My Unintentional Life

The New Digs (photos for Mom)

2012-01-23T07:56:00.000-08:00

As You Enter...

To Your Left...Mark's Study

To Your Right...Formal Living Room and Ping Pong Arena

Once Upstairs...

The Loft...

The Master Bedroom...

Master Bath...

Emily's Room...

Other Part of Emily's Room...

Rachel's Room...

More of Rachel's Room...

Phoebe's Room...(best view, but smallest room)

Back Downstairs...

Best Room of All...Rosemary's Studio

Family Room...

Snowing Sideways

2012-01-17T12:38:00.000-08:00

It snows horizontally here in Illinois. Unless, of course, you are horizontal yourself. Then...you guessed it, it's vertical. But no matter how you slice it, anytime you find yourself in a situation that requires you to combine geometry and meteorology the resulting result will always be the same...stay home. Don't go outside, don't even think about going outside! Just stay home and be warm. We have already arranged for other people to go outside and be cold; like the mail carrier and the dead, so we just don't need anymore cold people. Stay home, and be a bum...like me (if only I could grow a five o'clock shadow...then my slothfulness would be complete)

But if you must go out, please, change out of your sweatspants or jammie pants! This appears to be a real epidemic here in Chicagoland. It's everywhere. I saw a grown man just the other day with batman jammie pants on at the hardware store. He was buying an electrical outlet. He not only drove himself to the Home Depot, but would soon return home to finesse the high risk task of working with electricity, so I must assume he was in somewhat good health? Had he been at the pharmacy...that would have been another story, right?

On another note, Mark's job has improved. Someone in upper management noticed a severe lack of grins and chortles in the office and started asking questions like: "we make games for a living, shouldn't we be having more fun?" Changes are being implemented and we feel that our prayers have been answered. Praises, as always, to our Heavenly Father.

I Would Like to Buy a Vowel

2012-01-10T12:11:00.000-08:00

Good news! I've identified the source of all dread! Wait...that's actually bad news, isn't it? Ok, well maybe it's not good news and maybe it's not the source of all dread but it is definitely the source of the dreadfully doomed feelings I was experiencing pre-move to Illinois (see "Merry Christmas" post, December 25th).

Turns out...Mark works for a dangerously caustic person. I won't mention his name, but what I will say is that it's only one vowel away from being "Satan".

Oh, the blogs I could blog about this guy!!! He is a real psychopath. Psychopathy (/saɪˈkɒpəθi/) is a personality disorder characterized primarily by a lack of empathy and remorse, shallow emotions, egocentricity, and deception. Let's just say... he's a real kitten-kicker.

I'm gonna go ahead and spin the wheel and say, if "Satan" were Pat Sajak, as soon as he could tell you were going to solve the puzzle, he would change the puzzle, and THEN if that wasn't bad enough, THEN he would openly belittle you in front of any audience available for not being able to solve it.

This is who (or what) my dear husband has to work with, not just eight hours a day, but 11-12 hours a day!!! Yeah, I know. Get the heck outta dodge. Easier said than done when you've just dramatically uprooted your entire family, signed on a new mortgage, and have a resume that you kinda care about.

My poor, poor husband. How I weep for him. How he weeps for himself. How I can barely stand to watch him suffer through this abuse, capital A B U S E.

Why we have to go through yet another excruciating trial so soon...I don't know. That is a question for another game show. But what I do know is that I can absolutely trust God and His plan for us.
"Nevertheless...thou knowest the greatness of God; and he shall consecrate thine afflictions for thy gain." 2 Nephi 2:2 He has never failed us and someday, we will see the purpose in this as we have seen in all the other adversities we've been called to pass through.

New Year, New Home, New Post

2012-01-03T06:21:00.000-08:00

Nine days ago I gave my two oldest children goodbye hugs. They were long, tender goodbye hugs and I may have cried a tear or two, but I don't remember. Ok...I cried my eyes OUT. I think Nick even leaked a little. Then we climbed into Grandpa's truck and amidst a few more sobs here and there, made our way to Salt Lake City international airport to leave Utah soil for the last time in a long time.

I was anxious to take my girls through security, as we all should be any time we participate in a government sponsored mandate that is completely unconstitutional. The TSA is the gateway drug for the loss of the rest of our liberties people....but that is another blog for another time. Let's just say, I was anxious.

But, as it turned out, the four of us made it through without so much as a beep from the metal detector. Big sigh of relief...until they scanned Emily's backpack. There she had packed the Christmas presents she had opened that morning; one big bottle of lotion plus one big package of pedicure products equals one big liquid no-no for air travel in the US of A.

Deflated, we began to calculate what our options were for this seemingly minor, albeit quite significant to a 13 year old, bump in the road. As my brain was in the middle of scramble mode and I had my dad on the phone to see if he had left the airport yet...the TSA agent came back with Emily's backpack and said that her supervisor thinks it would be ok to let these cosmetics go this time. Phew! And Merry Christmas to us! I still don't know if Emily realizes how lucky she was.

Our journey resumed. And easy it was. Phoebe's guitar case passed as a carry-on. A cute BYU co-ed engaged Rachel in in-flight conversation on the first plane. Frontier Airlines delivered their signature warm chocolate chip cookie as a snack, and no one got air sick. On the second plane, we discovered that when we paid for the upgraded ticket (an extra $25 to get two bags checked) we also got free TV service. And lest we forget...warm cookie number two.

With warm cookies in our tummy and mucho luggage in tow, five hours and two planes later we made our way through Chicago Midway Airport to pick up our rental car. And what to our wondering eyes did appear? Nothing. They over-booked their fleet and our reservation (plus those of the six people in front of me) was unfulfillable. No cars at Hertz at 10:30 PM Christmas night.

We were issued apologies and promises that other rental car companies still had cars available, which may have been true, but other rental car companies were closed and had already gone home. Budget/Avis was still open so I waited in line there for forty minutes with the rest of Hertz's jilted customers. Apparently forty minutes is just long enough to exhaust your fleet because when there was finally just one patron in front of me, he turned around to report to his wife: "They're out of cars."

I scrambled up to the desk. "You're out of cars???" Yes. They were. They had a van left...but I wouldn't want it. "Why wouldn't I want it? Is it unreliable?" No. Works just fine, it's just a twelve seater and would be difficult for someone like me to manage. Guess again Mr. Avis...haven't you ever heard of youth conference? Not only can I 'manage' it, but I can 'manage' it with only three hours of sleep and nine insanely sugar-punched teenage girls in the back all singing "All Star" at the top of their lungs while driving through Utah's canyon country.

So finally, at MIDNIGHT, all of our bags were loaded up and we were on our way home. Home? Yeah...home, kinda. I guess.

That's where we are now. Our new house, that we are slowly but surely making into a home. And with every box I upack, I absolutely cringe at that thought of having to move again, and yet... I know better...

Merry Christmas

2011-12-25T01:00:00.000-08:00

The day has finally arrived; the day that will see me celebrate Christmas and then board a plane with three of my children to meet my husband in Illinois; our new home. Now I realize that it's past midnight and that I have been yanked around emotionally quite a bit for the past four months and I realize that I may be hopped up on quite a bit of sugar from tonight's Christmas Eve party...but I just have to say something that's been weighing on my mind a lot lately and has become quite befuddling. What I have to say is that this whole move seems a little doomed to me. I mean, whenever I think about it, a feeling of pending disaster arises. And dread....yes, don't forget the dread.

I've never felt this way about a move before, not to mention, everyone who knows me knows that I am an optimist by nature. So needless to say, this feeling is a little distracting, and if you haven't guessed already...I have chosen to ignore it completely (which may very-well mean that I am also a bull-headed idiot by nature as well). I mean...I am getting on that plane tomorrow ...

So that's all. That's all I have to say. If I can't explain this to myself, I certainly can't explain it to you either, but I did need to just put it out there and get it off my chest. Any closet psychiatrists out there...please feel free to weigh in on this one and leave your insights and comments at will.

As for the rest of you, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

2011-12-14T22:01:00.000-08:00

Not long after I got home from work today, I sat down on the couch and fell instantly asleep. Slept for two hours. It has finally hit me...the sleep deprivation I've been building up for the past two weeks. I can't help it. After Mark left for Chicago, bedtime changed drastically, or rather...disappeared altogether. Now, when I would usually be turning out the lights and going to sleep, I am sitting in bed watching the NBC late night line up. Jay Leno is in charge of creating noise first; then Jimmy Fallon. It's really all about getting to Jimmy's show ya' know. And even though I do fall asleep halfway through it, he really is the better entertainer of the two. I just wish NBC would let him entertain me to sleep a little bit earlier, that's all. NBC...are you listening? 'Cause someone has to be the grown up here and do the responsible thing, I'm starting to get bags under my eyes! (BTW...Thank You Notes...they're the best)

But, the sleep deprivation thing has actually, really paid off. Not only am I way off my game - all of the time, but I have managed to go not once, but twice, through an entire day before realizing that I had my underwear on inside out. This beats my previous record of.....(drumroll....) never.

As for Jimmy Fallon's Thank You notes segments...see for yourself:

Thank you, Good and Plenty candies — or as I like to call you, prescription licorice.

Thank you, wet floor signs, for warning me that if I walk on you, I might start breakdancing.

Thank you, gift cards, for basically saying “I could have just given you this money, but I wanted to have final say over where you spent it.”

Chicagoland

2011-11-04T22:06:00.000-07:00

Tonight I watched Mathew Broderick run around New York City and blow up Madison Square Gardens. Can you name that movie? He's come quite a ways from running around Chicago, disrupting unidentifiable parades. Now, as I wait for my 16 year old to come home, I am watching Harrison Ford be wrongly convicted of murdering his wife in cold blood...also filmed in Chicago. "Dr. Kimble" as we know him in The Fugitive, has already gone from dancing with his wife at a charity event to listening to her 911 call in court to being loaded onto the prison bus and yet we are still watching the opening credits. David Twohy wrote the story and screenplay, and man...is it aggresive!

We watch a lot of movies these days. A LOT. This is a combination of dad's nice home theater set up and our incredible lack of structure. Since exhausting our every mental and physical effort just to move in here (only to find out two weeks later that we're moving to Chicago) we've sort of defaulted to limbo mode. We find it hides the catatonic schizophrenia really well.

Next week we'll fly out to the midwest to find a place to live. The usual excitement of swimming through real estate listing after real estate listing on the internet has been dramatically muted by the discovery of Illinois property taxes. I say that with the greatest amount of solemnity.

If we're lucky...we'll find a place that only costs $5000 a year in property taxes. It can go anywhere from there to $10k, for a modest 2500 square foot family home in a modest, family friendly neighborhood. The solemnity comes from the fact, that even if we were to find a house that we could pay for in cash, we'd still have to shovel out some serious cash every month, just to live within commuting distance of Mark's new job. The solemnity comes from the fact that we are moving to a state where the residents of said state, although Americans, are unable to affect any change in their heavily corrupted government to ameliorate such a grievous burden.

I don't know why they need so much money, not only are their highways toll roads, but they apparently can't even keep their teenagers in school or their fugitives under control. Go figure.

But it will be green there and pretty and fun and full of interesting cultural opportunities and social observations. Yes...it will be good, but it will be short. Not just because our job stability is project based and we usually move every three to four years, but because; who in their right mind would settle in a place with property taxes as high as some folks mortgage payments??? Anyone? Anyone?

Starting Over...Again

2011-10-23T20:30:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago a bucket brigade of my friends and family lined the halls of my home and spent a few hours together passing buckets and boxes to each other from the depths of my basement to the heights of a well-stacked U Haul.

Jim Jackson came under protest; as he did not condone our move. Hank Howell came with a sense of humor; when the box labeled "Baby Jesus" was passed to him, he said "There's no room". Scott Howell came; even though his Saturday was already full to overflowing with earlier promises he made to serve other people, he still fit in one more last minute service project for his sister. Brother Larson came, and had the good sense to bring rope.

The following week the hired help came and; one piano, four armoirs, and five pizzas later, emptied the rest of the house. We left it the way we found it, only more loved, more clean and forever haunted by the loss of the best family that will ever live there. I know the walls will miss us, the kitchen island will weep and don't even get me started on the flower gardens.

You know you've been packing too long when you finish taping up a box and turn around to see this scene and you think: "oh how pretty...that's the perfect lighting for a disheveled room" and you snap a picture. You know you've been packing too long when you walk into a store and see a bag of packing peanuts as tall as you are and suddenly hear choirs singing. You know you've been packing WAY too long when you go from an elaborately detailed inventory Sharpied on the top of every box, to "More Stuff" barely scribbled legibly on the last five or six.

We are not there, we are here and patiently waiting to find out about our family's next "where".

I'm not sure exactly where the Lord wants us to be right now, but I do know it's not anywhere near "settled" (or California...please Lord, not California). It's neck n neck right now between North Carolina and Chicago. North Carolina=familiar, been-there-done-that, easy. Chicago=totally new, kind of exciting, but definitely harder. But given the past three months, I'm not sure I can even count on the choices being the same from one day to the next anymore.

2011-10-06T20:34:00.000-07:00

I am packing. My back hurts and I took a hit to the jaw today from a falling box. All of my cooling racks except one fit in with my baking pans. I have decided not to care about that, usually I would, but not tonight. I am packing. I am getting an intimate, one on one moment with all of my belongings. All the things that I have felt the need at one time or another to invite into my life. Everything that has, for the past six years, survived my cleaning purges (I am the opposite of a pack rat...always getting rid of stuff) and I am fairly confident that I will never, EVER have to buy another item in my life again...ever. Yeah, that's right...we got S T U F F!

We will put everything in storage for a few months and I am looking forward to being away from all my stuff. Is that a funny thing to say? Well, try it sometime. It's refreshing. Perhaps vacations aren't about where you go as much as what you leave. Just the act of leaving something is freeing and empowering.

People ask me if I'm excited about moving. Well... is it ok to be sad about getting something that you wanted? Because that's how I feel. I wanted to move, but now that it's happening... and goodbye's are immiment, the emotions are very close to the surface. I was teary all night as I packed with boxes and used packing paper that friends had brought me. I've moved enough to know that you keep moving boxes and packing paper after you move for a reason...so when someone brings them to you, it's really a dear gesture.

In Spanish Fork, I chose to love. I decided to accept people on their terms and assume the best. This has made my heart happy and my life rich. It probably hasn't changed how other people have viewed me though...I'm sure it's quite the opposite. I'm sure some people hate me, or are annoyed by me, or think I'm utterly ridiculous. But, like the deviant cooling rack that didn't fit in my box, I have decided not to care about that. There's just no room for it. And I'm ok with that.

Over Paid Party Pooper

2011-09-30T09:50:00.000-07:00

I dont' know how much the buyers of our house paid that mean old (oops...I mean "well meaning") home inspector to come in and snoop around, but I hope it wasn't much. Not that I know how much inconsequential bad news is worth, I just think it should be dirt cheap.

Before he came, everyone was happy. We lived in our house for six years, cared for it, loved it, always planned on protecting our investment and possibly owning it (although not living in it) for forever. We fixed all the maintenance problems in preparation for putting it on the market. We looked at each other when we were finished with the repairs and asked the familiar question: "Why do we always make it so nice right before we leave it?"

The buyers were practically giddy as well. Not only did they like the house, they kept making offers on all our furniture too!

But now, we all have this new list you see, and there's no room on this list for happy or exciting. It's all depressing, nick-picky and largely inconsequential and I hate this list. I do, however,
feel more sorry for the buyers than us because...they haven't lived here and therefore don't know how meaningless those things on that list are and how they would never have even been aware of them if it weren't for Captain Sunshine and his fancy digital, thermal scanner of gloom.

A Family That's Ambushed Together...

2011-09-03T20:50:00.000-07:00

When my children were much smaller, Family Home Evenings had a lot more energy and excitement to them. We were young and creative and would plan for the evening well in advance. We didn’t have any money then so it was always homemade but no one seemed to mind. It also helped that back then everyone actually wanted to be there.

One Family Home Evening however, ended up being more exciting than any one of us could have ever anticipated.

I had recently heard a suggestion for a fun family activity while listening to a well known LDS author and speaker on tape. This speaker said that you could lay a clean bed sheet down on the family room floor and place a hot air popcorn popper in the middle of the sheet. You would then gather the family around and fill the machine with kernels. As the machine warmed up you could take the lid off of the popper and make a game out of catching the freshly popped corn in your mouth as they flew freely and wildly about the room. Lots of giggles and memories were to be had.

