More views from the 4th floor

Dom is eating cheese.
Ya'll may think this is no big deal, but cheese is everything. Cheese is what we do on those days that we're home working on our jobs and projects and we need some quick, yummy food. We love the cheese. When he asked for the cheese, it was like a piece of home for me. It was the first non-hospital food he ate in a week.

It has been full throttle since our visit to the ER a week ago yesterday. But now, we're between chemo treatments, and he seems to have stabilized, and he's eating. Not just the cheese or the beige hospital food either. He has had watermelon every day since Tuesday. Every meal. Every day. Watermelon. Carolyn, who comes by to take his meal orders heard him say he has a craving for watermelon, and now it's a thing. I think he's pregnant.

We have a bouncy, chatty nurse today who has explained some of the secrets of the hallway. Every room has a board outside with sliding pieces of plastic that slide  to reveal options to communicate the patients' needs. It reminds me of a child's toy to learn reading, except there would be a picture  of a dog that you slide to reveal the word dog. Options include: neutropenic, or isolation, or fall precautions, or no visitors, or nothing by mouth, or leave door open.  My favorite: Quiet Time Healing Time. Some doors have an extra new agey looking paper sign that says the same thing, quiet time, healing time, all swirly letters and fancy and I think someone's passing a peace pipe in the photo.

Some of these are very curious to us. Why must the door be left open? Why must there be isolation? Why does one room have to leave the door open, but there's also a huge red stop sign on the floor as you exit that says wash your hands when you leave. When you leave. There is something in that room that must be washed off hands before leaving, but the door must be left open. Curious.

I wondered if any of those would apply to Dom. I'd already covered the fall precautions, because who slid that one open? Were those signs in our future? Would there be a big red stop sign at our door? We hope not. Turns out the isolation and the stop signs signify something other than and in addition to the cancer, and thankyouverymuchcancerisenough.

Every room has a computer on a stand. The hall way is also littered with computers on rolling stands. If any of you are Whovians, you'll know what I mean when I say I sometimes feel like I am in the Library. They look like one eyed robots on wheels. I glance at the screens when the nurses are signed on. When they're not poking or prodding or pill pushing, they're looking at spreadsheets of endless numbers. Everything is measured. Everything. And timing is everything. 3 am is the time to draw blood. Taking their cues from bats, I suppose.

Today, I did a load of laundry. In my new community apartment. Did I tell you I did some yoga the other day? I never see anyone in the family room, which consists of a living room, kitchen and dining room. I use these terms very loosely. I laid out my yogitoes in the dining room adjacent to the kitchen and began my practice. In came someone for a popsicle.  I tucked myself a little more out of the way. In came someone else. And someone else. And someone else. So many things were suddenly needed in the kitchen. Breathe in. Breathe out. I haven't seen anyone since, and I've spent some time in there.

Yesterday was a particularly difficult day. It was like we made it through the first gauntlet, and Dom felt better, so I could lose it. I have to move the car every day. I'm not 100% sure why, but I walk down to the main Oncology nurse's station and get a pass. I go down two floors to the bridge and insert my parking ticket, and then my pass. Then I get my ticket back, go to my car, exit, make two lefts down one way streets, pull into the garage, get a new ticket and park in my spot again. It's really rather ludicrous and I feel silly.  I've decided the purpose of this venture is to get a new bubbly water to stash in the fridge. I have a case in the back of the car.  I'd feel pretty ridiculous toting a Costco case of bubbly water through a hospital, so every day, I grab a bottle or two. Dom likes his bubbles.

The tears would not stop yesterday. I just rolled with it. It's in the manual. Page one. Roll with it.
Coming back from my car, I noticed a miniature pony in the parking lot. A serious real, live miniature pony. If the pony was a girl, I'm sure it would have been a cheer leader with heart shaped lips and perfect posture.  I wanted so very badly to press my face into her neck. But I knew she was headed to a children's wing, and I knew that's where she belonged, so I kept walking. Inside, two women had a pair of gorgeous dogs on leashes with their little important vests. Again, I wanted to stop them and bury my face in theirs. And again, I stopped myself.

We don't get animal therapy. We get music therapy. When I returned from my bubbly reconnaissance mission this afternoon, there was a guitar and an amplifier outside our door. I stepped inside to a fresh faced young woman who offers music therapy to patients. We talked to her for a little while, and even if she never sings for us, she encouraged us to think about music. To be honest, I'd rather play with some legoes and snuggle a pony, but I'm grateful this hospital thinks of all the things.

Our days are broken up with walks and meals and doctor and nurse visits and we turn on the television every so often and realize it's still garbage and turn it off and go back to reading. We walk several times a day. I feel like a freshman in high school next to Dom with his full head of glorious hair that screams out "hey, we're the new kids." He will lose it. But for now, it's still there, unlike most of the the others we pass. It's awkward. We're in this together, all of us here in the Oncology unit, but we don't know each other, and the thing we share is bigger than we want to handle. I said hello to the plump opera singer today and she stopped for a moment to say hello back. She, in her scrubs and baldness looked more alive than her companion. Her hair is going to grow back and she is going into remission and she is going to live life to the fullest. I just know it. Dom and the skinny man nod at each other and kind of mumble a dude hey or some such.

Sometimes we pass that awkward person. The one visiting a relative, so they're not quite as dug deep in as I am. They're still processing their own business, loitering in the hall because the rest of their family is still visiting but they are just done. They say to Dom "hang in there" all sad faced and weird; like some hybrid football slap and pity face. It's okay. Cancer is awkward. To say the least.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again, Dom is a hit on the ward. The nurses poke their heads in and express their sadness that they did not get assigned to him that day. I guess some people resist the treatments, and naturally some are surly. But Dom is seeking wellness. He doesn't complain. He is charming and compliant. He is thankful and grateful to be here. As am I.

The 4th floor

Everyone who knows me knows that I am a country bumpkin. I've lived in a cottage in the country for 20 years. While I've had my youthful days of driving down to San Francisco and staying out late, these last several years, all I've wanted to do is be home on the farm.
The addition of a husband to this situation made it even more desirable to do this country living thing.
We raise chickens. We planted a garden. He has been able to have a photo studio in the barn to hone his craft and follow his passion. We both often work from home, and catch each other throughout the day puttering here and there. He is the hardest worker I know. Always hacking away at something. We have plans for the future that revolve around sustainable living.

It all looks so far away from the 4th floor.

I open the shades at night, so we can wake with the sunrise. The setting sun is fierce in our window, and hints at the heat wave everyone else has been experiencing. I've never lived in an apartment. Whoops. I'm wrong. We lived in a multi-story apartment in Oakland when I was about 5. At least, I think it was multi-story. For all I know, it could have been two stories, and kids just have awesome imaginations.
But for most of my adult life, I've lived in the country. The cottage isn't even my first farm girl place. I used to live way up a hill from which you could see the Golden Gate Bridge from Santa Rosa on a good day. It was quite a haul to get anywhere. My nearest neighbor was a half mile at least. I've just always loved being remote.

But, my only experience with living in tall buildings is in a hotel. My brain is struggling to make sense of this. I should be looking down at a golf course, or an ancient building. I should be on a business trip or holiday. I should be anticipating sight seeing tomorrow rather than anticipating our next visit from the doctor. We are in the city, yet the night is still inky black to me. In part because we can't figure out how to turn off a weird large, square, blue light above the hospital bed. It has turtle decals to trick us into thinking we're swimming beneath the turtles. I guess. Some vacation.

I've also never stayed in a hotel room that has a big window on the door. Sometimes I can't decide if I'm in the fish bowl, or looking into the fish bowl. There's a curtain deeper in the room, but when we're awake, I watch the world walk by. Rather the inhabitants of this very particular world. The woman who sings magnificently as she takes her daily walks. The long, lean man who refuses to wear a gown and wears a plaid jacket and always a hat. He walks as if his life depended on it. And it does. There's a teeny tiny woman always with a pink turban and a pink robe and pink slippers and freshly painted pink nails. There's even pink puff balls that flop around her slippers as she shuffles here and there. I think she's a pro at this. I think she's close to the other side. The good side. The home stretch.

I feel like a ghost. Dom sleeps a lot. I leave the room to take care of business. Sometimes people make eye contact and say hello. But some times there's an emergency down the hall, and I become invisible. I just float through doors and haunt my new home.

