Diagnosis day aka the day we busted

When April 29 comes around, the countdown of days begins in my head. April 29, 2014 was the day that Mom and I were headed to Disneyland to meet up with my brother, sister-in-law and niece for a few days of fun. The plan was for her to pick me up from work and we would hit the road. Around noon, I received a text - "Dr called your Dad in to talk about his test results. Not sure if I should go with him or not." We went back and forth a little before the decision was made, "Your Dad said I should just go ahead with our plans. I'll be there to pick you up." Looking back, I wish I had pushed her to make a different decision.

Mom came and picked me up. As we made our way out of town I posted on Facebook, "Disneyland or bust!" I remember the exact point of the road when the phone rang, where we answered the call and my Dad's voice came through the car speakers, "You better come home. I...", he said something that got lost in the cell reception, road noise and maybe the fuzziness of our brains that comes when really bad news is about to be delivered that you really don't want to hear. We looked at each other, neither one of us fully comprehending what was said, and I asked, "What did you say?" My Dad replied, loud and clear, with a irritation in his voice at having to say it again, "I have Leukemia." I'm not sure there was even a second that passed before my Mom was changing lanes to make a U-turn. We busted.

I don't recall what Mom and I talked about in the hour or so it took to get home. I'm not sure we talked much. I remember getting home and sitting on the couch across from my Dad as he recounted the diagnosis, Acute Myeloid Leukemia. He could live 6 months to a year without treatment, or he could try chemotherapy. We talked about those options. We talked about the what-if's. We sat and looked at each other, each of us lost in our own sense of disbelief that this was actually happening. At one point, my Dad looked at me and uttered the words that have become an inside joke between my Mom and me, "If I die, you get my car." I didn't want his car. I had a car. I didn't NEED his car, I needed him. I now own his car.

We decided that I was to continue the journey that my Mom and I had started earlier that day, and head to Disneyland, more specifically, to go be with my Brother. I picked up the phone and made the call, sharing news that would forever alter the trajectory of our family. 34 days later, he was the one telling me news that forever altered our family. 

That weekend was when Disneyland became my refuge, a place to escape, to be happy, even though I was really, really sad. I had a few hours alone one day, my first solo experience in Disneyland, and just walked through the parks, watching families enjoy the magic that is Disneyland. I welcomed the laughter and the joy. I left the reality of what was happening at the gates, and immersed myself in the Happiest Place on Earth. People ask me, all the time, why I go to Disneyland so much. It's my refuge.

My Dad chose chemotherapy. He took a gamble and got 34 days. He went out on his terms. April 29 - Diagnosis day, aka the day we busted. It comes around every year and the countdown starts in my head.

What makes a story believable?

Twenty-nine years ago I was taking classes at the local Community College. I typically tried to take as many classes in one day as possible, so my schedule could go from 8am to 9pm, depending on the day. This particular day I had a long break between classes, so I took advantage of the break, as I typically did, and drove to a spot near the ocean to study. I pulled into an open spot, turned off the car, pulled out my books and started to read. I don't remember how long I had been there before I looked up and around. A car had parked to the right of me. There were people strolling along the beach. The sun was shining but it wasn't too warm. I checked my surroundings, felt secure and went back to studying. Not long after I felt the weight of someone's stare. I looked up and to my right and made eye contact with the guy in the car next to me. He had a leering smile on his face that immediately made me uncomfortable. I quickly looked away but continued to feel his stare. Glancing over again, I confirmed he was still staring at me in the creepy leering way and his hands were very, very busy in his lap. I decided it was time to get the hell out of there.

I never told anyone what had happened. I felt too vulnerable, like I had put myself in the situation and I was to blame. I hadn't been physically assaulted and I never actually saw any body parts, so, I told myself, maybe I was just jumping to conclusions. Twenty-nine years later, I can still see the creepy, leering look on the man's face and remember being afraid that he would follow me as I drove away. I never parked at that particular beach again for study breaks. 

I know women who have been physically and sexually abused. They don't openly share their stories easily. The guilt, the shame lingers. For some they hope that by not talking about it will mean that they can forget. But "it" continues to loom. The abuse has shaped them, is a lens through which they view many aspects of life and is never forgotten.

A few years back, I was scrolling through FB and ran across a post from an extended family member that had me seeing red pretty much all day. It was a picture of a little boy, probably not more than 2 or 3, being held by a woman with large breasts and, as little boys do, he was touching her breast. The caption read something to the effect that he would never make it to the Supreme Court because of the picture, alluding to accusations against the then nominee for the Supreme Court, Mr. Kavanaugh of attempted rape. Along with sharing the photo this extended family member made a comment to the effect of, "I know I'm going to be hear about this but how dumb is this investigation." I clicked on the comments. There were only a few, but they all said pretty much the same thing - "haha, great photo, isn't this whole investigation so ridiculous?"

At lunch that day, I scrolled back through FB and there were more comments on the post. One person, a woman, commented that sexual harassment wasn't a joke, wasn't okay and shouldn't be taken lightly. The extended family member replied with "yeah, but it's those 'liberals' who are making this all a big political mess and how can anyone remember what happened 36 years ago anyway?" I saw flaming red. 

