I Want My Brain Back

I've been hallucinating, and it's beyond me why anyone would ever choose to live with a brain altered by drugs. As of now, I can't tell you what happened all week. Oh, I have memories, but of what? I'm pretty certain that one cannot type in midair and have it end up online. The worst part was explaining to Steve & Morgan just what I thought I was doing. At the time it made perfect sense, but why did it seem they were gently laughing at me?

And the horrifying monsters which occupied my hospital room? Well, maybe they weren't really there. But I did sit nervously wondering and pointing. And the beautiful, arching, warm soft droplets of "dove shaped angel water" that drifted over my face while I was talking with Morgan and Steve couldn't have been real. Could they? I kept wiping it from my face, though my face seemed oddly dry. Yet it was pretty.

So, on Nov. 22, my choice was this: 1. Live out your final 3 - 4 months relatively pain free, get very confused, slip into a coma, then pass away. Let the cancer win; it's winning anyway. The only one who wouldn't suffer would be me. Easy and peaceful way to go. Or 2. Have high risk surgery that could kill me, but perhaps extend my life by a year or so, while also leaving me in excruciating pain for weeks, and perhaps not extending my life at all.

Which would you choose? Well, so did I, but it took Sam all of 15 seconds to weigh in and say, "Go for it Mom. We already know you're going to die from this. Please just try to stay a little longer." So I went for it.

So 9 days later, here I sit. The surgery didn't kill me, but it should have. After all, I was allowed no food or liquid (including water) for nearly a week. Seriously. Well, there were the delicious ice chips and the catheter. The incision is over 10" from top to bottom, and we're talking cutting through a liver here, okay? Livers are full of blood, as in "stuff we must have" that's likely to shoot out randomly all over the room. Gag me.

But the tumor is now gone and I'm not yet dead. There were no cancer pockets, no other cancer detected. They didn't have to invade the stomach as expected, and did a few other things that I'd rather not describe. Hey, even I'm getting sick from reading all this, and I was there. They released me early due to my somehow miraculously regaining strength at speeds unheard of.

I talked about my book, and even one atheist nurse said she'd be curious to read it. I told her it was based on our faith, but she indicated that didn't matter. "Yours is an interesting story. I'd like to read it." Clearly, a room full of miracles.

Thanks for the "Bad" Stuff

Thanksgiving was great! It was yesterday, on Saturday. At least at this house it was. Morgan made a fabulous dinner for us four - turkey and the works. Since I'll be in hospital on the day you all celebrate it, we did it when we could. I have to fast today and tomorrow for surgery. Gak. At any rate, it really felt like the real day. Hey, we can be thankful any day we want, right?

What am I thankful for? Well, I'm thankful I got cancer ten years ago. Without it, I probably wouldn't be a true Believer. I was a "sort of" Believer before, but being told you'll die is a sure way to rethink one's life and beliefs. Take my work for that. It just is.

I'm thankful my son has Asperger's. He is so much more interesting and brilliant that a regular kid. And he's made me see the world so differently than I would have otherwise, made me learn to be a better a person for the struggles we've endured. Made me thankful for our pain, for without it, pleasure could grow old and loose some of its allure.

I'm thankful that I was stupid enough to marry a guy I barely knew and never would have married if I'd been smart. I'd have missed out on such a glorious journey of discovery and adventure with the most brilliant and creative man I've ever known. Yes, we were fools to marry without actually knowing one another, but God was in control, even as we were not. Thank God!

I'm thankful for my crooked teeth. A guy I adored once told me that they were "bothersome" to him, so I was probably saved years of pain by realizing his shallowness so clearly. His jerkiness shone and I've smiled just fine ever since. I'm also thankful for my premature white hair, since it is probably my best feature, even though most women will go to ridiculous lengths to avoid the same.

There are surely good things that call up my thankfulness, but it is the bad things that probably have meant the most, because they came, not from my will, but from the will of the One who knows me. When your life hurts, when it seems devoid of pleasure or happiness, then know it is time to open your eyes and LOOK. You'll be surprised at what you see. After all, happy days one after another will grow boring and lose their pleasure after a time. Grab onto that which hurts, and you'll live.

My Daughter, My Mother

I'm worn out. The best thing going on right now is that I'm not in the hospital. Yep, that's the best.

Yesterday morning I woke up, stood up, threw up, gave up, and let others take over. The young ambulance guys were handsome and kind, but having my eyes open to a constantly swirling room made me throw up more, so I shut them, resigned to being a disgusting old slug and being carried in some contraption down our stairs. Steve was home sick, but loving his wife, he went with me to the ER and spent hours silently sitting by my side while I slept and was filled with another's blood that gave me back some life.

Steve and I both have colds (things that arrive on average for me, only once every ten years, needed or not.) That's what we've dealt with all week, you know, in preparation for surgery and a lengthy, unwanted separation on Monday. Can't think of a better way to prepare. House is filthy, clothes unwashed, letters not written, fridge empty, family ignored, no kissing!, nothing done.