I'm strangely reminded of summer camp, or the many retreats where I've stayed in hotel like buildings. It feels like I should be able to tip toe out and meet someone giggling in the hall to run down to vending for a snack and some gossip.
But, they're all working. And I'm not here for camp. Though I've had many come to Jesus moments in this place.

How many people live here? Let me rephrase that. How many people live here without a plastic bracelet with names and dates and bar-codes? How many people live here that have an avocado tucked away in a community kitchen and a car that has to get moved daily and just a peripheral relationship with doctors and nurses?  I feel like I'm cutting class as I stalk past the front desk and pay no mind to schedules or bells. And there's so many dings and rings here. But they don't signify recess.

There's silver linings to this ghost walk. I approach the door to the parking lot, and even before opening the first of two doors to the outside, I can feel the warmth. As I step outside, it's like someone has wrapped a wet, hot towel around my face. I remember everyone is melting while I'm bundled away in a cardigan.

I miss Terry the Talker. Can you even believe it? Our nurse tonight just mumbles and shrugs. It feels different. We can't break the ice today. There's someone in our old room already. I'm a little jealous. It was small. But Dom and I like small. We like the furniture piled on top of itself. We like stepping on each other. We like people who, even if they may not catch all the social cues are at least interested and passionate.

The night nurse just came in. I remembered just as she was leaving, that she may know how to turn off the aquarium. I caught her breezing her way out, and she just flicked the switch, no problem. So, the turtles have gone to bed. And so shall I.

The favorite nurse...or, Terry the Talker

The nurse that made me think outside the box.

It’s not because he’s a man.

We’ve been here at the hospital for 2 1/2 days now. (Make that 5) It seems like more because each day is broken in half by 2 nurses. Each nurse feels like a day, as they frequently come in and check on Dom, and as I mentioned earlier, have somewhat of a disregard for day or night sleeping. That’s okay, they are doing their job, checking on levels and vitals and making sure we win.

We have really liked all the staff. There’s myriad of cultures represented here. There’s so much kindness and thoughtfulness present.

Along comes Terry. Oh Terry. Terry is a big guy. With a lot to say. At any time. Dom is friendly to everyone. And he has engaged everyone in conversation. I think he appreciates a nurse who will sit and shoot the breeze with him. I, on the other hand, am not a huge fan of Terry initially. It feels like Terry thinks he is the first person to give us any information, and I’m weary. His shift started at 7pm, and imagine as we’re winding down exhausted, Terry is winding up. He has all the analogies and stories and explanations. Dom bites. I’m on information overload.

Meanwhile, our first visitor arrives after a long hot drive. We’re so honored this friend has come. Terry has already been talkingandtalkingandtalkingandtalking. We invite our friend in, and Terry gets into a squat against the wall as if he’s getting real comfortable, to stay a while. In front of our friend, he lectures us on having friends visit, they bring germs, he’d advise against it. In front of our friend. After a hot two hour drive. You shouldn’t be here person.

Dom doesn’t care, he’s the nice one. I’m about to flip out.

So, finally, all Kamala style, (I wish) I suggest that Terry be on his way. I point out to him we have a friend who drove a long way we’d like to visit with. Of course I’m the bad guy.
I get shushed. He keeps talking. And after taking his authoritative stance, takes his leave.

We have a nice visit with our friend who has come bearing gifts that by default come to me. We laugh and shake our heads at what is happening. We so appreciate the visit. And at just the right time, he knows it’s time to leave.

We go through the rituals of bed time. We have a few moments of alone time, and express how tired we are. We snuggle down and dream of sleep. We know that at midnight, Terry will be back with more treatments.
He’s back at 11:30. To check in. To squat and talk and tell us all the things. About his job, his life, whatever. You name it, he tells it.
He’s there to tell us, at 11:30 pm, that it’s important that we guard our time and not let friends over stay their welcome. He’s there to tell us it’s important we get our rest. He’s there to tell us he can be the bad guy and let people know it’s time to leave. I’ve been lying on my side the whole time trying to send the message it’s bed time. It is definitely time to leave. I have had enough at this point. I sit up and let him know I can be the bad guy too. Big sigh. Flop down.

Too late to sleep now, time for more bags and lines and vitals.

Dom asks if he has to be awakened for every treatment and check. The answer is no. But it’s really yes, because again, we are intentionally awakened through the night.
I wake up around 5 hearing them talking. Again, and Terry has printed out all the drugs, and thinks that 5 am is a good time to talk about the drugs. His self importance is more than I can bear and I let him know, I’ve already asked for and have all of that information. Well, you can’t have too much paper, can you? He says. Yes, yes you can have too much.

I don’t want to be mean. When I fully wake and sit up and say good morning, I smile at him, and act like everything is perfectly normal.

Dom likes him.  I don’t *not* like him. I just want to punch him when he keeps us awake talking about how our friends will be terrible people keeping us awake.

He really is a nice guy. Don’t get me wrong. It’s clear he loves his job. He love people. I think? The day nurse says he’s hyper. She says he’s the nicest guy, but he hasn’t been able to transition from day to night nursing. She’s able to come in and out of the room, and if Dom’s eyes are closed because he’s catching up on the lost sleep from the night before, she touch’s him as little as possible, walks silently and changes the lines and reads the numbers, all without waking him. And definitely not talking full volume. It is possible.

But Dom likes Terry, and that’s what matters. So here’s me thinking outside the box. Not the all nurses are women box. The box of how I see people. Terry does have a lot to say. But he means so well. He’s been our nurse two nights now, and he and Dom have developed a rapport. He brought Dom cotton balls with oils he researched. He “doesn’t know yet how all that stuff works,” but he thought it may help with the distress to sniff some lavender. He always asks me if I need anything. He is super attentive, and even if his timing is off sometimes, the thing is, he has made all the time to be present for Dom on his shifts. So no matter my initial thoughts of Terry the Talker, he’s on team Dom, and that means I’m on Terry’s team.

Day 5

We're waking up on day 5.

Dom is feeling better this morning. Yesterday was a little more challenging. It was a full day of everything under the sun being pumped into him. Blood, platelets and some other blood thing. (That's a technical term).
It's a lot to take in. Some of the products have very short life spans once brought out of cryo, so the nurse was all business about getting them in quickly. Stacy. We really like her. She was on her toes yesterday for sure.

So, after a day full of various lines, Dom was feeling a bit full and uncomfortable. A beige dinner sat untouched and sent back. Happy that he woke up hungry and feeling better. We're also pretty excited that every morning, someone brings us both coffee. They are all so kind and attentive.

For those interested in more technical terminology, The whole point of chemo is to get his white blood cell count down to zero. He started somewhere up at 190, if I remember correctly, normal is somewhere between 5 and 11. So....that was the giveaway. This morning, he is down to 3.2. Good news. Everything is doing its job. He's going to get down to zero, and stay there for a little while to make sure all the baddies are gone too.

Onward!

Where I share the very personal

My head was a little fuzzy on Thursday. By noon, I had wondered what I had done all morning? I ran out to get some pain killers, because Dom had been having a head ache all week. I’d had an ominous feeling myself all week. He’d had some weird bruising, and we talked about having it checked out. I had some yoga classes to teach, and I seemed unreasonably anxious about everything.

He called me when I was just nearly home, and I just knew, on some level, things were about to go down. He called because he’d found a tick. I tried calling our assigned doctor through our insurance, and after about an hour of trying, we decided to just drive down.

Turns out, they’re not taking new patients, so we headed to Urgent Care. They were super nice. The practitioner we saw made a lot of funny faces like, hmmm…. As we talked about the tick and the bruises, and decided all things considered, we needed to go to the ER.

We were feeling like it was Lyme’s and I was convinced he had a previous tick bite that caused all the bruising. Because denial feels so good……

Our experience at the ER was interesting…..
A nurse screened us in a space right up front. She sneered at us when we told her we did not have a GP. Then she told us how important it is, and who knows, it may be cancer it may be this or that, and we should have a doctor. While all her words were true, it was weird.

So, we were taken to a little curtained closet, sharing a curtain with a man, woman and baby.