I thought about commenting on the post. I thought about asking this extended family member how they would feel if that woman was one of their relatives. I thought about asking, if the Supreme Court nominee was more liberal leaning if they would believe the woman coming forward. I thought about asking them what their earliest memories were or if they had ever been assaulted or been in a traumatic situation. I thought about leaving a snarky comment, "great Christian witness you are", or "casting stones are we?", but knew that was just stooping to their level. The discourse on the post was already flaming and the "stupid liberals" phrase was being banded about so much I knew whatever I had to say was going to fall on deaf ears. Ultimately, the decision I needed to make was simple. With one click we were no longer FB friends. I haven't talked to them since and, honestly, that's okay.

Twenty-nine years later, I couldn't tell you the book I was reading or the make, model and color of the car next to me. I couldn't even give you a really good description of the leering man in the car next to me. What I do remember is the feeling of being violated, in a sense. Even recounting the experience my stomach turns and I feel slightly ashamed, and all I was doing was studying in my car by the beach. Just because I didn't tell anyone, doesn't make it any less real. Just because I didn't report it, doesn't mean it didn't happen.

I wonder if that extended family member would believe my story? Does actually knowing a person make their story more credible, more believable? Or would my "liberal" viewpoints overshadow my story, my experience? I'll probably never know.

Well, Hello there

 Well, hello there. It's been a hot minute. Okay, it's been months. I had good intentions of using this space frequently last June, I just didn't follow through. So, here I am again, randomly dropping in with thoughts circling my mind. Are you ready? Let's get caught up.

After a slow, hum-drum summer, September started with an impromptu - let's go to Disneyland (surprise!) trip for Yo Momma and me. We were home two weeks and then we jumped in the car for a planned trip to Yellowstone. Friends, I LOVE YELLOWSTONE. We saw elk (a little too close), bison, something that was probably an elk but we want to say was a moose, geese, Pronghorn deer, geysers and more geysers, a lake, rocks, rocks and more rocks, yellow jackets that sent us back into the car and more. We were in Yellowstone four days total and I want to go back. We went to Craters of the Moon and hiked to the top of hill, that the last time I "hiked" was on the shoulders of my Dad. I was not quite 3 then. The home trip took us to Washington State and a visit with Aunt C, Uncle K, Cousin L and Grandma. It was a good trip.

I was back to work for 7 business days and then work sent me out to New Orleans for a Tradeshow. I was VERY clear with the powers-that-be at work, that if they sent me to New Orleans, I would be taking a few extra days off because 1 1/2 hours away from New Orleans is Pearlington, Mississippi and Mr. Ben and Ms. Sue. My two days with them was too short but so wonderful and needed. I left Mississippi with a soul bursting with joy at reconnecting with Ben, Sue, Tom, the pretty house, Pearlington and Mississippi. I want to go back.

I got back to the office on a Monday and on Wednesday big things changed at work. Really big things and all that soul filling, wonderful vacation, reconnection with who I am time was gone. The last few months have been stressful, uncertain, hard, full of doubt, grief, some anger and a whole lot of frustration with a significant helping of helplessness. 

These last few months have also helped me to really see just how much of me is being stuffed down everyday with my current job. There are parts that I love, that give me moments of joy and fill my soul, but the majority of it, I just don't love. I wake up in the morning and I don't want to go back.

Those words feel dangerous. Those words are unsettling. Those words are true. Work has changed in drastic ways, yet much is the same just harder, more convoluted. The parts that I love, I REALLY love, and those parts of my job that I love have a common theme throughout each of my jobs (hint, it's about the people I work with!). I don't know what to do with that. The story is still unfolding.

Watch this space.

Watch this space. There is more to come.

I used to blog a lot. In the "hay day" of blogging, it wasn't uncommon for me to post several times a week. I also used to have a lot more time to contemplate, where my introverted self wasn't being called on to be in extrovert mode. My job was to teach, to inspire, to create messages that engaged teenagers and encouraged them to explore the world of faith. Writing came naturally, speaking came naturally but I needed time and space to find the words to best convey the message. I had that in spades and thus creativity flowed pretty easily. 

Blogging was an overflow of having time and space to think. A thought might ruminate for a day or two but once I had the moment to write, the words would usually come out quickly. Of course, there are many drafts that never made it to the light of day, but the words were typed out on the screen, even if no one else ever saw them.

I'm now in a job that requires my 90% introverted self to be 95% extroverted all day long. My day is a constant disruption, from the moment I walk in the door until everyone else leaves. Emails, calls, Teams messages, people walking in and sitting down on the couch, someone calling across the room, interaction with others is my constant. If I'm NOT disrupted for an hour, it's unusual. By the time I come home at night, my brain is tired. The half thought-out blog post that I had on my way TO work, is long gone. I have nothing else to give.

I still have a lot to say, though. It's buried underneath the layer of tiredness that is my ever-present companion. When I do have time to stop and think, that's about all I do is stop and think. Sometimes I will snap a photo and do a quick rumination of something or other on Instagram. But pulling out the computer, signing on and actually blogging...yeah, that doesn't happen. Just thinking about doing all of that wears me out. 

My heart, however, longs to get back to this space. A place where I can stretch my own thoughts. Where I'm not limited by the amount of characters. Where I can write a sentence and erase it easily because that's not what I REALLY mean. (I can't tell you how many posts I've deleted on Instagram and started over because I deleted ALL the words and not just one sentence.)

I long to get back to writing. To creating. To imagining. To exploring. To being a little daring and speaking out, even when it's scary, on things that really matter. To sharing from my soul to anothers. I'm tired of being so exhausted the everyday by the trials and tribulations of being a Customer Service Manager, that I don't have space to create.  

