Celebration!

Available December 23, 2017 in paperback on Amazon.com!  Kindle version to follow soon!

Tango

            Cozy scenes of my new kitten lit up my imagination:  Tango sleeping on my lap, enjoying the fleece blanket nest I created in the end table storage, sitting in the office windowsill spot cleared specially for her.  That was before I brought her home.

            True, Tango does sleep on my lap on occasion, but I never thought about the frustration that could cause me.  She likes to come between me and my Kindle or book.  She wants to share any snack I hope to nibble on as I read.  And she gets especially persistent if I have a glass of milk.  My imagination neglected other typical cat behavior, too:  kitty sneezes and kitty farts in my face, kitty claws contentedly kneading my good blouse or my bare arm, kitty tongue licking the straw of my covered water container. 

            Tango has been mine for three weeks now, and she finally tried out the cozy fleece blanket nest for a few minutes last night.  She prefers sleeping behind the couch, on the hardwood floor, under the dining room table, and on the cupholder fold-down of the living room couch.  Of course, she also loves to nap on my recliner end of the couch.  Often I find her offerings of one or more of her catnip mice in the morning.  Like a good dog, she lies down near my feet when I sit at the dining table or computer desk.  (When I’m eating, she jumps up on the table and I deposit her in the office.)

            Now she happens to be on the office windowsill space gazing out at the front yard.  Good cat.  A few minutes ago she made a deposit in her litter box, which caused me to promptly jump up from this writing to scoop, add scented litter beads, and start the diffuser with the hopes I could keep writing without gagging.  You see, she has the stinkiest poop of any cat I have ever known.  Diet adjustments have done nothing to make a difference. 

            Which brings me to the last thing I never imagined:  my sensitivity to litter dust.  Lightweight clumping litter is out.  I’m using the regular-weight stuff which promises to kill odors.  Hah!  At least it is slightly less dusty.  It didn’t occur to me that sharing my office space with litter box would be a problem.  With the air purifier running at high speed and the diffuser sending out a lavender scent, I may be able to survive the dust and stink.  Uh-oh.  She just got in the box again.

            But Tango does have the softest, silkiest fur imaginable.  She purrs loudly with contentment.  Her meowing voice is very soft.  She allows all petting:  back, head, under the chin, belly, paws, and tail.  She entertains with her mad dashing around the house, expert soccer playing with a bottle cap, and focused hunting of crickets. She’s a keeper for sure.  

Sleeping With Turkeys

            A lovely holiday tradition has sprung up in my family.  It started, I believe, when I lived in faraway Washington State and my son lived in Colorado.  The times one or both of us came to Oklahoma for a November or December visit, we celebrated with a holiday meal and gift-giving at my daughter’s house.

            I seem to have used up my cooking skills, meager as they were, in my children’s early years when everything I made was whole wheat, bean-full, low salt, and taste free.  Long after they left the nest, I became the unlikely chef for my aging mother and bachelor brother.  Those were easier (and tastier) cooking years because I had an unlimited grocery budget and did not read labels.

            When I moved to Oklahoma four years ago and took up living solo in the house across the street from my daughter’s family, I left cooking behind.  That, plus the absence of a large enough dining room table, was enough to maintain the habit of celebrating holidays at my daughter’s house.  For Thanksgiving this year, we numbered seven:  Shawn, Dana, Benjamin, Joelle, Josiah, Joseph, and me.

            Conversation meandered along assorted topics, with Benjamin providing the background celebratory sounds and Joelle acting as emcee.  At some point, we grown-ups talked about how eating a lot of turkey makes one sleepy.  Meanwhile, eight-year-old Benjamin finished his full plate in record time, four-year-old Joelle asked for gravy to drink, and two-year-old Josiah held his spork in his right hand while using his left hand to finger-feed himself the yummy homemade stuffing and heavenly cranberry gelatin salad.  He ignored Dana’s delicious turkey, savory vegetable medley, scrumptious sweet potatoes, and my tasteless roasted green beans with red potatoes. (I forgot to add the minced garlic.)   It should be noted that he later chowed down on Dana’s homemade pumpkin pie with coconut whipped cream.

In the living room after that wonderful feast, my son felt sleepy.  Leaning back into the loveseat recliner, he closed his eyes.  Four-year-old Joelle loudly reported, “Joseph is sleeping with turkeys!”  Dana and I laughed till we cried.

Reflections

                From Monday afternoon until Wednesday evening, I pondered possible analogies concerning Tango, me, and God.

                I thought of how much I have conducted my life out of fear.  I mulled over how I hide from God even while he is patiently waiting on me and wooing me with his presence.  I wondered how grieved he feels when his own adopted children keep themselves isolated from his comfort.

                And then came Wednesday evening when I walked into my office and saw Tango perched on the windowsill.  As always, I spoke softly.  When she looked at me without the usual terror in her eyes, I approached slowly.  When I was halfway across the room, she jumped down to the desk and then to the floor. 

                She seemed a little skittish, so I slowly lowered myself to the floor.  And then a lengthy petting session began.  She was desperate for attention, butting up to my hand, rolling over on her back, and climbing up onto my lap.  I stroked her silky, soft fur and she purred.  It was like the good old days at ARF.  Eventually, my joints required I stand again.  I said good night and left the room.

