while, but sure as day follows night, it'll fail over time.

So, I've called in a repair team. As opposed to coming armed with youth and bravado, these guys have years of experience under their belts; they've done this before. I've seen the work they do, and know they can easily tackle my little job and NOT break my pretty glass surround. (Or, if they do, their insurance will make it good.).  I gave them all the details; they're supposed to get back with me with a quote tomorrow.

This solution feels better. This way, once I close up that hole in the wall, I know it'll be able to stay closed.

I'll repair it right. I'll repair it once. I'll sleep better.