Can I just tangent here? As it turns out, the baby had been brought in by CPS because the mother was taken to jail. A boy, about 9 months, with a rash so bad, the doctor was in noticeable shock. The man was telling the doctor it couldn’t be too bad, because the baby was barely crying and not showing signs of distress. No, the doctor said, he wouldn’t cry. I could hear the question mark from the man’s face.

The doctor continued to say it’s clear the baby has been sitting in urine for long periods of time. What I heard, without him saying it, is that the baby wouldn’t cry, because no one will come. Or worse yet, when they come, they will yell or punish the crying because it is inconvenient.

I could hear the case workers discussing a difficulty in finding a family for the baby. I could hear them discuss a family misusing the funds given. I could hear all of this, while waiting for a diagnosis for my husband, and having my period and knowing yet again I am not pregnant and knowing the days have slipped by that I could be, and wanting the workers to just hand me that baby. And crying. For the known and the unknown.

A woman looked at the small bulls eye on Dom’s side. They gave him a pill without any food, and he started heaving. I’m sure because we both knew this was not the problem. No. Lyme would not be the final outcome of the day.

But…I insisted….the bruising. What about the bruising? Can’t you do a blood test?

Sure.

And so we found out that his blood was highly abnormal. And as the story unraveled, it’s most likely cancer. He would not be going home that day. I think they were all in amazement that he was even standing and looked so healthy. For his platelets were so low, they immediately gave him not one, but two bags of platelets. Our physician at this juncture told us too much and not enough. She told me to go home and pack bags for a long trip. Pack chargers, books, whatever. Get animal care. Why did I pack a bag for Dom, who will spend the next 3 weeks in a gown and scrub pants? Why didn’t she just tell me to dump the underwear drawer in a bag and be done with it? Why did she go on and on about the packing and how much we need a general practice doctor (also) and how we’ll be at the hospital in Sacramento for a week or several weeks, and I will have to get a hotel, and he’ll have a bone marrow transplant and just a rapid fire litany of information that was so fragmented and overwhelming  and oh my gosh.

Thank God for my neighbor.

I kissed my husband goodbye and set off to make heads or tails of what to do.
I’d already told my neighbor we were off to the doctor…for a tick bite. She sent a text of the cats I’d asked her to kick outside. I called her right up and told her Dom has cancer.

She rallied then and there.

I went home and packed our bags. What do we need? We do everything through wifi. We need our cats. He needs his big computer. Can’t take those. I threw a bunch of things in a bag for him I’d later come to realize was so totally unnecessary. I turned the room upside down looking for our travel bag with toothbrushes and paste. I’m usually so organized. Could.not.find.it.

I threw the barest necessities in bags.

I washed the dishes. It’s hot. It’s day one of a heat wave. It’s also Thursday. I clean my house on Friday or Saturday mornings. It’s the end of a clean cycle. I also clean the chicken cage on Saturdays. And make sure everyone has fresh water. But it’s Thursday. The house is worse for the wear, and worse because Dom wasn’t feeling super and I just made him stay in bed that morning and left the house a little disheveled to let him be. But now we’re going to a hospital in Sacramento. I have to wash the dishes. I can’t embrace the stink of unwashed dishes after a heat wave. Trash has to go out too. I walk the trash up the hill. I break into a sweat. Sweat. My drenched with sweat yoga clothes are in a basket by the door. Am I crazy? My husband has cancer, and I have to throw a load of laundry in. I can’t leave that to stink on the floor for three weeks.

I take a shower. When will my next shower even be? Will I sleep in a car? Get a hotel? Sleep in a chair next to the bed like I’ll do later that night. Will my husband survive?

I call the neighbor who comes down. She is my savior. She’ll take care of the critters. Water our lush little garden. Whatever. She’ll love us.
I scan the kitchen with all the food I’d just bought for us for the weekend. A melon on the counter. A bowl full of fresh eggs from the chickens. Eat it all please, I say. I feel weird. My husband has cancer, and I want someone to eat my food. But it’s true. There’s vegetables and blue berries and things that will shrivel before we can eat them. It would make me happy if someone ate the food.

On the way home, I’d called my mom and sobbed. Why. Why this? Why now? So much fear and sadness. She struggled with wanting to talk and having me sobbing and driving and talking on the phone. I struggled with the idea of being in an accident when my husband needed me. But I continued to sob on the phone anyway.

On the way back to the hospital I talked to my family friend whose baby I watch once a week. I must tell her right away….that won’t be happening. She’s so there for me. All the right notes of shock and sadness.

I get back to the ER, ready to follow an ambulance with Dom in the back, and fearing I’d missed him completely. But, he’s still there. Hooked up to his second bag of platelets. There’s no hospital with a bed that will take him. Will we have to travel to Southern California? My mind races. The clock is ticking and all of a sudden, it’s past ten. Past the time I’d call anyone for advice or a soothing word. Dom’s still in regular clothes. Looking so young in a t shirt, flip flops and jeans. No hint of the desperate condition he was in. Just handsome and youthful looking.  He’s sprawled on a hospital bed, the back cranked so high, it was more like a chair.
As soon as it’s early enough in Doha, he Face times his sister. She’s just recently returned from visiting their mother in England after her own medical scare.

We’re in a wait and see game. He can’t go home, but there’s no bed for him. The on call doctor is not on call. What? Finally, at around 1:30 am we get word he’ll be taken by ambulance to Sacramento at 4 am. I will meet him there.

I return home, leaving all our baggage in the car, and climb into bed for 2 hours sleep. I hated to leave him, but I also felt like I needed sleep. I needed to regroup. My two hours was really only one. I woke after an hour with an urgent need for the bath room. How could I have  to go so badly after not drinking all day? We’d both been swept up on this path before having lunch, so basically we were both living on toast. 

I crawled back to bed only to hear the alarm a moment later. I pulled myself together, ate some yogurt, googled Sutter in Sadcramento and headed out the door. I left just after 4 am. I nearly turned around. Who was I to be driving on no sleep and little food? I was afraid to drink for fear of having to use the loo on the road, but my eyes were so bleary. I opened and closed the window. I listened to World News. I was on hyper alert, because I really should not have been driving.

I didn’t cry.

Until the sun came up.

And then I cried and cried and cried.

I called my mom as soon as the clock turned to 6. It was a short conversation, because I needed Siri to get me to the hospital just after 6. I made it safely that far, and then almost went down a one way street…the wrong way. A sign said the hospital was that way, so isn’t that where I turn? I followed the signs, being a little more careful, and found a parking garage. I pulled up to the ticket machine and couldn’t figure it out. Insert credit card? Push what button? The guy behind me screamed push the button? Which one? Oh, the big one. Ok. I’m in the garage. There’s a spot. Right in front.  I’m bleary. I grab my purse and head toward, where am I headed? Where’ s the entrance? What is this place? The buildings are separated by streets and connected by walkways on the second floor. I get directions from a security guard and I have to go up to go down and come around….I’m in the building, heading to oncology and my phone rings.  I’d tried calling him a few minutes earlier and it went straight to voicemail. He’s crying. He’s scared. He’s afraid he has woken me up. He doesn’t know I’m just two long hallways away from him.

And here we are. In the Oncology unit of Sutter.

More whirl wind day. We’d already crossed paths with a dozen people the day before to get to Sutter. Then it’s this nurse and that nurse and the doctor is coming and we’re here to give you a pick line and the volunteer and the bone marrow people and so many faces. All kind.

We’re in shock. Dom’s exhausted and overwhelmed and now a human pin cushion, the crease of his elbow black with bruising. He’ll have so many procedures in one day, before we’ve had time to even digest it all. You have cancer. Before we have time to think about what’s next, there’s a new face typing something into a computer and drawing blood. He had a bone and marrow procedure and the pick line, both considered surgery of sorts. He had to have his heart looked at to be sure it could withstand chemo and they took him in a wheelchair. I stayed back in the room happily setting up the cot to steal a few winks. I drift off…..knock knock, housekeeping, can I clean your room? Um, that’s okay, thanks. I’ll just get your trash then. OK….slowly drift back to knock knock, hi, can I take your order for meals tomorrow?
I sit up and tell her I’m not the patient, clearly, as I’m on a cot and not the granny bed. But I’d be happy to pick out food. We’d told our nurse earlier that Dom can’t eat gluten he gets headaches. Everything I chose for him from the menu would not be accepted by the computer app that they use to make food orders because it thought he has celiac. We made a plan, and decided to not tell any computer programs that he doesn’t eat wheat because they take things way too seriously. I didn’t realize that now days you get to order from a menu. They’d already brought him a meal full of wheat, so I was confused. I’ll be confused a lot in this 24 hour period of time. I’ll probably be confused forever.