                Today (Thursday) she is up to her old hiding tricks, but maybe in the cool of the evening, she’ll emerge for more fellowship.

Beginnings

                We are not off to a good start. 

                I adopted Tango, a six-month-old orange tabby, from ARF (Animal Rescue Foundation) Monday afternoon.  Having visited her many times in the preceding month, I assumed she would immediately adapt to her new home—or at least that she would find comfort in me holding her.  Wrong.

                She was unhappy during the twenty-minute drive home, though she voiced her complaints in a rather quiet voice. I brought her into my house and set the carrier on the floor in my office, where I have prepared a feeding area and a litter box as well as a place to look out the window.  But I was not prepared for her speedy escape the second I opened the carrier door.  She zoomed into the small space between desk and filing cabinet, and then slithered her way under the desk drawers.  She would not be beckoned out by a choice salmon kitty treat.  Now she hides under a cabinet. She will not be moved.

                I am unhappy, having imagined an afternoon and evening cuddling my kitten.  I know that I simply need to give her time to adjust to the shock of new surroundings.  Perhaps after I go to bed (and close my door), she will prowl around and discover the amenities of home:  the scratching pole, the cozy sleeping spots I have imagined her napping in, the catnip mice.  Maybe she will even jump up on my dining room table and clear it of the miscellaneous papers scattered on its surface.  Hopefully she will use the litter box, drink her water, and eat some cat food.

                So, after I lie down on the floor one more time to see and talk to her in a reassuring voice, I will make my retreat.  Well, anyway, that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the last six hours of checking on her (finding her was the hard part).  

Preparations

            This week I am adopting a cat from ARF (Animal Rescue Foundation).  For several months, I’ve been busy preparing.

            For reasons I cannot fully explain, just thinking about getting a cat motivated me to declutter and organize my home.  I guess it’s sort of like preparing for the royal queen’s visit—or an hour with my two-year-old grandson.  Cats are like queens in their regal manner:  it’s said that dogs have masters, but cats have staff.  Felines are also like toddlers who get into everything, the key difference being that height is no barrier.

            I decided early on to let the closets remain disaster areas for the meantime and concentrate on the visible clutter.  I worked my way through living room, kitchen, and bathrooms.  Now I am nearly finished with my office, which has been the general “throw things in there when I don’t know where to put them” room.  Plus, my desk was a study in stacks of papers I intended to throw away or file later. 

            All the efforts I’ve made—including multiple ARF visits to make sure cat fur won’t aggravate my allergies—in order to welcome Her Highness Tango into my home have made me wonder if King Jesus receives the royal welcome He deserves.

 

            Do I make room for Jesus in my daily life?  Do I declutter my soul through repentance and forgiveness?  Is He welcome in every room of my being—including the closets?  Do I allow His love to sweep away sin’s debris?  Do I live like He is both honored guest and royal head of my home?  Do I delight in the spontaneous joy He brings?

            I hope so.

            

Travel Scenes

            Boarding Southwest’s 6:30 am flight from Tulsa to Denver, I look for any open seat near the front of the plane because my layover in Denver will be a mere forty minutes.  To my left sits an older woman in the second-row aisle seat.  I feel bad for her labored effort to stand when I ask to take the window seat.  I am also beyond excited to be making this trip which I had planned for last summer but cancelled due to my breast cancer diagnosis.

            My arm feels itchy in my new compression sleeve with matching gauntlet.  I rub my upper arm, hoping the discomfort eases soon and thankful that I only need wear the sleeve and gauntlet when flying or traveling in the mountains as a lymphedema preventative.  My new seatmate and I start a conversation with the usual pleasantries of where we are traveling.

            When she says she is headed to Arizona for a few weeks and from there back to her missionary work in China, I ask where even though I know next to nothing about China’s geography.  “Shenyang,” she replies.  Startled that she has named the city where three fellow members from a church I attended in the 1990s are long-time missionaries, I ask the next obvious question.  Her answer is a delighted “Yes!”  She has worked alongside them for years.

            What follows is a long and meandering conversation that blesses both of us.  We exchange contact information, I ask her to extend my greetings, and when we part in Denver, we share a hug as if long-time friends. 

            A few hours later, my brother greets me at SeaTac.  Our first destination is Pike Place Market, where we catch a quick lunch and wend our way through the crowds.  We through part of downtown Seattle, and my legs tire quickly with the steep hills.  Then we head toward home, take the Mukilteo-Clinton ferry, and end up at John’s house mid-afternoon.  

After a little rest, we drive back down the island to enjoy the view at Double Bluff Beach before going on to enjoy pizza on the waterfront at Langley.  And then it is time for me to head farther up island, where I will be staying with friends Bethany and Don.  Their home on the West Beach Road bluff looks out over the Strait of Juan de Fuca. 

            On this Thursday morning, Bethany and I drive over to Oak Harbor to do an errand and take a walk by the waterfront.  I ask her if we can stop by Whidbey Presbyterian Church because I want to meet the administrative assistant, who shares my daughter’s first name, and of whom Bethany has said so many good things.  Last year, Dana had early stage breast cancer, which was successfully treated without chemotherapy.