Well we couldn’t wait. We were filled with anticipation as we sat around our popcorn popper. The kids grinned from ear to ear. The machine whirred and off came the lid. But no fluffy white clouds of happiness came flying out, instead the unpopped, but VERY well heated kernels took flight like burning hot shrapnel. Taking out one kid, then the next. Before we knew it, there was crying and screams of terror everywhere. The kids dodged one way and ran the other but it seemed the kernels from hell had impeccable aim and velocity.

Finally my husband started grabbing the children and running them out of the room as I did a head dive for the outlet to unplug the demon attacker from the wall.

Well, as you can imagine, that pretty much ends your evening! There are no lesson or songs or activities that are going to be a good follow-up for that. Just a lot of hugs and kisses, band-aids and apologies. Oh yeah…and one trip to the garbage out back to properly dispose of a certain talk on tape.

2011-09-01T16:22:00.000-07:00

Wasps like blackberries. They like to suck the juice right out of them! I went outside to pick myself a nice bowl of blackberries today and discovered a wasp fully engaged in gorging himself on the biggest berry on the bush! Several other attempts revealed several other wasps doing the same thing. All this time I thought I was producing a crop of nice, anti-oxidant rich fruit for my family just to find out that no.... it's actually an after school hang-out for delinquent teenage vespas!

Wasps get to sting people. That pretty much maxes out their annoyance quota, dosn't it? They shouldn't be allowed to sting people and eat their blackberries. Who do they think they are? Bears?
You're lower on the food chain than that Mr. Vespula Vulgaris. You have to pick one irritating characteristic, no going back for seconds.

Here's the thing. These wasps have been living in a hole in my gazebo for a few years. I, being the humanitarian that I am, decided to live and let live. I scratch my back; they scratch theirs, if you know what I mean. This spring I did see one of them eating a grasshoper (gross), but grasshoppers eat my flowers so as gross as that was...it sorta worked for me. I thought we had a beautiful thing going.

But now, they've left me with no choice. I have to show them who is boss of the backyard. Tomorrow morning there will be a freshly caulked hole in my gazebo, with a little tiny wreath hung over it. Maybe the mosquitos will hold a little candlelight vigil for them, I don't know. I just hope we've all learned our lesson here.

I Don't Get It

2011-08-31T16:54:00.000-07:00

What makes a woman; who is otherwise capable of remarkable acts of compassion; who has otherwise demonstrated a great capacity to promote and respond to spiritual experiences...completely and consistently neglect the very people that the Lord himself has placed in her life and asked of her: "If ye love me, feed my sheep."?

I don't get it. Help me understand.

How can a woman sit by, when the Lord himself is in the vineyard, grieved and pained and asking "What more could I have done for my vineyard that I have not already done?" How does anyone sit by and not jump in that vineyard and labor by his side? Is his grief in the vineyard somehow more acceptable than his grief in the garden?

I'm talking about serving. Caring. Ministering. I'm talking about visiting teaching.

50%? 60%? The same people over, and over, month after month not getting visited. The same people over and over, month after month not doing the visiting.

Oh, excuse me. Is this too scathing? Am I in your face? Well, consider yourself rebuked. Please feel free to enlighten me as to why you're not living up to your privileges, I'd love to hear it.

Yes!

2011-08-26T18:16:00.001-07:00

You've asked for years and years, and I realize now that it may be too late to answer, but I have to say...YES! Yes Mr. Rogers....I do want to be your neighbor! I would and I could.

Aawhhhhh....this feels so right.

Life Longing

2011-08-25T13:45:00.000-07:00

Do you have a life longing? Is there something that you long for, but that you have been denied? Not something that I would refer to as a "comic book longing" such as wealth, eternal youth, fame, or super-human abilities. But something that a lot of people have and that is so common, most people take it for granted, something that only you would recognize as being remarkable to attain? Yes? Then you have a life longing.

One common characteristic of life longings is the Almost Factor. The Almost Factor is probably the most cruel part of it all. You almost get there. You almost have it. Or maybe you have it, but just long enough to love it...before it is taken away. There just seems to be one little step, one little detail, that is missing, that keeps your dream away...at longing's length.

And then there's the Why Not factor. At some point, if your life longing is really a life longing and not a gimme-gimme, you'll find yourself asking "Would it matter Lord? Would it really mess anyone up if you let me have a spouse? or a baby? How would that hurt anyone?"

Good questions. I don't have an answer, but I do have this story (which has nothing to do with life-longings, but is just an example of considering the unknown). I had a big responsibility at church when I got cancer. We call them "callings" in my church. I thought I would be released from that responsibility to deal with my illness, but I was not. Many times I wished I was released. But cancer came and went and my calling stayed. When I look back, I think about how hard it was to do both and how much better it would have been to be released, but then the thought always follows...I have no idea how it would have been without the calling. Maybe it was easier to have that distraction and those opportunities to serve. Bottome line; I just don't know what it would have been like to go through cancer without the calling. Maybe it would have been worse.

So maybe my life longing is a blessing in disguise and someday I'll realize that it was better to live without attaining my dream than to actually have it fulfilled. I don't know...we'll have to wait and see.

My personal belief? That we all are given a life longing. Some of us can talk about them, which is helpful. But others have longings that by necessity, must be carried alone, which is hard. You can take comfort and solace in knowing that deep inside, we're probably all nursing a tiny little broken heart. Maybe the next time you cross paths with a real jerk (and I hope it's not me), just remember there's a possiblility that that person is acting a little jerky because he/she is feeling like 'the only one' that day, or maybe even really believes at the moment that they are the 'only one'. After all, pity parties don't exactly bring out the best in us, do they?

Happening and Un-happening

2011-08-17T19:41:00.000-07:00

Just as fast as everything happened...everything un-happened. Happening and un-happening at such speeds is quite cruel; evidence of a demented, sinister universe.

The clock started ticking July 27th at about 4:30 pm, when after months of searching and deliberating, Mark and I settled on a lot, a house plan and a builder and we finally signed one signature-starved contract.

One of us is very happy to be keeping our current residence as another rental, the other one of us is...if you s t r e t c h it far enough...just happy to be trying to be happy about that??? Anyway, not quite 77 thousand ticks of the clock later, a voice mail message is retrieved informing us that there is potentially and quite magically, a very interested buyer for our ever so off-the-market home.

The second not-so-happy to be happy guy is suddenly very happy when said buyer makes us an offer we cannot refuse, landing us in contract number two, in less than forty-eight hours.

So in just two days, and a lot of signatures, we find ourselves contently basking in what we assume to be a supernatural confirmation that moving our family is indeed, somehow sanctioned by God.

This basking lasts through a family reunion, and a family float trip. Twelve days of basking (1,036,800 clock ticks to be exact), only to be interrupted by unexpected voice mail number two: the lay-off.

This is shocking. Unemployment always is, but the surprises don't end there. Imagine a long-lost realtor from your past contacting you after six years to let you know your old home in North Carolina is on the market again, ON THE SAME DAY YOU LOSE YOUR JOB. And if that isn't enough, imagine getting a job offer, from a company in North Carolina, ON THE VERY SAME DAY as well.

One might think that moving to North Carolina was the new "sanctioned by God", we sure did. But North Carolina is a bigger move than we really wanted to make, so we become a little conflicted and spend an entire weekend consumed with making the right decision...if there even is one.

The arrows don't stop pointing us in that direction (East) and our hearts don't stop wanting it to be otherwise (West). The diverge is maddening. We take comfort in the fact that we are still in a contract to build a house here and decide that honoring that contract must trump all other indications.

Finally at peace, we move forward with our builder and send him our design choices the next morning. Unbeknown to us, this is where the un-happening begins. He tells us that we can't, after all, build our house on that lot. Their are CC&R issues and lawyers and what not. Bottom line; our last hope for a sign that says "stay here in Utah" is yanked out from under us, we are no longer contract bound, with the exception of our already sold home, which we'll have to move out of at the end of September.

I surrender. I guess I'm moving to North Carolina. I can't deny what I can't deny. God sold my home so that when my husband lost his job, we could move to North Carolina. That must be it.

UNTIL...the phone rings yet again, six hours later. This time, it is our miracle realtor. The one who sold our house that wasn't even on the market, for full asking price. What does Mr. Miracle have to say? The buyers are backing out.

Oh.

Okay. So...did we just go in a circle? Because I feel like I just went in a circle. Like I'm right back where we started, only with a new job, that by the way....will let us telecommute and not have to move at all. Okay. So what was the rest of all of that for???

Can you say demented and sinister?

"Life is too important to be taken seriously"

2011-07-25T11:29:00.000-07:00

Several years ago we heard that our friends from North Carolina were going to be in Utah. Their son told our son that he would come see him on a certain day. This is all the information I got. A day. I wasn't sure if his family; specifically his mother whom I adore, was thinking about coming too since the last time his family stopped by she was unable to be there. Again, no definite time was given, they'd just come when they could.

Well, many things began to go wrong that day. My stack of to-dos had already been piling up and becoming worrisome and weightier all week. I was one stressed out lady. I still remember how desperate and powerless I was feeling.

The price of gas had just shot up and I was combining trips whenever I could. I realized at one point that morning that I could actually get some back-to-school shopping done on the way back from another, critical errand I had to run. So I stopped at Target that day and amidst the crowds and the whining tweens, my shopping cart began to fill with pretty good deals, and a few hard-to-finds. My mind started to relax and I was feeling not so overwhelmed anymore, not to mention quite a bit closer to staying on budget.

It was at this point that my cell phone rang. It was Nick. Not only had his friend arrived at our house, but so had the entire family, including his mom. How fast can I get home? he asks.
Well, if I left my cart, and my hard won deals, and drove like mad...15 minutes. But that meant taking two steps back into the land of overwhelming incompetance and day-late dollar-shortness. I paused for a second to consider then said..."I just can't do it". If they could wait 'til I got home (45 minutes) that would be just smashing, but I didn't expect them to. And they didn't.

All the rest of the day I felt deflated, like the biggest loser. All that I accomplished and was finally able to cross off my list was no longer such a bright light at the end of my tunnel. I had been a schmuck to my friend who was afterall, visiting from over 2,000 miles away.

Apologies and explanations have weakly been offered. And I really have no idea how she feels about all of it. I know that she's been back in town a few times and has expressed no interest in giving a get-together another try and I don't blame her. I've traveled across country with a family before and know what it's like to have a long list of people that I want to visit or feel obliged to visit, so I know first hand how stressful that day probably was for her too.

Sometimes you just can't win them all. Such is the life of a woman. No matter how hard you try, or how hard you work, you will always feel like you've let someone down. So in a way, I have really given a priceless gift to my friend: one less person to worry about pleasing. I'm quite sure I'm off her list.

But this isn't as dire, dreary or depleating as it may sound. It's actually liberating and kind of funny. We don't need a vacation or a spa package to relax, all we need to do is acknowledge our faults and have a good laugh at ourselves. It may take a while, but soon you'll be joined by many friends, all laughing at themselves. You know...it's called retirement, aka the Golden Age.

"Surround yourself with people who take their work seriously, but not themselves." Colin Powell

F2 Baby

2011-07-25T09:42:00.000-07:00

On August 11, 1999 my husband learned that when your wife shows up out of the blue at your office and wants to take you out for a slice of pie, she's probably coming to tell you something. Maybe something like, she's found a way to fill that one last empty seat in the mini-van? Yup, congratulations, another bun in the oven! Number five was every bit as exciting as the first, if not more. Of course, it didn't hurt that twenty seconds after I broke the news to Mark, a fellow patron in the restaurant stood up and shouted "get away from the windows!".

We were sitting in the restaurant part of the old Inn at Temple Square, next to the wall of windows that ran along South Temple. We dubbiously scanned the room to see if there were any obvious signs that we might want to listen to the crazy guy's frantic warning. Abruptly, other patrons started to stand and move from the windows so, still not knowing why...(maybe it was a gunman?), we left our table and moved to the center of the room as well. That is when we noticed that large debris had begun flying past the windows at uncanny speeds. The world outside had been turned into soup and someone was giving it a stir.

I found a phone in the lobby and called the babysitter at home to see how things were going there and to encourage them to go down to the basement and to also let them know we wouldn't be home for a while.

When everything had died down, people started emptying on to the streets in droves. Even people who otherwise had no business to go outside, went out to survey the damage. We were all walking up and down the streets aimlessly, all talking to each other like we'd known each other for years. Once in our car, it took us over 45 minutes just to get from State street to the I-15 on-ramp.

Everyone wants it to be special when you announce a pregnancy. But no amount of creativity or meteorological divination on my part could have ever produced a more memorable announcement than this. (even though I never did get to finish my piece of pie ).

Rachel, our fifth baby, came eight months later and has ironically been the calm after the storm. But, on the other hand, her creative powers surely carry a F3 or F4 punch that could really put any tornado to shame.

2011-06-18T07:12:00.000-07:00

When you're a woman, and life hands you this sentence: "Comb-over, 50 to life", you can try to discern what crime you committed to deserve such a punishment, or you can carefully meter out what courage you still have left from all the other sucker-punches you've been dealt and march on... until you drop.

Here's what happens. One day you'll want to go out with your husband and NOT wear a wig or a hat or anything. You'll want to feel normal, even though you know your not. So you'll choose a venue in another city where no one knows you. You will strategically place every strand of hair where it can cover the most scalp and still look inconspicuous. Then off you'll go.

In my case, we chose the Timpanogos Temple. This is the part where the temple workers; the kindest, most seasoned, sweet little old ladies would speak to me, all the time looking me in the eyes, except of course for the occasional, almost rhythmic glance up...at my hair. And yes, they pretty much all had more hair than me.

No worries, right? Who cares. Off to the grocery store. It's 10:30 now, on a Friday night. I won't see anyone I know, right? Wrong. There's person A at the cucumbers, but fortunately I can duck into the cereal isle quick enough before she sees me and wants to chat. Phew! But who would be in the cereal isle??? Person B. Now I'm surrounded. I have to talk to person B, and sure enough, buying cucumbers obviously reminds person A how much she needs some rice crispies and viola! it's a party in the cereal isle. Everyone's invited but my hair.

So, ok...let's be humble. Let's have a little perspective. Let's go buy some milk. We won't see anyone else we know, for the remainder of the jaunt, but we will pass another woman...with a comb-over. She'll be a night stock person. She has the good sense to relegate herself to the graveyard shift where all women who look like they just crawled out of a grave belong.

I'm almost out of courage. I feel it waning. I've done my best. It's time to drop.
I need a farm, out in the middle Kansas somewhere, where no one has my address and I don't even own a phone. Or a miracle...yeah, that would be nice too.

Work Station(ary)

2011-06-16T08:17:00.001-07:00

Here I place my butt to stay
At this desk to work all day
Though no new weight have I gained
My hooks and zippers feel quite strained

Stand, run, walk, I used to do
Little errands, house chores too
No time to sit ‘til after nine
Back then my pants would fit just fine

I am comfy, I suppose
But now I need to buy new clothes
Desks and chairs we have a few
But we could use a treadmill too

True Love Defined

2011-06-03T20:29:00.000-07:00

"We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love." ~Author Unknown

The Book Thief...and other endings

2011-05-22T15:12:00.000-07:00

It has been an emotional week for me. As I've pondered the passing of a friend and as I've finished reading a book written with such weighty brilliance that it's been credited by many as "changing their lives", I find myself quick to cry and slow to...well, anything else. In other words, everything else has slowed down to a speed more prone to contemplation and appreciation.

That, by the way, is not the speed that our world is spinning at right now. Our RPM is currently set at FRANTIC. Cunningly so by the author of all unhappiness, Mr. Devil. Our sobriety is dependant on being 'present in the moment', so in order for him to maintain our dis-ease, we must not be allowed enough time to even know the moment existed in the first place, until that is, the consequences of the moment are seated insistantly at our feet.

Breathe in. Wait. Breathe out. Listen for the lilt in someone's laugh, look for the playful in someone's eye.
Take the time to say no. Take the time to let someone else adjust..learn..merge.

When I speak of sobriety, it's almost impossible to do so without thinking strong drink as well. But in The Book of Mormon, sobriety is admonished with no referral at all to wine. According to Elder James J. Hamula "Being sober means being earnest and serious in assessing your circumstances, and careful and circumspect in weighing the consequences of your actions. Soberness therefore yields good judgment, as well as measured conduct."

But enough about that.

So, as I put down the 560 pages of Markus Zusak's "The Book Thief" I have to ask myself; how can Mr. Zusak live with himself? Knowing a creation of such magnitude came out of himself? Wow. Good job Markus. Stay with us.