But what that was, I have no idea, other than horrid and scary. For literally hours I could not open my eyes without nausea and vomiting. So much for pretending I'm still attractive. (Trust me, the ER nurses saw the real unvarnished me.) This morning I just feel exhausted. But I'm mobile. And ate some breakfast.

So, today I have to wash bedclothes, clean the kitchen, clean the birdcage, go to pharmacy for pre-surgery drugs, buy groceries, bake a pie and do pre-Thanksgiving food prep (celebrating tomorrow due to being in hospital on the exact date), make the beds, and who knows what else. Yeah, right. I think I'll take a nap and know that Morgan knows exactly how it is here, and she couldn't care less if this place is a dump when she walks in the door tonight. All I care is that she walks in that door.

Well, I am going to wash her bed linens. In fact, they're already done; the machine just beeped!

How old should we be before we give it up and hope our kids can take care of us? I really thought I'd be much older before that day came.

Emmy Lou and Me

At 15, I had thick, dark brown hair with streaks of reddish brown. Not exactly auburn - that would have been lovely, but no such luck. Still, people did ask if I died it. I didn't. Then at 18, I noticed random white strands. Egads! The Stevens' curse of premature white hair! Thanks, Mom. One day I pulled out exactly 100 strands, and that hurt. But what hurt more was that it made not one iota of difference. There were hundreds still there, so I quit.

Years went by, and I grew my hair long. It was so thick that it sometimes gave me a headache with its weight, but still, it grew. So did the white. One day, still in my mid-twenties, I got on an elevator and a man got on behind me. I began to feel nervous, standing in the closed in silence, my back to him. I could feel his eyes on me. Then he quietly said, "Miss, is that natural? You are so young to have so much white hair." "Yes," I said. As he exited (to my great relief) he said, "Well, it's beautiful." At least he didn't think I looked like a skunk.

I hit forty, and the mane of white and brown continued to grow whiter. Entire sections never did turn though, and it looked like I'd planned it that way. Someone at church asked where I got my hair "frosted." "God does it," I answered. I had nothing to do with it.

More years passed, and the white began to overtake the brown in quantity. In the freezer aisle at the grocery store one day, a man approached, "I'm sorry to intrude, but you have beautiful hair. You're so young to have that color, white and brown together. Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me?" "No thank you. I'm married, but it was kind of you to ask," I said.

One day at work a man approached. "Are you Irish?" "Well, yes, I do have some Irish blood, I responded. "Why?" Well, you're too young for white hair, and the Irish have hair that turns white early, but not completely. I thought you might be Irish, with your white and reddish brown hair." I turned him down for coffee, too. Why do men like white hair so much? I wondered. And...why do women think they have to dye it!?

Now that I'm sixty, white hair is normal. But most people's hair is one of three things: the original natural, out of a bottle, or white. But me? I have old lady white hair, and I have girlish brown hair, both natural. When I pin it up, it appears fairly dark from behind, white from the front. And all I do is wash it. To be honest, I rarely even comb it; it's too curly and wild. Then other days, it's nearly straight as can be.

I've never really known what to do with my hair. In the Bible, white hair is called, "a crown of glory." When I was bald from chemo, I missed my crown. On "feeling ugly" days, I put on a hat or pin it up. Some days I know people look at it, with it's unusual color. But my hair is not me. It's just something God gave me to help me feel secure out in the world.

Many years ago someone told me that I reminded her of Emmy Lou Harris. We were both young then and I was thrilled at the thought of even coming close to her beauty. When she stopped dying her own hair, her true beauty was revealed. She is stunning now in her "crown of glory." I'll happily stay in this place, wearing the crown God gave me.

Beauty

I'm beginning to have some understanding of how a pitcher feels about halfway through a game that appears to be a rare "no hitter." Things look good, keep it up... If he can just continue his perfect pitches, he'll get the perfect game and be in history books. Anticipation, fear, trying to not think too much about a possible end to it all. And such joy when it does happen.

This morning the sun is shining. And has for nearly two weeks. It's absolutely gorgeous outside. How long can it last? Clearly we don't live in northern Ohio, where I grew up with clouds @ 70% of my life. Or Oregon, where we spent a week in rain that did NOT cease. And can trees grow that tall without loads of moisture? How long can the sun shine here in MD? Clouds have to show up eventually.

A street light (and who puts street lights up on rural roads by houses on a peninsula, anyway?) is outside our bedroom window. After years of barely being able to sleep in the bright light, we got ridiculously expensive custom blinds to cover our windows. Then I added curtains, just to be certain. Now it is dark when we go to bed. Then each morning, I truly have no idea what it's like out there. Oh, I can tell if the dark has passed away, but until I raise those blinds, I have no clue as to the weather.

So, for the past two weeks, I am thrilled at the glory of the beauty out there. I pull up the blinds and literally gasp, "Oh! It's gorgeous!"

