A Favorite Quote

It isn't enough to talk about it or dream about it. Even the best plans lie stagnant until one takes action. In my work to establish Head Injury Hope, a non-profit organization, amazing things have taken place which the following quote explains better than I can.

"Concerning all acts of initiative and creativity, there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamt would have come his way.

I have learned a deep respect for one of Goethe's couplets: 'Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, magic and power in it.' "

W.H. Murray
The Scottish Himalayan Expedition
J.M. Dent & Sons Ltd., 1951

Infusion

I wore fur and diamonds today
took extra care with my makeup my hair
practiced my lines in the mirror
then marched in
and sat in the big chair
the same one I always sit in
by the window so I can
see my reflection
in the glass
only to discover
that everyone
was cheering and clapping for the silent
hairless man with the IV
sitting just across from me
in total
peaceful
surrender

Thank you, Cancer

for showing me how precious time is

a commodity of this world

wasted often

on petty worries and frustrations

owning too many things

bickering

planning way ahead for tomorrows over which I have no control

robbing myself of todays

but no more

wiggling my feet and toes every morning

stretching this 50+ frame

jumping out of bed each day or imagining

that I still can

to see who gets there first

me

or the sun

Thank you

for giving me a love of this body

that never cared about stretch marks

or fat

looking in the mirror

how often I berated her, and for what?

when I should have been saying

Thank you! You’re amazing! I love you!

that astonishing journey of carrying another soul

within mine

three times was I granted the privilege, three!

now I see a miracle every day

would never trade perkiness for the wisdom

these sagging breasts hold

or a dancer’s dreams

for discovering the abstract beauty

of varicose veins and stretch marks

triumphant scars of motherhood

and being female

and alive!

Thank you

for helping me open my mouth

that short span when I could neither breathe

nor sing

a gentle reminder

of how much I have to say

finding new notes I’m sure weren’t there before

were they?

speaking up more easily

and I’m still practicing and you are patient

but this I know

that stuffing it,

hurts

and for that

I am sorry

adjusting the direction I was headed

why did I care what they all thought?

or worry that my truths might

be different from theirs?

Thank you

for expanding my vision

I see them now

the ones I’ve passed so often as though they were invisible

what a little fool

when I thought it was all about me

perhaps I didn’t want to see because

I would have to learn how to get

out of my own way

acknowledge my own mortality

looming

like a vacant marquee sign

when all this time

you were just waiting for me

to fill in the blanks

First Born and Second Chances

Brandon was my first-born in the wilderness, son of my youth. He gave me motherhood in all its facets. He was my first pregnancy, my first labor and delivery, my first experience with breast-feeding and teething and diapering and loving thoroughly another perfect human being who depended on me completely for his life. On him I practiced, with him I was infatuated, from him I received much love as he was a cheerful baby, but on him I made the most mistakes. I didn't know nearly as much as I thought I did. As he grew up he became more and more independent--sometimes too independent to my way of thinking--and the problems, experiences, the trials, the joys, the successes, and even the mundane, all became more complicated because soon we were a family of four and then five, and Brandon was not just the first-born, he was the older brother, the one we expected to set the example for the others, the one who, no matter how old he became, was always the first child. Whether he was 12 or 22, my experiences with him were always new. Always a trial run. Always a crap shoot if I was doing it right or not. But Brandon seemed to be able to handle it.

Later as I grew in wisdom as a parent, I lamented the fact that I could do a much better job with Brandon if only I had the chance to do it over again. I got my wish July 30, 1998 when Brandon survived a major car accident. Horror. We didn't know it that day, but Brandon was going to come out of his coma a 200 lb infant; we were going to do all the things with him that we'd done the first time around. He had to relearn everything and we were going to re-raise him only this time with an upped ante--magnified personality traits, a man who didn't realize anything was mentally wrong, intense temporal lobe rages that put us in physical danger, an inability to reason, and all with the same strong independent will as before and a physical strength that returned well before his mental capabilities did. God help us all if he stopped progressing at 15! Thankfully, he didn't. But even in the most difficult circumstances we found some humor.

Shortly after Brandon first came home after three months in the hospital, he went from using a wheel chair to walking with a walker. His balance was very poor. The doctor had emphasized how devastating it would be if Brandon fell in the shower or anywhere and hit his head again. For that reason, one of us always followed him to the bathroom to stand guard in case he started to fall. Chantel even put on her bathing suit and helped him in the shower a couple of times. I remember one time in particular, Brandon went into the bathroom and I was close behind him. He was physically progressing rapidly and was irritated when any of us were in there with him. In frustration he turned around and hollered, "Well, you followed me in here-- do you want to hold my penis for me too while I take a piss?" There he was! The old Brandon! Shortly after that, he quit using the walker and we gave him back some privacy.