Other endings in my life have happened or are about to happen in the form of serving in God's kingdom. Church callings are changing hands. This happens almost every week so why do the most recent ones seem to have affected my heart strings this week in particular? Probably because I have witnessed Andy and Jim and Randy all give their hearts in their service. Their families as well have sacrificed. How do you put it down then, and move on? How do you redirect dedication? By definition you shouldn't be able to. By experience, it's known to be hard, as Christopher and Evan will discover in two years when they return home from their missions abroad.

I know that I too, will soon be released. Dismissed. I'm lost trying to figure out how that's going to work. They (the sisters) are in my heart, so it can't, can it? But somehow it will have to and it will be, in it's own way, glorious. Because for me, I can't help thinking that I have let the cancer and the calling become entangled in one. I hope to find out that upon my release, I can finally let go and put the disease behind me and be done with it. (well...the moving plan didn't work...I've got to try something!)

Now on to Howard and death. Same problem but bigger question mark. How is that going to work? He's in our hearts, but our opportunity to serve him and learn from him, at least here on earth, have now passed.

We may be uncertain as we wonder in callings as in relationships "could I have done more?" but today in church, I was overcome with such an overwhelming feeling of "well done, though good and faithful servant" that I think it's safe to just smile and let that one go. I know that I loved all the sisters in my ward and that I loved Howard as well, so what more could I have done?

From My Journal - 1988

2011-05-20T20:41:00.000-07:00

"I feel so alone for the first time in my life; like a has-been Nike swoosh, like a new kid at school, like a cream soda in the fridge, like a word stuck in a pen."

That was from my journal in 1988. If you're from the 80's, you will remember that for a while, Nike was huge and you had to have that swoosh on your shoes. But by '88, the craze was pretty well over, no one had thought of "just do it" yet and other tennies like Adidas and K Swiss had stolen the market, at least as far as a journal writer in St. Louis at the time was concerned. And I apparently wasn't too fond of cream soda.

I guess I was feeling alone at the time. I wrote my best poetry as a lonely teenager and as an in love teenager and as a hyper teenager and as a trying to win free stuff teenager and as a contemplative teenager....you get the point. My career as a poet hit it's peak right about the same time as my hormones did. Juvenescence makes a riotous muse if captured properly.

One of my favorites is called "Why Do Lovers Walk So Slow?"

Why do lovers walk so slow
Don't they know I've got to go
They walk so slow that I can't stand
To be behind those hand in hand.
The bells gonna ring
And I'll be late
Just because two people date.
I try not to be tardy to class,
But lovers walk slow...
And are hard to pass.

Technically, that is a sonnet, but not intentionally. It just sort of happened that way.

2011-05-08T03:01:00.000-07:00

So this is it. Mothers Day 2011 starts at 4 am. I don't know why, but apparently I'm supposed to be up right now. Breakfast in bed? Nope. Try breakfast in a dark kitchen when the house is so quiet, you think that cracking an egg is going to break the sound barrier and when did the keyboard get so dang loud!?

A bowl of cereal would have been easier, and possibly quieter, but some lousy idiot discovered that carbs aren't as good for you as we once supposed (how could something that makes you so happy be good for you!?) and that eating them will give your body a reaction opposite to what you're going for at 4 am...namely more awake, less asleep. Ignorance really is bliss ya' know. Get your stinkin' lab coat away from my bliss!

And when did my job, which was supposed to be a source of mad money, or fun money, become so darn essential? How come now I cannot imagine how we'd get through the next month without it and how "fun" has nothing to do with it? Did God know that our entire sprinkler system would blow up today and seem so hopelessly expensive to fix? Did he trick-bless me into getting a job so I'd be ready for this, quite possible $1,000 repair. Which came first...the chicken or the egg?

It happened. Sometime within the last 24 hrs, our MLS listing slipped quietly and peacefully away. After a year of "house on the market" angst, it just ended. Almost without our knowledge. If it wouldn't have been for the first, of I'm sure many, phone call from a realtor/vulture, ready to jump in and be the answer to all my real estate problems, I probably wouldn't have even known.

I love my house. I love my neighbors. I just don't love where they all come together.
Goodbye dream of moving. Please go away.

Still with the Yay! Thing

2011-05-02T08:35:00.000-07:00

Yay! Yay! Yay! is still on my mind. This may have something to do with the fact that yesterday I forgot to come to ward council with a spiritual thought prepared and had to wing it by trying to use my most recent blog piece. Hm mm. Questionable move on my part. I vaguely recall getting lots of blank stares.

I'd like to think that behind those stares were thoughts of: "Wow... I am moved so much by the deep insights of Sister Jarman that I find myself rendered speechless. If only Heaven would open up right now and take us all home so we could praise the good Lord in person for this bestowal of wisdom and light."

But what they were probably thinking was: "Dude...she totally forgot to bring the spiritual thought."

Nevertheless...I am still led to believe that there is some deeper reason why this little boy's reaction made such an impact on me. Which has led me to reflect on the scripture; "Men are that they might have joy". Ever notice how it comes right after the verse "Adam fell that men might be"? The single most enfeebling, disruptive and bruising event in the history of the world, yes the very Fall of Adam itself, is followed by the declaration that...it's all about our happiness?

Men are that they might have joy. Go figure.

So if all this learning and hurting and growing and nitty-gritty life stuff is really so good for us, and I think that it is, and having these adversity laden days are really what it's all about...then those Mormons really do know what they're talking about. I think members of the LDS church may be getting a bad rap for the whole "Gods and Godesses' in embryo thing" because when you think about it...it's quite spot on. But do we ever think about it? Eternity that is?

Has it ever occured to anyone that sitting around eating grapes or plucking harps for eternity would quite literally be it's own kind of HELL? So why would we get on someones case when they talk about progressing eternally? To dam something is to stop it, correct? Do you want to be who you are right now...forever? Would you be happy if you were still the same person today that you were 10 years ago? I know I wouldn't. Ever heard someone be grateful for a past trial? "If I could do it over again, I wouldn't change a thing."

So, yah. Maybe if you progress and learn and change FOR ETERNITY...you might just eventually pick up a few attributes here and there that are...dare I say it....Godlike. He is our Father you know, and a perfect one at that. Matthew 7: 9-11

"Or what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone?
Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?
If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?"

Don't worry. The Mormons don't believe they have the potential of being your God. That job is already taken. But do know, that Yay! Yay! Yay! happiness is the object and design of our existence (Who designed our existence and Who is perfectly happy?) and will be the end thereof.

So, you're gonna have to find something else to get upset over the Mormons about...because being upset because they understand that God is their Father and wants them to have everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, that He has is a little on the naive and short sighted side. It would be more appropriate to be upset at them because they actually have that knowledge and so much more, yet they so often do not live up to their potential, or as Brigham Young said it "far beneath our privileges."

Yay! Yay! Yay!

2011-04-30T19:28:00.000-07:00

This is what a little four year old boy said today when I handed him a simple yellow balloon at the Thanksgiving Point Half Marathon. "Yay! Yay! Yay!" as he hopped away on both feet, like Tigger.

He was the highlight of everyone at the booth today that witnessed his reaction to this seemingly simple acquisition of helium and latex. Hundreds of yellow balloons tied to hundreds of little wrists this morning, but none were as appreciated, loved, or delighted in quite as much this one was.

"To become like little children..." as Christ beckons through century and verse, apparently includes rejoicing and delighting in blessings of every size, color and unremarkable ordinary-ness...even to the point of becoming "hopping happy".

The Omen and It's Possible Meanings

2011-04-25T19:33:00.000-07:00

I almost didn't recognize it at first. In fact, I readily dismissed the lone earring that lay in that last bit of melting snow as someone elses's problem. I only picked it up to lay it in a more conspicuous place in case it's owner came back.

I guess my plan worked...because I quickly realized that I was the owner! If not mistaken, this was the earring that I lost a long time ago! I probably lost it while raking leaves at our apartment last fall. Sure enough, I took it home and compared it to the one in my jewelry box and it was a perfect match!

Considering the size of the earring and the time and conditions that had passed since it fell out of my ear, this was really quite amazing to me. Mark says it's an omen. I am all for that. Now all I have to do is decide what it's an omen for.

I know, how about the return of my hair! We could really work the whole fall/spring analogy thing.
Or...I certainly wouldn't mind the return of my strength and stamina. You would have thought that by now, I'd be back up to par...but I'm still the biggest wimp I know. My short term memory would be nice too. But then I think I'd trade it all for the return of the cute, cuddly little friends my two youngest daughters used to be to each other. The fighting....the drama...the hormones...really girls?

If you need some omen, just let me know. I'll share some with you. I'm sure there's plenty to go around, but you should know one thing. I went to grab the earring to take a picture of it for this blog and I couldn't find either one. Yup, now they are both missing. I may have to check with Mark first, but, I think it's an omen.

New Holiday

2011-04-19T09:05:00.000-07:00

We went to Subway last night for Family Home Evening, to claim our free "Tax Day Cookie".
Going so late in the day, we were prepared for them to be all out of cookies, but the guy behind the counter said we were the ONLY people ALL day to come in and get a free cookie. So I guess the Free Tax Day Cookie turned into Free Cookie for Me Day. I like that!

#1 Facebook Wish List

2011-04-06T14:30:00.000-07:00

If the facebook genie would grant me one friend request I know exactly who I would wish to find! 23 years ago I spent a magical two weeks with an adorable boy name Franklin, at his parents elite Old Town Alexandria townhome. These folks went furniture shopping in Europe, and car shopping in Sweden. They matched their placemats to their food ("Which one of these goes best with chicken? The checkered or the damask?") They were O L D M O N E Y and they wanted ME to move in with their son!

I would love to find out what happened to Franklin not only because of the bright future and high expectations his family demanded of him and would surely provide for him, and not only because our parting was so heartbreakingly unexpected and emotional...but because...he was only six months old the last time I saw him.

I was a nanny. Franklin's nanny.

Franklin Black was the son of Elise Black and Mr. Black? I can't remember his name. Just that he was the economic editor of US News and World Report at the time and his wife was a lawyer for the United States Justice Department. (She used to work with Rex E. Lee) They were both raised by "white gloved nannies", had graduated from Ivy League schools, traveled the world, loved Linda Rodstadt, and by age 40 had decided that they owned everything in the world they could ever want except one thing...an offspring.

That's where I come into the picture. My mother wrote an elegant cover letter to accompany my resume and they fell in love with me instantly. Well...they fell in love with my mother. Who wouldn't...I'd pay her to raise my kids too.

Anyway...my first night there, sharing a penthouse suite with little Franklin's nursery, I fluffed up my pillow and sat up in bed to write in my journal when C R A S H! The 150 year old antique bed that they had set me up with, falls apart. To their credit, they were more worried about my safety than the furniture. But perhaps the most memorable part of the evening for me was the look on their faces when they saw what I wore to bed. Let's just say...NOT satin jammie tops and bottoms. More like...white trash reject something or others.

I did become extremely homesick extremely fast. Mostly because I was in culture shock and had no way to relate to the posh surroundings or foreign childcare theories that were being thrust upon me. Franklin's toys came with instruction manuals so that I could introduce the right toys to him in the right order so his brain would function at genius level. I had to play Spanish lessons during his morning nap and German lessons during his afternoon. I had to sterilize his toys on a weekly basis, dispose of every diaper in a zip lock bag before throwing it out. I had to boil everything that I used to prepare his bottles, including the tongs, funnels, can opener, and the top of the cans themselves. I had to check the air quality report before taking him on his morning stroll. But the most baffling thing was...I was not to nap while he was napping.

That was difficult because several times a week I would go out at night with the other nannies and young single adults in the area and stay out usually until 1am. Mr. and Mrs. Black did not like this either. It made them worry about my safety. Bless their hearts.

So, two weeks into the deal...I guess they got sick of hearing me cry in the shower every morning, and of my staying out late at night because they fired me. I got a healthy severance package so I moved in with another nanny whose employers were on a two week cruise. I looked for another nanny job and played around the greater DC area. But in the end I caught a flight home and found a nanny job there, where I could live at home and stay out as late as I wanted to without my boss ever knowing. So whatever happened to Franklin? Did they find another nanny, like a professional nanny from England? Did they tell her horror stories about me? Did Franklin meet all his parents expectations or is he in prison somewhere? Facebook.....the ball is now in your court!

Too Much, Too Little

2011-04-05T10:31:00.000-07:00

You know you're depressed when...

1. Snow in April makes sense and

2. hunger pains are good, 'cause at least you're feeling something and

3. you wonder why you don't know the words to Moon River.

You know you're bored when...

1. You can't wait for Tourettes Awareness Month so you can wink at total strangers for no reason and

2. you wonder what food goes best with The Eagles.

"So put me on a highway, and show me a sign...." (I'm leaning towards grilled cheese, but I could be wrong)

More from my bouquet...

2011-03-14T17:08:00.000-07:00

Imagine coming home from school on your birthday and being met halfway up your driveway by your neighbor who is wearing the biggest grin you've ever seen. "Wow...my birthday surprise is so incredible that even the neighbors are excited!" I imagined. Then to my surprise she pulls this cake out of nowhere that must have taken her hours to create...a beautiful pink cake with a fancy white poodle on the top complete with coconut flake fur.

Guess who has never liked coconut flakes? Guess whose mom was lying sick in bed, thus inspiring this kind woman's attempt to save a little girls birthday? Guess who cried and sulked off into her room, without so much as a "thank you", thus leaving this poor Samaritan holding the cake?

(Guess who just burned dinner because she was blogging? I thought the tears were from remorse...nope, try smoke.)

In the end, however, this kind lady should take solace in one thing. And that is knowing that her cake, although rejected as it was at the time, is the only cake from my childhood that I can still remember.

My Kids

2011-03-14T16:24:00.000-07:00

Nick - His first "video game" was a program Mark brought home from work that his company had designed to help medical students learn anatomy. At age four he almost had all of the bones memorized. We thought for sure he had inherited the PhD gene from my grandfathers. Nick lost interest when he started kindergarten.

Phoebe - She needed to be disciplined one afternoon, long after I had run out of mommy power, so I instructed her to go spank herself. She turned and left the room in tears to carry out the sentance.

Kate - When she was finally told the true identity of Santa Claus, she sighed in deep relief and exclaimed how glad she was to know because, in her words, "I was just going to keep on believing no matter what all the kids at school said". Wow, talk about conviction!

When we were living in Maryland, Kate was nine and was assigned to write an essay on Martin Luther Kings birthday. The theme was "I have a dream". Kate wrote: "I have a dream that all the people in Maryland will start being Mormons so they can be good." Her teacher did her best to express her objection in red ink without sounding too incensed, but it was hard to hide her incredulity.

From My Bouquet

2011-03-13T19:39:00.000-07:00

"God gave us memories, so that we might have roses in December." From my bouquet:

~I remember going on business trips with my dad. He had to drive up and down the Oregon Coast for sales calls and those of us that were old enough were invited, one at a time, to accompany him on some of these treks. This meant; missing school, seeing new landscapes, one on one time with dad, a heaping of music from the 60's, sitting in the front seat without having to take turns or fight with siblings, endless restaurant food, hotels with indoor pools and...Good Morning America.

I would wake up in the mornings to the sounds and smells of a freshly groomed father getting ready for his sales calls that day. The smell was probably a mix of "classic hotel" (chlorine, coffee and a hint of cigarette smoke) and Old Spice. The sound was always Good Morning America and an electric razor running in the background. I'm dizzy with nostalgia just thinking about it. Those were happy times.

Now, it's difficult if not impossible, to recreate the smell of a hotel room when you need a good sensory hug. And maybe that's a good thing. But, to this day, I still find the sound of GMA on the TV to be extremely comforting during times of stress or uncertainty. It got me through a lot of tough "Operation Desert Storm" mornings when I would have otherwise been all alone. There's no doubt in my mind where that little emotional/sensory crutch came from.

Does the Emmy go to ABC? No way. It could have been any show playing in the background on those business trip mornings. The award goes to Dad for making a little kid feel not so little, a passion of his that he has refined over the years and now passes down to his grandkids.

Tops for Tots

2011-03-05T16:16:00.000-08:00

I unintentionally ran a home based business from 1993-2000. It started when my son was born 14 months after my daughter was born (also unintentional). Unlike his big sister, he didn't come out of the womb with a shock of thick, dark hair covering his head. Also unlike his sister, I couldn't dress him up with ribbons and bows. So to me, he sometimes seemed half dressed with nothing on his bald, albeit cute, little noggin.