            It is a delight to talk with Dana, and Bethany suggests we wander over to the sanctuary where the music director is practicing.  Teri was perhaps a year into that position when I moved away four years ago, and it is so good to see her again.  During our conversation, she mentions that Vic, who headed up our woodwind ensemble but goes to church elsewhere now, will be at a theater practice that evening.  Thus, I decide to drive back up to Oak Harbor to see him after dinner in Freeland at China City with John and our friend Debra.  God sure seems to be orchestrating the details of my vacation!

            On Friday, John and I take a road trip into the Cascade mountains to a favorite location:  Deception Falls.  We have been there many times before with various family members and friends.  One thing is different this time, though:  in addition to the easy-access trail, I do the longer hike with him.  In times past, I would stay behind with Mom while the others took that winding trail.  It is fun to see new views of the falls, and it is encouraging to have the stamina for that mile.  I remember when we went to the falls in July 2007 with our older sister, who was almost a year out from her ovarian cancer surgery and some months out of chemotherapy.  I think about what this particular hike must have meant to Anne.  Sadly, her cancer, despite cutting-edge chemotherapy, kept recurring and she died in 2009.  But today, August 18, 2017, I rejoice in the mountain air and breathtaking scenery.  John and I end the day with an ice cream sundae at Costco followed by dinner and dessert at Bethany and Don’s.

 Saturday morning finds Bethany and me at the Coupeville Farmer’s Market followed by a walk on the beach at Ebey’s Landing.  I’m thinking of “crashing” the annual high tea at church this afternoon. It would be fun to surprise the ladies there, especially my friend Nancy, who is hostess for the event.  But my afternoon plans suddenly change.

            That morning, my brother posts a picture of me during our hike and a Lussmyer cousin of ours whom I have never met sees it.  Though she lives in eastern Washington, she has been out on the peninsula for a couple weeks helping one of her sisters after surgery.  A flurry of Facebook messages follow, and Addie drives an hour to reach the Keystone Ferry to come to the island so she can meet me and, incidentally, hang out with my brother, whom she calls The Most Interesting Man in the World.  We have a great afternoon on his property, looking at the latest projects, which include a “truckport” for his two Ford F250 trucks, one of which he converted to all-electric; checking out his 4,000 square foot shop and the larger space behind it which he has recently logged off in preparation to build a covered shelter for his larger vehicles (lift truck, bulldozer, road grader, etc.); and watching his cougar, Talina, nap outside in her caged area around his house.

            The delights of vacation time do not end on Sunday.  I attend church with Bethany and Don, enjoying beautiful worship and great fellowship.  I get to see many of the people I knew during the five years I lived on the island and worshipped at Whidbey Presbyterian.  I wish I could stop time and stay longer, but I need to head down to Coupeville and meet my brother for our road trip to Oregon.

            When John and I planned this summer’s trip to Whidbey Island, neither one of us realized the dates chosen included the great solar eclipse of August 21, 2017.  Once the light dawned on him, he put together a travel plan.  We spend Sunday afternoon driving down the shoreline route and stop in Seaside, Oregon for the night.  After a scrumptious seafood dinner, we walk through town before turning in early.  Six-thirty Monday morning sees us grab a breakfast sandwich at McDonalds and drive south on 101.  But because of the fog on shore, we decide to head inland, and hours later end up in an open field in Rickreall, Oregon (west of Salem) where we find clear skies and an unobstructed view of the sun.  I wish that I were an artist so I could paint the image etched into my memory: a black sun surrounded with a leafy white corona.  Instead, all I have are pictures of the field.

            Soon after the totality, we hear traffic picking up on the nearby divided highway.  We join the traffic through town as I periodically gaze through my eclipse glasses and give updates as to how much bigger the crescent is.  Even though we are traveling back roads, traffic is heavy for about two hours.  Finally, we cross the Columbia River and head further east along its shoreline.  All afternoon and into the evening, we follow winding two-land roads through the mountains, enjoying spectacular scenery, including the beauty of sunlight sprayed down through dense forest.  At one point, we pull off the road for a scenic vista of Mt. St. Helen’s.  The driving day is endless, the company excellent, and the scenery exceptional.  I drop John off at his house at 10:30 pm and am “home” at Don and Bethany’s by eleven.

            What I need my last day on the island is time alone to do a few of my favorite things from the years I lived here.  The whole wheat cinnamon roll at Whidbey Coffee will have to wait till my next visit, but I do purchase a bag of ground coffee and take an iced coffee to go.  In Coupeville, I wander through the shops for over an hour, hoping to find perfect gifts for my grandchildren.  Though nothing that I like fits my budget, I thoroughly enjoy the search and the view.

Ellen and I meet for lunch at Knead and Feed, I finish my Coupeville wandering, and then I head south via my favorite scenic route, taking me past Fort Casey and the Keystone ferry.  Looking out at Admiralty Inlet and the distant Olympic mountains always fills my soul with awe at God’s grand creation.

            Though John and I went out to Double Bluff Beach the first day of my visit, I want to go back and walk the tidal flats.  Cars line the street leading to the beach, but I drive on to the small parking lot, and there is a single spot open for me.  Predictably, there are many people on the beach this afternoon, but the surprise is the heat.  I did not dress right for a beach walk in the sun, so my walk is brief.  “Next time,” I tell myself, “I will take a long walk, barefoot along the shore during low tide.”