Another time, Larry, who had became Brandon's full-time-every-kind-of therapist, (fodder for another post) decided that he needed to increase the level of Brandon's physical activity. Brandon had surpassed every physical goal, from being able to walk to the corner and back, to walking around the track down at the school, to walking around the block and up the hill. Larry often brought the wheelchair with them in case Brandon needed it to get home, but one day he decided to sit in the wheelchair and let Brandon push him. That was the day that a neighbor drove by and scowled at Larry as if to say, "What a mean father you are, making that poor crippled boy push you up the hill!"

Remembering those times makes me proud of how the Dayley family sacrificed for Brandon and how hard he worked to 'come back.' It makes me marvel at how determined he was to overcome his limitations and to what degree Larry and Chantel and Clayton gave to make that happen. It makes me reflect with gratitude on the power of faith, the hundreds, maybe thousands of prayers that were offered up for all of us, and it makes me hopeful that I will have the opportunity to help the families of other head-injury victims, even if it's just a word of courage to them.

I do feel sad to remember how open ended our grief was in those days. The Brandon we knew had died, but his body had not. Although people sent numerous cards, and offered many prayers and messages of condolence, there was no funeral and no closure. We wore our grief like shackles, with no one to explain to us the grieving process or how to get through it. At the time, Brandon's accident was the worst trial I'd ever been through. I didn't think I'd ever go through anything more difficult than that. I was wrong. But would I go back and change those days? Fast forward over the early years to a place where Brandon was mature and confident and hopeful? Not a chance. I learned so much with him and from him, and from my family also. Those years were a gift, a blessing in the form of adversity. Brandon should have died in that car wreck. The day I stood at his gravesite and spoke was the day I realized that he didn't need to have been here, to struggle like he did these past ten years. It was the rest of us who were given the opportunities to grow. We became more patient, more understanding, more willing to give and do and love, more forgiving, more filled with compassion. And isn't that the idea? To return home with honor to our Heavenly Father and Mother, having received the experiences we came to earth for? Sometimes I ask myself: If I had the chance to relive those years, knowing what I know now, would I? My answer is always the same: You bet your life. And mine too. In a heartbeat.

Influence

Years ago when I was fighting with my oldest and almost regretting motherhood in its entirety, a counselor explained that within every family is a member who acts as the thermometer. That person takes upon themselves the role of checking the family's health with the ultimate job of doing whatever is necessary to keep them all together, even if that means, and for us it frequently did, that the mission is accomplished through strife and contention, which takes the focus off the areas that aren't working as well, and transfers the attention to the one causing the problems, much like a decoy--Hey! Over here! Not ideal, of course, but it works. But what happens when the one playing that role one is gone? Does someone else take it on, or is the family left to stand or fall, depending on its strength as a whole? Is the thermometer role just for the growing years, or is there always someone around trying to take a temperature?

I think about the first family picture taken without him, at the cemetery in Idaho where we'd driven in order to bury him in the only town he ever truly called home. A blustery afternoon. We squint into the coldness of a spring sun; elevation 5000 ft. Windswept hair. Mouths drawn crooked like the stick figures we'd become. I wonder if his absence has changed the dynamics somehow, of if we have become what we would have regardless. Memory says that his presence all those busy uspside down years, and his great needs during the past ten years, served to keep us together in a unique way. Maybe its supposed to be this way now. The four of us. In ways it is easier. No fighting between siblings. No phone calls from the neighbors, the police, the hospital. I think about the photo again but it is wrong. The wind gusted that day and hollowed a space where he should have been standing, with his strong arms around one of us or another. On better days I'll tell myself that he was there all along. It was only mortality and lack of faith blurring my vision. But other times I'll always wonder: What happens to the family when the thermometer breaks?

I Can't Explain It; Not Even to Myself

Ok, so apologizies to those of you who have emailed to remind me that I haven't posted lately. I have finally caught up, so you'll have to scroll down a way to see the entries. I posted in date happening order.

The trip to Memphis was wonderful in that I spent time with my aunt and uncles and felt their love and support. However, the introspective mood I frequently found myself in did not lend itself to blogging. What I will say is this: Memphis is home, and that is never more real to me than when it's storming, or when I smell humidity, springtime, blooming dogwoods, and fresh cut grass. This trip I experienced both.

One night at Aunt Claire and Uncle Dick's, we took turns watching the hurricane warnings on tv and from the wide window, the sky turn black and dense over the Mississippi River. Fortunately, the hurricane turned slightly in its course so that Memphis was spared its fury. I know my aunt was worried. But I have a picture in my mind of what the dark sky and the Memphis skyline looked like from the top floor of the building where we were, and it filled me not with dread and fear, but with wonder and a sense of belonging that I have felt about storms ever since I can remember.

Once as a little girl, I invited a neighbor girl to spend the night. Her parents said no because of the storm. My friend had only to cross her back yard and mine. Such a short distance it seemed. I thought her parents were being overly cautious and I knew that they were afraid, but I wasn't. I stood at the tall kitchen plate glass window watching the tree limbs toss and bend, sometimes almost parallel to the ground, and I would have gone outside in the storm except for my mother who said--No.