At that time in my life, at home all day with two very little children, I maintained my sanity by spending lots of time behind the sewing machine as well as at the fabric store. In fact, it was at a fabric store where I discovered a pattern for baby baseball caps. What a revelation! It never occured to me that I could make a baseball hat, let alone one for a baby. But in the end, I would end up making over a thousand.

The hats were created solely for Nick at first. Then I started making them for baby showers that I had been invited to. Soon, friends who were going to other baby showers started calling and placing orders. This led to the idea that I might be able to sell them at the Wymount Terrace yard sales on Saturday mornings. The first time I sold out of hats in less than an hour...I knew I was on to something good.

This is where my dad comes in. He knew the buyer for a baby boutique in American Fork called "Little Things Mean A Lot". Sharon agreed to look at my hats to see if they would be a good fit for the store. She really liked them, but suggested a few tailoring tips that would make them look more professional, which I immediately implemented.

After filling a couple of orders for her store I began to feel more confident in my product. I started approaching other baby boutiques in the valley. At one point I had hats in three different stores in Utah. They took me 1/2 hour to make and cost anywhere between $1 to $2 dollars for the materials. I sold them for $6, the stores turned around and sold them for $12-16 each.

At the climax of my little business I found myself sitting with the buyer for the Nordstrom store in downtown Salt Lake City. To my surprise, she wanted to order a dozen hats and run a test market on them. I was dizzy as I drove home. Dizzy with excitement and the magnitude of it all. I started adding up everything I would have to do to be a supplier for a national chain, starting with getting insurance and a business license to hiring other women to help with the manufacturing.

But as I pulled into the driveway of my house, a house that was filled with three beautiful children and all the love I could ever want...I instantly, without a doubt or even a nod of regret, knew that I would not be fetching a business license anytime soon. I waited a few weeks and called Nordstrom to let her know my decision and I have never looked back.

I sold hats in my little boutiques for four more years and two more children after that. Then one day while filling an order, between nursing my fifth child and packing my family to move across the country to Baltimore, I knew it was time. I finished the hat I was working on, wrote a letter of apology for the partial order, as well as one of thanks for the years of patronage, and closed shop.

I opened it once more a couple of years later when I was desperate for airfare to fly back to Utah for a visit but never again since then.

How fun that was and how lucky I am to have that chapter in my life, unintentional or otherwise. I know without a doubt, that this was just one instant of many where the inspired leaders of our church taught me the truth about the true meaning of success.

Drama Queen & The Ruby Ring

2011-02-23T15:35:00.000-08:00

I was six years old. I still believed in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. I still believed the kid on the bus who told me that if you picked a scab while you were outside, you would die. And I still believed in monsters too. (By the way...not only do monsters eat kids...but they do it in one gulp...)

This is the world I was living in when I met my teacher at church for the first time. She was the first grossly obese person I had ever encountered. From my perspective, all 43 inches of me, I couldn't help but notice that her tummy was approximately the same size that I was. From this observation my six year old brain immediately came to the only reasonable conclusion I could draw at the time: She ate kids.

I started to cry and run after my mom. I cringe just thinking about what this poor lady heard me say as I darted out of the room. Poor Sister So-in-so. How incredibly humiliating that must have been and how sorry I am for the incident.

But she must have forgiven me because the following week she brought me a shiny, plastic, ruby ring that was the most beautiful thing I had ever owned. I was spellbound from there on out. Turns out she wasn't a dangerous ogre that ate children afterall! She was really a generous queen who gave away priceless jewelry! At least, that was the only reasonable conclusion I could draw at the time.

Attractive is as attractive does.

2011-02-18T13:17:00.000-08:00

This is my life. It is my mess and my masterpiece, and these are my stories. You my friends, are making messes and masterpieces all of your own, right along side me. What a wonderful human race we make together! How amusing it is to stop once in a while and peer into each others worlds, through the written word. And here we go again...

When I was in high school I left a bright and promising career at Taco Bell to work behind the snack bar of a Venture store. (A Venture store is something in between a Target and a Kmart.) I went from smelling like a taco to smelling like popcorn and from wearing brown polyester to wearing black.

As happy as I was about those changes, I was unhappy about the realization that WAY too many teenagers frequented that snack bar at Venture. My natural inclination at the time was to maintain a very low-profile while wearing polyester and pumping ICEE's. So this was not good. I spent most shifts neck-high in self-absorbed adolescent angst and feeling very sorry for myself.

Then one day while out visiting a friend in a neighboring town, we popped into her local Venture store. I casually glanced over at the snack bar on our way to the jewelry department to see if I could catch a glimpse of what I was certain would be a fellow comrad in misery. To my surprise, I saw the girl behind that counter looking way cuter than she should have. I did a double take to see what kind of uniform she got to wear and discovered it was just like mine.

The only difference was...she was smiling. And self-confidant. She was rockin' that geek suit and owning the crowd.

For better or for worse, that's how it works ladies and gentleman. We are attracted to happy and confident. Happy and confident will always trump style and chic. Which, by the way...you should note that nothing makes you happier or more confident than having the spirit of God with you. In the inspired words of Sheri Dew: "No amount of time in front of the mirror will make you as attractive as having the Holy Ghost with you."

Amen.

The Room that Rosemary Built

2011-02-16T16:02:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time there was an LDS meetinghouse without a mother's room. That's right, no room for a woman to sit and rock her baby, feed her baby, or change her baby when needed.
An old brown metal folding chair wedged tightly between the sink and the bathroom stall in the ladies restroom was somehow supposed to suffice.

There are certain things about that set-up that make it disgusting, not to mention demeaning to a young woman who has not only chosen to bring God's children into the world, but bring them to His church as well. But such as it was, year in and year out, babies and bummies made due (and doo-doo) with the situation.

Then one day while looking for a quiet room to discipline a child in, one of those young mothers happened upon an empty classroom in the hall adjacent to the chapel. After reproving the child with sharpness, she couldn't help notice that the services in the chapel she had just left, were being piped into that classroom through a speaker in the ceiling. Could it be? Did her ears deceive her? A long, lost mothers room, stripped of it's true purpose?

Excited inquiries danced past the ears of many a priesthood leader. As far as support from those leaders went, the flesh was willing, but the spirit was...delegated. Excitement grew to disillusionment as nothing...ever...happened.

But it wasn't long before the disillusionment took the form of audacity as I, the aforementioned young mother, took matters into my own hands. I ordered a door plaque that read 'Mother's Room' that matched the door plaques on the other specially designated rooms in the building. I took my drill and my three young children to church one night and proceeded to screw the plaque onto the door. I moved all the classroom chairs out of the room and dragged two of the upholstered chairs from the foyer (one actually swiveled and rocked) into the room. Top it off with some lovely framed art stolen from the Relief Society room, and viola! Instant mother's room.

Through the grapevine, I learned that the High Priests Group Leader was considerably put out that someone had stolen his quorum's classroom and that he left a mean spirited note on the chalkboard for the mothers to read, but other than that, there were no inquisitions, no letters read from pulpits, no repercussions of any kind. I was prepared to repent if caught, but there never was a witch hunt to begin with. And much to my delight, when I went back to that church for a 20 year ward reunion...the room was still there as I had designed it, in all it's accomodating comfort and glory.

Viva la mama!

(Disclaimer: By no means does the author encourage or endorse the unauthorized altering or remodeling of any publicly or privately held property. My behavior was shameful and should not be emulated. Do not try this at home. Danger Will Robinson, danger!)

2011-02-10T04:58:00.000-08:00

Last Sunday our Fast and Testimony meeting was one of those meetings where you don't want to get up when it's over, you just want the feeling to last forever. Fortunately, the spirit was carried throughout the rest of our classes and into the rest of that day's activities. It's really quite invigorating when that happens and you feel like you can do anything, and you probably would if that darn sun would just stay up a bit longer!

Conference weekends have the same effect.

I have long struggled with the unsustainability of such spiritual highs. Sometimes it can really bring me down, when despite my best efforts, the magic dosn't lasts long enough for me to do all that I'm inspired to do, in the manner I know God would have me do it.

So yesterday, when I took a day off work to spend more time ministering to my neighbors and my family, and after having the best experience ever (despite problems with auto technicians), I came to the end of the day with the same conundrum. So in an effort not to wake up the next morning bummed out about it, I said this prayer to God:

Dear Father,

Thank you for filling my day with opportunities to minister to my brothers and sisters here on earth. Thank you for letting me see the beauty that lives inside each individual, that comes from the light you have placed in their soul. Thank you for giving words to those around me that have edified and instructed. Thank you for expanding my heart to consider each moment for its true significance in terms of eternity. Thank you for this day...in all its perfection.

Please bless me, as I lay down to sleep and wake to a new morn, that I will not descend into despair when I realize that the unique blessings of this day do not carry over to the next. Please help me accept the hills with the valleys, the ordinary with the extraordinary, and the miraculous with the hum-drum.

But please, do not delay the forthcoming of the next chance to walk by your side, so that through your grace and that power alone, I may have another day of Heaven on earth.

Save a buck, burn in hell

2011-02-09T19:27:00.000-08:00

When I bought my laptop last year I picked up a floor model that was for sale. The sales clerk took it to the back to box it up for me and soon I was on my way to PC heaven. Not long after getting home, the store where I made the purchase called me to let me know that they accidentally put my laptop in the wrong box. Because of this mistake, I had been charged for Dell's more rudimentary model, but actually went home with the elaborate one. As they explained the situation.. I braced for the inevitable. "You owe us more money." But instead they humbly and pleadingly asked me to bring the box back to trade for the one that my computer actually belonged to, promising a big discount coupon on future purchases if I would be so kind. An unusual shopping experience yes, but by no means unpleasant.

Contrast that to what happened to me today. I ordered and paid for a set of four new tires last week. When I went to have them installed today, the "tire master" scrunched up his face as he looked at the sales slip, stammered a bit, and then informed me that they messed up and didn't charge me enough for the tires. He followed this announcement by stretching out his hand, requesting my card so he could ring up the difference. I smiled in reply and said "surely you're going to waive the difference, right?" Not so easy.

The manager was called down, he immediately sided with me. The tire master then, believe it or not, argued with the manager that I should be required to pay!!! (I know...I'll let you catch your breath and calm down....................ok, back to the story) So the manager looked at me and said "I'll let your conscience dictate what you should do, this is your personal decision." (I know...more shock and disbelief, I'll give you time.............................ok, back to the story.)

Of course, I don't give them the money. At that point I should have had them load the tires into the back of my van so I could take them somewhere where the technicians don't hate me, but instead I wait for them to do it. And wait, and wait and wait. Two hours later I learn that after our moment at the front desk, the tire master had left in a huff and his coworker was left there working the tire bay alone and at his own sweet pace. I watched as he would stop working on my van to take new customers, fulfill their orders, and then go back to my van.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing, so in naivete, I walked across the store to the bakery and bought them a giant chocolate cake and set it on the front desk. Thirty minutes later he came out with my keys and wouldn't even look me in the eyes. I interrupted his icy, self-absorbed revery and asked "do you think I'm evil?" He returned "do you go to church every Sunday?" "Yes" I replied. "Then I think you're evil".

"So you won't accept my peace offering?" I followed. He picks up the cake and hands it to me across the desk. I then ask "do you go to church every Sunday?" His smug reply "no". You fill in what I should have said then, something like: "Well, if you did go to church they'd teach you not to judge people as evil based on one interaction with them." But instead, I just took my cake and walked out the door, feeling badgered and mystified. Did I just pay $500 to be treated like a doormat?

2011-01-28T13:38:00.001-08:00

First day with a new wig. Awkward. But I don’t know what else to do. After wearing a wig for a few months I come to resent it for not being my real hair. I come to resent it for being the same style EVERY DAY. No ponies, no clips, no straighteners or curlers, just precisely how it looked yesterday, and the day before that and the day before that. Which brings me to today. First day with a new wig. You don’t want to garner ANY attention, but you will. You don’t want to draw attention to the part of your appearance you hate the most, but you will. Courage, deep breathe, cue the denial. Let’s go.

Six hours later…

It actually wasn’t that bad. People are either getting used to my wig changes or the change was more subtle this time. I still have the extended family debut and the church family debut, but one down, two to go. Today was definitely the hardest of all three. But I did get one laugh out of it. I was at Target buying the office soda stash for the next two weeks when the cashier complimented the way my hair curled. I said “thank you”. To my chagrin, the exchange continued as she inquired as to what I used to produce the curl; hot rollers or round brush and blow dry? For this, I was TOTALLY caught off guard. Ill-prepared. If I had ever anticipated the question, I would have been ready with a good, normal sounding answer. But I wasn’t, so after stammering for a moment I simply said “It’s a wig.”

Turns out, that’s a conversation stopper. She got caught somewhere between sympathy and embarrassment and I got caught glaring at what had to be the slowest receipt printer in the world!

But in the end, on my way across the parking lot, the daffiness of it all got the best of me and made me giggle. “Lord, keep your arm around my shoulder and your hand over my mouth.”

New Wig

Wig History

Jet Lag...minus the Jet

2010-12-21T18:52:00.000-08:00

More and more I am convinced that it's not the size of the trial, but the longevity of it. Make it hard, make it ugly, but please...make it fast!

"Endure to the end". Maybe I've just missed it, but in my accounting, there hasn't been a whole lot of time dedicated in preaching those four words even though it seems like they get tagged on to the end of many an admonition from God.

As an example: "Wherefore, ye must press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men. Wherefore, if ye shall press forward, feasting upon the word of Christ, and endure to the end, behold, thus saith the Father: Ye shall have eternal life." 2 Nephi 31:20

Countless sermons on hope, love, feasting on the word...not so many on the enduring part.

It's really almost too depressing to write about. The fact that trials can last F O R E V E R, or at least feel that way. That's why we are so fond of Doctrine and Covenants 121:7 "My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment..."

Small moment = good. All your waking moments = bad.

I guess we need to reset our clocks to God's time zone, cause we have some serious spiritual jet-lag. I don't know about you, but I get tired of my trials way too soon. I want to put them to bed yesterday.

I think we all see the punch line coming on this one: Always just assume it's going to last forever, right? When it turns out to be brief, we get to be pleasantly surprised. But if it drags on forever ...then no biggie, we were expecting that.

Mental health professionals have already come up with a thought process to help people acclimate to the latter. They call it "the new normal". When, against your dreams, hopes and wishes, your life has been irreversably altered for the worse, there comes a time when you have to stop searching for your old life, or waiting to feel "normal" again. You have to embrace your new normal and move on.

Random Thoughts

2010-12-21T18:22:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I read a blog that was written by a man whose wife had cancer. She had cancer, and then died. She hadn't even finished her treatments yet when, according to her husband, she died in her sleep from "complications".

I had to shake my head. Not the "what a pity" kind of shake my head, but the "shocking reality" kind of shake my head. For the first time ever the thought of dying in my sleep didn't sound peaceful or desirable at all. "I want to go peacefully in my sleep". "I just want to go to sleep and never wake up". You've heard people say that, or have even said it yourself. Not me, not anymore.

It just occured to me that going in your sleep means going alone. No holding hands, no goodbyes. Granted, you're not alone for long, but still.

It also means not being present for the big event. Sleeping through your death and waking up in heaven? Sounds boring. You only get to die once, don't you want to know what it's like? It'd be like being put under general anesthesia during childbirth. Kind of a momentous occasion don't you think?

So, there you have it, my final wishes: Wake me up!

Shouldering the Weight of Love

2010-11-15T17:59:00.000-08:00

When I was a year and a half old, my parents found themselves in financial straits. It wasn't hard to do, with three children under the age of three and living in Sacramento. As Christmas approached, my mom began to put together what Christmas she could for us, which for me meant... homemade Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls. But these weren't just any Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls, for they sported a yarn-do unlike any other. Green. 1970's green. If I remember right, it was leftover yarn from a green sweater mom had knit for my brother. Aren't they awesome?!

As you may suppose, our being needy didn't escape the attention of the neighbors and the good folks at church so these dollies were not the only present I had to open that year. In fact, my mother says that in addition to Ann and Andy...I scored eight other baby dolls that Christmas morning, thanks to the generousity of those we knew! That's a lot of loot for one little girl, and apparently, too much of a good thing, for as I surveyed the room after all the presents were opened and did whatever reckoning toddlers do...it all added up to one thing for me....WAAAHAAAHAA!!! Too many babies! How was I going to take care of all of them?