She leaves. I close my eyes.

Knock knock. I’m your client advocate. Can we talk? Okay. We talk about possible prognosis. Oh, we haven’t gotten that definitively. We talk about possibilities. We talk about my cats. He loves cats. I guess he doesn’t realize later the cats will be a problem…..I’m gleefully ignorant for about another 24 hours. There’s talk of maybe renting a house here? How even? What? Too much information.

He’s very nice. I wish I took notes.

Dom comes back, and shortly thereafter, we get the results. Acute lymphoblastic Leukemia. The kind that kids get. Because of course Dom gets the rarer kind for adults. It means a shorter initial stay at the hospital, and lots of shorter stays thereafter.

It all sounds very positive though. We were under the impression from the folks in Santa Rosa that a bone marrow transplant was almost imminent and immediate. We also thought we’d be here at least 6 weeks. It was a relief of sorts to consider the possibility of just 3 weeks at a stretch and possibly no transplant.

So, we settle in. Everyone is so nice.

We are told that they are moving us to a bigger room. They tell us this around 6. I pack everything up. And watch the clock tick. He eats dinner. He gets his first chemo hook up. The nurse we love hands the baton to a new nurse who is also great, but a little more flighty. She comes in around every half hour to add a bag or change something. It’s after ten now, and she screams a big hello and talks to us, though we’re both sleeping. It’s around midnight now. We’ve been woken every half hour anyway, so when they tell us we’re moving into a bigger room, I gather all our belongings, and we move. He’s now got his wingman holding the required life-saving liquids that rolls next to him. A parade of people roll through the halls of a house of sickness and there’s quite a bit of confusion. It’s as if they’ve never navigated a wheel chair before. We leave my cot behind, because this room is big. It has a sofa bed. It’s big. We get to the room, and it is actually. Smaller. There’s no sofa bed, rather a recliner. I look at the recliner, and crumble a little. One of the nurses ran back and got the cot for me, while the others had discussion about the arrangement of the existing furniture. The room is smaller. I know I said that already. It’s okay. We’re so happy that I can be with him on a cot. We’re so grateful I don’t have to rent a hotel room and spend nights apart.

The next morning, he’s feeling pretty good. We’re so happy that he made it through the first hurdle without the expected side affect of shivers and shaking. He’s hungry for the first time in days. The breakfast tray comes in, a dome over a plate. We lift the lid, there’s some anticipation like in a hotel room with room service and there’s some delicacy under the lid. We look. Eggs. Just eggs. Just about 2 scrambled eggs alone on the plate. Because of the GF glitch I mentioned earlier. So I run down to the cafe and get him some oatmeal, and yogurt and fruit with whipped cream. I realize later that he can’t have berries anymore. They can’t get them clean enough.

A new band of faces and names.

A new day.

The doctor comes by and is happy to hear no side affects. He tells us he’s requested a bigger room. We’re fine we insist. You’re going to be here a long time he says. Long time. What does that mean? I’m clinging to 3 weeks max. Home is where you heal. No. Home is where we are together.

A massage therapist comes by. No massage today, but he’ll be getting massage. A social worker comes by and totally rains on our parade.
What are you going to do if he doesn’t recover and can’t work? Do you have plans? Should we get medical? Oh, you have cats. They may not release him if you have cats. Do you know about the Bone Marrow transplant system? He’ll need a transplant maybe. (Maybe not). She left us both a little unsettled after a day of feeling a little relief and direction.

We’re approaching the end of the third day of our adventure and the second day of chemo. A friend is on the way.

The texts have poured in, the messages, the FaceTime with family. We’re loved and cared for.
We’re getting a bigger room. Home is where we are together.


Sooooo…..here we are….

Dom's version of events

Dom’s version events:

I was feeling a little more fatigued than normal. But I’d been working full steam, so maybe it was just that. But then some unusual bruises were showing up. The ones on the leg seemed reasonable. I’m busy, not unusual to bump into things and bruise. But then the inexplicable bruising on the torso was worrisome.
Cass had gone to the store for pain killers on Thursday, and while she was away, I discovered a tick while I was checking for bruises. We decided to head off to Urgent Care thinking Lyme’s. Urgent Care suggested a visit to the ER was more appropriate with the bruising.
That was a really good thing.
Initially they thought it was just a reaction from the tick. We pressed about the bruising. So, they drew blood, and came back with the news that Lyme’s was the least of our worries.
Leukemia.
Platelets were so low, they wouldn’t let me go anywhere until they’d administered two bags of platelets. Apparently, had we been in an accident on the way, I could have bled out.
They told us to pack our bags, we’d be sent to Sutter in Sacramento.
Cass ran home to collect our bags and organize care for the animals. We thought I’d be leaving by ambulance right away for Sutter in Sacramento. It was complicated. There needed to be a bed. The doctor was on call. We were in a holding pattern.
We finally got the word at around 1 am that I’d leave for Sacramento at 4 am to be admitted to Sutter at 6 am.
And then things really got busy.
Cass arrived about 10 minutes after me. I was in a room just taking it all in.
Then the madness began. Blood draws, a needle in the back, a pick line, heart tests, nurses, more nurses, results, explanations.
Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.
The prognosis is good.
Cass and I thought we’d be here for 6 weeks, so when we heard the program would be possibly 3 weeks with several follow up visits of 4 day stays, and many more visits in the future. We got this. We can do it. Also thought a bone marrow transplant was a for sure thing, and found out it’s just a possibility. That’s kind of a relief.
They immediately started me on chemo. Made it through the first night with flying colors. All kinds of warnings about shivers and shakes and none of that happened, so that’s good.
Woke up with an appetite after 2 days of little to no food. That also felt good.
Everyone here at the hospital has been really great. My doctor specializes in this. We feel under the best of care. The nurses have all been great. I have my own room, and there’s a cot for Cass.
My job is to walk, brush my teeth, shower, eat, and heal.

The Diagnosis and Answers

Thank you everyone for your love, support, prayers, and good questions.
Here are some answers as we think of them:
(I'll update as new questions and answers come up.)


Diagnosis:
Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia
There are no stages to this. There are several different types of Leukemia, of course he got the kid one. No one can say how long he has had this. It’s a bit of a mystery yet. No idea what makes it happen. It’s just what we’ve got, and we’re going to fight it!

First visit to ER on Thursday the 15th.

Stay at Sutter 3 weeks for first stay. All else unknown as yet. We’re looking at a lot of 4 day visits and follow ups.

We may have to stay in Sacramento at some point.

The logistics are a bit over whelming just now, so it’s a little easier to focus on grasping what is happening right now, and crossing bridges one at a time. We really don’t need anything at this moment but all the love and prayer and hugs. I am sure we will need things along the way. I am taking notes, and will learn to ask for things as we need them. It will be tough. We don’t like to ask for things.

Bone Marrow Transplant unknown yet.

The side affects from Chemo don’t kick in right away, so hoping for the best.

We have animals that are currently being looked after. I am thinking we’d like to set up some relief for our neighbor, so thanks every one that asked. I am sure in future, we will need a little help with the animals.

I am not sure yet if blood/platelet donations can be donated directly. I’ll look in to that. Meanwhile, just knowing that people are prompted to do so is encouraging, and we so appreciate the thought.

His diet is going to be limited. The biggest thing we need to focus on is keeping him healthy, and that means limiting exposures.
No delicious berries, no kale, no flowers in the room.

The Religion of SELF

Another tragedy. Another why.

As I perused social media last night, I saw many different reactions to yet another terrorist attack in the UK.
There was heartbreak, anger, questions of why and there was blame.

Blame went in several directions. Blame is always many layered. It can never be laid at the feet of one person or idea.

I had already seen ugliness earlier in the day. It did not end up in murder, but it threatened to. A very intelligent person I follow shared the bevy of hate mail he'd received while away. Much of the hate included threats of harm to him and his family.
I was sickened by all of it. And I observed: violence begins in the heart.

Several people shared that religion is the problem. I am going to both agree and disagree, and I hope my reasoning will serve the greater good.