I don't know what to do about that, how to leap over the burden of being mentally wiped out and carving out room for my creative brain to engage with this space again. But my soul is telling me it is time. There are words that need to be "spoken", topics that need to be broached, feelings to be expressed and there is this space just sitting here waiting.

Watch this space. There is more to come.

A post about howling

 I sat outside on the little oasis that is our deck, tonight, enjoying the cool air and taking a moment to search for stillness. The little solar fountain next to me, that is used as a drinking fountain and bath for the birds steadily flowed. Birds fluttered around, finding a place in the trees to roost for the night. Solar tealights started to flicker on as my part of the earth rotated away from the sun. The sounds of children laughing and playing somewhere in the neighborhood floated through the air. The joy and innocence of that laughter slowly filtered through my brain and it was suddenly just all too much.

A few years ago, in a town just a few miles from my own, a young girl was murdered by someone in her neighborhood. The community, rallying around the family and seeking a way to mourn this young girls life and show support for her family organized a community "howl". At 8pm on a specific evening, people went outside and howled. It was hauntingly beautiful.

Soon after the COVID pandemic closed down the country, a community howl was organized again. This time as a way to show support for those on the frontlines of the pandemic, the doctors and the nurses. Nightly, at 8pm, people would go outside, and howl. This happened for months. Children of all ages joined together in the howl, the echoes reverberating throughout our Valley. In a way, this nightly howl connected us to each other while a horrendous disease tore us apart.

As I sat outside tonight, listening to the melodious, innocent laughter of the children in the neighborhood, as darkness started to envelope my corner of the world, and birds settled into the trees, the sorrow that had taken ahold of my soul started to rise within me and all I wanted to do was howl. I wanted to howl for the children and teachers who senselessly died in Texas yesterday, at the hands of gunman. I wanted to howl for the parents, grandparents, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, daughter, son, husband, friends, schoolmates, teachers, custodians, teacher aides, bus drivers, admins, security guards, and a whole community that has been irrevocably changed because elected officials care more for the gun lobbyists than they do for the children in their own communities. 

We've been down this road so many, many times as a country. It's become clear to me that to some elected officials and some in this country, life is important before someone is born, but once a child is born money, power and the distorted belief that the 2nd amendment, written in a time when it took approximately 30 seconds to load and fire a single shot from a gun, as opposed to today's guns meant to kill a lot of people in a very, very short amount of time, are more important than that child. Human life is disposable. Guns are a right.

After every mass shooting, we hear "now is not the time" to discuss gun reform. After every mass shooting, we hear "it's our right". After every mass shooting, we hear "this only happens in the United States". After every mass shooting, we hear how mental illness is the problem, not the guns. After every mass shooting, we hear "it's not guns that kill people, people kill people." After every mass shooting, we ask ourselves "why does this keep happening?" 

Why? Because we allow it to happen. Because we don't want to admit that America is being held hostage by the idealization of the 2nd Amendment. Because we won't vote out politicians who have a love affair with the gun lobby because they are also the ones who say they are "pro-life", and making sure that women don't have the ability to make decisions about their own pregnancies takes precedence. Once a child can live outside a woman's womb, though, all bets are off. It doesn't matter that much what happens to a life at that point. 

We will go down this road again and again and again, until one day the mass shooting is outside our own doors. It's only a matter of time until EVERY community in America has lives lost to mass shootings.

I didn't howl outside tonight, but I am howling. I'm howling for Layla, Makenna, Alithia, Naveah, Alexandria, Jayce, Miranda, Jailah, Rojelio, Tess, Ellie, Jackie, Eliahana, Annabell, Jose, Uziyah, Xavier, Amerie, Irma and Eva. I'm howling, I'm mourning, I'm frustrated. I'm speaking out. I'm listening. I'm lamenting. I'm done with "thoughts and prayers", I am mad. I am so, so, so, so sad. 

Here's how I see it

Weather isn't political. Storms don't see Republican, Democrat, Independent, Green Party, Libertarian or any other political party. Weather happens despite who is President. Storms rage no matter who is President. I don't trust the President, no matter who that is, to tell me what may happen with a major storm or weather event. But I especially don't trust the current President, who is consistently incorrect and lies as much as he breathes, to tell me what will happen with a storm.

NOAA and NWS have a responsibility to the whole of the United States to help share the latest information when weather events are pending to help people to make major, necessary decisions quickly that could result in their lives and belongings being saved. They do not need to be correcting false information given by the President, NOR should they fear for their jobs when said President can't admit he was wrong.

Weather isn't political and the President isn't my forecaster.

A post about dreaming

It happened again last night.

I've been waking up between midnight and 2am pretty much every night and last night was no different. Midnight came around and I woke up, turned over put on a Netflix show and went back to sleep for another hour. I was up at 1am cause I needed to go to the bathroom and then back to bed. I was awake again at 2am with a hot flash. After throwing back the covers, adjusting my blinds to let air flow in and scrolling through Facebook, I was finally able to go back to sleep.

That's when it happened. I knew I was dreaming but I was having a dream within a dream. In the dream within a dream, I saw my Dad standing at my bedroom door in his trademark t-shirt, shorts and Teva's. He was saying something and whatever he said made me aware he was going to leave the room and, on an even deeper level, I KNEW he was going to leave me, forever. I heard myself say "Daddy, don't go, I need you. Daddy, I need you, don't go!" I saw him smile, and move across the room. The next moment his arms were around me and for one brief second, for the first time in 5 years, I was on the receiving end of a Dad hug. I physically felt his arms around me and then I was sobbing, "Daddy...daddy...daddy," as I could feel the moment and both dreams slipping away. I struggled to stay right there with him. I woke up with tears streaming down my face.