My mother has always been extremely intuitive (she could seriously have her own call-in radio show). She recognized why I was crying and started to put the babies back in their boxes and into the attic. They were brought down through out the year and used as birthday presents for myself and my friends but Ann and Andy, to this day, have always been here where I (and now my own children) need them, warding off bad dreams and lonely nights in a way only green-haired rag dolls can.

I've found myself in overwhelming life situations recently that, although I have no memory of my breakdown that Christmas morning 39 years ago, must have been what it felt like to feel responsible for all those babies. More than once I've felt hopelessly inadequate to minister to all the sisters in our HUGE Relief Society. For whatever reason the Lord prolongs the split of this ward...may His grace temper the resulting side-effects of all the members in it now who find themselves feeling lost in a crowd and neglected by their Relief Society President. I hope they know she's really only two years old and partial to rag dolls.

But perhaps the most poignant and sacred experience akin to my infant overload drama, had more to do with receiving love as opposed to giving it. It happened as I sat on the end of my bed one evening in 2009, awaiting a PET/CT scan the next day that would reveal whether or not my cancer had spread to my lungs like my doctor suspected.

I sat there on my bed sobbing, inconsolable. Not because of the test or the fear of it's results, but because I knew my ward and my family would be holding a special fast for me the following day. I felt the gravity of being the object of someone else's sacrifice. Someone else's willingness to be uncomfortable. It was more than I could handle. I did not know how to accept all that love. It was in some ways, simply too much. Too heavy.

Can you imagine...how are we going to handle feeling all of God's love when we are finally in His presence? I think of the people in the scriptures that fall down as if they were dead. That are "exceedingly astonished" when they feel His love. I'm convinced that we have only sampled His love for us in minute, managable proportions. Someday it's going to go right through us down to the marrow of our bones and change every ounce of every cell in our body. It will be glorious and we will never be the same. Will our old selves even be recognizable? Questions.

Where Will I Be in 20 - One - Three?

2010-11-05T18:02:00.000-07:00

In 1995 we purchased our first home. A charming brick bungalo that definitely fell under the "they don't make 'em like they used to" category. As excited as you think I would have been to finally stop renting and move into my own cute little home, I was actually surprised to discover I had an allergy that I didn't even know existed. I discovered that I was allergic... to debt. Everyone would ask me how excited I was about buying a house and I would look at them like they were crazy. How could I be excited when I owed someone so much money?! So much money that it was going to take me 30 years to pay them back?

So naturally, when I later heard someone on the radio claim that anyone, ANYONE, could be totally debt free in 15 years, I was interested. Not interested enough to buy their product or their program, but interested enough to delve into the world of finance deep enought to figure out how to do it myself. We had three children at the time, three years old and younger, and only one car. I knew that car number two (and hence even MORE debt) was imminent. But I still full heartedly believed that anyone, ANYONE, could be totally debt free in 15 years. Once I was pretty sure I had figured out how to do it, because I'm me, I had to have a catchy slogan to go with it. "Debt Free in 20 -one -zero" didn't do anything for me, but "Debt Free in 20 -one - three" rhymed and kind of got me excited. (It also gave me an additional three year cushion, which sounded less strident to less-strident little me.)

Since then, my husband has been laid-off three times, we've moved clear across the country and back, bought and sold three houses, all of my kids have needed braces and I've had cancer. More than once that slogan, although never forgotten, was given the ol' que sara sara. Nice idea...but not gonna happen. So I thought...

Much to my surprise, even through all of those major detours, the debt free dream is not lost. We now find ourselves in the position to actually fulfill that goal and be totally and completely debt free in 20-1-3. No doubt, it is going to make for a tight three years, but do-able ones nonetheless.

Interestingly, I still remember where I was when I heard that radio broadcast. I was driving southbound on I-15, I had just passed through Bluffdale and was about to crest the point of the mountain. I find it fitting that I was going up hill, especially now as I recognize that not only has it been an uphill battle at times, but that these last three years will be the uphill-iest.

I'm not sure anything worthwhile is easy. The short quote says: "If you avoid difficult things, great things will avoid you." The long quote says: "Truth and untruth travel together, side by side. Light and darkness both offer themselves to the seeker after truth, one to bless, the other to destroy mankind. Whenever a man sets out to seek truth, he will for a time be overtaken by evil. No seeker after truth is, therefore, ever free from temptation, from evil power. This is an eternal law."

Believe me, ever since I became aware of how close we were to reaching our goal, my shopping lust, I mean list, has sky rocketed! I have the galloping green gimmies like no body's business! If only I were as allergic to debt now as I was then. Unfortunately, I have developed quite a tolerance. That mean old devil. He sure knows how to rope (or flaxen cord) us in. But I'm so close to the crest of that hill, I have to, ABSOLUTELY HAVE TO make it over...if for anything else than to prove to myself that I'm not a complete nincompoop.

Musings from a Relief Society President

2010-10-25T15:53:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you have to get off the couch to look on the bright side. Sometimes you have to take a number to have a mental breakdown. "Get in line honey!"

Dinner is Served!

2010-09-30T17:43:00.000-07:00

Whatta ya do when it's taco night but there is no ground round to be found? You have cheese, you have lettuce, you even have tortillas...but no meat. No meat and NO desire whatsoever to get back into your car one more stinkin' time and drive to the store. (I have chauffering issues...can you tell?) Well, if you're lucky, and somewhat brave, you can pull the last turkey burger out of the freezer, along with the two well-meaning but not so well-desired veggie burgers and throw them all in a skillet with a can of chili con carne. Simmer and stir.

In the meantime, you better start thinking up ways to spin this to the kids...cause it ain't pretty.

Plan A: Label it gourmet and insinuate it's a Guy Fieri creation. Who could pass up Guy Fieri fare? He's fat AND cool, way more so than the Kool-Aid man. They're not even in the same league...real and pretend status aside.

Plan B: Start doing that funny bit by comedien Don Friesen about the poor kids in China. Sharpen up your Chinese accent so that they laugh so hard they cry. The tears will naturally blur their vision just long enough to get the cheese and lettuce to cover the....um...filling.

Plan C: You do pray at dinnertime right?

Much to my surprise, with no tricks employed whatsoever, everyone just sat down and ate it with no questions asked. UNHEARD of in my family. No whining at all? Is this what they've wanted all along??? Really??? Baffled...yes. Monumentally baffled. But in the end, just counting my blessings. One more family dinner down...17,000 more to go.

Et tu, Rubus?

2010-09-27T09:21:00.000-07:00

When one eats berries in a bowl, regardless of the genus of berries being devoured, one is best served when the last berry consumed is of the sweetest nature. Bitter berries are only tolerable when there is at least one more berry of significant sweetness left to cleanse the palate, thus leaving the partaker of berries quite delighted and satisfied.

Hence the majesty and genius of pie...where all fruit is made equal, resting on the dulcitude of fellow berries. All being exalted together by sugar and crust, crust and sugar. Amen and forever.

Nothing Comes from Nothing

2010-09-21T11:20:00.000-07:00

You might think the phrase "nothing comes from nothing" is attributed to Rogers and Hammerstein and "The Sound of Music". I know I thought that, but interestingly enough...it is actually comes from Parmenides, an ancient Greek philosopher. When he said it it sounded more like this: ex nihilo nihil fit. That must have been profound, centuries ago, but really all it means is...I am bored! Which leads me to ask....is it possible to create a blog out of boredom? Can I turn 45 minutes of down time at work into an essay of any worth? Probably not, but I'm gonna try! Yesterday I was sick. Well, I've been sick for about a week now, but yesterday I got sick of being sick. Sleep deprivation caught up with me and viola! At 11 am yesterday I begged off work and went home to be alone with my Nyquil. Can I just say, I LOVE Nyquil. It's the only good thing about being sick.

Eternal Calculus

2010-09-04T08:28:00.000-07:00

This post is going to be quite different than my last several posts. My last few posts all started and ended with a blank text box. There was so much to write, but no way to write it. Fortunately, a picture is worth a thousand words and some old albums have come to the rescue. But before I get to my slideshow, perhaps an explanation is in order.

Two days ago marked a year since my last chemo treatment. Hence, I have been growing my hair back now, for 367 days. That is, theoretically I have been growing my hair back for 367 days. T h e o r e t i c a l l y. Realistically...it hasn't been going so well.

It's been months now since I've started to worry. My chemo buddies all have short, but rather full heads of hair already. I have short, rather thin and transparent hair on my head. I have long since done the dreaded google search that went something like "hair always grow back after chemo" to find out that about 2% of women will not get their hair back. I'm holding on to the hope that since it took me a while as a baby to grow hair, that it will just take me a while as an adult to do the same. See:

this is how much hair I had when I was born

this is how much gas I had when I was born (isn't mom pretty?)

this is me 5 months later (isn't grandma pretty?)

this is me a year after I was born bald

I stuff this down every morning and quickly groom so as to move my mind on to something else as swiftly as possible. Layers and layers of this angst had built up enough that I knew it was getting pretty close to the surface and that eventually I would snap, slump into a corner of my bedroom in a pile of tears, and refuse to come out ever again.

I was partially right. One day I did snap. But I was in the shower, and I had just reached up to wash my hair when the thought of "what's it matter" and the thought of getting out of the shower to see me in the mirror again both collided. Let's just say...it's not the first time I've sobbed in the shower.

So there you have it. This is not a pity party for me. This blog has never been about that. This is for all the times I've dropped in on someone else's cancer blog and felt not so alone when I was done there. Maybe there's someone else out there that's 40 and looks like 80 and now we're soul sisters.

The Lord is reportedly counting the hairs on our heads. I am counting the days since chemo. I've never really liked math.. but this has got to be the worst story problem ever.

Getting your June Cleaver on...

2010-07-24T06:26:00.000-07:00

My husband works so hard. He commutes to his full time job every day, an hour and 15 minutes each way (that's when traffic is good), through the burdened urban spectacle we call the Wasatch Front. Yicky. His commute in Maryland was somewhere between 30 and 45 minutes each way, and it took him through not only a forest but also rolling green hills that were speckled with gorgeous mansions and the occasional mounted hunting ensemble, complete with hounds, in pursuit of some poor little fox. Seriously, they still do that in MD. (poor things must get tired of golf and yachting)

When he gets home, 65% of the time he has freelance illustrations waiting for him. Which means he spends about two more hours at work in his basement. If that isn't enough, we have a rental property, which makes the occasional demand on his time as well.

So...when he comes downstairs to our "den", where I am trying to blog or read or whatever, and turns on Spyro Gyra so loud that I can't hear myself think........ that's ok. That's really ok. What did Julie Beck say last conference? Something like "the Lord needs women to be women, not babies". Yeah...something like that. So, I'll just turn off my computer, give him a kiss on the forehead, and go find something I can do for him...like iron his shirts or wash his car.

(but really...Spyro Gyra????)

My Reset Button

2010-07-18T10:52:00.000-07:00

At the end of my cancer treatments, the nurses all said something like: "Now you need to go on a nice vacation." I remember one nurse saying specifically: "Now you need to find a rock on a beach somewhere and sit on it." I didn't take their advice very seriously, besides, my family had been doing without me for almost a year...like I was going to abandon them for one more day.

So, with both feet eager and ready, I jumped neck deep back into life as rapidly as possible. But something wasn't right. As time went on, and emotional struggles multiplied, I realized it was going to take something more than both feet to get my life back. But I didn't know what.

I pushed onward, only to find it more and more difficult to cope with the simplest things. After a while I noticed that everytime I learned of the loss of a friend or even a stranger, to cancer, things became progressively worse. I got to the point that I would become angry if I went to my survivor support group and found out that someone's remission had ended and they were back in the fight. It felt like for every person that lost their life, I had to be even more perfect, more effective and more capable to earn my right as survivor. It was in this state of white-knuckling survival mode, that a vacation we had planned and cancelled and planned and cancelled again, actually not only survived the planning stage, but magically came to fruition.

Our vacation was set way back in the mountains, just north of Sundance. BYU runs a family camp called Aspen Grove that we've gone to before and that I've always loved, but I never knew it would save my life. But after only two days, I felt the old me finally returning. I used to look at pictures of me before cancer, and wonder: "who's that? she looks so familiar". But now, even though I definitely don't look like the girl in the pictures, I can claim that girl as myself.

Ever try that mental exercise where you imagine yourself in a beautiful, peaceful setting, like a beach? I did that a lot when treatments got hard, and the place I imagined was always Aspen Grove. Maybe that has something to do with why being there had such an instant, palpable impact on my well-being. Or maybe humans have a reset button, like a lot of electronic devices. If that's the case, I know where mine is...ten miles up Provo Canyon.

Call me J.P.

2010-06-18T05:57:00.000-07:00

Last week I walked in to each one of my doctors appointments, pretty sure that I was wearing a giant "hypochondriac" sign on my back. But as long as my insurance company didn't mind, I was ok with that. All I wanted was a clean bill of health, some assurance that the little aches, pains and coughs I had been dealing with were the kind you could safely ignore. But when I called myself a hypochondriac in front of my doctor he looked up and said "You're not a hypochondriac...we call people who have been through what you've been through "justifiable paranoids". I liked that a lot. You can call me J.P.

I had a blood test called a D-dimer. It was to check for a blood clot in my lungs, that could possibly explain my coughing. The D-dimer tested positive, which meant I had to go directly to the hospital and have a CT Scan. I'm not afraid of tests like that anymore, but I totally hated the feeling of driving to the hospital at that moment instead of driving to my house to make dinner for my kids. I was supposed to turn right at the intersection, not left. Didn't the D-dimer know I already had plans for the evening?

Long (painful) story short, CT Scan was clean. No clot. Still coughing? Yes, but I guess I have to live with that. When it gets really bad, I go online and diagnose myself. Doctors must hate the internet for that reason. All these little know-it-alls sitting in their waiting rooms, writing their own obituaries. At any rate, last week I decided it was Radiation Pneumonitis. This week I'm pretty sure it's Pulmonary Fibrosis.
P.J. signing out.

You're Rubber, I'm Glue

2010-06-01T13:24:00.000-07:00

Several years ago (ok...at least a decade), one of the girls in my neighborhood playgroup showed up one morning distraught over the fact that that morning she had turned her back on her baby, just for a second, while he was on the changing table. The exhuberant little infant gave on good kick against the wall where his feet were and zoom! Just like a little torpedo, his big baby-sized head was on the fast track for the floor, with the rest of him not far behind. Smuggly, I half sympathized with her and half patted myself on the back for not being as stupid as she was. It couldn't have been two weeks later that I heard a large thump coming from my bedroom, followed by the familiar startled screams of a baby becoming aquainted with the law of gravity. (She was sound asleep when I left her on that bed, I swear!!!)

It was then that I became aware of a new law myself, the law of "if you think someone else is lame, watch out...your own lameness is just around the corner". This law or lesson or whatever you call it, has become far too familiar to me over the years. Best I can figure is, you're rubber, I'm glue...what I say bounces off you and sticks to me.

Interesting confession, you say. But wait, it gets better. The reason I tell you this is because I've lived most of my adult life without the ability to understand people who run to the doctor for every little hiccough. Who belch and say "oh no... I must have the stomache flu". My motto has always pretty much been; "I don't wanna be sick, therefore, I'm not." Don't scoff. It's worked. I've been sick (aside from tumor related illness) twice in the past seven years. The rest of my family, twice every year.

So what happens when you walk around with disdain for the non-believers? You got it! That old rubber-glue law kicks into action and the next thing you know, you're recovering from cancer and turning into a hypochondriac all at the same time. I've been trying to ignore little discomforts and quirky body irritations now for at least six months and it finally got to me last week. I broke down. I made at least 10 calls to my doctors and four appointments. It's like I couldn't get enough. I'm going to be picked over with a fine-toothed comb this week and they won't find anything wrong with me. I better find out what hyperchondriacs do after that. Hopefully it involves going for D A Y S if not weeks without thinking about my stinkin' health and my poor picked-on body!

Special "O" Info

2010-06-01T12:53:00.000-07:00

If you wanna be part of the Special Olympics sometime, you can email volunteer@sout.org or visit www.sout.org.

They have events like bowling or swimming throughout the year in cities near you, with the big two day Olympics on the last Friday and Saturday of May every year at BYU.

Crave the Rave

2010-05-31T06:10:00.000-07:00

As often as time and opportunity will allow, I like to take the kids to volunteer at the Special Olympics. The seeds of this tradition were planted long before I had children or was even married. I went with the singles group from my church and had such a marvelous time that five years ago when I decided I was long overdue to go back and help I thought for sure it would be hard to get in and they would be turning volunteers away. Not so. They've always needed us. And in a beautifully, almost poetic way, we've always needed them.

