Feeling like Pavlov's Dog

As I've shared already, I did something I'm proud of this past week. I gave blood. I've wanted to for many years, but I always let fear hold me back. Not fear of the needle, though I don't like them, rather fear of finding out I'm anemic and my blood isn't good enough.Once I saw bag after bag of blood being gifted to Dominic in the hospital, I knew I'd have to become the boss of my fears and get poked.
I also knew caring for Dominic has been all consuming, and I told myself not to worry until I felt comfortable in his recovery and our progress.

There was no check off list. Nothing like when we watched his white count and knew when he could stop wearing a mask. I didn't have any concrete dates in mind. Like a lot of our more recent milestones for me, they've been more gut driven. An ironic turn of phrase given Dominic's plight.

But the day came where I felt like I had something to give. No bells or whistles. Just, it's time. Kind of like when I went back to yoga. It was just time. I definitely walk in the world more intuitively than with any sort of concrete calendar plan.

What I hadn't anticipated was how much our experience is imprinted on me, how much our experiences are like a bell going off in my head.
When I walked into the donor center, I had the usual experience of being in a new place, doing a new thing. I'm one of those people that takes in everything in a room. But there was a little dissonance in my taking in.
For the past nearly two years, when I entered a room with people in hospital reclining chairs with tubes going into their arms and machines making noise, I was in a room of illness. The woman I checked in with was describing the different donations: blood, platelets and so on. She waved her arm toward a row of people reclining with hospital blankets and whirring machines. I felt like an intruder. I felt like my wellness was an insult. Like I should walk softly and speak quietly.
The realization that I had projected our infusion center experience on to this experience was a little unsettling. It took me too long to realize. I think it also took me too long to decide to donate blood. The young bubbly woman next to me made me realize all was well in this room, and that I wished I'd began donating decades ago. But it's never too late, and I will continue to give of myself in this way.

And speaking of the infusion center, we were just there today and we're headed back in another week. Dom needs another infusion of immunoglobulin. (Part of the blood/immune system). All the other numbers look good.
This was our first doctor visit in a month. It's the longest break we've had since this whole saga began 20 months ago. If it weren't for the need of Igg, we'd get another month off. But needs must.

We went back to the 4th floor after our visit with the doctor.
The 4th floor is the Bone Marrow Transplant Unit in the hospital.

Dominic has not been eager to revisit the place of so much pain. He also has not been eager to return until he's back to 100%.
But our friend, who had a transplant the same week as Dominic, has been readmitted. Her cancer came back.
She sent us a text.
We had to go and see her, to tell her we love her and support her.
We had to face her.
Because our biggest fear has happened to her, our friend.

And when she told us how happy she was to see us, how just to know we'd trek to her and say hello when there is nothing else we can do for her, I knew what she meant. I knew just the feeling of being seen and being loved.

And I'm so proud of Dominic for conquering his own fear. For facing the hallways that housed him in his lowest time. I'm so proud of him for owning that cane and realizing though he's not making a triumphant entrance walking easily with his original shock of hair, he's leaps and bounds ahead of the guy who was wheeled out and barely able to sit up. The triumph is in his strength to face this place again, for love of a friend. And I'm so proud of him for facing the fear that our friend now embodies.

Life is strange. We want to remain positive. We want to trust better days are ahead.
We know that picking up the worry is like picking up leaches that would suck the life out of us. We know it's toxic. We are living in the tension of knowing our fears may be realized, but what a waste of life worrying.
We learn to put it down. Again and again.
We learn not to be Pavlovian in our experience. We learn not to associate things in ways that will cause us pain or worry or fretting. We learn that worry doesn't add anything, but it can often diminish.
We're learning to see through different lenses daily. We're learning, and relearning, and learning again how to live with peace and joy. We're learning that everything in life is both meaningless and meaningful. We're choosing to focus on the meaningful. We're learning that a bell doesn't always mean what we think it means. We are learning to tailor our reactions, that we can at the very least choose, and choose love.

A Spoonful of Honey

Last evening, I was invited to a screening of a documentary. I'm not your typical gal, for good or ill. I don't get excited about an invitation to the movie theater. Listening to a heavy breather eat popcorn with their mouth open behind me, and watching the twit text message away in front of me makes me want to punch people in the face. It's true. I'm a horribly violent person.
But, transport me to a swank arts center with beautiful and quirky things to look at and the cell phone doesn't bother me so much.
The New Arts Project in Santa Rosa created a space for about oh, 30 to 50 people to view a screening of a documentary. They provided ice cold lemon water in lovely dispensers. The chairs were a bit rough, but there were not any feet dangling over the back of the chair next to me. Someone's pooch was trolling around, particularly interested in my handbag where I'd forgotten I stashed a half eaten kid's cliff bar.
The movie was Vanishing of the Bees, and it was very well done. I've heard about the vanishing for several years now, and was eager to see something comprehensive on the subject. This piece was more than comprehensive; the cast of characters ranged from down-home bee keepers with great regional accents to an earth mother goddess admonishing us to worship the feminine half of the deity and a scientist in between.
There is, as of yet, no definitive answer to why colonies of bees are just disappearing. Called Colony Collapse Disorder, entire hives, thousands of hives at a time even, are found for all intents and purposes, empty. Millions upon millions of bees are unaccounted for. More than being unaccounted for, they are lost to our crops of fruits, nuts, flowers and vegetables that are pollination dependent. The Bible speaks of a promised land of milk and honey, not corn and soy, but some Big Business thinks the answer to this is to blanket our country in mono crops of genetically modified food and resources. Not only does that idea stun me for its lack of beauty and grace; the implications strike fear in my heart. I have a friend who brought home a parasite from Africa. He's living out the painful ramifications of eating something his body was not prepared to resist. When we rely on importing most of our fruit and veg from other countries, we are at the mercy of their cost and whatever pests come along with.
Right now, the smoking gun seems to be pointing at pesticides. Can we all exhale a chorus of "duh"? The research continues, as does the fight for protection of not just our bees, but our lives. The movie was very informative about the way the EPA operates, the art and craft of bee-keeping as well as the big business end. I must admit, there was a scene which made me want to run and hide. I kind of have an idea now of what men feel like when they see other men kicked in the baby-maker.
I am kicking myself for not pulling out my notes during the movie; there were some wonderful quotes. The one that has stuck with me, from none other than Martin Luther King Jr.:
"Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be. This is the interrelated structure of reality."
I'm sitting with that thought now, as I contemplate not only the plight of the bees, but communities of people who come together in new ways to celebrate life, gain knowledge and spread goodness.
www.vanishingbees.com