Even now forty years later, I have to admit that in my excitement and draw toward the power and beauty of thunder and lightning storms, I forget that hurricanes often result in destruction and death. Nevertheless, I welcome the intensity of their expression passing over and through me. It's something I can neither help nor explain away. Something, someday, will be the cause of my demise, but it will never be a wild, Southern storm. Of this I am certain. Perhaps this is what allows me to stand still and watch, wonder, rejoice, and give thanks, even in the midst of a storm's unleashed passion.

Potty Mouth; Same Stuff, Different Generation

I was responding to Chantel's recent post about Owen's potty mouth when I realized that I was creating an entry worthy of its own space. So here goes.

Living with the Calders is wonderful, interesting, happy, and safe, but sometimes with a little bit of "Oh, no!" thrown in. I'm referring to the things I see Owen doing that Brandon did 25 years ago. A part of me says, "No. I'm not going there. I already raised my kids. Now I just want to be Grammy." But living with grandchildren creates another whole dynamic that I didn't think much about when I was just visiting. The discipline role is mine by default along with all the other roles that being a grandmother offer. Tel and Austin and I have had talks about what works and what doesn't and I think we do a pretty fair job of being consistent. At least we keep trying. And Owen keeps trying us to make sure that we're always learning. One 'parent' might be stronger or more consistent about bedtime, or table manners, or disrespectful behavior than another, or one may ignore a little more than another before 'counting.' One really doesn't want to be "Monster Grammy" so that one finds herself giving little warnings before counting, but I won't mention which one that is. But no matter what's happening with Owen's growth (and Soren's too, although Owen tests more often right now), there's always the surprise reminder that as much as I learned as a parent, I still fall right back into the old patterns, even though it's been 19 years since I've had a 6-year-old, and almost 26 years since Brandon was one. I always thought if I had it to do over, I'd be such a great parent and so incredibly consistent and wise. Humph! I'm aware of when I'm being less than perfectly consistent with Owen. What keeps surprising me is that the older I get, I'm still just me--imperfections and all. Now having said all that, I'll get to what prompted all this to begin with.

Owen's potty mouth is slowly getting better. But progress is never made in a perfect upward line. It's always two steps forward and a step or two back. Most of the time I either ignore Owen's mouth, or I count, and he's getting better about stopping at 2 instead of going to his room at 3. But once in awhile he catches me completely off guard and I have to turn away so he doesn't see me suppressing a laugh. Once in awhile he even unknowingly creates a situation wherein the best response is to laugh.

For example, a couple of days after coming back from California, Idaho, and Brandon's funeral services, I was feeling pretty dazed. Owen and I were at the table together doing art. Chantel and Austin were outside or down the hall and Marti, Austin's mother, was somewhere in the house too. She had come for a visit. Suddenly, Owen, out of the quiet blue says, "Grammy? My Mom farts. Do you think my mom farts? And I think her farts stink. Don't you think so? Grammy? Grammy? I'm sure my Mom farts--a lot. My mom farts every day. Grammy, are you listening?" Now I didn't think this was funny, but this was one of those weird moments when I was completely ambushed by his quick little mind. I didn't say anything, nor did I even hint at a smile. In fact, I didn't even look up. I just continued to work on my painting. But I quickly realized that this one-sided conversation was getting out of hand. Just like ignoring a situation never worked with Brandon, it doesn't work with Owen either. He became more determined than ever to get my attention. And now that I'm thinking about it, given the terribly sad state of affairs at our house, perhaps he wanted me to laugh right then more than ever. But I didn't. And right about the delayed-reaction moment that I opened my mouth to say something I hoped would be effective, Marti steps around the corner and says something to the effect of, "Owen, you will stop what you're saying immediately and you will talk about something else, do you understand?" It was not only the statement, but the way it was delivered, with the perfect cadence, the precisely perfect inflections in her voice, and the slight but oh so effectively placed pause. I couldn't look at Marti, but I'm certain she had her eyebrows positioned perfectly as well. There's no way one can say something like that without having mastered the technique of precision eyebrow positioning. Owen was stopped in his tracks, while I sat there and wondered if I could have made a delivery with as much authority as Marti did.

In my defense, I claim environment and perhaps even genetics. I was the middle child, the peace maker, the "good one," and the one my younger brother dubbed "Polly Pure Heart." Talk about living up to a standard! Therefore, I have never associated myself with words like "authoritative" or "strict." Even "consistent" had a rather mean sound to it. "Sweet" is the adjective I've most often heard, in fact, as recently as last night on the telephone with my mother! I think it's too late for me. I was the kind of child that an adult had only to raise his or her eyebrow a certain way--and a single one at that--or lift a pointer finger in a silent warning, and I would cease and desist any thing remotely resembling bad or even improper behavior. I never got a spanking. I never had my mouth washed out with soap, and I can't remember even being sent to my room (unless it was for do-overs since shoving everything into a neat pile in the middle of the floor didn't constitute cleaning my room). Probably most of my biggest infractions were laughing at my brothers' potty mouths--partly because they were funny, and partly from the excitement of living vicariously through my them. But I never got in trouble for laughing.