Sometimes when we go, we are assigned to act sort of like officials. We make sure they bowl when it's their turn, or stay inside the boundaries of the bicycle course, etc. always cheering them on along the way. But sometimes, cheering is the only thing we are assigned to do. This year the committee coined the phrase "Fans in the Stands" to describe volunteers assigned to cheering. Maybe some volunteers don't come back because they don't feel needed when they are placed as a cheerleader or a fan in the stand. But this year, the reality of just how much these athletes respond to the encouragement of cheering, became evident to me.

Three of us were sitting by the shot-put event cheering on the contenders when a large group of teenagers came to cheer as well. With their added volume and enthusiasm, you would think you were at an NBA game that was in overtime. The athletes perked up instantly. The shot was put significantly further than ever before. They smiled each time they heard their names being called from the crowd.
It was exciting.

As the event went on and the different divisions came to compete, the teenagers became distracted once in a while and would entirely miss a competitor here or there for no appearant reason other than a text message or an important conversation about something that happened the night before. Innocent and expected from a group in that demographic, but oh how my heart ached for those that didn't hear a crowd cheering for them.

I haven't stopped thinking about how significant it is to be encouraged, even cheered on. So simple, yet so significant. But we live in a world that is severely deficient in applause and approval. Unless of course, you're heads above the rest; bigger, sexier, richer, if you have -er at the end of any of your attributes, you know what it feels like to be cheered and appreciated. You also know what if feels like once the cheering fades. But what about those of us who are merely capable of only doing our best, like the Special Olympians, like the majority of the human population? Doing your best has become so under-appreciated that many people have lost the motivation to do even that.

But where does the fault lie? In the ravers or in the cravers? I believe it's the latter. If we focus on the perfect gifts that God has given us, that dwell inside of us, that bless those around us when we freely share them for the sake of beauty and not the sake of praise, we have serenity and a sense of fulfillment. We can see our perfect place in the universe and in the lives of those around us while being imperfect. We can hear God cheering, we can see five loaves and two fishes go a long way.

Three days ago I was assigned to cheer someone on. It was my job. But in reality, their willingness to take what God had given them and do their best was probably the most cheer-worthy thing I had seen all week, assignment or not.

Relax...I won't quit

2010-04-20T13:22:00.000-07:00

I need your prayers. Or...maybe I need self-discipline. It's possible I just need to grow up. And I probably really need some other things too...but I think I'll just ask, ever so humbly, for your prayers.

Dilemma as it stands: I just realized I have a crazy bad habit. The first three times I "practiced" this habit, I was completely oblivious that there was any kind of trend to it. But fortunately, I'm only somewhat thick, and I realized yesterday, that I have a problem.

Hello. My name is Rosemary and I am a quitter. Can't there be another word for it? I hate "quitter", it sounds so lame and even despicable to some degree. But what else do you call someone who gets a job in the winter, loves it, but then wants to quit the moment signs of summertime start to appear? My last three jobs have all ended exactly that way.

I have wonderful reasons, other than summer, when I quit. Once I quit due to nepotism, an other time it was sexual harassment, and then there was "religious reasons". See...they're good reasons, aren't they?

The answer is yes, those are good reasons, but...I've run out of 'em. I have no reason to quit this year, hence my moment of self-discovery: I just wanna play all summer! Thanks to the public school system, that was firmly engrained into my psyche for twelve of my most impressionable years. Work all winter, play all summer. How can I not want to quit?! (Thank you...I feel your sympathy and compassion already)

Dad, if you're reading this, relax...I'm not going to quit. First of all, this was the hardest job ever to get, the economy IS a little scary to say the least. Second, I don't think I could go to another job interview and keep a straight face knowing what I know about myself now. I'd be laughing through every question. Potential Boss: "Why should we hire you?" Me: "Replacing me is half the fun?"

So now I've just limited my readership by about eight people. Eight people at my place of employment that can never EVER read this blog. (Shhhhhhh.....be very, very, quiet.)

But if they did read this...hmmmmmm...I wouldn't have to quit.....

Ok...I'm so kidding. C'mon...I just said this job was hard to get. And I do currently have Friday's off. So really...this is the best job ever. Right?! No quitting. And no getting fired on purpose. (Thank you...I am a good girl, aren't I?)

(But just for the record, that moving my desk downstairs...from a private office to a S H A R E D office??? That was lame people...so lame.)

Driving 60

2010-02-06T11:28:00.000-08:00

Have you ever tried driving below the speed limit...on purpose? I mean, while other cars are zooming past you? Not menacingly slow, just something like 5 mph under the limit? If you're a lead-foot like me, this will be a new experience for you.

A few weeks ago I found myself driving to the mall very late at night, to pick up my son and his friends who had all just gotten out of the late show. I had been going, going, going all day and had long since run out of stamina. I was so completely wiped out that by the time I was backing out of the driveway for this last errand...even my van felt tired.

Usually I take to I-15 at a nice 7-10 miles over the speed limit and I'm usually in good company, but that night 60 was all I could muster. I was officially out of the race. Car after car passed by, leaving me in the dust. As I plodded along in the slow lane I began to realize that I had left the world I was used to living in and had entered a whole new existence. I was driving at the speed of contemplation. I waxed philosophical, like some sort of guru with a key fob. Everything became a metaphor as my inner beatnik emerged.

Driving slow started to mean that where I had been was OK and that I didn't have to run away from the past. It started to mean that where I was going was my decision, but how I got there was largely up to forces beyond my control, a.k.a."Life is what happens while you're making other plans". Sixty miles an hour meant no competition, no vying for preeminence. No enemies. My new compliance with the law squelched my old fear of it. And for once in my life, I wasn't secretly employing every bad driving practice that my husband openly loathed, while wondering how I'd explain myself if I were to get caught. (is there an emoticon for "sheepish confession"?)

Later I realized that if I wanted to maintain this slow-driver status/state of mind, I would finally have to own up to the fact that sometimes I'm a little overbooked and a lot of late...which is something I hate. I hate late. Speeding is my form of denial, a desperate attempt to escape from consequences and frankly, buy more time. For me, speeding was like buying on credit. Trying to get somewhere on something that I just didn't have, all for the sake of appearances. In the future, driving slow would take more than just being tired, it would take planning, downsizing my schedule a bit, self discipline and most gruelling of all...self-honesty. Basically, all the things that any decent key-fobbed guru would need.

So the question is...can I do it? I'm not sure, but I do know this: If you ever have more miles to go than money for therapy, don't underestimate the power of a good slow-down. And my guess is...slow-downs work in kitchens, bedrooms and backyards as well. No steering wheel needed.

P.S.

2010-01-28T13:08:00.000-08:00

I have felt the warmth of your company, and the grace of your kind thoughts throughout this blog. Thank you for your comments and friendship. They will never be forgotten.

Go On

2010-01-27T21:21:00.000-08:00

The next 500 words you read in this blog, give or take a few, will mark the end of my career as a cancer blogger. All in all, that’s a really good thing because it means I have run out of things to say about life with cancer. It has stopped being a disruption in my life.

Some people ask me if I am in remission and, what the heck…I say yes. My doctors haven’t exactly used those words. But that is mainly because it has sort of fallen out of fashion to say the word remission in the world of oncology. It’s too gloomy. It suggests an eventual return, does it not? So you might hear the acronym NED instead, which means No Evidence of Disease. You say tomato; I say… as long as I don’t have to have chemo, I’m happy!

I am aware that PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) has been found in some cancer survivors. That probably explains why I struggle with guilt when I hear about other people who have actually lost their life to the disease. But fortunately, that’s the extent of the emotional side effects that I have been left to deal with.

Looking back on my initial diagnosis and the hours that followed, I’m struck by how certain I was that I was going to die, how desperately I did not want to leave my children, and how overwhelmed I was at the thought of someone having to sort through that pile of papers on my desk that never seemed to go away, after I died. The first two thoughts demanded every tear my tear ducts could produce, the last one…well that was just weird, but so very very me.

Now I find myself consumed in a crossword or sudoku puzzle every chance I get in a desperate attempt to eradicate “chemo brain” or what some call the “chemo fog”. I actually drove my car to the Safety/IM station for an inspection not too long ago, just to realize as I pulled into the bay that the car that needed the service was still in my garage at home and that I had driven the wrong car down. But my favorite story comes from a young musician/chemo patient in New York who got a flat tire late one very, very cold winter’s night. He got out of the car and managed to jack up his car and put the spare tire on without freezing his fingers off or getting mugged, just to realize as he was one foot back into the vehicle that he had changed a perfectly good tire and the flat one was still sitting on the wheel!

So, everything is going to be all right. I won’t blame myself for the tumor, but I will eat less sugar and more vegetables. I’ll take a hundred bad hair days over a “no-hair” day, any day and I will find a six-letter word for "laugh" before the night is through. My blog will go on...but have very little to do with cancer, if anything at all. Cheers.

Plastic Surgery

2010-01-13T14:21:00.000-08:00

Let’s face it; there are just some parts of your body you don’t want to discuss with anyone, not even your doctor. We get embarrassed. However, cancer is no respecter of organs. Therefore we find that as age marches on, we must submit to awkward medical procedures and conversations once in a while, in order to prolong our stay as mortals.

Let’s all be mature, shall we? Well, that’s easier said than done for me. I am 40 years old yet I still crack up like a fifth grader when I hear the word “fart”. Just typing it made me laugh. So perhaps that explains why I’ve found it difficult to have breast cancer. I feel awkward talking about breasts, especially my own.

So imagine, immature little me having to delve head first into the world of plastic surgery. Imagine me at my first appointment with my plastic surgeon as he explained the reconstruction process. I felt like I was investigating some sort of cult, incredulous to learn what they were putting in the punch that everyone was drinking.

No way was I going to write about this in my blog. Too weird and way too personal. But then I kept seeing this beautiful young girl in my head, sitting at her computer, contemplating cosmetic surgery. Could anyone out there be more starved for the truth than today’s youth? Could anyone be more vulnerable to our cult of beauty?

So it is with “her” in mind that I swallow my pride and put my giggles away. For you, my little sister, I share my honest thoughts: Yes, your dress may fit a little better, but just as the novelty of buying that dress wore off, so will the novelty of your new profile in it. You’ll be just as happy or miserable as you were as an A cup now that you’re a D. I once lived in a Parade of Homes home, now I live in a duplex. My surroundings have changed, but in the morning, I still wake up with the same me that I used to put to bed at night in my old mansion. Happiness and success comes from the soul, not the shrink-wrap.

As fabulous a job as plastic surgeons have done over the years to improve their ability to mimic nature, there’s still no fooling anyone. Not anyone. Fake is fake. If you can live with it, fine. Many do. I do. But if you had a choice, would you rip the trees out of your yard and replace them with silk ones from the super mart? Silk plants are great. I love ‘em. But silk plants don’t give me oxygen. They don’t grow. They don’t need me.
They don’t interact with their environment, overcome adversity, follow the sun, or do anything dynamic and memorable like real foliage does. Fake is fake.

Finally, let me just say…it hurts. It really, really hurts. Each of us gets to choose every day how much suffering we will introduce to the world. The less suffering we inflict upon each other, the better. The less suffering we inflict upon ourselves, the best.

So little sister, this is my opinion. Not my judgment. I condemn no one for choices that come from a heart that has never beat in my chest. To the rest of my readers, I hope I didn’t offend anyone and I hope you never let “body embarrassment” stop you from doing the right thing, from having a colonoscopy to saying excuse me. (pardon me while I giggle)

Being the spouse

2009-12-25T13:28:00.000-08:00

If I had been told that I was pregnant last March, I would be delivering a baby any day now. Yes... it's been that long since my diagnosis. Although I'm not about to give birth, I am celebrating new life this month. I'm going to paint a room this week and I'm even considering getting a part time job somewhere. It's nice to be back. I think I feel even better than I ever did after giving birth. Definitely no post-partum depression with this one. Quite the opposite. I samba'ed all through opening presents this morning. I've started exercising again, which along with getting Tamaflu day one of my symptoms, I believe contributed to my speedy recovery from H1N1 last week. But the MOST credit goes to, as usual, my husband.

While my H1N1 case was mild, my sister-in-law Sarah has been battling the same virus with everything she's got. She's been in the ICU for over a week and I'm sure the stream of prayers ascending to heaven have been nonstop. The vigil her husband Jimi and her sister Tracy have kept by her side has been constant. Most of the rest of us have had to rely on blog news to keep updated on her condition. Fortunately, the past few days... it's been all good news.

But I feel strongly that the men need their dues. These unsung heroes deserve an opus, but all I've got is a little Rob Thomas. Not long ago this former lead singer of Matchbox Twenty wrote a song about watching his wife suffer a debilitating illness. It's called "Her Diamonds" and I wish I could get it on my blog here, but I don't have the know-how so here are the lyrics:

Oh what the heck she says
I just can't win for losing
And she lays back down
Man there's so many times
I don't know what I'm doin
Like I don't know now

By the light of the moon
She rubs her eyes
Says it's funny how the night
Can make you blind
I can just imagine
And I don't know what I'm supposed to do
But if she feels bad then i do too
So I let her be

And she says oooh
I can't take no more
Her tears like diamonds on the floor
And her diamonds bring me down
Cuz I can't help her now
She's down in it
She tried her best and now she can't win it
Hard to see them on the ground
Her diamonds falling down

She sits down and stares into the distance
And it takes all night
And i know i could break her concentration
But it don't feel right

By the light of the moon
She rubs her eyes
Sits down on the bed and starts to cry
And there's something less about her
And I don't know what I'm supposed to do
So I sit down and I cry too
But don't let her see

She shuts out the night
Tries to close her eyes
If she can find daylight
She'll be alright
She'll be alright
Just not tonight

Since it has a great beat and you can dance to it...I recommend checking it out sometime on I Tunes. In the meantime, take a minute and look past us sick-chicks. You'll see real men. Real, true manhood standing there. When I was first diagnosed I was told about a study and the rate of men who leave their wives who have cancer. It was astonishing but I never wondered about the stability of my own guy. He's proved me right without fail. This one's for the boys.

But don't wait to celebrate your guy until you've fallen ill. No...do it now. Afterall, they put themselves out there for us every day and unlike Wilma Flintstone, I've never thought that being the breadwinner is easy by any stretch of the imagination. They are all heros. Some, like the men in my life who have had a little extra cryptonite thrown at them lateley are proving themselves in remarkable ways. No doubt in lots of ways, it's harder to be the spouse in such extenuating circumstances. But oh how they shine when they come through for the women they love!

The Cancer that Saved Christmas

2009-12-07T13:25:00.000-08:00

Last week I had my last radiation treatment. Because of some goofy things they are doing with my husbands insurance at work, we had to cram the last two weeks treatments into one week, but it all worked out. I just feel awful that someone had to come in to work just for me over the Thanksgiving break. But how nice was that!? I'm sure my puny little $10 Cinemark gift card made it all worth his while. ha!

So now the radiation will keep burning inside and outside of me for about two weeks and then my skin should start returning to normal. Normal. I like the sound of that.
Oddly enough, I will really miss my radiation staff. It was actually sort of nice to start off every day with our little visits. And donuts every Friday didn't hurt either.

So far, having cancer hasn't given me the big life changing epiphanies that I thought it would. Cancer's lessons have been small.. but sweet nonetheless. One of them I realized rather recently. Up until this year, my opinion of Christmas and all that goes with it had become rather...worn out. I'll spare you all the reasons, but let's just say; Christmas had become another chore for me to do. But when we put the tree up last week, I rather enjoyed it. And shopping hasn't been the burden I remember. I even bought a book full of snowflake patterns and we totally littered the kitchen yesterday with specks and slivers of tiny paper shrapnel making one beautiful paper snowflake after another.

So, ho-ho-ho and God bless us everyone. Ding-dong the Grinch is dead. "Wha-hoo dooray" which in Whoville means: little hair, big heart, bring on the egg nog.

Better Days

2009-11-02T11:03:00.000-08:00

Time heals...and stretches. Radiation is no longer as devastating as it started out to be. And George has moved on to that big horse farm in the sky. So I guess I'll have to find something else to whine about now (like how fast Christmas is coming). Just kidding...but thanks to everyone who humored me during my recent jaunt into the world of whininess. I owe ya' one.