            A stop at Payless Foods in Freeland to pick up a few things for tomorrow’s travel, and I am ready to head the ten miles to Greenbank, where my brother lives.  He calls our friend Debra, and this time we eat at Freeland Café.  The Alaska cod is scrumptious.  I am sure to head back up the island to Bethany and Don’s house before dark since I discovered earlier in the week how very bad my night driving is.

            Wednesday starts early and ends late.  I say my good-byes to Bethany and Don, help John with the drop-off of the rented car, and ride with him in his electric truck back to Greenbank, where I catch the 10:45 am Whidbey-SeaTac shuttle.  I take my last pictures on the Clinton-Mukilteo ferry.  By noon, I am in an endless baggage-check line, and from there breeze through security with my TSA pre-pass.  I enjoy a mocha iced coffee and a yogurt parfait and walk the crowded terminal down to my gate.  The flights home always seem longer since I gain two hours in transit, and I am bone-weary when I reach Tulsa and catch the shuttle for the economy parking lot around 11 pm.  But there is still one more blessing to receive:  the shuttle driver insists on stopping directly behind my parked car (he even backs up when I notice my car too late) and putting my heavy suitcase in the hatchback for me.

            An hour later I am home, exhausted from and joyful for all I have experienced in this amazing week.  A year ago, when I was so sick from chemotherapy, I could barely walk a block.  To be alive, well, and have hair are gifts beyond comprehension.  Tomorrow I will see my grandchildren and tell my stories to daughter and son-in-law.  I’ll thank God for central air conditioning in this Oklahoma heat and embrace my life as a cancer survivor.

February 2, 1975: Yesterday's Adventure*

            David and I hitchhiked to Iowa City.  Neither of us had hitchhiked before, so we thought it would be fun to try.  It was.  We went on Highway 6 and it took us 3 ½ hours for the 65 miles.  We had 6 rides, none of them very long.  They were:  1) a chiropractic assistant, she was very nice (as all of them were) and we talked about broken bones, 2) a high school boy in his hopped up car, so loud we didn’t talk, 3) a middle-age farmer who told us about the recent—last summer—tornado, 4) a man who was drunk with his wife and little dog in a pickup truck (what a squeeze) on their way to the dump.  He drove slowly, thank goodness, but all over the road and the whole situation was sad, but still very comical, 5) a man with a strong German accent, hardly understandable, 6) a freak** who was real friendly; he was headed for an auction.  He drove a 1954 Chevrolet truck in good condition.  We walked a lot, too.  But what a cross section of middle America! ***

*From a letter I wrote to my mother spring semester of my sophomore year at Grinnell College.

**In 70s slang, a “freak” meant a hippie.

***My 62-year-old self is laughing at my letter and horrified at the thought of hitchhiking.  What a different world it was in the 1970s!

The Dearly Departed

            I’ve just left the 1970s behind and am not ready to skip ahead to the early 1980s, so I guess I’ll write.  Yes, I’m still reading old letters.  Mom kept everything, including the extra carbon copies she made of her letters to us “kids.”

            She would be glad to know how impressed I am by her organization.  Occasionally, I run into a letter or memento filed in the wrong year, but I figure those were filing mistakes in her much later years.  I can imagine her taking a couple folders from her file cabinets into the living room where she could read with the aid of her lighted magnifier.  Maybe it is sad that I am tossing out most of the cards and letters and mementos, but at least I take photographs (especially of notable envelopes addressed in creative ways).

            When I started this project however many weeks ago, I should have noted the date as well as kept a log of the order in which I’ve been reading.  I’ve bounced around between decades as far back as the 1940s and as recent as the 1990s.  I’ve read letters penned by my grandparents, aunts, uncles, mother, cousins, and siblings.  I’ve looked at newspaper clippings, baby announcements, and handmade cards.  I’ve discovered that whenever my sister (who was two years older than I) made a card for Mom, I made one as well, copying whatever creative idea she used in a more childish form:  things like messages written in code or with accompanying treble clef line that showed off our understanding of notes, measures, and notations to good effect—except for a melodic line.

            I read through the late1940s letters written by Humphrey, Mom’s youngest brother, with the terrible knowledge that he would die in a 1949 flight training accident before ever reaching his 21^st birthday.  I still wonder whatever became of his fiancée, Helen Bates, whose first name he initially misspelled as Helene in his rhapsodies about her to his parents.  Before that was my great-grandmother’s death in early 1946 following a lengthy illness that appears to have been Alzheimer’s. I learned that my mother (Priscilla) and grandmother (Dana) were very close.  Frances Dana (my great-grandmother) was a difficult and demanding woman even before the dementia, and Dana struggled in her full-time caregiving for her mother.  Priscilla helped out when home from Oberlin College for Christmas break, and Frances Dana’s last words were spoken to Priscilla: “Be good.”  It tugs at my heart that those were some of the last words my mother spoke to me a few days before she died.

            In Grandma Dana’s letters of the early 1950s, I could see a gradual deterioration.  Those letters stopped around 1952.  Eventually, she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease and died in 1962.  Because I never had the chance to know her before she became silent, reading her letters to my mother made her real to me—what a loving, energetic, capable woman she was!  And how much like her my mother was!