Fast forward 40 years. Owen had just pulled a fast one. I remained stoic at the table that day, but my mouth was probably still hanging open when Marti turned around and left the room after the perfect delivery of the perfect one-liner. I wondered for a fleeting moment if I should feel embarrassed-- a six-year-old getting the better of me, and I think he had been just about to realize that if he hadn't already. Instead of putting myself down though, I felt grateful--grateful that Marti grew up as the oldest of seven children, including a set of twins. Somebody had to do it! And as fast as Owen was on the draw, Marti aimed to kill, and she didn't miss. She comes by her skills naturally just like I do. Mine just don't happen to be in the consistent parent realm. Unlike me, Marti did not grow up with illusions of the power of the eyebrows. She came. She conquered. She left. Just like that! And she made it look easy! But for me it really isn't.

In the future, for serious infractions, like the one Owen made by disrespecting his mother, I hope I'm a little bit faster in speaking up and a little firmer at how I sound. If I pretend to be someone else, I may just pull it off. If, on the other hand, you happen to be visiting and see me turn away from Owen as I try to hide a smile, know that I'm not laughing so much at what Owen has said, although every potty mouth little boy seems to think he's come up with something original. No, I'm smiling because I'm looking back over the years and realizing, potty mouth may be squelched but it will never die. It was around long before either Marti or I came along and it will be here a long time after we're gone. And yet, as parents and grandparents, we're obligated to do our best to at least keep it to a dull roar.

Potty mouth doesn't begin at six even though we continue to hope that we might have it controlled by 6 and 3/4. Unfortunately, it doesn't end at sixteen either, although it does seem to be less prevalent during the dating years, but after that? Well, you tell me. Does potty mouth ever end? Really? How many males do you know who never, ever resort to some comment about body parts or body functions as a source of humor? And I'm not saying that women don't use it too (nor am I talking about filth or abuse of the sacred masquerading as humor). It's just that in my experience, I can't think of a single male, either close friend or family member, who doesn't slip into the old funny once in awhile.

So for those of you who feel righteous indignation that I sometimes laugh at the improper, or the little boy crude I can only, in my defense, tell you that I grew up with an older and younger brother, raised two boys, and heard plenty of potty mouth from other adults (all males mind you) all in the guise of "Oh, boy, isn't this hilarious?" and age was never a determining factor. I heard it throughout my life and given certain company, I hear it still! I'll bet money that even you who don't laugh now, laughed plenty when you were a kid and you're still tempted on occasion. See if you can find someone who never slips up. But asking your boss about this when he's in a three-piece suit doesn't count. Try asking your girlfriend about her ex-husband instead. She might even tell you about the time they were playing this game called "Revenge of the Rotten Eggs"... And I don't care how old you are. When she tells you the truth--you're gonna laugh.

Who are the Poor Among Us?

The last few years of his life Brandon developed a great sensitivity to and concern for the homeless, the down and out, and people with disabilities. Every day at school he made an effort to talk with the disabled on campus at DVC and LMC. He used to tell me how bad he felt that many of them didn't seem to have any friends or anyone to talk to because they were 'different.' He made it a point to try to change that. Brandon talked with people everywhere he went--on the BART, on the bus, on the street, at the grocery store. He loved the interaction. He had picked up a little Spanish and liked to practice that when he could. He was also taking his third semester of American Sign Language and had developed a close relationship with a deaf woman and other friends in the deaf community as well. Unlike many of us, Brandon was comfortable with everyone and in any situation. Frankly, he worried me with the way he trusted others until they did something to destroy that. He had been mugged, robbed at knife point, slapped in the face, kicked, and probably some other experiences that he didn't share with me. I finally had to accept the fact that no matter what happened to him, he was not going to stop reaching out to other people. In his attitude, the world was full of people less fortunate than he was and if he could make their lives even a little bit better, he wanted to.

The poor have been in our midst in every dispensation. In the Book of Mormon, King Benjamin counseled his people on this very subject: "Ye yourselves will succor (Latin: run to) those who stand in need...you will administer of your substance unto him that standeth in need; and ye will not suffer that the beggar putteth up his petition to you in vain and turn him out to perish." I know that this is the right thing to do, but I have to question how actively I follow through.

Brandon's death has made me aware of my own thoughts and feelings about the homeless population and those who ask for handouts. King Benjamin's people apparently had some of the same attitudes we have today: "Perhaps thou shalt say: The man has brought upon himself his misery. Therefore, I will stay my hand and will not give unto him of my food, nor impart unto him of my substance that he may not suffer, for his punishments are just." How easily I think this and justify my decisions to ignore others! Perhaps sometimes I've done so out of fear. Or I can tell that the person really does have a substance abuse problem, but that does not relieve me of my obligation to help another.