I've had dreams of my Dad off and on over the last five years. The last time, he was very unhappy with me in my dream. I woke up devastated that I had let my Dad down, somehow. The tears flowed then, too. Last night's dream was the first time I felt like he was really there hugging me. I've missed his hugs. I miss him.

In college I took a class on Dream Interpretation. It was a weekend course, worth one unit that I took because I needed that one unit to graduate college. This morning at 3:30am, I was wishing that I had paid a little bit more attention in that Dream Interpretation class. I was also wondering, was it just a dream, or was that a visit?

Whichever it was, I wish that hug could have lasted just a little bit longer.

A post about nature and me

There was a spider in my hair this morning. My hair was in it's usual half bun/half ponytail, messy from sleeping. I took out the hair tie, felt a knot of hair and thought not much of it since I was headed to the shower. Washed my hair, took my hands out of my hair and there was something stuck on one hand that wasn't hair. I reacted like any startled person should, I violently shook my hand and off flung a spider...dead. It went down the shower drain. I have no idea if the spider crawled in during the night or got stuck in there when I was briefly doing yard work last evening. All I know is there was a spider in my hair and I've been grossed out all day long. I've felt like something was crawling on me and my head has itched. I remembered hearing stories of the spiders that somehow lay their eggs under peoples skin and, eventually, when the eggs hatch a spider emerges from.the.human, which has me a little paranoid! NO, NO, NO!! (Pretty sure this happened to the sister of one of my friends. She was living in Africa at the time, but still!)

The night before the skunk visited our house. It was outside, but I sleep with a window cracked open and that stinker made itself known about 10pm. I was closing windows, lighting candles, turning the air purifier on high and basically doing anything I could to get the smell of skunk out of the house. I finally blew out the candle (cause we all know it's not okay to go to sleep with a candle burning!) and went to sleep about 11:30pm only to have the phone ring at midnight. Phones ringing at midnight in my house means bad news...or, in this case, the stupid junk fax people that keep trying to fax to our home phone. Of course, I was awake then. I got back to sleep after 1:30am only to wake up at 3am, because, well I have no idea. I got back to sleep about 4:30am and then the alarm went off at 5:45am. I was kind of a mess at work on Monday.

Some parts of nature and I are not getting along these days. But then there is nature on the deck that I'm getting along well with. Beautiful daffodils, freshly potted pansies, violas and petunias. Plus the cool new solar fountain I got for Christmas and the other plants that are starting to come back after winter. The front deck is my happy place in nature these days. OH and we had a visitor back in February that we caught on camera. Unfortunately this visitor brought an unwilling guest...but hey, that's nature!

A post about the friend who knew...

Somewhere along the road of grief there is an expectation that you will just "get over it" and move on. It's not that people think you have to forget that you have lost someone, but that grief has a time limit. Once you have hit the time limit, then they move on...and so should you.

I was blessed to have a friend who knew, from her own experience, that grief did not have a time limit. We met for dinner once every other month and those dinners were a lifeline for me. We would talk about grief, work, church and politics...a lot of politics...and pretty much anything that was on our hearts at the moment. Two hours would pass in an instant and I would leave knowing, once again, I was not alone in the world. My friend never once told me to "get over it" or served up platitudes about grief. She allowed me to be me, without judgement or expectation.

We met up in September for dinner. It had been a lot longer between dinners, as she was now fighting her own battle with cancer. We laughed and talked about everything we could possibly jam into two hours. It was so, so lovely. The next day a text arrived from her son, she had been hospitalized with pneumonia. For the next couple of months there would be an update every few weeks with glimmers of hope for healing and more dinners together, but in my heart I knew the ending to the story. She died on Christmas Eve.

So grief began anew. Only this time, the person who I could rely on to understand that grief never ended was the one I was grieving.

In my email inbox are pages of emails from my friend. Many are about her cancer fight but tucked in among those are emails of understanding, commiseration and hope. I delete emails all around them, but all of her emails remain. They bring me comfort, as well as tears of grief. I'm not ready to let go of them...and I know she understands.

I miss my friend.

The road to blogging again starts with a sentence...or maybe two

The words that seem to flow easily through my head in the car or in the shower tend to stop as I get to this page and the blinking cursor. That is, if I make it to a computer at all. Blogging on a cellphone or on a tablet just doesn't work for me. I need the clicking of a keyboard, my fingers working and back and forth spilling out my thoughts onto a blank, white page. But turning on a computer at night, after a long day of work isn't always appealing. So the thoughts, the words, the blog post ideas, wither away within my brain.

13 blog posts sit as drafts. On the rare moments when I sit down watch the cursor flash on this blank page, I get only so far and then I lose momentum. I can't find an ending. Wrapping up my thoughts seems to be too difficult, require too much energy and so I hit "save" and another draft is racked up.

Spending time writing is one more thing that has taken a back seat to work. Writing used to be something that I did for work. Passionate words about God and Faith and Jesus that flowed from my heart. My words weren't always written on a page but written in my heart and spoken to ears that needed to hear. Now, the words I write are about office supplies. They don't really come from my heart and, though I am an office supply junkie, I'm not really passionate about them. Somewhere in this journey of life, I wandered away from writing, and I want to get back there again.

And so, the road to blogging, the road back to writing starts now. With one sentence, and then another, and another, and another...