            The early 1960s contained their own measure of nostalgia, too, with the aforementioned cards and notes we four “kids” made for our mother.  It took me a long time to learn how to spell “from” correctly:  my little cards and notes to Mom, including one in which I told her that my sister had slapped me that day, ended with “form Janis.” 

On November 10, 1962, came a huge, unexpected loss:  Grandpa died from a massive heart attack.  I miss him still.  Therein lies the problem of getting immersed in old letters: reliving old losses and seeing the impact of those times in letters and cards.  One memento I could not toss was the guest book from Grandpa’s funeral.  The opening pages, filled in by a funeral home employee I am sure, were written in a beautiful cursive script.  Naturally, the guest signatures were mostly unfamiliar names from my grandparents’ wide circle of friends.

            I believe I will save the recording of later, letter-preserved memories for another time.  But I will say this:  I have experienced profound comfort in the company of my dead relatives.

Unremarkable: "not particularly interesting or surprising"

            I have an unremarkable liver.  And I’ve been spending too much time with dead relatives lately.

            At my quarterly check-up in June, my port decided it did not want to release my blood.  The nurse tried everything, including an extra saline flush or two.  She had me sit up in the reclining chair, lay back, hold my right arm over my head, turn my head to the left, take a deep breath.  I believe we tried everything except standing on my head.  At this point, an unyielding port is not serious, just a hassle.  Finally, she decided on a last resort:  having the blood for my lab work drawn from a vein in my left arm.  Maybe next time my port will work.

            For this appointment, I saw my oncology nurse, who gave me a folder filled with information concerning all of my cancer treatments as well as general information for cancer survivors.  She also noted that a couple of my liver enzymes were still elevated, so I got scheduled for an abdominal ultrasound.  She suggested some simple stretches for my right arm, which has lost a little of its range of motion, urged me to exercise more and lose fifteen pounds (though fifty would take me back to my twenties).  She also predicted that the elevated enzymes were likely due to a fatty liver.

            Naturally, I went home and googled fatty liver disease.  What I found was not pleasant.  I also googled metastatic breast cancer, which was even less pleasant.  My worst-case scenario thinking crops up in times like these. 

            The following week I had my ultrasound, and the radiologist report showed up just a day or two later in my See Your Chart file.  I read through the description of the findings, which were basically incomprehensible to me except for the final notation: “unremarkable liver.”  I understood that.  Well, actually there were two other things I understood: “normal gall bladder” and that some little part they wanted to see was obstructed from view by intestinal gas.  Somehow I am not surprised.

            I am very proud of my unremarkable liver and quite determined that I will not let it get fat.  I would rather not mention my rounded waistline where most of my excess weight gathers. 

            But you will have to wait till later to hear about my dead relatives.

Choosing

            Two-year-old Josiah handed me the wide-brimmed straw hat.  I placed it upon his head.  Immediately pleased, he smiled and walked into my dining room.  Standing in front of the mirrored curio cabinet, he admired his reflection. 

            Four-year-old Joelle asked for fizzy water with ice and a straw.  She chose a purple straw while I dispensed her drink, and then she drank it happily.

            Eight-year-old Benjamin grinned at me and led me to the piano.  I knew what he wanted, so I played and sang “The Wheels on the Bus” while he rocked to the beat.

            Three children.  Three requests granted.  Nothing earth-shattering, just happy little interactions that make this grandma’s heart sing.

            I wonder what would happen if we adults lived in the simple trust that God was happy to interact with us.  If we came to him for help.  If we came to him with our thirst.  If we came to him with our joy.

            We would find that simple choices to place our confidence in him would lead to loving interactions.  We would open ourselves to receive every little thing he wants to give.  We would find our delight in choosing him in all things, big and small.  And God’s heart would sing.

"If I only had a brain"

                The waitress was ready to take my breakfast order.  “l’ll have the fruit parfait . . . It comes with the yogurt, muffin, and ---.”  I paused.  What was the word for the item pictured on the menu?  In my mind’s eye, I could see the strawberries, blueberries, grapes, cantaloupe, and pineapple neatly arranged on a lettuce leaf. “Fruit,” said one of the women in our Cursillo fellowship.  A second of embarrassing silence followed, broken by Kristy’s friendly laugh and side hug.

                How could I forget the word “fruit” right after I had said it?  What is going on between my brain’s synapses?  (Not much, it appears.)  Such lapses are downright disturbing.  I’ve been misreading words of late as well.  Scrolling down my Facebook feed, I’ll glance at a post, think “What?!” and go back to the offending word, which turns out to be something quite different than I initially thought.  If I could remember an example, I’d tell you.

                But worrying won’t make my memory issues go away.  So I’ll claim chemo brain, which is way more reassuring than Alzheimer’s.  It does give one pause, though, to crash right up against such blanks.  Yesterday, I was addressing a birthday card to my brother John when I suddenly could not remember the number of his street address.  Now that would not normally be a disturbing development, but I lived at that address for five years. I knew it started with a “5” and had three digits, but I couldn’t remember the last two.  I finally went and looked it up.

                This weekend, I’m celebrating the first anniversary of my first chemotherapy treatment.  It is a good place to be, one year out from the hardest months of my life.  But still.  I’d like my brain back.