I"ve been in meetings and discussions before when others say that they never give the homeless money because they're sure that the person will just go spend it on drugs or alcohol. I used to feel that way too, until one day it occurred to me that even drug users get hungry, need food, and clean water, a place to lay their heads at night. I decided that if I felt impressed (or inspired) to give another person money, then that was the right thing to do regardless of the doubts that might assail me just then. It isn't up to me what the person spends the money on, nor is it my responsibility, just for giving it to someone, to make sure that that person spends it in a way that I think he should.

King Benjamin continued, "But I say unto you, O, man whosoever doeth this [judgement on others] hath great cause to repent...For behold, are we not all beggars?" It's been said that most Americans are only three months away from being homeless. We have way too much debt, not enough savings (if any), and we live paycheck to paycheck. So who's to say that the next man on the corner didn't have a respectable job and a nice house just a short time before? "And now, if God, who has created you, on whom you are dependent for your lives and for all that ye have and are, doth grant unto you whatsoever ye ask that is right, in faith, believing ye shall receive, O then, how ye ought to impart of your substance one to another." Brandon didn't just believe this principle. He was one of those who could have said (quoting King Benjamin again), "I give not because I have not, but if I had I would give." Instead, Brandon found ways to give anyway in spite of his very limited income. He lived this principle like no one else I have ever known. In that way he was a great example.

The other day I took an exit from the freeway and saw a man at the corner holding up a sign. My first impulse was to judge his appearance--Did he look as though he was getting enough to eat? Was he thin and showing signs of drug abuse? Did he look like an alcoholic? I ignored those thoughts and reached for my wallet. Generous. That's what Brandon was and in his honor, I did what I thought he would have done. I reached out the window and pressed a bill into the man's outstretched hand. He looked down and then his face registered surprise. "God bless you!" he said. I had done the right thing. That was for you, Brandon. And I felt like he was there beside me in the car, cheering me on. I could still hear the man shouting, "Bless you! Bless you!" as I drove away with tears coursing down my cheeks.

Another Lesson (Re)Learned

I withdrew from grad school. I know it was the right thing--the only thing, actually, that I could do given my present circumstances, but I still felt sad about it. What I realize in looking back, is that I shouldn't have enrolled this semester to begin with and here's why.

I have long been of the mind-set that when I'm trying and trying to do something and everything I do doesn't work, it's almost always because I'm on the wrong path. Now I can't describe exactly the feeling between what I'm talking about and the natural opposition we get when we KNOW we're doing the right thing, but this "signs" experience happens occasionally and if I had paid closer attention to the signs, the details and the feelings, I'd have saved myself some grief.

When I was trying to register for school I ran into all kinds of problems, from registering for classes, to reaching people in the right departments, to being registered as a 'non-degreed' student even though I was accepted otherwise, to getting financial aid. There were so many indications that I shouldn't force school, and the most prevalent was the feeling, even the idea coming into my head that maybe I should hold off. But did I listen? Listen and trust? Noooooooo. I think I was so anxious about having a plan for my life, having a reason to get up and having goals to work toward, that I forced the issue anyway.

Had I waited just a little longer, I would have arrived at the same place without all the unnecessary stress. I know why I'm not supposed to be in school and what I'm supposed to do and why. Feels wonderful. I'll keep you posted.

We Thank Thee, Oh God, for a Prophet

I sit tonight at my computer; the house quiet, the family asleep. Checking my email before turning in, I read an announcement, that President Hinckley has died. I am surprised, but softly. After all, he was 97, yet I feel tears beneath the surface. I walk quietly upstairs so as not to wake the boys. "Chantel?" I whisper, just in case she's asleep, but she isn't nor is Austin. I need to share this news with them. I can't take it to bed alone. They are surprised too, and thank me for telling them. The whole interlude lasts but a minute and I sit here at the keyboard again, trying to analyze why I want to laugh and cry at the same time.

"Everything will work out." That's what President Hinckley always said, and that's what he believed. Because he believed it, I believe it too. Whenever he spoke, I felt his great love for us, and for the Savior. I loved our prophet's great sense of humor, his courage to lead us during these ever perilous time, his ability to raise public sentiment of the church to greater heights. I love that he said what he thought, that he was clear about standards and right is right and wrong is wrong. I admired his talent for speaking out with both clarity and humility. I believe that President Hinckley did more for the masses save Joseph Smith only, by accelerating temple building around the world, providing those blessings to hundreds of thousands of God's children both here and beyond the grave. That's the way I'll think of him.

The church will go on and the role of leadership will transfer seamlessly. In spite of evil's best efforts, the gospel will continue to spread until the hallowed day of Jesus Christ for which we all work. God bless President Hinckley. God bless America and all the nations of the world. President Hinckley taught us by word and example how to live and how to be happy! I am grateful to have lived under his loving and watchful care these many years. I will miss him very much.