Liking Flies

2009-10-28T12:37:00.000-07:00

I have now gone and laid on the radiation table three times, each time thinking it would be better than the last. Each time reminding myself that everyone says radiation is so much easier than chemotherapy. And I suppose when I'm no longer filled with disgust and loathing for radiation therapy, I'll most likely agree with that. But for now...I have to tell you...I think I actually like the fly that's buzzing around my kitchen right now more than I like having radiation.

For those of you that can't believe I actually have a housefly on my A list now, I know...I can't believe it myself. I'm pretty sure I haven't lost my mind, but let me tell you what radiation is like, just in case. Unless of course, you really don't care, then I wouldn't read on. Otherwise...

Number one is easy: Try laying on a table. A table, not a bed. Hard and flat, huh?
Number two is a little more complicated: Imagine your armpit is now made of scar tissue, scar tissue that is connected to not-scar tissue. Now strike a pose by raising your arm (ouch) until your elbow is practically (ouch) behind your head and hold it there (ouch) for ten minutes without moving at all.
Three: While you are enjoying this position, a huge metal "camera lens" robot thing the size of a tire will come within inches of your face and everyone in the room will leave and stand behind these six inch metal doors while it starts shooting scary-whatever-radiation-is stuff at your body. You're really hoping it misses your lungs and your arm because you're rather fond of breathing and you really don't want your arm to blow up to the size of Fat Albert's (lymphedema).
Number four: Everyone comes back in the room and peels you off the table because you can hardly move a muscle after being frozen like that for ten minutes...they promise you next time will be better and then you hobble back to the dressing room to change out of your gown.

Now, take your newly sunburned self home to George (your fly friend) and taunt him with the sweet smell of aloe vera gel. Repeat every day for six weeks.

Beauty and the Beast

2009-10-23T10:57:00.000-07:00

Any day is a good day to go to an art museum, but autumn days have to be the BEST. There's just something about spending an hour soaking up the hues and strokes of the masters and then getting to walk back to your car through fallen leaves. Somehow it makes you feel more human. It's spa treatment for the soul.

Odd how my museum experience yesterday would be so starkly and unexpectedly juxtaposed this morning at my doctors appointment. In preparation for radiation next week, I laid on a table while two technicians marked me up with a sharpie, taped BB's on me and gave me a few tattoos. Yes, tattoos. For real. They were very kind and attentive technicians, but still...no matter how many warm blankets and pillows and "you're doing great"'s they give you, there's just very little room left to feel like a person in that situation. I've never felt more "unperson-like" in my life.

True, this may be the cumulative effect of ALL the cancer treatments I've had just finally getting to me. Bald and de-boobed is one thing. Being marked on..that just adds insult to injury.

I know what you're thinking. I lost you at "tattoo". You must know more! Ok...the tats are just "freckles" they use to make sure they're zapping me in the same place every time. I'm tattooed only in the technical sense of the word, but tattooed nonetheless.

The Other Side of Pain

2009-10-19T09:19:00.000-07:00

Wanna know a great place to be? Try the other side of pain. That's where I have finally ended up after three weeks of recovery from surgery. I shudder to think that there are situations out there that could cause people more pain than I had to experience, but there probably are.

Most of what I experienced could have been avoided if prescription drug abuse wasn't such a huge problem. My doctors were quick and eager to encourage me to get weaned off of the pain killers as soon as possible, before I became an addict I guess. I obediently listened and complied. But it was way too soon. For two days painful spasms would seize my body until I not only shook uncontrollably, but I couldn't speak either. Finally I was taken back to my doctors to see what was wrong...thinking maybe they'd find a scalpel or something that had been left in my body. Nope. I just needed to be on the meds a little bit longer.

I've been off the pills now for over five days with no problem at all. Now that I think about it, I should have given myself more credit. I have had extremely powerful pain killers at my disposal during my entire cancer treatment process, since April, and I've always had some left over that I've just thrown out. So, if I was going to be an addict, it would have happened a long time ago. Addicts don't throw away oxycodone.

Surgery

2009-10-01T16:20:00.001-07:00

Let me just start by saying...I could really gross you out right now. But I think instead, I'll just milk you shamelessly for sympathy. Those are basically the two options that a recovering mastectomy patient has to work with. To answer the question I posed to myself in my last blog as to which I was more worried about...the surgery, the recovery or life after boob-loss, I can emphatically and unequivocally say recovery. Recovery, recovery, recovery, recovery. That spells OUCH! Ouch with a capital damn it! Now you can judge me, scold me, and reprimand me all day long for swearing in my blog, but that would only leave me with one question: Do you like your karma shaken or stirred?

Sadly, they found a tumor on one of my lymph nodes and In Situ cancer cells in several other spots. That's sad because it means I have to have radiation. It's good because it means I'll never second-guess if having a mastectomy was necessary.

That's my report.

"Vanity is the first thing to go." Michael J. Fox

2009-09-21T15:42:00.000-07:00

I'll Be Playing the Part of Frankenstein

2009-09-19T09:17:00.000-07:00

My surgery is coming up at the end of this week. I am terrified. Losing sleep kind of terrified. I don't know what scares me more...the surgery or the recovery or what my life will be like afterward. For instance, I may not be able to sleep on my right side...ever again. Is that weird or what? What if my right side is the only side I don't snore on?

The ease with which my surgeon talks about removing a part of my body is surreal. Not unlike the ease with which my reconstructive surgeon talks about the "building me back up" part. Drains? Pain-pumps? It's all quite horrifying to me. Guess who's playing the part of Frankenstein this year?

But...the good news...I've got a freezer full of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey. Thanks mom (and everyone else who will help me eat it all). I also think I'm going to have enough $ and energy to go indoor skydiving one more time as well. Who could ask for more?

Here I Am

2009-09-14T06:00:00.000-07:00

So, I finished my last chemo, they gave me a bottle of sparkling cider and I gave them gift cards. We took lots of pictures, and then I left. It's almost been two weeks now.

What do you do with a post-chemo patient? I would like to know because I am one, and I don't quite know what to do with myself. Hello! I have five kids and a loaded leadership position at church that's waiting for me! I know. There's plenty to do with all that. I just don't know what to do with myself. I feel like I just got off an airplane, but lost some of my luggage.

I know some things are going to take a while to recover. They say two years, as far as getting my mental acuity back. No telling when the feeling in my fingertips will return. Lung capacity...probably before the month is through. Hair growth...let's not even go there.

All fair trade-offs, I guess, for what I've gained from the whole ordeal. I gained the privilege of seeing deep into the sincerest, kindest part of many a beautiful human souls. Still don't know what to make of the stupid ones though ( stupid as in the "get-over-yourself-already" meaning of the word). I guess God has a whole other trial waiting to help me understand those people. It would be easier if I'd just pray for the heart to love them right now, huh? okay...I will. But would it be wrong to include a request in my prayer that they move to New Zealand in the mean time?

I know. Cancer survivors are supposed to be born again lovers of all nature and mankind. I'm supposed to dance by the side of the road when I get a flat tire, because after all...I beat cancer and I'm alive!!!! Actually, I do that all the time. Really. Sometimes I even pull over when I see other people with flat tires and dance for them. (They really like it, I can tell.) It's just that...well, never mind. Maybe the "stupid ones" are more like me than I care to admit. Maybe they've also lost some luggage recently and are just waiting, like me, for it's return.

Goofy Girls Start with Goofy Hats

2009-08-14T08:41:00.000-07:00

But Who's Counting?

2009-08-14T08:40:00.000-07:00

20 days until my last chemo treatment. 41 until my first surgery.
306 pills on my counter, waiting to be taken.
And only 3 more shots.
(There were 2 praying mantis' in my yard yesterday and 1 humming bird but that's neither here nor there)
160 miles left to drive back and forth to the hospital
110,000 hairs to grow back on my head (my legs can skip this part if they want)
144 hours of quarantine with no immune system (how many sani-wipes is that?)
WAY too much time left to watch t.v. I've gone from 2 hrs. a week to over 30. (Don't watch PBS fund-raisers on pain-killers...you'll be way too happy to contribute. They had me at John Denver. He filled up my senses, ya' know. Nevermind. Let's move on....
4 wigs, just waiting to be washed, styled and retired.
5 pounds just waiting to be lost (yes, you actually gain 5-10% of your body weight with breast cancer..cancer really stinketh).
1,000,000 reasons to thank our parents for everything they've done, 0 ways that will ever be adequate enough.

What does it all add up to? One lucky me. I realize, regardless of how my countdown shapes up, or down, not all people suffering get a count down, or even have an end in sight, they just don't know when their night will end, if ever. I'm the lucky one here. And I'm counting! (now all I need is a good paper chain)

Almost there

2009-07-30T08:28:00.000-07:00

My second PET/CT revealed that my chemo treatments were tremendously successful. So much so, that no active cancer cells could be found. None. So I couldn't help asking my doctor, more than once, why go on with more rounds chemotherapy??? Why? Has he ever tried the stuff?
Well, the answer is that sometimes the chemo will only stun some cancer cells, sort of put them to sleep. We don't want them waking up in a few months with raging hang-overs, so we kick 'em, shoot 'em, zap 'em till we're sure they're good and dead.
It kind of feels like I've been stuck in this ugly, dank room for the past three months and people are starting to talk about letting me out...but not yet. I guess that's how the pioneers felt after pulling their wagons over big treacherous hills, just to find another one waiting for them on the other side. Endurance. Turns out it's more than a deodorant.
As for today, I'm quarantined. White blood cell count too low. Fought down a fever all last night, successfully avoiding a trip to the ER. Amazing what $50 pills will do for you. BTW....have I ever mentioned how much chemo costs? Just for the liquid poison, it's $17000 a whack. That doesn't include any other costs, like needles, tubes, nurses, etc. Insurance rocks.

Red Wig

2009-07-12T16:43:00.000-07:00

Dreamy red wig courtesy of Julie Howell.

Rebel Without a Clue

2009-07-10T13:47:00.000-07:00

Today I did a whole lot of stuff that I'm quite sure I'm not supposed to do. Afterall, I have spent the past bzillion days (in cancer time) being a very good girl, doing everything right, and feeling wretched nonetheless....so I figured that it was due time to balance the cosmic scales and well....just be an idiot. )(hey...they left me unsupervised....what can I say?)

So I got up and spent six hours working in the yard at our rental. Hard yard work labor. That's right, without breakfast or a break of any real kind. I even touched dirt with my own hands. Then I promised our vacant apt. to two different people. (someone will have to hate my guts later). Then when I came home I ate the peppermint taffy off of Kate's dresser without her permission and left the wrappers on Phoebe's night stand, presumably without her permission as well.

Now, I can't hold the phone or glass of water without shaking. This may make my impending shower a little interesting. And I can only hope after a really good long nap, I'll have recovered enough to go out with Mark tonight. I would have hated to ruin that. But maybe Disney's "UP" will transcend the effects of modern day painkillers and be just as delightful and moving as I've heard it is.

I may have to pay a price for breaking the rules today...I know that. But oh my gladiolas! Did I ever need to be useful and sweaty and totally unaware of cancer.....just for today!

Tomorrow I have to go to an opthamologist.....EYE GUY....about my constant tearing. Something about my tear ducts scarring up and inserting rods or tubes in my eyes.....WHAT?! Are you kidding me? Will they make me run with scizzors and through rocks too? We don't insert things into our eyes, do we? No. No we don't.

I guess that's where I, the rebel girl without a clue, draw the line. No....no, we do not put things into our eyes. Help. Anyone?

2009-07-01T01:40:00.000-07:00

The verdict from the Huntsman Center was reassuring and disappointing at the same time. Reassuring because they basically said; "Yep...your doctor is right...this is weird, we've never seen anything like it....let's wait and see what happens." That sounded oddly familiar...but it was good to hear my doctor's initial diagnosis verified. Yet disappointing to realize there's still no answers.

This made me reflect on some observations I made as a young adult. I decided there were three signs to knowing that you had officially grown up: 1. You have to empty your own barf bucket. 2. You realize that some ice cream brands really do taste better than others. 3. You realize for the first time that doctors don't know everything and can't fix everything. There may be more signs to growing up than this, but as far as I'm concerned, these are the basics that all others are built upon and have yet to be proven wrong. : )

But even though doctors don't know everything, they do know a lot more than me. For instance, I've learned new words, like "nadir". It means lowest point. They use it in cancer to describe when you feel the lousiest during your chemo recovery. This last round of chemo for me, had an unusually long nadir. As a result, I only had six days of "yeah! I'm back to my usual self, please pass the water" as opposed to my usual 10-14 days.

I also learned the word "lacrimation" which means production of tears. My eyes cry almost constantly, even when the rest of me is perfectly composed. It's been a new side effect of the chemo. As inconvenient as it can be to try and drive with blurry eyes and as uncomfortable as it is to have salt water drying out the skin around your eyes, I'm actually grateful that the side effect isn't lack of tears. I'm terrible with eye-drops!

As of tomorrow, we'll be half-way through my treatments . The initial "adventure" approach to this whole ordeal has officially worn off. It's now been reduced to a mere "burden" status with an occasional "lost my mind" here and there.

But I did get to go to church Sunday, AND I was blessed this week to see, just by chance, someone going out of their way to take care of someone else. And there's just something about that that makes you feel right again.

2009-06-16T20:49:00.001-07:00

My third round of chemotherapy was scheduled for last Monday morning. It was my mom's first time to sit with me through the ordeal. I wouldn't wish the sitting and waiting part on anyone, mainly because I am unconscious for the whole thing and I make for pretty bad company. But my mother is an avid crocheter and is quite adept with an iPod....so we've yet to find anything she can't out sit or out wait.

So she could have probably waited forever for my doctor to finish with his first patient and do the pre-chemo exam, but after about an hour of waiting....I had to get dressed and reschedule or I'd miss the Huntsman Center again. It was then that the door to the other exam room opened and I noticed something was wrong. There were way more people than normal in there, and as the doctor walked out, he didn't look up. Soon, the woman whom I'd shared the chemo room with the past few weeks, along with her family, were ushered passed me. Uncontrollably sobbing and shaking she was surprisingly guided to her regular chair and prepped for a round of chemo.

Obviously, she got some pretty hard news that morning. I thought about her all day. I don't know what they told her and I don't know anything about chemotherapy regiments...but I do wonder if I'd have sat down for another dose right then and there after getting such disturbing news or if I'd have bagged the whole thing and found another, more self-indulgent way to spend my day. It just didn't seem fair. What would you do?????

"Fairness gets temporarily traded in for individually needed experiences." Neil A. Maxwell

Meanwhile, up at the Huntsman Center they decided to submit my case to the "Tumor Board". This will give all their specialists a chance to review and discuss my case together at a meeting on June 18th. Should I order a pizza for them? It sure feels like a party to me!

Three Times a Charm..right?

2009-06-08T02:12:00.000-07:00

It's two o'clock in the morning. I can't sleep. I have treatment number three waiting for me in a few hours. We are hoping for more great news like last time. Something like: "Wow...the tumor's completely disappeared...we can't find it anywhere!" would be nice. We are also hoping that appointment number three (for a second opinion) up at the Huntsman Cancer Institute actually goes through. We've had to cancel the first two appointments due to technical difficulties obtaining copies of all my scans at the hospital in Provo. Finally, they managed to get all 8,000 images on to CD's, they are in my purse and ready to go.

I did sneak a peak at them first. Gross. Ever seen inside yourself? I don't recommend it...but it does lend itself to an interesting analogy... I'll have to share it with you another time.

More than anything...and I mean ANYTHING, I want definitive answers to the question of whether or not it's in my lungs. I'm not sure I've ever prayed this hard for anything in my life.
Not necessarily praying that it's not there....that's a given....of course I don't want it there. The praying is for someone to be able to accurately and definitively diagnose the situation. Right now it's the not knowing that's killing me.

I snuck in to church for the last meeting today, even though I was already on my dexomethasone. Dexomethasone temporarily turns off my immune system, so my body won't reject the chemo. It makes your muscles feel weak, sort of flu like. I promise I won't do it again (church with no immune system, that is), but I just had to go today....I really wanted to teach my lesson.

The topic was on the Holy Ghost. The Spirit. The Comforter. It was an important message to me because having the Holy Ghost in my life, learning how it works, experimenting and trying out my faith in this magnificent gift has never failed to amaze me and as a result, made all the difference.
I know this will never change. In fact, I know that staying close to the Spirit WILL become more and more essential to anyone who wants lasting peace, lasting strength, and lasting love.
And I mean life-saving essential! I guess I'm really into finding "the real deal" these days. The "absolute foolproof, guaranteed perfect" solutions ...and boy are they hard to find! But not this one. With so much uncertainty in the world ...we all need to not only hold on to what IS certain....but share it and rejoice in it with each other.