As A Reader

            Sometime after 6:00 p.m. Wednesday evening, I ordered The Bright Hour: A Memoir of Living and Dying by Nina Riggs.  At midnight, I finished reading it.  Today, I am still thinking about it.

            Having written a breast cancer memoir via my blog, thinking about searching for a publisher, and knowing that I should become familiar with such books already on the market, I found The Bright Hour on Amazon.com.  The cover’s cheery splashes of color, its title, and its June 6, 2017 publication date intrigued me.  I read the sample pages and was immediately hooked.  I could not wait for a physical copy of the book to be mailed to me, so I hit the one-click button for immediate electronic delivery to my Kindle.

            Nina Riggs had the power of words and immediacy.  Her brief narrative chapters kept me spellbound as I raced through the reading, broken only by occasional pit stops.  Her many allusions to Ralph Waldo Emerson and her direct descendance from him delighted me.  (I have enjoyed Emerson since I was a teenager, even though I have rarely understood him and sometimes disagreed with him.  His portrait, his words, and the fact that both of my grandparents closely read his essays make him seem like a distant and kindly great uncle.)  Riggs’ equally frequent allusions to Montaigne made me determined to add him to my reading plans.

            Besides the brilliance of her writing, I was captured, of course, by the shared territory of triple negative breast cancer.  Breast cancer patients and survivors understand breast cancer patients and survivors.  Though each of us has a unique experience with the disease and the treatments, there is a fundamental connection. 

            Added to that shared territory was the setting of Riggs’ memoir, bittersweet to me because of the two months I spent with my sister as she was dying from ovarian cancer in 2009.  I remember Highway 54 and Graham, North Carolina—Anne lived in Saxapahaw but had a Graham post office box.  She was treated at UNC instead of Duke, but still it is the same general territory.  She spent the last month of her life in a horrid skilled nursing facility in Greensboro, dying two days before she was finally to be transferred to the Greensboro hospice.

            With those memories of my sister and the more recent memories of my breast cancer treatment, I read The Bright Hour, enthralled by every page and grieving all the way through for Riggs’ family members who are still in the throes of loss. 

            And still I’m gripped by her memoir.  As a writer, I see that my own story fits a different and specific market niche:  the Christian reader.  As a human being, I am amazed at Nina Riggs’ resilience.  And as a Christian, I am hopeful that at the end she found herself ushered into the love and glory of God’s presence.

Landscape Times Two

            On a hot, bright Wednesday in June, the undulating hills of southeast Kansas spread out before me.  Turning west from 75 to 166, I was on the familiar stretch that used to start my journey to Colby, Kansas from Bartlesville, Oklahoma.  Prairie tallgrasses bent and swayed in the wind.  Hawks swooped above the highway.  Wooded hills outlined the horizon.  I drove in silence except for the occasional praise song that burst from my lips.  God’s creation, this mix of wild and tamed land, always sends my heart soaring. 

            Excitement built when I turned north on Highway 15, a road previously untraveled by me.  Dexter, Kansas was only a few miles distant, and the prospect of seeing Lori for the first time in ten years and meeting her husband of two years propelled me forward.

            Lori and I go back to the fall of 1989 when we both started teaching at Colby Community College.  That year there was an unprecedented nineteen new faculty.  What I did not know at the time was that she would become my closest friend in Colby, though we only saw each other sporadically.  We rarely ran into each other on campus due to different schedules and different departments:  she taught in the Veterinary Technician program, and I taught in the English Department.  Our friendship by phone, which for many years meant daily conversations, kept me going during lonely, lean years of single parenting.  In 2007, she left Colby for a new career in Topeka.  In 2008, I left Colby to become my mother’s caregiver in Greenbank, Washington.

            I overshot my turn and thus got to see all of downtown Dexter, population 300.  Main Street took me straight through town, and it wasn’t long before I saw a lone house surrounded by fields.  I had arrived.

            What do you do when you meet up with a friend after ten years of life-changing  events?  Well, you catch up, and the years disappear as the catching-up begins.  It hardly took a moment for me to recognize a new settled peace in Lori’s life, a deep gratitude, and a profound joy.  When her husband came in from the fields for lunch, I understood what she had been telling me.  Bob is one of those rare people whose goodness simply shines from his face:  no pretense, all authentic goodwill.  I loved the ease of conversation with no subtexts to hint of stress or unforgiveness or dissatisfaction.  Instead, there was an abundance of mutuality, respect, and kindness.  In a word, love.

            Late in the afternoon as I drove home, my heart was filled with gratitude and joy for Lori and Bob.  The peaceful rolling hills of dazzling green set against the bright blue sky somehow summed up the beauty of their life together.  God is good.  All the time.

            

Orbits

            I did not mean to drop out of the entire blogosphere, but I did.  I intended to keep blogging, just not about breast cancer.  (You didn’t really want to follow me through the next two years of quarterly port flushes, blood tests, and check-ups with my oncologist, did you?  Or biannual mammograms, ultrasounds, and check-ups with my surgeon?)  I had to find an end to orbiting around cancer, so April was it:  one year since I found the lump.