If you have a hot fudge sundae every night, it can get old, right? It's still good, but not as enjoyable as it once was. We all get tired of wonderful things when they are used too often. But what if you know that after your month of sundaes, you can never have another? Ever. What then? I'll bet you'll love the last as much as you loved the first.

So, I love my early morning glory. It is absolutely gorgeous out there. Every day. As I sit here today, the leaves are slowly falling to the ground, covering the yard. Soon it will end, and we'll have to rake up the once lovely leaves, by then brown, soggy and too much for our lawns. But today, well today is a gift. I don't know when it will end, but for now, I love the beauty before me, and have no worries over when it will end.

Anticipation, fear, trying to not think too much about a possible end to it all. That's for the pitchers; it's not for me. I live for today. And today is beautiful.

Lincoln and Friends

What do you MEAN it's November!? Do we just forget a lot more days when we're older, or are the days truly going by more quickly, the earth spinning faster? This is insane. Yesterday I mailed Valentines. Didn't I? Wait, knowing me, I probably did.

I've not yet announced my cancer situation here, but assuming most of you know about it anyway, I'll just go on. The surgery will be Nov. 24, the day before Thanksgiving. After so many years of this, it's not scary. It just ...is. I'm obedient; I do what I'm told. Except when I don't. But at this point in life, I do what Steve and my doc tell me to do. One loves me. And frankly, the other seems to also. And both are Believers who talk to God about me. I'm sure of that.

Today is about the tenth day in a row where the sun has shone gloriously. Beautiful. The tree colors are in full glory, and most leaves here have yet to fall. They'll disappear soon enough. But for now, I wake up each day, throw open the shades in anticipation and nearly yell with excitement, "Yes! It's gorgeous out there!" Heck, even on dark or rainy days anymore, I'm just glad to look out and see life.

What a strange way to live... waking up each day with death on my mind. It sounds so dreary, but it's not. As a Believer, there are moments when I can hardly wait! But as a wife and mother, not so much. As in, I want to stay here with my three beloveds. I don't want them to suffer. My thoughts are more about what heaven will be like, the people I look forward to seeing there, (like Catherine, and Abe, and Ian) and most of all, (I can barely breathe this into words) meeting Christ!

But for now... today is Sam's birthday. He's 22 today. I have gifts, will not bake a cake (since I quit that in 1977 when the one I'd just baked dropped and nearly cracked the floor), and we plan to take him out to dinner. I also plan to do his chores for him. He asked for no gifts; it's the least I can do. The most I can do is love him, support him, and teach him how to be a good man. So far, I think that's what I've done.

Each day now, I live my life in spite of the cancer, I live my life in spite of the prognosis. And most of all, I live my life in spite of me.

I Can't See the Wind, So It Must Not Exist

For the past week, the view out the dining room window has been gorgeous. I look out to see a red, gold, orange and yellow leafed tree, bordered by the still green leaves of everything else. Fabulous. Stunningly bright and beautiful. Today it's half bare. The wind blows and life goes on, cycle after cycle.

Have you ever seen the wind? No of course not, we only see the effects of it. Today a few leaves are moving slightly, but once in awhile they almost jiggle with excitement as little gusts flutter around. Some days entire branches sway back and forth. Sometime soon the leaves on the ground with fly up into the air in a swirling dance, landing somewhere as yet unknown. All that visible, physical activity, but we can't see the wind itself, just what it does.

Have you watched the leaves turn colors? No, not, "Wow, look outside. The trees have all turned red or brown." I mean have you ever looked at a green leaf without turning away until it is orange? or yellow? ...or gone? Yes, we notice the gradual changes, but none of us have seen the change actually happening. Hey, I've probably seen my own face in a mirror 99.9% of my days. No, I never saw it grow old, but it is. Things happen that we cannot see.

Can you see the love someone has for you? The love you have for someone else? No, you can't. Oh, you see the effects of that love, but not the love itself. A kiss, a hug, a gift...all due to love, but they are not the love. Love is very real in your life, but you cannot literally see it for itself - it's not meant to be seen, or even understood I suppose. Just experienced.

So much of one's life is invisible to the eye, but is totally believed in, sensed or felt in our hearts. So why is it that people who experience and believe without doubt that these things exist are so loathe to believe that an invisible God can exist? What, we can't actually see Him, so He must not be real?

"Well, I see the leaves moving, so wind must exist." "The leaves changed colors, and it doesn't matter that I can't explain that scientifically." "I feel such joy and passion for this person so my love must be real." Okay, you choose to believe in some things you absolutely cannot see or understand, since it makes sense to do so.

Yet it makes no sense to believe in God, since you can't see Him, is that it? Tell me, how is that any different? You see unexplainable things happen, but rather than attribute them to an all-knowing God, you think, "That just happened. God is the fantasy of fools and dreamers."

Oh really?