Rebounding

OK. So I'm back on track. I have some work to do emotionally, still, but I'm beginning to see this experience with cancer as a spiritual halt, a time to reflect, to regroup, to decide what I want, to examine my relationships with my family and friends, with the Savior, with my Heavenly Father...Are they where they should be? Do I have any messes to clean up? Words left unsaid? Behaviors that need correcting? Am I taking care of myself the way I should? Is it part of the plan that we live our lives at such a pace? That we're so busy 'producing' that we miss the basics? Sometimes I think all we produce is chaos or more drama. Yes, of course, I have dreams yet unfulfilled, but I have decided that my relationships with others, both here and beyond the veil, are the only things that really matter. All the other 'things' we stress about--bills, insurance, accumulation of wealth, retirement, tomorrow, and what ifs and whys and on and on--most of those take care of themselves, or they're not worth the energy we spend fretting. I've missed a lot of todays by worrying about tomorrows instead.

I will need to come back to this post occasionally, as it's much easier to talk about zen and making changes than to actually do it. But I have had a second chance at life and I hope to make the very best of it. So until next time.................PS...my hair is growing back in! Now doesn't that sound weird? How does hair grow back in? Baby head fuzz...it's growing out!

The real me

is hurting physically and emotionally. A wise relative sent a sweet email this week; she had noticed that I haven't blogged lately and was concerned about me. I appreciate the care. The truth is, that when I'm not blogging, I'm usually down. And when I'm down, I tend to pull away, at least from most of the world. I will make an effort to blog even when I don't feel my best. At least you'll know you're getting the real me!

Lately I feel as though life is happening around me, and to me, and I don't have much say about how it goes one way or the other. (I can hear Madelyn arguing with me now.) I'm not saying she isn't right. I'm saying that these are the feelings I'm dealing with lately. My oncologist gave me a clean bill of health recently. If my feet were in better shape I'd have to ask myself if I really had cancer at all. The effects of the chemo have been harsh and somewhat debilitating. But what doesn't show on the outside is what it's done to my heart. I think I need to explore that now. I was so busy overcoming surgery and going to chemo and overcoming the effects of chemo, I didn't have the time to figure out what it all means. I know that for some people it wouldn't matter. They pick up with their lives and go on. I'm not like that. The artist in me needs to examine the minutiae. I'm no stranger to depression and I can usually ward it off pretty well, but I began to despair last week when my thoughts began to linger on Sylvia Plath. Her poetry. Her three children. Her suicide by putting her head in an oven. All the trials I used to worry about having to face, I was never asked to. But the ones I've had to face felt hand picked just for me as far as pushing my faith to its limit. Each time I faced a big trial I thought I might die of grief, but I didn't. I suppose looking back now at what it means to have cancer maybe I'll learn something new to add to what I learned from the other trials. I certainly don't want to say, like my friend, that I'm the same, even after all this. Truly, that would be a waste.

One of my friends told me that

throughout her battle with breast cancer, people would often ask her if she had changed or she had learned something new or significant that changed her perspective on life. She told me that the only thing she learned is that, "I am the same bitch I always have been." Of course, she said it under circumstances that made us both laugh, but I think there was some reality to that for her. On the other hand, Rachel has told me that I'm not going through my own trials just so I can come out on the other side as the same person. Now that's a scary thought--staying the same. If I'm compelled to go through the hard stuff, and asking why doesn't get me anywhere, at least give me the reassurance that at some point down the road this is going to make sense to me, and if it doesn't, I will have grown enough as a person to be able be grateful for the growth.

Missing my complex friend

Jacob presses his fingertips together and leans forward with his elbows on his knees, his white shirt open at the neck concentrating on my story and my face. I lean forward. He is watching me so intently, I see the story I’m telling reflected in the depths of the brown and gold flecks in his eyes. I’m aware of the shape of his lips, the way his short dark hair curls back from his forehead, springs into place after he runs his fingers through it, trying to find the right English word to express himself. I think about kissing him but push the thought to the back of my mind. He is an intent listener and my pulse quickens when I realize my words have the power to take him with me to a far away country. He goes willingly, and suddenly, I want to stay connected to him in this way that transcends physical intimacy and leads to it as well. ‘Don’t play games with me’ he said once, and I’m jolted to know the power I wield in one kiss, one conversation, the vulnerability that he protects successfully—most of the time.

His habit has been to reveal the stereotypical, Middle-Eastern, macho, bullshit male, which is only a small part of him. Small but so strong! He laughed when I called him that once. “Tell me again so I can remember!” He knows I am right and he was both surprised and amazed that I read him well. ‘Tell me about my other self’ he said. Because his ego loves to hear more. The other part is moved by poetry, loves his country, would die for it, misses his family, honors his parents, thirsts for knowledge and truth—that’s the Jacob I love, and that’s the man who struggles within himself, his place in the world, his fears. Does he think he’s so different from everyone else? Life is like an orchestra, he said, with everyone playing one note. We are all looking for the person who plays the same note we do. When we play our own note, we don’t have to worry, we don’t have to look because we attract others to us, those whose notes are in harmony with our own. But if that’s the case, why does he give up first chair so easily?