A post about getting older

In about 35 hours I will officially turn another year older. For the past few years I've been noticing changes that are occurring within me. The signs are all pointing to peri-menopause or pre-menopause or whatever you want to call it. Most things I just take as they are. Hot flashes - got 'em, hate 'em but it's not the end of the world. Weight gain...that's nothing new. New wrinkles, sagging areas of flesh, wiry hairs on my chin, achy joints, check, check, check and check. Gray hair, well, that's what hair dye is for and exploring new colors has been fun! That "time of the month" coming closer together but shorter in length, it's annoying but, eh. It's all a part of the deal and I know I'm not alone.

There are two things, though, that have caused me to pause and internally stress during this peri-menopause phase of life - hormone surges and memory loss.

I noticed the memory loss a few years back. I would be mid-sentence and suddenly realize that I couldn't remember a word that I wanted to use. I could visualize the word, I just could not come up with the word. As I came closer to needing to say the word, my mind would race trying to fit the word into the picture in my head of what I wanted to say. The more I stressed over trying to find the word, the more elusive the word would be and I would wind up saying things like, "you know that animal that has four legs, pointed ears, whiskers and chases mice" instead of "cat" because I could not come up with the word cat.  C.A.T...CAT! All my life, words have been important to me. I love stringing them together in spaces such as this, sharing my thoughts and feelings. I loved the times when I was able to preach and share the inspiration and faith I had found in Jesus and the Bible with others. I take words seriously and have worked to use my words for good. So the fact that mid-sentence I suddenly couldn't come up with a very simple, every day word, jostled my confidence. I can handle a lot. Losing simple words is pushing my "what I can handle" limits.

This year I've noticed the hormone surges. Serious hormone surges that seemingly come out of nowhere and take me to the edge of feeling out of control. I've noticed a tendency to get so very angry over nothing. Or I operate at a near state of tears. It's PMS on steroids. I've always been a pretty sensitive person, but the hormone surges have taken me beyond sensitive. Add in hot flashes and this sensitive, controlled person becomes an out of control, hot mess...literally.

As I turn another year older, I anticipate this only getting worse. I'm not sure how long this whole peri-menopause/menopause thing is going to last. So if you see me and I'm struggling to finish a sentence, alternating between anger and sadness, and sweating profusely, just know the moment will pass. I'll figure out the word, my emotions will return to normal and my body temperature will cool...it just may take a few days. I'm just getting older. 

A post about turning a corner

When I turned the corner it was noticeable...at least to me. Others may not have caught on but all of a sudden I went from feeling like there was no hope anywhere to feeling peaceful. Not happy, still quick to tears, still finding it hard to believe that this isn't all a really bad dream...but better. I'd been waiting for better.

Grief is an individual state of being. We all go through the highs and lows at different times. I can move from laughter to tears without even blinking.  Being the private person I am, I tend to not want to share everything with everybody all the time. I've drifted off into a corner by myself, needing to work through the emotions, the waves of regrets and sadness, the misty-eyed bittersweet memories, the unconscionable pain of missing my Dad...my friend. There are some who have understood that need to curl up by myself and allow the emotions to play. There are some who haven't understood at all.

What I have learned about grief, that I knew but didn't know, was how much of an individual process it truly is, how long it can take to feel semi-okay again and how some people just don't get it. My favorite question came from a friend who asked, just 20 days after my Dad died, "So, are you over it yet?" I didn't take offense. My filter was not on and I laughed at him and told him, no, I would never be over it.  He couldn't relate at the time. Unfortunately, he can relate now.

The journey of grief that I continue to traverse is filled with highs and lows, ups and downs and unexpected turns. My Mom and I are remodeling the kitchen, which means all the cabinets that my Dad built are being removed. I didn't think about it until my Uncle came over to look at the kitchen floor and made a comment about how well the cabinets were built. He left and I broke down. Taking those cabinets means letting go of another piece of my Dad. I was sharing that story with a friend and she looked at me and said "but there are still so many things in the house that your Dad built!". She didn't get it. It doesn't matter how much is still left, every little piece I let go hurts. It's another acknowledgement that he is never coming back. (The kitchen is still being remodeled...my Uncle is taking the cabinets.)

So, on it goes. The ups and the downs, the laughter and the tears. The sweet memories and the regrets. Old kitchen cabinets are removed, new cabinets are brought in and time moves on.and grief remains.

A post on "the change"

I was wandering through Target. I had a list of items I was looking for, things I actually needed, items I wanted but didn't need. I wandered down one aisle and felt a tingling in my body. It was subtle, a feeling I'd had when it had been awhile since eating or drinking anything. I picked up my pace a little, and headed towards the card aisle. That's when the sweating began. This wasn't low blood sugar, this was a hot flash.

I don't really understand why women's bodies have to go through menopause, the "change", whatever you decide to call it. I don't get how one minute I can be sleeping peacefully and the next minute sweating so profusely that I have to get up and change my pj's. I don't understand why I can be calming walking through Target one moment and the next standing in the card aisle fanning myself with the biggest card there is and wondering if I'm going to need to purchase new clothes before I walk out the door. I don't get why my hormones can shift so quickly that one minute I'm angry beyond all understanding and the next crying. What is it in these hormones that makes s'mores Pop Tarts look so darn good today and the Tortilla Chips covered in salt so appealing the next??