To lay blame of violence at the feet of religion is easy. It is true, religion has caused massive violence throughout history. But religion is also responsible for so much good in the world. How can it produce both violence and good?

I believe how we walk in this world is a layer of the problem. It was unnerving yesterday for me to see so many people so opposed to someone else's ideology, that they threatened harm. These people were not attacking based on religion. They attacked because they were "right" and he was "wrong". They shared all the violence in the heart with their words. Not in the name of religion. I posit, they share in the name of self.

I think our religion has become self. We worship our rightness. We worship our needs and wants and what we think we deserve.
 I think some people of faith ferret that out. People of all different faith systems use their faith to chisel away at the self that would consume anything or anyone in its path and allow their selves to be molded in such a way that produces love and beauty for the whole world. I believe that people of no faith, atheists and agnostics can and do the same.

And then there is the religion, of all faiths and no faith that would be right at all costs. The religion of extremism. The religion of violence toward all who disagree.

There are so many ways to react to these times that devastate and are devastating.
I do not think there is one right way to react.
I would encourage all of us though, to lay a portion of blame at our own feet. When we acknowledge our own selfish acts of aggression, we can step outside of them.
In so doing, we can become stronger. We can become a united front against the real violence that does threaten everyone. We can create a hopeful future for our children and stand united in love.

What the peony spoke to me

I've been struggling a lot lately. And, small comfort, I see I am not alone. All the lovely blogs I read are sharing stories of the comparison game. At first I didn't think I struggle with that. I don't look at other people's lives or belongings and think I should have them. I have particular things I have always wanted from the time I was a young child, and those things have nothing to do with what other people have. Outside of that, am quite content.

Then I realized, I do compare in a much more insidious way. More than just wishing I had someone's car or house, I wish for people to see what I am capable of. And I compare that with others. And I know I am capable. And I get disappointed in how things play out.

I also know I am an oddball. I love my oddballness. But, my inability to be inauthentic sometimes leaves me outside the crowd. Sometimes I just have to zig when everyone else is zagging.

Yesterday morning, I was feeling the weight of this. I went outside to water my plants and listen to the birds and be silent.

It was the peony that spoke.

They're not supposed to grow here in my zone. I tried and failed years ago to grow peonies, and nearly gave up. But I'm trying again. I bought a plant in bloom last year. By my calculations, if it didn't come back, it was just like buying a bouquet of fresh flowers. I watched it seemingly die over winter. All the leaves fell off, leaving brown sticks. Dead. I was sure of it. But, it was tucked away in a place I could ignore, and so I did. Then, out of the blue, beneath those dead sticks, for they were dead, tendrils of green pushed through the soil. Oh hello lovely. I stopped ignoring the plant. I visit almost daily. When it's pouring down rain, I look out the window and will it to grow. I've been speaking to it, and yesterday, with one of its blooms just on the edge of bursting out of its tight bud, it spoke to me:

Hold tight. We'll bloom together.

Groundhog Easter Day

In the Christian tradition, Easter weekend is typically a time of death to life.
It's both a somber weekend and a joyous celebration.
No matter where I am in life, I always find myself a little more introspective.
To be honest, Easter has rarely been a time of joy for me. It's kind of a Groundhog Day of sorts. I know, every year, Easter is coming, but I can't live it out and step away. The dying happens over and over. It's never done. Something in me dies every day.
I am in part inspired to write this morning, because I just scrolled past yet another image of the man in the White House that engendered multiple negative feelings. I initially felt a gag reflex. Yes. True story. I gagged. You see, the image was somewhat a double entendre, and it was so suggestive, I had to gag. And then I felt an actual tangible ache, deep ache in my heart. To think that people who profess a faith in the man whose death and resurrection is observed on Easter weekend, would actually look up to and defend this man who would sooner hammer the nails himself.
And just after that photo, a photo of a Syrian family in a field. It stops me in my tracks, it's beautiful. Children in vibrant colors and yellow flowers dot the green landscape. But it's a story about people being bombed, even in their safe places. The space negotiated as safe for evacuees on both sides is bombed. And thoughts of all the Christian people I know who only want to bomb Syria from afar, but exclude them from our country. And my mind just can't comprehend.
And it's all the more palpable over Easter weekend, these thoughts and reactions. I sat there and thought about sharing the first photo and my disgust over it. And then I thought….maybe simmer down, it's Easter weekend. And then I thought about the response if I did post it. Maybe no one would even respond. But if they scrolled past, they'd be thinking: That was a long time ago. People change.
It is a weekend celebrating new life after all.

Then I thought about my own embarrassing deeds. Thankfully, (as far as I know), there's no photos. There's no grab em by the….audio. There's just stories. And times I made people feel bad. And private things. Thoughts and actions. And I realized, if I ever became a public figure, I would own it. I would wear my remorse like a badge. Because there is strength in honesty. There is life in death. Prune a rose tree and it grows back stronger and more beautiful the next year.
And then I saw the Syrian family, and I knew I wanted to say something. But what?

For some reason though, things are amplified for me around Easter. I've had some traumatic experiences. I once had someone close to me scream at the top of his lungs with wild eyes that I was a whore. Yes. A whore. On Easter. He was not a romantic partner, but had strong opinions on what makes a whore, and most of you would likely disagree. Reaching back even further in time, I had another man tell me he thought I was a prostitute. It was awkward. So awkward. He'd called me into his bedroom to tell me this whilst everyone was just outside circling up, holding hands to pray on Easter. I'm sure their eyes nervously darted around the room as the raised voice lashed out. And I was being apologized to? It didn't feel like it because it felt like I was still being called a prostitute….and then his wife came in and screamed at both of us, and that was just all the weirdness a kid could take. Side note…I was entirely a virgin at this time. So….that's a head scratcher for sure. But my cheeks got hot and I felt the shame of a thousand harlots. And a piece of me died.
A string of these kinds of stories is why I observe Easter as my own personal Groundhog Day.
Something died in me those days. Because I was not who these men accused me of being. And yet, I was also not perfect. So all the shame and guilt for the bad things I had done mingled with the shame and guilt of the things I was falsely accused of, and I was a heap.
So, you can imagine, that outside of any religious observations, Easter and I, we have a complicated relationship.
Here's the thing, I feel a deep remorse any time I realize I've caused pain to others. That badge I wear, it's not with pride. Something dies in me those days too.

I don't feel like this man in the White House feels any remorse. I think, more than anything, he regrets getting caught. He's glossed over his indiscretions and made fleeting apologies. And it's not my place to judge or speculate what is in his heart. But without comparing him to anyone else, but who his better self could be, it kills me that people professing that Jesus rose from the dead on Easter, would look up to a man, defend a man, that in his public life has sounded the very antithesis of the one who died. Who stands and lives for America First? Him first? No death to any desire, but false promises of giving people what they want and not really what they need and delivering neither.
And my beef isn't with that man. Well…it is politically. But more than that, I struggle this Easter to make heads or tails of a people who make every justification for a demagogue. And while they justify the demagogue, they justify things I just cannot find in the bible.

It's funny. It seems like the evangelical Christians accuse the progressive Christians of only wanting to see Jesus and focus on love. (As if that's a bad thing?) But what I see more often than not, is the evangelicals longing for a time before the cross. A time when tribes were good or bad, in or out. And though there was no America at the time of the OT, for some reason, American Evangelicals think their tribe is in. Special blessed. When everything about Jesus tells me he wants one tribe. I think the Old Testament tribalism in post Christ times led to The Crusades. We continue these misguided Crusades even today. Both through disingenuous wars for oil or in our daily lives as people kill with their tongues, all in the name of a god who is made in man's own image.

It's nigh impossible for me to celebrate a living Jesus, when so many of his followers seem to be killing everything Jesus stood for.
And so, I grapple with the groundhog every year. Will there be a spring with new life? Or are we going to continue in this winter way? The winter of my discontent, as I connect those same traumatized feelings as a younger person, to the trauma I feel today. Right now, instead of a death and resurrection, I am struggling to see past just the death of compassion and grace and generosity and dignity. Perhaps the resurrection is in me, as I learn to die to myself, my me first attitude, and offer to bring more compassion and grace and generosity and dignity to those around me. And thankfully, I know I am not alone in doing so.

Thanks to Jen Hatmaker for sharing her own raw stories. Perhaps inspired by her, I share this.