I will not see him again for some time. I will not call him, and I doubt if he’ll call me again. Last night the idea of a man and woman being friends was unthinkable. ‘No,’ he’d said, ‘Unless I were gay and you were a lesbian, then we could be friends.’ Maybe it is impossible, not because of gender, but because what we want individually and separately is more different than I thought. I believed our emotional and intellectual energy was stronger than our mutual impasse over sex because those are the spiritual manifestations of ourselves, which are much stronger than the body. Casual sex is impossible unless those elements are missing completely or existing at a very minimal level. Not so with us. But I made it easy for him to walk away by confronting his motive: getting beautiful and intelligent women to sleep with him. ‘Is that your game?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘That’s my game.’ But his eyes flickered down and away from me when he said it, caught in a lie, his ego riding herd, once again.

This is not about our cultures, our religions, or the push-me-pull-you nature of sexual energy. He is a coward. Every time we’ve become close, he seems surprised. ‘How do you know these things about me in such a short time?’ he asked once. “No other woman knows me like you do.” But the closer we get, the strong his desire for sex is. He uses masculine virility like a shield when it is nothing more than the grand illusion that he is impervious and in control. I am not asking him to be someone else. I’ve never asked him to stop bringing girls home, just to stop treating me like one of them. I don’t expect him to change his beliefs to fit mine either. He is a fool because a friendship, one which seems easy for him to walk away from, is worth much more than being able to say he had an orgasm with his English teacher. I’m afraid too, but at least I know that I’m alive.

Insomnia

It's coming up on 2:00 am. Can't sleep. Tried prayer and focused breath work, watched a documentary on the Cuban missile crisis of Oct 1962 when I was four, John was nearing open heart surgery, and Rachel was brand new. I channel surfed for over an hour and got to see my favorite scene from Jerry McGuire, but still, sleep alludes me. Marilyn will be here this morning to hang with me for the day. We've been friends for 24 years, since I was pregnant with Clayton. Her visits always ground me and I haven't seen her since graduation. Likely, I'll need a nap at some point, especially if I continue to stay up, since today was busy and productive and I didn't rest at all. But I'm looking forward to being with my dear friend. I should have been asleep by 10:00 tonight.

A loner bong sits here next to me, along with the computer and printer, bills and get well cards, and bottled spring water. I'm to return the bong to its owner when I'm well, or I can keep it "for sentimental reasons" and I just may do that. After all, the first time was hilarious and otherwise, when I'm 80 who will ever really believe me? I suppose I could take a picture of myself...hmmm. Funny, but having cancer has given me permission to disregard (finally) what anyone thinks about me, what I do, how I look, what I wear or don't. Black and shiny, this bong is a large phallic symbol disguised as a car's gear shift, but its a phallic symbol plain and simple. (I'm more aware of these things since attending Mills, an all women's college). I'm tempted to smoke some tonight, but so far I've only used pot during chemo week and not often, although the results have been amazing and terrific, ok'd by my doctor and endorsed by several friends for various reasons. I probably would have tried it anyway unless the doc had warned me of some terrible drug reaction. But when I told him that I had some marijuana and I'd never tried it before, he looked at me and said, "Never? Where were you?" and later I had to admit that back when all my friends were doing it, I was having babies and canning peaches, making quilts, growing a garden, and kneading giant batches of bread dough, long before bread makers had been invented. I didn't miss a thing. Bottom line, I get pain relief and deep sleep when sleep medication and/or pain meds don't do a thing. Tonight, I'm not hurting, at least not physically. I just can't sleep, so writing seems to be the next best thing.

Treatment #2

Chemo today wasn't nearly as anxiety producing as the first one, although when I sat down in the big recliner and looked around the room at all the other patients getting treatment, I did shed a few tears from not having completely accepted idea that this is where I am. My friend Lyn drove over from San Francisco. She picked me up, spent all day with me. My appointment wasn't until 12:30 and I didn't get home until after 6.

Lyn, Sarah and Sandy and I enjoyed several writing classes together at Mills and graduated together. I posted pictures of them earlier. (Lyn is in the middle with the shorter blond hair). Anyway, I was telling Lyn that usually when there's a challenge or something is going weird, I just tell myself that the experience will be good writing fodder, but having cancer I'm not so sure. She said that the fodder is there, and when I get past all this, at some point, I'll be able to see it. We talked about life lessons too, and what we're supposed to learn along the way, something I fret and worry over. That's when she said, "Whatever it is you're supposed to be learning, you're getting it. You're getting it right now even though you don't know what "it" is at the moment." I'd never thought of that before. I don't have to have all the answers right now to know that "the prize is in the struggle." It's when I get out of the struggle that the answers will reveal themselves to me, and I don't need to be worrying about what those answers are or when I'll find them, but to trust that they are there, and that in the meantime, I'm doing what I need to do...