The hot flash probably lasted about 3 minutes. My hair was soaked, my stress activated deodorant got a work out and my cart suddenly was filled with chocolate, though I had successfully passed those aisles earlier without those items. My heat addled brain took over long enough for a detour back to those aisles. The iced mocha purchased on the way out the door began the cool down...I did successfully pass up the food court breadsticks...winning!!...and I was out the door to my car where the engine went on and the AC went up to MAX.

I'm just in peri-menopause. I've heard it gets worse. I may not make it through without buying a portable AC. I've seen them on TV. They are small and look like they travel well. The people on TV even use them outside. For now, I'll make do with the cards in the card aisle, the fan on a keychain that was in my stocking at Christmas...though the blades run backwards and the air goes towards my fingers not my face...or whatever item that happens to be around for me to fan myself at any given moment.

So if you see me out and about and my face is red, my hair is sticking to the side of my head and I look one step away from finding a tub of ice water to dunk myself in, just hand over the chocolate and a fan. I'll be okay in 3 - 5 minutes. It's just "the change".

A post on being single

Being single has its perks. There is a lot of freedom to choose how I spend my days, my money, where I expend energy and who I choose to have as friends...plus more. Being single also has its drawbacks. I am solely responsible for how I choose to spend my days, my money, where I expend energy and who I choose to have as friends...plus more. It's a catch 22.

One really tough part of being single, and childless, is going places alone. I am a true introvert, so going to events solo just about does me in...and honestly, sometimes I just don't go because, well, small talk and people. If I know there will be friends there to be my safety net, aka people I don't have to make small talk with, then I can convince myself to go somewhere alone. Otherwise, it's a no-go. Just thinking about having to make small talk causes my brain to shut down. I just don't.do.small.talk.well and people wear me out.

Going places alone, where I might not actually have to talk to people, then, shouldn't be so bad, right? Wrong. There are still people. People who might look at me wandering alone through, say, the zoo and wonder why I'm alone at the zoo. Like it's really anyone's business. Nor are people actually looking at me because they are involved in their own experience at the zoo. Plus, what does it matter if a complete stranger I will probably never see again thinks it's odd that I'm at the zoo alone? But yet, there it is. Yes, I am a convoluted human being.

When I found myself in a pretty serious downward spiral this past weekend, I knew that I needed to get myself out of the house or depression would overtake me. My adventure friend, Mom, was out of town and I needed to make a quick decision, so I got myself together, got in the car and went to the aquarium...gulp...alone. I've been a member of the aquarium for a year, so it wasn't like I was doing something super extravagant. (Side note, saying I am a member of the aquarium makes me feel very, very grown up. Sometimes my brain forgets that I AM a grown-up.)

I got there late in the afternoon and had three hours to enjoy the aquarium. I sat and watched a sea turtle chase fish around the Deep Sea exhibit. I wandered through and admired the jellyfish. I staked out a good spot to watch a scuba diver feed the fish and leopard sharks in the Kelp Forest. I looked for California Halibut hiding in the sand of the tide exhibit. I visited with the penguins, sea otters and the giant sea bass (seriously that thing is huge!). I watched an octopus play with a ball in it's exhibit and marveled at how they can change colors and blend in to their surroundings. I wandered, for three hours, alone and only spoke to the employee at the entrance and the employee in the gift shop. It was lovely.

After the aquarium closed, I walked down a path to the ocean, where I stood and watched Harbor Seals sleep. It wasn't very exciting. I didn't stay long. Then, I headed back to my car and went home.

You know what I noticed in my time at the aquarium? There were other people there alone, too. I didn't wonder why they were alone. I didn't really pay a whole lot of attention to them. I did my own thing and worked really, really hard to focus on something besides all the fear, anxiety, stress and crap racing through my brain. I won't deny, several times I had to push back the tears that threatened, as thoughts I was trying to keep at bay rushed to the surface. But overall, the trip did the trick. The downward spiral slowed.

As I drove home, I started thinking, of places that I wanted to go that I normally would choose to go with someone else. What was stopping me from going to Disneyland alone? The answer? Nothing...well, except for Saturdays that are blocked out for the type of Disneyland pass I have and work. But after my afternoon at the aquarium, I may just figure out a way to make it happen. 😉

A post about dreams

I had dreams, when I was younger. Ideas about how life would be. There was a husband, children, nieces and nephews. I would enjoy my parents as they grew old together. In my mind, I was always a teacher - a kindergarten teacher. In my dreams for the future there was hope, happiness, contentment and purpose.

The reality of life is so much different. The husband and children have yet to manifest themselves, and with all that is changing within my body, some dreams of children grow slimmer each day. My Dad's life ended much sooner than any of us imagined. My teaching days weren't in a classroom but in a church "basement", with middle school and high school youth and involved so much more than teaching. Those days are years behind now.  It was my choice to move on, well, there was a "voice" that I heard pretty clear telling me it was time for change and I listened to that voice. I don't regret that decision...but I do miss those days.

I do have a biological niece and lots of nephews-of-the-heart. I was content with life...once upon a time. Content didn't always mean happy, I have learned. Content simply means content. Content is a distant memory, right now.

The Disney movie Inside Out came out the summer my Dad died. The movie centered around  a young girl as she deals with her new reality of life. The majority of the movie is told from the perspective of her emotions - Joy, Anger, Sadness, Fear, and Disgust. There is one point where her state of discontent, disillusionment, deaden her emotions and her emotional headquarters goes gray. Everything is viewed through a cloud of gray. I remember sitting in the movie theater, watching that scene, trying really, really hard to keep myself together and not just sob loudly and hysterically. Everything about that scene resonated with my soul. Reflected on the screen was my own inner state of being.