Patriotism on the Porch

(I wrote this over a month ago. Before Patriotism and the National Anthem made headline news. Somehow it seems even more relevant.)

Dear Patriot:

You are ruining patriotism for me.
Let me explain:

I have a romanticized version of patriotism in my head. It includes 4th of July parades, honoring vets, in quaint towns sitting on verandas with flag bunting all around.
Doesn't that sound dreamy?
I love flags waving from porches.
I love living in this country.
I love the Norman Rockwell ideals of families praying around tables, and celebrating life together.

And then.
Then I get uncomfortable. A presidential candidate's platform has been to make America great again. Again? Like when? Like when black people had to use the fountain that spewed hot water on a blazing hot day? (Because I have recently learned the "white" people fountains had cooled water. Did you know that? I didn't. I just thought they were separate.) When we had our own little Indian holocaust? When we treated a whole segment of humanity as animals because their skin was darker? When, pray tell, was America great? Was it post WWII when women were hushed away and the price of being a house wife was subservience and silence? When husbands handled the money, and a woman just silently accepted philandering? When "ugly" things were hidden away, and all that was celebrated was the white nuclear family? America has actually always been great, and simultaneously needed to improve. It can be both. It is both.

I yearn for a country that is willing to look honestly at where it has been and where it is going. I yearn for a people of humility. I yearn for the definition of patriot to mean someone whose love of country includes constructive criticism. I yearn for people who can take the long view. Who can logically follow their own desires all the way through their course, and admit when their own desires trample on the desires of others. Whose love of the Constitution is balanced by a love of people, all people. So, for now, my patriotism isn't romanticized. It's gritty. It includes being really uncomfortable on so many levels.

When everyone is welcome on the veranda, that is when America will be great again.

The Complications of Protest

Friends,

I've posted a lot about Colin K. I'm not sure why I get so wrapped up in these issues, (peaceful protest, respect, and the actual subject of protest,) when I could just as easily wrap myself in the flag, and not notice.

There are so many factors in this situation…and I want to approach them delicately. I share this in humility, as I am part of the problem. On both "sides" if you will. Very recently, I spent ten minutes listening to a coach share his view, and I agreed with him. Then I read a rebuttal from a professor, who gave a different perspective and I agreed with him. Every time I read a new perspective, it changes and reshapes mine.

I completely stand by CK's first amendment right to not demonstrate in symbolic action his allegiance to the flag as a protest that the flag does not currently represent all that he thinks the flag ought to represent. The moment we start requiring people to blindly make gestures of patriotism without protest, we are no longer American.

Here is what his protest is not:
It is not that he's offended by the flag.
It is not that he does not appreciate the sacrifices of service people who have gone before.

All of that said; he is young and naive.
Here is where I do take issue: As a friend pointed out, he is part of an American pastime that involves being some sort of an example to our youth.
I think perhaps the NFL could maybe rethink what they require of their EMPLOYEES before it becomes an issue. What is required of a person as an American and required of a person as an employee are two very separate things. Let's treat them that way.

That said, I'm not sure his gesture was perhaps the most thought through. I really like the essay I shared earlier (link re-posted below), where he states he pledges allegiance to the flag not just for what it stands for and the imperfections, but the hopes for a better future.
Because here's a glitch with CK's protest: When does it end? When you protest something without a measurable solution, when do you stop protesting? I can't judge what was in CK's heart. I won't. That is speculation, and in my book, that's gossip. I can't expect humans to make the "right" choices (whatever those may be) in all circumstances. On the other hand, people would impose a system of how to behave on him, on anyone, that does not really provide opportunity for change. Respect the tension.
He made a choice that is now becoming a dialogue about free speech and flag burning and jersey burning rather than the dialogue that he'd hoped for. Be the bigger person. really.

Can we blame that on him, the negative response? In part, yes. When you make choices, there are consequences. Always. And we often do not know how to calculate for the unintended, because our focus is usually on the intended. That is where we cut people some slack. And, I am editing to add: it's a shame the unintended consequences are even half of what they have been. Sometimes, when trying to shine a light on something, there is no other way, but a way that makes people uncomfortable. Is there some truth in what he is saying? Focus on that. Is there a way of improving? Focus on that. Is there a way to look at yourself in the mirror and ask yourself how you can be part of the solution instead of the problem? Do that. Is there a way to kindly direct anyone who behaves in a way you find disrespectful? There is a way. It's called open, respectful dialogue. It is not accusations and insults hurled. It is not petty memes dragging a person through the mud. Have they made other mistakes related to said protest? Probably. The negative response is also down to the responder. Dismissing a person out of hand will not produce any positive change that either one of you are looking for. Whining about someone whining is just a lot of whining. How sad.
Why do I say all this? Because I read. I see. It needs to be said. Again. and again.

I'd rather focus on the PROBLEM, (which I understand many people would rather side step). But right now, seems like all we can do is focus on the reaction. Which, when all is said and done, is part of the problem.

http://www.baltimorebeatdown.com/2016/9/6/12814902/ravens-ben-watson-gives-fantastic-response-regarding-colin-kaepernick-and-national-anthem?utm_campaign=baltimorebeatdown&utm_content=article%3Atop&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook

What do we celebrate?

Life is about more than I can even fathom at this moment. Sometimes, I feel pushed like a tide is carrying me into deeper and deeper waters; the Syrian crisis to 9/11 to wildfires. No matter what you believe about wars in general, refugees, what actually happened on 9/11, no matter what, people are suffering, have suffered. I see a meme floating around comparing Mulala to a Kardashian. I can't stand the Kardashians. I love Mulala. Basically, it is asking, what do we celebrate?

Sometimes I despair….what do we celebrate? Eyes roll when politics come up. Differing points of view turn into fences and walls and wars of words, and if they gather enough steam, wars. I remember as a child, when my favorite television show was interrupted because something needed round the clock news coverage; I was so upset. How dare something I couldn't care less about preempt my viewing habits. I celebrated my television shows; my leisure time. My perceived rights even. One year, I was really mad a soon to be Princess was preempting my shows. And then I fell in love with the Princess, and didn't care anymore. What could we fall in love with now? What could preempt our lives and turn into a love story?

I see the community rallying for those who have lost everything in these raging fires. (On a side note, I love the imagery of losing everything in a symbolic fire, for then everything you build from there can have purpose and intention.) But I digress….
I see donation centers reach max capacity of clothes, blankets, pet food. People packing up their trailers with food to share, homes opened, trailers sent after left behind horses and animals. The community knows how to care. The community knows how to rally and come together.

But I have this nagging thought.
How do we learn to live in such a way that we can give to those who may be displaced by something else. Something singular. Something personal. Something that is twisted into looking like someone's hand in our pockets. The personal fires, that sometimes people can build on, and sometimes leave people desolate.

How do we not suffer compassion fatigue as we're swept along the tide of suffering. Humans, animals. There's always a need. There's always a Gofund me, a sick friend, a sick animal, a disaster, a riot, a war. How do we rise above this constant need, so we're not sucked dry and can no longer give or even care.

How do we get people to care in the first place? Many people have a lens on life that it is all about their own checklist: career: check, house: check, baby: check, vacation: check, the good life: check, check, check. All good things, no doubt. But what could move a person outside of this system, into one that celebrates humanity?

It's scary to care.
Sometimes, we're even judged for what we care about.
Kim Davis wouldn't do her job. The internet lit up talking about it. Then, in some circles, anyone who talked about it was under fire from those who felt the Syrian Crisis was a 'bigger deal'. I see this kind of logic time and again. The arbiters of what's important. Here's what I think: It's all a big deal. All of the ways we treat each other. All of the ways we celebrate life, or annihilate it. It all matters.

The more we celebrate that which alienates and devastates, the more we set ourselves up to one day be the refugees.

It feels like I care from a place of emergency. From the comfort of my home. I listen to the news, I scroll through Facebook. I'm moved. And then I move on. I can't sit in that place of grief or I'll die. Inside first.
So, here's my final thoughts: how can I create some margins in my life for caring? How can I incorporate actively caring in a sustainable way, for truth is, there will always be a need. How can I set aside money to give away freely when disaster strikes? I know so many people living beyond their means, and yet, their means are incredible; and living well within in them, they'd still be richer than most of the world. How do we flip our perspectives so we appreciate what we have so much that we want to share instead of hoard? Hopelessness says we can never give enough. Entitlement says we deserve all we have and more. I feel guilty nearly every time I buy something frivolous, yet that's not living. That's not helping anyone. I think sometimes it's all or nothing, and wind up giving nothing, because I'm afraid of unraveling. But. Somewhere, there is balance. That is what I am looking for. The place where we can still find joy in small things and big things, coexisting with the place where we can give until it hurts.