So Long, Farewell...

Last night the English faculty and students met for the end-of-the-year dinner. I loved hanging out with all of them one more time. The department gave each of the graduating seniors a choice of gifts. I received a new t-shirt with the words, "Careful, or you'll end up in my novel" on the front. The food was delicious and I was able to get a few photos of professors.

I think I'm having separation anxiety issues. At the end of the evening, when we said goodbye, I didn't go so far as to hang on to their clothes with my teeth, the way Clayton used to mine in kindergarten, but I felt sad. I dont know how many of them I'll actually get to see and talk to on Saturday, so I was glad for the opportunity to thank them in person.

I had parked around the oval--a humongous piece of lawn in front of Mills Hall and in the center of campus. But instead of getting in my car to go home, I walked past it and onto the lawn. I had this idea to find the very center of the oval. I didn't go as far as to walk it off, but I eye-balled the distances, found the spot and lay down on the grass on my back. The oval is so expansive, that I could see the tops of the surrounding trees on campus only by tipping my head one way or another. Blue sky above. The sun was going down and I noticed the darkest blue was straight up, in the center; the sky was lighter toward the ground. I thought about all the women who had crossed that piece of ground since 1871 when Mills moved from Benicia to Oakland. I thought about my place at Mills. My place within my family. My place in the world. Beneath my body, my legs, my outstretched arms and hands, the lawn felt cool and thick. Better than lying on a carpet. While I lay there, the bell tower rang three different times. Finally the nostalgia left, replaced by gratitude. I hugged the earth goodbye. It hugged me back.

Someone Special

called late last night (woke me up) to tell me about a difficult but positive decision he'd made. The best part was his realizing that he'd done the right thing for the right reason. Listening to that little voice. Doing the healthy thing. Following his own path, whatever. The main thing: He was happy. And relieved. And did I say happy?

Why is it that sometimes the best things for us are the very hardest things to do?? But once we do it---bliss! There's no path like the right path and with that comes strength!! Reminds me of the saying, "Right makes Might" His phone call was better than a good long dream. I'm sure I fell back to sleep with a very big smile on my face...

Perspective

I have a lonely friend. Beautiful. Smart. Divorced. Built her life around a man. The problem is, it's been several years since her breakup and she still feels incomplete. I know the feeling, like a leg is missing or an arm, or part of one's heart. In her case though, she wants to be connected to someone in the worst way, but she hasn't done her work yet, at least, I don't think so because she's attracting all the wrong kinds. She looks at every male as a possible husband. Yikes!! I've tried to tell her that when she feels whole and beautiful and valuable--all by herself--then she'll attract a man who feels the same way about himself instead of every Mr. Needy out there. That, in fact, she'll find joy in getting to know herself as a unique, talented individual. There's amazing strength in that and in being alone. Sigh...words...I guess we're each here to learn on our own...but it helps to have friends to give us encouragement along the way. I'm so glad I didn't "hook up" with someone right out of the gate...who knows what kind of new problems I would have created for myself.

Academic Awards

Sorry for the blurry but my batteries were running out.

Yesterday I went to the academic awards ceremony at Mills with my friends Sarah and Noel. I'm so proud of my friend Sarah, whose recognition included a cash award. She is gracious and funny and unassuming and she had no idea she was going to be honored until a professor emailed her and encouraged her to attend. I'm glad I got to be part of her celebration. Noel and I had three out of four classes together our first semester at Mills. Noel is a wonderful poet; we had a great time in a poetry workshop together. I was surprised to hear so much clapping and cheering when I walked up on stage. Turns out that most of my senior thesis class attendees were also there. I don't know why it meant so much to me to hear my friends cheering and to have a certificate in my hand, but when I sat down after receiving my award, I felt a few tears.

I was always the best in my classes at DVC, but when I started at Mills, I discovered that I was surrounded by intelligent, talented, motivated women. At first I wasn't sure where I fit in. And the personal challenges (Brandon's awful situation, Andrew's leukemia, Clayton's accident at work) of that first semester were horrendous. I wonder now how I made it through. But I did. My daughter was a rock, (I love you, Telly), my friends stood by me, and my professors were very supportive.

Yesterday my all time favorite professor, Brinda Mehta, was at the awards ceremony. She hugged me and said, "See? All those self-doubts---gone." Some time I will have to write about her, if I can do her justice.

I'm excited to move to Baltimore and go to grad school. I know I will have challenges there, and sometimes I feel nervous about the unknown. But my time at Mills is fast coming to a close and I'm beginning to feel sad about that. I think I need to stop and pay attention to each day. I'm thinking about what Rachel told me once, that if we look at the future with too much focus, we miss what's right in front of us. How true.