            Thus begins my cancer survivor life, which is still evolving, but my energy has returned to pre-cancer levels thanks to the passage of time, many naps, and the twice-weekly exercise group I attend.  It’s called Fall Proof, a class to better one’s balance and improve fitness, and it’s fun.  I’m down to a nap a day.  I still have a wide swath of dark tan left behind by radiation treatments, and stretching my right arm above my head is painful.  But my hair continues to grow thick and curly, and my fingernails are strong for the first time in my life.  The hair and nails, I believe, are my body’s late response to the chemotherapy months.  Those keratin cells seem to be in overdrive.

            But life is more than exercise, a one-sided tan, hair, and fingernails, is it not?  I choose to be amused at my never-ending chemo brain.  Just this afternoon I was refilling my ice water and making a glass of iced coffee.  I added ice, poured coffee concentrate and half-and-half, and added water.  I was surprised to see white, foamy bubbles appear.  “What’s wrong with my water dispenser?” I wondered.  And then I realized I had added the half-and-half to the water tumbler instead of to the coffee glass.

            “Earth to Janis.  Time to stop writing about cancer-related topics.”

            “Oops.  Switching to new orbit.” 

My summer orbit should involve a late spring cleaning, but it does not.  Old non-cleaning habits die hard.  Last week I read three books and did dishes a few times.  There is also the matter of three sermons to prepare for the last three weeks of July when I’m preaching during our pastor’s vacation.  

Several weeks ago, I began spending a lot more time with my grandchildren, despite their runny noses, and promptly caught the cold they were sharing.  But it was worth it, of course.  There is nothing quite like Benjamin’s welcoming happy dance, Joelle’s pretend play in which I am always named “Bus Driver,” and Josiah’s “Ga-ga” greeting.  Joelle and I sit on the loveseat while she tells me where to drive, Benjamin grabs my hands to request another round of “Wheels on the Bus,” and Josiah wants up on my lap so we can laugh at each other. 

On the less-than-happy side has been my son’s worsening struggle with mental illness and homelessness.  But he is in treatment for the first time in a dozen years, and the mental health system is working the way it should with hospitalizations as necessary and closely monitored follow-up care. 

Isn’t that the way our personal orbits work?  Our lives revolve around what is truly important to us, whether it is happy or heartbreaking.  Here is my hope:

“The Sun of Righteousness will rise with healing in his wings . . .” (Malachi 4:2)

            

"Gotcha!"

            I read the last sentence in the evening devotional.  And then, with great delight, I laughed out loud.

            Let me provide some context.  Earlier in the day I had my weekly appointment with my therapist.  (A couple months ago, I decided that seeing a counselor would not be a bad idea.)  Interestingly, we have talked little about cancer.  There have been more pressing concerns.  On Wednesday, we dove back in to dealing with the guilt cloud that seems perpetually to hang over my head, kind of like Pigpen’s dust storm wherever he goes.  Along with that, I talked about how very hard it is for me to ask anyone for help with anything because I am afraid of imposing on them.  I feel guilty when I can’t do everything myself.

            So that evening, I was reading the May 10 devotional from Jesus Calling and came to the last sentence: “Thank [Jesus] for the difficulties in your life since they provide protection from the idolatry of self-reliance.”

            Okay, so maybe that doesn’t seem so funny to you, but to me it felt like Jesus—so happy, so full of love—poked me and said, “Gotcha!”

Part Sixty-Nine: Complaints

            Why am I sleeping so much?  Is it post-radiation fatigue?  Is it fibromyalgia?  Is it the infected tooth?

            Bedtime ranges from eleven to twelve.  I wake up once in the night battling my BIPAP mask, then easily fall back to sleep.  Around 8:30 a.m. I get up rather groggily, my muscles leaden and my joints stiff.  After a light breakfast which is supposed to revive me (the coffee, that is), I slog back to bed and sleep another hour or more.  A shower revives me enough to function.  By the time I’m dressed and ready for the day, eleven a.m. has come and gone.

            It is now 11:48 a.m. and here is what I have accomplished:  I called the oral surgeon for an appointment.  Earlier this week, my new dentist told me that tooth #13 has a broken root and is infected, while tooth #28 is blocking access to the cavity of its next-door neighbor.  Those two extractions fall under my definition of necessary repairs, but the recommended permanent bridge may have to be postponed indefinitely.  VISA is going to be very happy about the interest they will earn on my dental work and hearing aids.

            I have also updated and printed my medication list as well as scribbled down a reference for the Mother’s Day sermon I am supposed to be preparing.  Fortunately, the low tire on my car looks like it will make it through today so I can delay getting it fixed till tomorrow if I so choose.

            In the meantime, I am starting to think about lunch and whether I will need a nap before engaging in any more productive activity today.  Just thinking about getting anything done is making me more tired.  My lower back is complaining, my upper back is putting in its two cents, and my right arm tells me I’ve typed too much.  My forearms are starting to itch, I have a terrible taste in my mouth, and all my teeth are wondering if they are infected, too.  The loud ringing in my ears reminds me that I have not yet put on my hearing aids. 

            In case you haven’t guessed, I have just blogged my complaints.  But at least I’ve gotten something done.  Plus, I’ve figured out the answers to my initial questions: I’m tired.  Yes.  Yes.  Yes.

Part Sixty-Eight: Conversation

            Back at the end of January when I started radiation treatments, Dr. Nguyen’s physician’s assistant was gone:  his wife was having their first baby that day, and he had arranged to take his two-week vacation to coincide with the baby’s birth.  The first time I met Curtis, I was sure to ask how his wife and son were doing.  In my ensuing weekly check-ups, it was easy to see that he brought both skill and compassion to his job. 