Hats

2009-05-28T16:58:00.000-07:00

To a person that has recently been diagnosed with breast cancer (the "pink" cancer) and has begun to wear hats 90% of the time, it was quite a surprise to open up a Mother's Day gift from my sister to find a miniature pink Hallmark hat box with the words: The Many Hats of Mom. Wow! I knew Hallmark had a card for everything, but this was uncanny. Of course, further inspection of the gift revealed that this really wasn't a "cancer mom" gift like I thought (me and my one-track mind) but rather a charm bracelet with all the hats a regular mom wears (chef, chauffer,nurse, etc.). It is cute! And hey...who's to say that someday I won't find a charm for the cancer ...like a nice wig or do-rag charm?! Thanks Cathy.

The Ugly Part

2009-05-27T10:28:00.000-07:00

Two sessions down, six to go. Second verse, pretty much same as the first. No celebrities in the chemo room with me this time, but plenty of heroes. Most importantly, I didn't freak out this time so I think I may be back in the running for the "best patient ever" award. Winner gets double juicy juicers and an autographed black and white glossy of the doctor on his yacht "Two More".

Just kidding.

All the same annoying and sometimes darn right painful symptoms. All the same selfless people coming to help us get through it. All the same prayers answered. Just two new side-effects that I'm having some issues with. One...my fingernails are tender. Kinda makes typing a challenge and kinda makes me hope they're not next to fall off. Two....I'm so moody, like irritable moody! Sure, our freezer quitting on us yesterday and having to drag $200 of rotting food out of our basement was never really intended to create a zippity-do-da moment...but I was a downright monster! Like Dr. Laura meets Kate Gosselin kind of monster.

They warned me of this side-effect. Side-effects that spoil your day are one thing, side-effects that spoil your family's day are another. If cancer is ugly, and it is, this is the ugliest part.

2009-05-26T07:54:00.000-07:00

As a little girl I always considered one of the biggest tragedies that could happen in my life would be if I suddenly became allergic to strawberries. I loved strawberries, grew strawberries, and even got up at 6am in the summer to go pick strawberries. I still love strawberries and can happily say, not one allergic reaction.

However; doctors, gurus, nurses, health fanatics and trusted friends have all confirmed that my other favorite food fetish -sugar- is basically and undeniably "cancer fertilizer".

I have Stage 3 Invasive Ductal Carcinoma. That's a tumor the size of an Oreo. Ya know....about as long as a Tootsie Roll Midgie? Have you ever just downed a spoonful of Nesquik powder without any milk? About that size. Do you see my dilema? I dont' just crave sugar....I think in terms of sugar!

I am in big trouble.

Yeah For Answered Prayers!!!!

2009-05-18T15:49:00.000-07:00

Happiness today. My doctor said on the spectrum of successful chemo results and disappointing chemo results, my last treatment was on the highest end of successful that can be expected! We are having a wonderful Monday!

That good news beautifully piggy-backs news we received yesterday afternoon that Mark's brother and sister-in-law are going to be parents in September! We all have been praying since last May that the right birth mom and little angel would find Jimi and Sarah and were delighted beyond words to find out that that family will finally come together in a few short months!

God is good.

Reprieve

2009-05-12T19:48:00.000-07:00

Aaah.....(that's "Aaah" like after a refreshing drink, not "Aaah" like screaming in horror). The past week has been a wonderful reprieve from illness! All the side effects of the chemo have left (well....with the exception of the hair loss). I can even drink water now without getting the heebie-geebies. I plan on FULLY enjoying this renewel of health until Monday when we'll start the whole "recover from chemo" process all over again. Scheduled misery... it just happens sometimes.

Spirits are generally up. I'm usually too busy to get discouraged. It's such a dark and heavy place to be anyway...why go there?

Don't Look Down

2009-05-05T09:04:00.000-07:00

Last night while I was helping my daughter with her homework, I looked down at her worksheet and saw some of my hair laying on it that hadn't been there two seconds ago. I decided it was time. So for family home evening, instead of playing 'Balderdash' or 'Sorry', we played 'Sorry You're Bald'.

I thought the kids would find this quite entertaining, but they were actually rather somber. No one wanted a turn. We stopped shaving at mohawk stage and tried to tease it up for a picture to commemorate my good ol' punk days, but every time we pulled a spike up to rat and spray it, it just came out in our hands.

Everything was going well, I understood what had to be done...just like every other weird thing I've been through since March 27th. But then I looked down. I saw ALL my beautiful hair laying in a pile on the floor. Have you ever considered how much time and emotional energy you (women) put into your hair? (not to mention money), it was more than I could handle and I had to choke back the tears until I could run upstairs to my room. Mirrors met me everywhere and my good ol' friend denial was no where to be found.

Fortunately, my good ol' friend Mark was to be found and he stayed with me all night, through each emotional twist and turn. Don't know what I'd do without him. I love you Mark.

Ready or Not

2009-05-04T13:22:00.000-07:00

Which was it? The first or the second? Maybe the third. I don't remember... but I know it was way up there on the list of initial reactions to my cancer diagnosis: I'm gonna be bald!

Like most everything else cancer-ish, you really don't dwell on it that long, if at all. Denial is readily accessible and easily applied. Why waste such a gift? Why not go shopping instead? It's easier to think "I'm going to the mall and I might have long red hair when I come out" than it is to think "Oh my gosh! I'm gonna look like Yoda!"

So...I have collected three hats, and two wigs (still waiting to find that long red one). And not a moment too soon. It started to fall out Sunday. I could let it fall for a few days before anyone would notice, but it's hard to do your hair in the morning when you have to stop three times to clean the little bear cub out of your brush. Part of me wants to shave it off tonight and get it over with....but I'm not sure I'm ready. (or that I ever will be...)

I do live in the windy city of Spanish Fork, just a stone's throw away from the wind farm. How cool would it be to just step outside and have the wind blow it all away? Catch that on film and I might get to be on T.V. again! No...I'd probably just get arrested for indecent exposure.

Anyway....just have to say.....I'm a vain woman...and this is gonna stink!

My Katie

2009-05-02T13:51:00.000-07:00

My little girl, all grown up and hangin' with Pluto! Don't worry, it's strictly plutonic.

Me....surrounded by incredible

2009-05-02T13:01:00.000-07:00

2009-04-29T08:51:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in a beautifully appointed hotel room, overlooking.....trees. Lots and lots of trees with lots and lots of birds. Beautiful. Beneath those trees is Disney's Grizzly River Rafting ride. Right now, if I didn't know any better, I could think I was in a mountion lodge, listening to a majestic river running by. In a couple hours, when the park actually opens and people start screeming on that river, in regular, predictable intervals, it will sound more like I'm next to a natural disaster, or perhaps.....a Disney Theme Park.

Yesterday, day one on wheels, was bitter sweet. Getting to zoom to the front of every line sure changes your Disney experience. Stress is gone. Everyone knows they'll get to ride what they want to ride and when they want to ride it! Of course, as happy as that makes you feel, it never leaves your mind that you're also first in line for other things; things like pain shooting up your femur everytime you stand, waves of naseau the instant your medication wears off, and heartburn from taking all the other stuff. Without the chair, I would have probably made it about 90 minutes in the park, with the rest of the day spent on Mr. Oxycodone's Wild Ride.

So, I'm a more humbler mouseketeer now. I used to be impatient with people in personal wheeled vehicles....they always went so slow. But now I understand that slow means you don't run over people. That's a good thing. (not running into things is a good thing too.... especially the docking fence at "Small World"... going full throttle....it's not such a small world anymore when hundreds of people are wondering what's wrong with you....including the girl with the microphone...maybe she didn't know it was on)

To all those people I bypassed yesterday and will bypass today, who are tired, who have whinny little kids, who would like to go to the front of the line too.....I say this: I will GLADLY stand in line for you for a WEEK if you will go through chemotherapy for me once.

I've thought about it long, and have decided in this blog, that I'll spare you the gory details of all the side effects of having World War III inside my body. It would be too much like sitting down and reading over all the bad skits that didn't make it on SNL during any one of their bad seasons. There's just some stuff left better unknown. But I will tell you this, to quote my friend Wendy, "cancer stinketh"!

Now they've turned on the lyrical, gentle country guitar background music in the park. I'm liking this. Anyone for another great day at Disney?!

We Can Fly!

2009-04-24T11:25:00.000-07:00

My nurses weren't so happy to learn that we were planning on driving to Disneyland next week considering all the side effects and complications that frequently attend chemo patients. Mark listened to their concerns and became burdened with worry, but quickly bit the bullet and started doing the next right thing: Find the money for airfare and get me on a plane.

Somehow....word got to his brother (who we have learned has more frequent flyer miles than tinkerbell has pixie dust) and as of this morning, Mark and I have tickets to fly together to Anaheim!

We're assuming, this same magic will transform my mother-in-law into Mary Poppins, as she now has the duty of driving all our children down there by herself. They are rather good children, and she is "practically perfect in every way"(and has the singing voice to prove it)....so what could go wrong?

Cancer sure has a way of making everything harder....but also of bringing out the best in us

First Chemo Session

2009-04-24T10:56:00.000-07:00

Chemotherapy proved to be much more exciting than I had anticipated...six hours more exciting to be exact. The actual therapy itself usually consists of an hour in a chair with a needle in your vein. Done. But in my case, there arose some concerns over the results of my PET/CT scan, which needed to be resolved before we did anything.

Our worst fear, that the cancer had spread to my lungs, was the first words that popped out of my doctors mouth. Ten spots. Inoperable. However, the befuddling thing, to him and three other experts, was that none of those spots found on my PET scan showed up on my CT scan. In his words "an anomaly... they've never seen anything like it."

Long story short...all we can do right now is treat the breast cancer as planned and then get another PET scan down the road to see if my lung spots are still there. I guess that's how you treat an anomaly. The good news...we all feel so at peace with it. My doctor, my Markie and I. The PET scan guy isn't so tickled, but we'll deal with him and his isotropes later.

A Whole New World

2009-04-21T11:58:00.000-07:00

Cancer is like a passport to a whole new world. Not like Aladdin's "shining, shimmering, splendid" whole new world, but more like Star Trek's "resistance is futile" whole new world.

In my old world, I didn't have anything implanted in my neck to provide direct access my jugular vein. Nothing. I didn't have to use a special bathroom, and flush twice, because my urine was radioactive. I NEVER went to church on pain killers, just to find out that after sitting still for three hours with pain killers in your system, you get rather stoned ( I guess that was kind of like a magic carpet ride). In my old world, I didn't spend entire days in manic cleaning fits, cloroxing everything in sight in preparation for tomorrow's chemotherapy sickness.

Not that it's all bad. In my old world, I also never got surprise tickets to see Broadway musicals like "Wicked". I sat in awe for the first ten minutes of the show, utterly amazed that I was there. I finally had to tell myself to snap out of it, or I'd miss the whole thing!
My new world also includes MASSIVE doses of friendship, love and support, none of which I feel worthy of. After wondering to myself dozens of times what I had done to deserve the kind of compassion I have been receiving from my friends and family, the Spirit finally whispered to me: " It's not about what you've done, it's about who they are."

Tomorrow will undoubtedly bring another day of "whole-new-world-ness" and I'm pretty sure it won't include any cute little monkeys or Robin Williams, but that'll be ok, because what my new world does have is better..... Christians.

Anesthesia, here I come!

2009-04-16T16:39:00.000-07:00

My trip down MRI lane revealed a mass considerably larger than anyone expected. Quicker, more aggressive action is the new plan. So tomorrow I will go to the hospital to have a cathiport installed in preparation for Wednesday's first delicious dose of chemotherapy! Yum yum.....gimme some o' dat poison! (forgive me if I seem callous.....the crying gets old after a while).

My daughter wants to hold down the fort by herself. She's totally capable...but what mom wouldn't worry???

If I cowgirl up enough after the surgery, my dad is giving me his ticket to see "Wicked" that night. Cool or what!?

And yes, I WILL be at church Sunday! I can't wait!

No words....

2009-04-15T09:39:00.000-07:00

Last night, I fear in the pouring rain, someone came by and planted the most precious, pretty, little pansies in my garden. Act of love? Yes...but to me, it's a miracle. It's a miracle that Heavenly Father sent someone on such a personal errand (my gardens mean so much to me) so that today..by far the worst day of this whole ordeal yet....I would have cheerful little flower faces smiling up at me when I came home. Thank you.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...it was an MRI

2009-04-13T09:42:00.001-07:00

Having an MRI was the most intense psychological experience of my life. Emotionally speaking, there's nothing right about being in that tiny tunnel, in the position I was in, for close to an hour. But when you realize that it's finally over, and that you managed to ignore every itch and muscle cramp and that they didn't have to start over even once....your elation is overwhelming! The only thing that comes close to the joy I felt when I left that tunnel was remembering how I felt when my daughter Emily suddenly decided to potty train herself at age 2.

I'm sure my joy was intensified knowing that by having this MRI, there was a greater chance that my surgeon would be able to find a way to remove my tumor without removing my entire breast. With surgery scheduled for this Friday the 17th, I was finally starting to feel some relief that we were at last on our way to recovery. Imagine my disappointment when the MRI tech. called me the following day to tell me that something went wrong with the imaging on my scan and that I was going to have to do it all over again AND that it would be a while before the machine was fixed AND my surgery would have to be postponed yet another week!

I'm so frustrated! I just want to get this behind me and get on with my life. Maybe in a sarcastic twisted way, that's why they call sick people "patients".

New Perspective

2009-04-10T12:42:00.000-07:00

For so many years I've been at a loss as how to help someone I care about who is suddenly facing
major, life-changing obstacles. I usually let my fear of looking stupid (i.e. showing up on the doorstep with the sixth frozen lasagna they have received in three days), to gradually talk me out of doing anything. With the outpouring of love and concern we've felt this week, I have gained new insight into how I would answer the question "what can we do to help". Hopefully after I take care of my cancer, I will be able to use my new perspective to be a better friend and neighbor. Here are some thoughts I've had and some that I've read (while sitting in waiting rooms, of course).

Don't ask, just do. If there is an obvious need, like a filthy car, lawn that needs mowing, a bike with a flat tire in the garage, a garden waiting to be tilled or a deck that was almost done before tragedy struck, just show up with some friends and do it. Asking often puts an unnecessary burden of decision on the recipient.

Smaller is better. The less grand the act of kindness is, the better. Some examples are:

A friendly note or email of encouragement
A prayer in someone's behalf, especially on a day of treatment or testing (yes, they WILL feel it).
Taking their child to the orthodontist, basketball practice, youth group, etc.
Loan them a favorite DVD to watch (preferably uplifting, comedy).
Bring a small food gift. Large, full course meals can add up to lots of leftovers. Sometimes appetites are decreased when dealing with stress. A loaf of bread or a fruit salad provides needed nourishment and are a ray of relief anytime.
Be a good listener and confidante. Everyone says that one of the biggest blessings is someone trustworthy and caring to talk to.
Distract the spouse or children once in while with something fun like flying kites, going to the dollar show, or overnight camping (contingent on how long the patient can be left alone). They will appreciate a break from the "world of the oppressed" and any reminder that life will be normal again someday.
Don’t be a messenger of doom and gloom. Okay you had a cousin that had the same condition and passed away as a result. This is not the time to share this story. Instead be positive and encouraging no matter the situation.
Don't take it personally if your phone calls are not returned. Sometimes it's hard to reciprocate when you're emotionally tapped out. The consistent friend, even when it seems to turn into a one-way relationship, is the true friend.

We will never forget all that has been done, said, and sacrificed for us already. Everything has helped. Everything.

The Longest Fifteen Days of My Life

2009-04-10T08:23:00.000-07:00

Fifteen days ago I went to my doctor to have her look at a dimple on my breast. I just thought it was merely a sign of aging...like a wrinkle. I had been ignoring it for close to a year. I expected a knowing smile, simple explanation and the proverbial pat on the head as I went out the door. What I got was my first appointment for a mammogram. Since then I've been squished, scanned, poked, sliced, and scanned again.

What they can definitely tell me is that I have invasive ductal carcinoma. They can also tell me that I'm too young to be diagnosed with this and that I will definitely have to be artificially induced into early menopause to minimize further occurrences. What they cannot tell me is what stage I'm in or how big it is. So I have to be scanned, poked and sliced some more next week. Each day waiting for test results feels like five. But today is good because I don't have ANY doctors appointments and I survived my MRI !!!!