Instead of feeling hopeless about all that is falling apart, I'm going to pull myself together, and celebrate some life. I'm going to be grateful for what I have, most importantly for who I have. And I'm going to give. Time, money, whatever I can. Today. I'm going to celebrate life.

An Unconventional New Year

photo courtesy au.tv
Monty Python and The Holy Grail

Unconventional. How else can I describe anything about my life? I who wanted to be more conventional than anyone ever. My goal in highschool was to get married, have lots of babies and collect tupperware. I have not a single piece of tupperware.
So, this year I rang in the new year in the most unplanned, unreflective way.
A friend posted that the way you spend your New Year's Eve is the way you'll spend the rest of the year. In some ways, I hope that's true, and in others....not so much. The not so much is the crazier part than how I chose to ring in the new year...I'll get there.
 My Numero Uno is on the other side of the world, so I really didn't care what I did. I stayed with my friend's teenager while she went away for the holiday.
I'm so glad I did.
He is probably old enough to stay on his own, but something about this particular situation told me to go, and I knew it made my friend feel better.
The first night, I was so cautious about intruding on his life. I tip-toed around and basically passed out I was so sleepy.
But last night, we immediately started talking about everything. His Mom, Aunt and Uncle have been dear friends for over 20 years; I know a lot about this kid and his family. The words came pouring out of him. Before I knew it, we were sitting on the living room floor snuggled in blankets laughing and watching the time fly. He is one cool kid.
After a while, a good long while for a teenager and a "grown up" to have a conversation, we decided to watch his new extended edition Lord of the Rings. Our tummies were full, and we settled into the movie. We both fell asleep midway.
Here's the crazy part. They have an attack cat. You sit there smugly thinking how bad can a cat be? Do you remember the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog from Monty Python and the Holy Grail? Worse than that. It wants to tear any visitor to shreds. It doesn't wait for you to get too close for comfort, it comes after you, scratching and biting. Sometimes, I think it has wings. My first night there, we locked him away. But last night I felt sorry for him, and suggested we let him out, the creepy fiend. He patrols the room all slinky and slow. It was fine when we were awake, because if he got too close, the kid could shoo him away. The kid is the only one who can handle this cat.
But then....I was asleep on the couch, and the kid had carried himself off to his own bed. And I was alone. With the cat. Stalking me. Lurking. Sticking his face in mine with a menacing growl. Jumping up onto a high shelf cocking his head sideways like a Gremlin sizing me up. When he got too close, I lifted my down comforter like a shield.  We'd watched Lord of the Rings, I knew how to take action. What I didn't know how to do is go back to sleep with Jaws, I mean the cat in the room.
So I sat up and started reading on my computer. I used my phone as a light to keep track of where the cat was, because he likes to sneak up. Then I realized the kid was up playing video games. It was a relief to turn a light on, and know where that cat was. We started the new year being awake at 4 in the morning laughing about his crazy cat. Not at all how I'd imagine starting the year. But perfect.
This year....I'm going to turn a light on. I'm going to illuminate that which scares me and face it, that which is beautiful and that which brings joy and magnify it. And I'm going to continue caring for the people I love and be open to wherever the wind may take me; with the light on. Happy 2013!

Grief Beauty Strength

Thoughts are like waves. See them, acknowledge them, then let them pass. (paraphrase) ~Ruth Riffe

I haven’t posted anything in a long time. I have so much I’d like to say, but not sure how to construct it, well, constructively. These words ache to come out.

The past several weeks have been rough; add the tragedy in Connecticut, and I’m a regular waterworks. I’ve been bouncing back and forth between raw grief and ordinary life and it sometimes feels weird. I even struggle now and then with guilt. How can I go on living and laughing and eating cookies when families are ripped apart, never to be the same?

Yesterday, I attended a fundraiser for a dear teacher Ruth at my yoga studio. Ruth called in sick just over a month ago and a week or so later was handed the diagnosis of cancer. All over. She could try treatments, that would maybe extend her life, maybe. And, she’d be miserably ill. She opted to let it take its course. You see, Ruth watched her own husband fight the same cancer just 2 years ago and she knew what lay ahead. Our vibrant Ruth, who sometimes had so much energy I thought it was going to vibrate right out of her and the very walls would start dancing.

We gathered together for her yesterday. We dedicated our class to her. Normally, a teacher leads us with their words, but yesterday, only the names of the postures were called, and we moved into them silently. It was such a beautiful dance. We were all moving for Ruth. I think we were moving for something even larger.
I marveled as tears flowed down my face that I could be so heartbroken as memories of Ruth splashed across my mind, as well as images of the sweet babes in Connecticut, that I could still move and my body could still bend backwards and forwards and dare I say do amazing things. I marveled at everyone’s strength and beauty. I know I wasn’t the only one in the room with a tight heart, not for the aerobic activity, but the sadness welling up and out. And yet, we all followed along, wordlessly and with purpose. It’s one of the most beautiful experiences I’ve had.

It strikes me now that that is how we move on. (Or at least one of the ways). In strength and beauty, we go about our business, and we cry when we need to. It’s very simple, and yet I at least struggle with it.
Ruth will always be with me. The things she taught me both actively and passively will always be with me. The crying and grief will slowly fade out. Hearing Ruth’s voice during class will fade as well, I am sure. But the way she has touched me, just as I’ve been touched by others who have gone before Ruth, they will always be a part of my being, whether I consciously know it or not.
We take time to remember, we take time to honor and then we move out into the world with grace and strength and do each thing to the best of our ability and in love.

Judgement

I have been threatening to write a post on judgement for some time. This is not that time. I'm just going to post a few synonyms to the word judgement, and continue to ponder this word that I think is perhaps misunderstood?


perspicacity


1. keenness of mental perception and understanding; discernment; penetration.
2. keen vision.




Discernment is a term used to describe the activity of determining the value and quality of a certain subject or event. Typically, it is used to describe the activity of going past the mere perception of something, to making detailed judgments about that thing. As a virtue, a discerning individual is considered to possess wisdom, and be of good judgement; especially so with regard to subject matter often overlooked by others.


I'll perhaps cite sources at another time.


Do I even dare to tackle judgement (again)? 

Shallow

Something has been on my mind lately. Shallow. Actually, a lot has been on my mind. So much so, that sometimes I can only speak gibberish.
Judgement has been heavy on my mind....but I'm not ready to tackle that, so I'll stick in shallow waters. Shallow waters can be lovely. Coral reefs need to be in shallower waters, so they can receive light. You can snorkel in shallow water, and cruise around with clown fish.
This crossed my mind as I was talking to a friend the other day, and this friend described someone else's lifestyle as shallow, quickly followed by the no judgement disclaimer. I didn't take it that way. But to really seal the deal in my mind, I started thinking about the beauty of things that are shallow.

Not everyone needs to go deep. Not everyone needs to be a philosopher. Not every observation is a judgement. I'm grateful for all the different people in my life, each displaying their own unique beauty on so many different levels.

Icharus

I haven't had much to share lately. Lots to say, not much to share. Life hasn't been very funny lately.
It isn't funny that I am so afraid of rattle snakes and tip toe around the ranch with my head bent low making sure I don't step on snakes. It isn't funny that I am so cautious. Until I am not. Thankfully, the writhing mound of snakes under the tarp that had been untouched for 2 years until I crouched down and studied the puddles of water still present after all these warm days....they weren't rattle snakes. Lucky me.
Because I pretty carelessly poked around until I was too close for comfort.
Not funny.
It's also not funny that the day after I told my Mom I should be running a company instead of what I do, my boss pointed out a very inconvenient mistake I'd made. Not funny at all.
I was sick about it all day. Except when I was laughing at myself.
It's not funny that I can parallel park my beast of a car in a teeny tiny space as if I'd just slid it in sideways, but I can't make a U-turn on a mostly soft shouldered spacious road without hitting the one random panel of sidewalk and putting a gash in my tire. Not funny. At all.