            Thus, I was looking forward to seeing him at my April 7 post-radiation appointment.  The moment he walked into the exam room, I exclaimed, “Hi!  How’s that baby doing?  How old is he now?”

            Curtis looked surprised and happy to answer my questions.  “He’s 2 ½ months old and so cute.  I love my job, but I’m always anxious to get home after work to spend time with him.  Thanks for asking.”

            After some more conversation, Curtis asked me an array of questions concerning my current health, looked at my right quadrant tan, and did a quick examination of my underarm lymph nodes and my abdomen.  Everything checked out great.  He assured me that the lingering fatigue is normal as well as the occasional sharp stabbing pains in my right breast.

            As he explained that from this point on all my follow-up care will be handled by my medical oncologist and my breast surgeon, I asked if there would be any imaging tests in addition to my annual mammogram.  He said it was possible but not probable.  Sometimes, he added, patients want more imaging because they are worried and want the proof in pictures that the cancer is really gone.

            I laughed and said I wasn’t one of those: “God has really blessed me throughout this whole cancer thing.  From the very beginning, he gave me such peace that worry has not been a problem.”

            With a serious look on his face, Curtis told me, “I consider myself a Christian, but I don’t know that I would be strong enough to not worry.”

            “Oh,” I hastened to explain, “the peace is not from me being strong.  It’s a gift.  I’m usually a worry wart.”

            “Me, too,” he said. 

            We chatted for a little while, and then as I stood to go, he said, “Hug?”

            My heart was spilling over with joy as I left the exam room:  joy over this young father with such a heart of compassion, joy over all the wonderful staff at OCSRI.  I left the building with a big smile on my face.  I’m looking forward to my June appointments with doctors Smith and Moussa.

Part Sixty-Seven: From Head to Toe

            Sometimes my post-cancer-treatment body weighs me down.

            Today that familiar, acrid, slightly metallic taste lingers along my tongue, upper palate, and throat.  Immune to toothpaste, mouthwash, or breath-freshening mints, it stubbornly holds its territory.  I link it with the feeling in my stomach:  not nausea, but not pleasant.  I imagine damaged cells flaking off, leaving another layer of chemo-contaminated cells behind. 

            The soles of my feet started off numb this morning.  Occasionally, pain prickles or nerve tingles hit in random places from head to toe: fortunately, not everywhere at once.  Right now, my arms and legs itch despite the moisturizer I use.  Is the itch neuropathy, allergies, or fibromyalgia?  I don’t know.

            I’m getting used to being lopsided.  The right-side skin, still a bit sensitive, has faded from angry red to uneven tan.  Sometimes ice pick stabs attack that breast, a reminder of the nerve damage that often occurs with surgery.  The lumpectomy and sentinel node biopsy scars have faded into thin lines, but sleeping on my right side still causes discomfort.

            Yesterday, despite taking a morning nap, an early afternoon nap, and a late afternoon nap, I slept well overnight.  (Well, except for my nightly 3 a.m. battle with the BIPAP mask.)  But the day before I took two walks, both several blocks longer than my usual.

            My back and arms, especially the right arm, seem to regard practicing my alto flute as weight lifting.  Yesterday, my back protested after changing my 20-month-old grandson’s diaper--the first diaper I have changed since last spring!  Admittedly, I am more committed to keeping up with flute practicing than diaper changing.

            When my post-cancer-treatment body weighs me down, there are a couple things that help me keep discomfort in perspective.  First, that my pre-cancer body wasn’t so whippy, either.  And, second, that I’m alive to tell the story.

            

Part Sixty-Six: Amateur Status

            I’ve already found out that I do not know as much as I thought I did about breast cancer.  That should come as no surprise.

            After all, I have spent my life on a learning curve.

            For instance, as a college German major, I felt confident my junior year as I embarked on a semester-long stay in Freiburg, Germany.  But the moment I disembarked the airplane in Frankfurt, I discovered that I did not understand a single word of the German spoken to me.  Ten years or so later, as I began graduate studies in English, I was sure that at the end of the two-year program, I would be an expert.  Not so.  The more I studied, the more I realized how little I knew.

            In such a manner, life has continued:  just about the time I start to consider myself a pro in any given field, endeavor, or life experience . . . well, that is the point where I suddenly realize my amateur status.  Because the more you learn, the less you know. 

            A friend of mine started chemotherapy about the time I ended radiation.  To my complete surprise, her chemotherapy regimen is completely different than mine was.  Different types of breast cancer require different types of treatment.  Different people experience different side effects.  Yet, I would venture to say that all breast cancer survivors have a deepened empathy for breast cancer patients.  We’ve been through it.  We know how long and hard the journey is.  We can listen, really understand, and sometimes offer a helpful tip or two.

            I wondered what it would feel like the first time I entered the treatment room as a visitor rather than as a patient.  I wondered if it would be traumatizing.  Nope.  It was a familiar place.  I remembered how it felt to be the person in the reclining chair.  I was happy to visit my friend.  I wish she did not have to go through all that comes with breast cancer treatment, but I am happy to be part of her journey, even though I am no expert.