I moved out of that state for awhile, but lately the gray has started to creep back in. Contentment is nowhere to be found. Passion, happiness, hope...those feelings are hiding. I'm going through the motions of life. Right now, everything looks and feels gray.

Everyone once in a while I look around and wonder, what happened to all the dreams I had?  Did I somehow miss the boat, or train or helicopter or plane or car or horse or whatever clue I was supposed to catch to make my dreams come true? I wonder what I've done wrong. Maybe I didn't listen close enough to the instructor and wandered down a path I wasn't supposed to take. What happened to my dreams?

Then I start to wonder, what is my purpose?  I want to be useful, do something that makes a difference in the world. I am grateful to have a job but it's a job. I don't come home at night feeling like the world is a better place because I sold office products. It's a means to an end. Why am I here? I know that I'm not the first person to ask that question nor will I be the last.

My younger self had dreams. They were good dreams. They were the dreams that every younger self needs. Dreams of  happiness, hope, contentment and purpose. Some dreams have yet to be realized. Some dreams have been lost along the way. Some dreams became reality and I am forever grateful for the memories.

Tonight, my soul is longing for new dreams. Dreams that move me out of the state of gray and back into a world of color. I am longing for new dreams to mingle with the old, to stir in my soul and bring me to a place of happiness, contentment, purpose and hope again. 

Same journey, new chapter

I left the office on Thursday evening exhausted. The last conversation with a co-worker was draining, as I attempted to share about a situation that needed attention and struggled to be heard.

As I drove home, my mind reviewed the conversation, what I said, what the other person said, the body language, the words that were unspoken. Over and over the conversation ran, all the while I kept thinking, "how could I have handled that better?" It was just a few miles from home when the thought ran through my head, "I want to talk this over with Dad."

But I can't talk it over with my Dad. I don't get to come home and hear "Hey, Kiddo, how was your day?" I don't get to walk in the door, sit down, draw his attention away from his computer and spill the whole story. I don't get to listen to his advice. For the first time in three years and 8 months I cried tears of anger.

I haven't before felt angry with my Dad for dying. He didn't choose to get leukemia. He didn't choose for the chemo not to work or the crap that invaded his lungs to not clear up. Why be angry with him? But yesterday, I was angry at him for not being here when I needed him. Really angry...and sad.

Most days, I think about my Dad a few times throughout the day. Usually when I walk past pictures of him or while driving to or from work. Usually I can think about him without tears making an appearance. Yesterday was not that day. Yesterday I needed him and he.wasn't.there. And I was mad.

I miss my Dad. I miss his laughter, his humor and teasing...well most of it. I miss seeing him every day. I miss the sound of his voice. I miss his phone calls and emails. I miss telling him about my day and hearing feedback. I miss so much and yesterday, for the first time, I was mad at him for leaving.

The winding road of grief continues...

A tenuous peace

"I guess God needed her more."

A friend of mine made that statement after the sudden, unexpected and tragic death of a family member. This family member was a cancer survivor.  Her husband had died suddenly years before and the extended family most recently had been grieving the death of their father/grandfather/patriarch. She was at work on Thursday, in the hospital on Sunday and died on Wednesday. When above statement was made, "I guess God needed her more", I sat silently, unable to continue down that road.

Death is never easy, expected or unexpected. Those who find themselves in the midst of grief also find their own ways of coping with grief.  Some ways make sense to others, some don't. There isn't any "right" way to grieve. We just get through the days, especially in the first few weeks, and eventually find some sort of peace.

Along my journey of grief, I have made peace with the emptiness, the sorrow, the tears that come so easily. I have made peace with my complete lack of understanding as to why and accepted that some questions are unanswerable. I still have the questions. I would still like answers. I simply have a tenuous acceptance with not knowing.

For some, though, the not knowing means that we need to give answers and "explain" God or explain God's intentions. So we give answers like "God needed them more", "God needed another angel in heaven", "God has a plan" and so on and so forth. Those words don't ring true to my ears. I can't believe that God would "need" the mother of 10 who just died more than her children ranging in ages from 20 to 2. I don't think that God needs another angel in heaven that much.

Sometimes there just isn't an explanation. Sometimes death, expected or unexpected, just doesn't make sense. We can try to give answers but the truth is we can't answer for God. I wish some people would just stop trying.

A post about stories

I am the keeper of stories. Stories that are not my own. Stories of friends, of family members, of strangers. Stories that are shared with me in moments of quiet, of vulnerability, of need to just.tell.someone!

I am the keeper of stories. Some stories are ones that have been told before but just need one more telling.  They aren't so secret, more pressing on the conscience of the story teller. These stories usually require a response to help ease the mind of the story teller or refocus the direction. I take on the roll of mentor or guidance counselor, offering words of assurance, encouragement and sometimes gentle rebuke.

I am the keeper of stories. Other stories have been held close the heart of the story teller.  The stories are looking to be told but only to one who is safe.  Who won't share those stories again.  They don't need words of advice or wisdom or direction.  They are stories that simply need to be heard, without judgment.

I am the keeper of stories. With each story I sit in awe and wonder that for some reason this person chose me to share their stories. Honored at the trust and mindful of that trust as well.

I am the keeper of stories. Stories that I will never share because they aren't my own. Stories of sorrow, pain, anger, joy, fear, hope, grief, hurt and more. Stories that remind me of the vulnerability in even the strongest of souls. Stories that remind me that behind every face is a story just waiting to be told.