But really, it's all pretty funny. Life is funny, really. We all make mistakes. We all get a little puffed up, and then maybe taken down a peg. I am sorry I inconvenienced my boss, but I'm going to go with a little humility rather than wounded pride.
I'm going to learn from my mistakes, and slow down a little. And then maybe pick up the pace again. And maybe make some more mistakes. (maybe?) And I'm going to laugh at myself. And stay away from tarps. I'm really going to stay away from tarps.

This guy is the last man standing. The others slithered back under the tarp.

The one about tanks, or me, it's difficult to say

Since this blog originated with the concept of extending grace, more and more I find, the person to whom I need to extend the most grace is um, Me.
I'm a complete mess most of the time, and the only reason I write at all is because I must.

So, here's guilty confession number 237: I am not of strong character. I am a people pleaser. Ooohhh, that's 2. It's ironic, since I am also very outspoken. But there it is. I am an outspoken people-pleaser of weak character. I bet you're jealous.....I am a walking oxymoron. (But definitely not a moron.)

Here's the stage; I've just sat down to a picnic lunch with a handful of acquaintances and friends I have not seen in a while. I am eager to impress. Especially since one of said acquaintances can only recall me based on a very unfortunate crush I had years ago. Gosh, I hope I gave him a better association today. I'm thinking maybe no.
The table is spread with wine, cheeses and bread, olives, pate and prosciutto. A discussion on the humaneness of pate arises. I didn't bring it up, but being the know it all that I am, and only after the question was asked, I contributed to the conversation that pate is often the result of inhumane treatment of animals, look across the table and realize aforementioned friend is spreading generous portions of pate on bread. Shortly thereafter, it was pointed out, not by me, that I am a vegetarian. I felt on the spot. When asked why, I gave my stock answer that there's many reasons, I'm not a militant vegetarian, and I really just don't like meat. I was so anxious to not offend, that I wanted to wave it all away. I felt all sorts of wishing I wasn't such a big-mouthed introvert.
I shared funny stories of the "vegetarian" friend I traveled with in Israel who ate lamb every chance she had. Who can blame her? I shared how, as a child, I often was sent to bed during dinner because I would not eat the meat on my plate. In my haste to control the attention placed on me, I missed out on something. I missed out on hearing that my  friend's new husband is also a vegetarian, and that he and I probably have a lot in common. I missed out on hearing his perspective, and maybe being the richer for it, and perhaps others would have been the richer for it as well. He was about to share his perspective on industrialized food, but the discussion of whether or not we had to eat everything on our plates as children took over.
None of that really resonated with me until much later. That night, I was doing what I do. I read blogs. Other blogs. I don't just read the blogs, if it's a good post, I read the comments. Last night, I read hundreds of comments on a couple posts. What I discovered, which is really not news, is that people just don't listen, or rather pay attention. Comment after comment revealed the reader latched onto one teeny portion of the whole and completely misconstrued the post or the previous comment. Time and again, the author would have to retell what had already been said, and said clearly the first time in my opinion. Commenters preached and pontificated, and I realized I'm not the only misunderstood person on the planet. I get frustrated that I am often misunderstood, but how can I be surprised when I see it happening to others and I'm so busy crafting a pleasing persona, my real person is lost. Everyone has a paradigm from which they operate. Everyone. Some are more aware of this than others. Some can step outside and understand another's point of view. Others cannot or will not. And there's the rub.
What I really take away is to talk less, listen more. Which is really difficult, because I love to tell stories.
That is why I prefer reading blogs and comments. It affords me the time to really hear other people. I am richer every day from the insights and stories others are willing to share. Now to figure out how to apply that in person.
Meanwhile, if you want to know, I will tell you why I am a vegetarian. And, if you eat meat, I am not judging you. Well, mostly not. Maybe a little. No, I'm not.
If you can't make a clear connection between the photo and this post, refer to The Oatmeal.

The one where I use the "F" word

As I fiddle with the color balance levels on one of my camera apps, it occurs to me how much we are responsible for the color of our world. I altered the color balance so much on a photo that a blue sky turned bright orange, and the brown grass turned lavender. The photo may not have any artistic merit; I may be the only person who appreciates it, but for this moment, for something as harmless as a photo, I don't care what other people think.
I do care (what other people think) when it concerns my well being, or the well being of others. What was initially going to be a post about balance is turning into many thoughts on how we color our world. In word, deed, thought and action, we all have a paintbrush. Finding that balance is tricky. Life is about balance and contrast. Day/night. Sleep/work/play. Trust/self-protection. Dark/light. What would you add to the list?
We spend about a third of the time in my yoga class doing balancing postures. I wonder if that translates into real life.
Every facet of life has been challenging my notion of balance lately.
How do we find our balance? How do we find balance in a world that seems to be spinning off its axis?
I feel things acutely. It's part of my genetic code. Sometimes it leaves me wondering if I was the only one who felt the earth move, or if the whole world did. I'm not yet able to decipher that out. For instance, that awkward moment when people don't know if they should clap or not, and then the awkward moment of when to stop...am I the only one who wonders about these things? What is the perfect balance of time to clap? Not so long you're a lone cheering section and not so brief you're the sourpuss barely able to rub two palms together. As a dear friend says "stop thinking." I can't help it. Sometimes, I have vertigo of thought. Spiraling thoughts make me dizzy, and I want to find that firm leg to stand on.
I've been really enjoying a new favorite blog; Recovering Yogi. Usually the stories crack me up. Often, they are self effacing. People have forgotten self effacing I think. They translate it into negative self-talk. But that's another blog post....Recently, someone tackled manners. I have long wanted to tackle manners, as many people around me already know. What I found interesting is the responses to this post. This is all about being in a yoga community, but I'm sure it translates across life.
I'm going to get gross here. Real gross. Leave it to me to use gas as a launch pad for deep thoughts. There was your warning word. I'm going to talk about farts. Right now. Follow me here (if you can stomach it): the author suggested one leave the (practice) room until they can get their gas under control. To which several  responded in different shades of how terrible she is to judge the accidental fart, to which the author responds she wasn't referring to the accidental fart. She understands those happen. Are you so turned off now? Because I'm taking it to the next level. The next comment had me rolling on the floor. "What about the accidental shart?" Yep. I went there.
Where do we draw the line in our collective prudishness/open-mindedness?
Because, this probably isn't a news flash, I would die if that happened to me in class. So should we shame people for bodily functions? No. And, I think we'd all agree that we'd all like to just not have to think about any of the above. But what about the guy who rings out his soaked towel so you can hear a rush of water on his mat while the room is still and quiet? Is that necessary? I've gotten really acceptive of the sweat that happens in hot yoga class. I've accepted gas happens. But if you can help something, do.
Today, I complimented a new (to my studio) woman's top. She thanked me, told me she made it, and that it was the least amount of clothing she could get away with. Followed by, "wouldn't it be great if we could practice naked yoga?" Um, no, no it would not be great. I'll tell you right now, that thought offends my sensibilities way more than the above conversation about gas. But, I can choose to go or not go to a naked yoga class. I can choose to go or not go to a hot yoga class; knowing there will be things that are not my favorite. I can also choose to be mindful of others. I can choose to try not drip all over others. I can choose to not shave my legs when 10 women are in line for the shower. I can choose to respect other people's time and space. I cannot choose whether or not my nose is going to start running. I cannot choose if I have gas...though really friends, I never do that.
Sometimes, I feel like we've gone so overboard in being love and light or being irritable that we don't really know which battles to pick. What I think is okay and not okay is not what you'll think. Somewhere in the middle is balance, no? I think the key is: do no harm, within balance. Be mindful that we share a space in the yoga room and on this planet. I confessed in my last post that I talk about things. It's true, I do. I talk about what's funny, what I want to see change, what's obnoxious. I talk. Here's my choice; if you can't change it, I'm not going to talk about it. If you had a rough day, you've got all my grace. If you're new to something and don't understand, no judgement from me. If you're a selfish prat, then I'm probably talking about you. And when I'm done, I probably still like you. I just don't like that thing you did. The longer I practice yoga, the less annoyed I am in general. But I still expect people to show up and realize we live together and share space. The balance I struggle with is realizing you can't change other people; and realizing you can.