I am the keeper of the stories of others...and stories of my own. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Searching for my voice

I sometimes have a hard time speaking up, not because I don't have opinions - I have plenty of those - but because I don't want to offend others.  I try to play nicely with others, don't rock the boat, be the peacemaker.  I'm just about done.

Last week, my Mom and I went to hear Jim Wallis of Sojourners speak at a church in the area.  There were so many people we wound up in one of several overflow rooms where they were live streaming his speech.  (I do know that he was, in fact, at the venue. We passed him as we left our building and he was going to the book table to sign books.) At the end, during the question and answer period, Jim made a statement - faith inspires hope which prompts action which brings about change.  I've been pondering that statement all week.

A Bible verse that has become my mantra over the years has been a variation of Micah 6:8 - "Do justice, love mercy, walk humbly with your God."  Justice and mercy, in my view, look very different than the current US Administration views justice and mercy. I am tired of hearing about how we need to "make America great again", which seems to mean to put the interests of rich, white men above the needs of the poor, the needy, immigrants, people of color, working class, middle class, women, children...the list could just keep going on and on and on.  I'm tired of hearing that all the news media is lying.  I'm tired of the threats and patronizing comments from the current administration.  I'm tired of hearing about "alternative facts" and I'm tired of the thin skinned man that sits in the White House.  We are haven't even made it a month and already, I'm tired.

I've been struggling to find hope for the United States since November.  I've been struggling to listen to the opinions of those who don't believe the same way I believe.  I stopped watching the news.  I stopped doing anything more than skimming the headlines. Because since November, I've felt hopeless - wanting to be a peaceful person amidst the anger but just feeling so.darn.angry. I've listened to those who have said we just need to accept things and move on but I don't want to accept things.  I don't want to just move on.  And yet, I don't know what to do...yet.  I simply know I'm tired.

Faith - hope - action - change.  Justice - mercy - humbleness - God.   I'm pondering these things and searching for my voice. 

IT'SNOTOKAY

My friend Nancy and I have dinner or coffee together once every six weeks or so.  I cherish these meet-ups for so many reasons but mainly because I leave our time together once again reassured that I am not the "only one thinks that way".  Our views on theology and politics line up very nicely.  We don't agree on everything.  But we listen to each other, challenge each other to view the world through a wider lens and urge each other on to do good in the world.  Nancy once mentioned that she was encouraged I had done some in depth research and soul searching on a Biblical topic, to which I responded, "well, see, you are my friend and your views on that subject made me curious.  So I did my own research, explored the subject deeper and came to a similar conclusion...it's really your fault."

A few weeks ago we had dinner together.  Dinner started out with Nancy sharing about a book she was reading (I won't read it for awhile, but she highly recommends "When Breath Becomes Air".  Once you read the description, if you know my family history the last two years, you won't be surprised if I skip that book for awhile) and then moved onto politics.  Politics moved into hash tags - which cracked me up - and hence, here I am writing a blog post.

Nancy and I are both worried, concerned, sick, can't believe we have gotten to this place, I think you get the picture, about our country.  We talked a lot about the potential for violence and the insanity that seems to take over whenever politics are involved.  Nancy was speechless when I told her that I know people who will be voting for Trump.  I can't believe it either, but there it is.  We pondered how the "evangelical church" would stand behind Trump, when so many of the things Trump says flies in the face of what Jesus stands for.  (I put evangelical church in quotes because I strongly dislike that one group of followers of Jesus have taken over a word that literally means "sharing the good news" and made it into something that feels shameful and dirty to me.)

We talked about my experience in Oklahoma a few years ago, an open carry state, where many people came into church with their guns on their hips, and marveled how foreign that seemed to us.  While I respect others rights to feel differently, I don't like guns and don't believe guns are solving any problems in our society.  We talked about statistics showing that open carry states have a higher crime rate than those states that don't have open carry laws.  I'm still looking into those statistics.

We both know we are privileged, white women, who haven't really experienced discrimination.  We know we can't fully understand discrimination and know we have, in ways we didn't mean or fully comprehend, have been guilty of discriminating against others.  It bothers us deeply.  We don't know what to do about it, other than continuing to educate ourselves and speak up when we recognize discrimination around us.

Since that conversation, I've become even more alarmed at things that have been said and done in politics, as well as things said and done during the Olympics.  It alarms me that a young, black woman was so harshly criticized and taken to task for not putting her hand over her heart during the National Anthem during the Olympics.  Nights later I turned on the TV to see two white males standing on the Olympic podium while the National Anthem was played and neither one of them had a hand over their hearts.  I saw NOTHING about that on the Internet, heard NOTHING on the news making a big deal about their negligence to follow a flag protocol.  Nor did I hear anything about them taking a stand in solidarity with the young, black woman a few nights earlier.  I actually had to google flag protocol to see if there was actually something to the complaints.  I never knew.  I can't tell you the number of times I have stood for the National Anthem and not placed my hand over my heart.  I simply didn't know that was protocol...and now that I do and such a stir has been caused about it, the rebel in me may just "forget" again. 

That night at dinner, Nancy decided our hash tag, should we ever use one, for all the subjects we talked about and more would simply say IT'SNOTOKAY.  (Especially when it comes to the things that come flying out of Mr. Trumps mouth - IT'SNOTOKAY.)  And though I don't use hash tags, now when I watch the news or read articles the phrase that continually runs through my mind is...IT'SNOTOKAY.  It's just not okay.